by Tamara Lush
She took a pen and notebook out of her bag. The pen’s end was frayed with bite marks. Luca arched an eyebrow. He longed to flirt but knew he shouldn’t, for all sorts of reasons.
“How long have you been a reporter, Skylar Shaw?”
“Three months, not counting my internship. I got this job at the newspaper right after graduating from journalism school.”
He looked at her, then at her card and back. She tapped the end of the pen on her bottom lip and opened her mouth to chew on it. Her lips were plump, and Luca entertained a fantasy of rubbing his thumb over them. How he’d love to play with this girl. How bad of an idea was it to ask her inside for a glass of wine?
No, he couldn’t do that. He could see she was in the throes of reporting a story, and although her grin was flirtatious, her eyes were intent. Serious. And he shouldn’t be seducing reporters. Not in his situation.
He managed a tight smile and tried to focus on her forehead, but her blue eyes were like magnets that held his gaze for a few unblinking moments. He finally growled, “Congratulations on your graduation and on getting a job in a dying industry at the end of a global recession. Now, if you don’t mind—?”
She laughed and pointed at the homes. “Well, congratulations to you, settling into a gated retirement community at such a young age. We all can’t be so lucky.”
He tilted his head, surprised.
She smiled sweetly. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. If you tell me anything off the record about the plane crash, I won’t put your name in the paper. I can use you as an anonymous source. Do you know anything about the person who helped the injured man? Did you see anything?”
She was persistent, and he admired that—both in a journalist and a woman. Maybe she wasn’t such an amateur. And yet, no way would Luca reveal that he’d aided the plane crash victim. He wanted publicity, and reporters, to stay as far away as possible.
Especially this gorgeous reporter.
He leaned forward and lowered his voice, acutely aware of his Italian accent. It was so different—seemed so…heavy—from her smooth American cadence that it made him feel again self-conscious. “Are you aware you are on private property? Reporters shouldn’t break the law. Our community is called The Sanctuary, and it’s gated for a reason, no? We like our privacy here.”
The girl’s face froze in an open-mouthed smile and a pink flush bloomed on her cheeks. She became even more beautiful than before.
“Oh.” She pointed at the gate with her pen then grinned sheepishly. “I just came in over there. The gate was so easy to open, I… Well, I thought I’d find more people to talk to, more sources.”
“Yes. I know,” he said, trying to contain his attraction and fighting back a grin. Her tenaciousness, her eagerness to get the story, was endearing. Waltzing into a private enclave was exactly what he would have done when he worked for the newspaper in Italy. “I saw your elegant entrance as you broke in. Now I’ll open the door out for you. I wouldn’t want to rip more of your dress off.”
Actually, ripping that gauzy dress off was exactly what he’d love to do.
He moved the few paces toward the gate. Turning the knob, he held the door open with an expectant look.
The young woman stared at him intently. She was short, and he couldn’t help but imagine how he would have to bend slightly to kiss her. Her eyes went to his bicep, to his tattoo of an Italian saying, Chi più sa, meno crede. The more one knows, the less one believes. It was his motto, his truth. His quest to know the truth about everything made his world manageable. Especially since everything had fallen apart. In that moment under the Florida sun, all he knew, all he believed, was that he wanted to spend the rest of the day and all of the night with the woman standing in front of him, even though she was everything he should run from.
She was about a foot away, and her blue eyes, pale skin and pink lips were even more gorgeous up close. Less resistible. More deadly. His gaze drifted to the light sheen of perspiration that nestled in between the soft cleavage of her breasts as she said, “You have my cell number on my card…if you want to talk.”
Luca grinned. Because talking was the last thing he wanted. “Talk?”
“Yeah. Talk. If you remember some details about the crash. Or if you suddenly decide you trust reporters.”
Luca entertained the possibility of inviting her inside. If he did, he’d have to lie about so many things. Like his name and profession. Not like he hadn’t done that before with other women, but it was another thing to deceive a reporter. Those sorts of lies could come back to haunt him here in America, where his uncle was a well-known lawyer. And there was no way he could ask her inside without fully investigating her background, something he was sure to do at his laptop when she left the property.
Yet, if everything about her background checked out, what could it hurt to call her? Surely she’d be open to a one-night stand. American girls were easy. Her eyes were just shimmery and flirtatious enough to make him believe that she wouldn’t say no to an offer of a drink, dinner or more.
“Have a good day, Skylar Shaw. Buona fortuna with your article. Ciao.”
As she swept past, she lowered her sunglasses over her gorgeous eyes and Luca caught the scent of her perfume. Orange blossoms.
Closing the gate, he smiled as she shuffled off through the sand toward the downed plane. Luca Rossi, Italy’s top investigative journalist, not answering another reporter’s questions? He laughed out loud at the rich irony.
CHAPTER TWO
Skylar snapped her laptop shut. It had taken hours to interview everyone she could find and write about the crash. She’d sent a blog post and photos of the downed plane and the blood-soaked sand to the paper then followed up by emailing video clips taken with her cell phone and writing a longer article while sitting in her car.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her editor, Jill. Great job on getting the pilot and witnesses. You rocked it today. You’re free to go.
Jill rarely praised her reporters.
Skylar grinned and gave herself a mental fist pump. This was just the story she needed. She’d been with the paper three months, and during her recent probationary review Jill told her that she was “doing well.” Because she had always done better than well in school, Skylar needed Jill to tell her that she was doing excellent. Better than anyone else. She was starting her career in journalism on the bottom rung of the media ladder—a small, daily newspaper—and she wanted to be the biggest fish in this small pond. As that sexy, shirtless guy said, she’d gotten a job in a dying field at the end of the recession, and she was damned proud of it. Now all she had to do was prove herself to Jill…and eventually to editors at bigger papers.
This plane crash was her first big, breaking story since coming to Palmira. She was the only reporter to interview the pilot because she’d been the first reporter on the scene. By the time TV arrived, the pilot had left for the hospital. Because he’d revealed so many details and sobbed during the interview, she ended up with a kickass exclusive.
But—and there was always a but in journalism, a nugget of information that improved the story or a source that revealed hidden raw emotion—the article could have been even better. Skylar knew it in her core. Her ex-boyfriend had been right about one thing, maybe: She was a natural-born reporter, curious and greedy for information. Ironic, how James could give her such confidence professionally and yet personally destroy her.
The but with this plane crash surrounded the Good Samaritan. If she had only found the man who helped the victim it would have been a better story. More dramatic. More hopeful. She pawed through her tote bag for a pack of organic lavender-scented hand wipes as she considered. Where had he gone? It was as if he vanished into the misty surf of the Gulf, witnesses told her. Unless it really was that gorgeous guy…
Skylar wiped her hands with the cool cloth then dabbed her neck and arms. Glancing around to check if anyone was watching, she swiped her armpits. She’d spent a few hours in the Florida sun and pro
bably smelled nasty. She flung the cloth on the floor of her car’s passenger-side floor, which was cluttered with filled-up notebooks, granola bar wrappers and weeks-old copies of her newspaper, all the accumulated crap from long days of reporting on everything from government meetings to crime to feature stories.
Even though she was finished for the day, she wanted to peek at the crash site again because she anticipated writing a follow-up story the next day. The FAA had arrived and would probably be towing the plane away later.
Climbing out of her car, she strode down a wooden walkway and onto the beach. Trudging through the sand in her flip-flops, Skylar passed the yellow crime scene tape that cordoned off the plane. She wondered how long it would be until the beach was cleared of debris—this was where she did yoga on Saturdays. Hopefully the teacher would change locations because the place would have bad karma from the crash. Doing downward dog where a guy almost had his arm chopped off wasn’t appealing at all.
She felt a pang of guilt at her thoughts. Her mother, who had been a yoga teacher, would be disappointed at her lack of compassion.
The salt air mixed with the smell of jet fuel and made her sneeze. A cop stood a few feet from the plane, texting.
He looked up. “Bless you. Hey, Sky. You outta here?”
It was Jimmy, a sergeant with the Palmira Police. He was Skylar’s favorite officer. He always slipped her off-the-record information, probably because he was dating Emily MacLean, a sports reporter at the paper who was also Skylar’s closest friend in the newsroom. He’d helped her earlier get past the crime scene tape.
“Soon. You haven’t found the guy who helped the injured man, have you?”
Jimmy shrugged. “We’re still looking. The pilot said the guy had dark hair. Another woman said he had blonde hair and a blue shirt. Another lady said he might have been elderly, but she was probably confusing the guy with the pilot.”
Skylar opened her mouth to tell Jimmy about the shirtless guy with the tattoo, but Jimmy spoke first.
“Hey, me and a couple of guys on my squad are going for a beer later at the Sloppy Iguana. I know Emily’s out of town, but you’re free to join us. Wanna come? They’re single.”
Skylar wrinkled her nose. Jimmy and Emily were always trying to fix her up with one of his cop friends who were usually too old. Plus, she wasn’t sure she wanted a man in her life, not after what happened with James. And it didn’t feel right to date a cop, not when she covered crime.
“Meh, maybe,” she said. “I’ll text you. But you know I hate the Iguana. I’d rather go to Bacchus. It’s slightly less tacky.”
“Whatever.” Jimmy rolled his eyes dramatically. “Aww, come on. How can you not love Iguana margaritas? Anyway, I’m outta here. Maybe I’ll see you later.” He pointed with his phone. “Talk to those FAA guys over there if you want any official quotes.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.” It was too bad there weren’t any single guys on the force as cute and young as him, what with his easy smile and sleepy brown eyes. Then again, Jimmy wasn’t as hot as the guy she’d tried to interview earlier.
Mmmm. That mysteriously sexy man.
Skylar swiveled her head to look at the cluster of homes beyond the gate. That attempted interview…? What a freaking disaster. She’d been so distracted by the guy’s accent and model-like face that focusing was impossible. That level of interference had never happened during an interview before, not during her internship in Boston and definitely not during her short tenure at the paper. It wasn’t like Palmira was a hotbed of handsome guys, though. The island was more like a senior citizens center.
But that guy? Unreal. His cheekbones and jaw were sculpted and angular, his top lip bow-shaped and his bottom lip full and sensual. Perfect for kissing.
Whatever. She’d made a fool of herself by breaking into his gated community and tearing her dress, and it wasn’t like he’d given her information about the crash. Still, he could have been the Good Samaritan. Skylar chewed on her pen as she stood near the police tape, staring at the plane. Why would he be so evasive if he’d done a good deed? She considered again whether to tell Jimmy about the guy and then decided against it. She’d rather get the interview first, if possible. Break the story in the paper, be a step ahead of the cops. Jill would love that. If the cops hadn’t found him, maybe they weren’t looking hard enough. Maybe she could take another run at the whole thing tomorrow morning.
Skylar lowered her pen then yawned. The sun was about a half hour from setting over the water, casting a tangerine hue over the sand and the downed plane. That hot guy was somewhere inside The Sanctuary, probably with an equally stunning girlfriend. Or wife.
Skylar walked up the beach, parallel to the enclave’s gate. Looking up and over the fence, she was surprised to find the sexy mystery guy standing on the second-floor terrace of the villa closest to the beach. He was looking down, seemingly at her. Smiling. To her delight, he still wasn’t wearing a shirt.
She laughed out loud, stopped and waved.
Grinning, he waved back. Then he held up his index finger.
She tilted her head and lifted her hands, palms up, questioning. He held up his hand in a stop gesture; then he disappeared from the terrace.
Was he coming down to talk to her? Why would he do that? Maybe he’d give her the story!
With a rush of anticipation, Skylar ran a hand over her dress—and found the tear. She looked like crap. Tying the flapping, ripped seam into a knot and hoping she came off as fashionable and not homeless, she watched the guy appear and amble toward her.
“You’re still here,” he said. Grinning, he held the tall iron rail of the gate with one hand.
Skylar gazed without blinking into his eyes, captivated by their green-gray color that practically glowed next to his olive skin and dark hair. The setting sun softened the angles and hollows of his face and left behind only languid sensuality. When he stared at her, she thought she would turn to water and wash away into the Gulf of Mexico.
“I just finished. Do you have any news for me?”
He laughed. “What kind of news would you like?”
Skylar couldn’t remember ever being made speechless by a man’s looks, but this guy was different. Her eyes skimmed his chest then went lower. Dark hair trailed in a faint line down his six-pack abdomen, and Skylar quickly raised her gaze to his equally muscular arms. This man was pure peril. Or maybe she had been on Palmira long enough to forget what hot guys really looked like.
She gave the tattoo on his rock-hard bicep a sideways glance. It was one of many delicious details gracing his body, but what did it say? It was a line of words wrapped around the muscle in an old typewriter font. The words weren’t in English. Maybe Spanish? Italian? Latin?
Recalling his question, she grinned, sensing that he was toying with her. “I’m still trying to find the man who helped the plane crash victim.”
“You got some sun today. Your cheeks are pink.”
Her cheeks were hot, but why did he ignore her question? As he reached an arm through the gate and motioned toward her face, she imagined playfully biting his finger.
“I burn easily,” she said. “I think I might be a little dehydrated, too.”
She knew she sounded too serious, but flirting didn’t come easily. At least that’s what James had repeatedly told her. She sobered at the thought, and her smile faded.
“Why don’t you come inside for a glass of water?”
Skylar hesitated. She was thirsty. Maybe if she went, this mystery man might open up and tell her about helping the victim. Give her that exclusive. He didn’t seem like an axe murderer or anyone she should be afraid of. And besides, people like that didn’t exist on Palmira.
“Okay, I will. Thanks.”
The man opened the gate and held it. “See, you don’t have to rip your clothes off this time.”
She paused and ignored his flirtation as best she could, but looking into his eyes sent little waves of excitement through her. “What’s your name
, anyway? I generally don’t go to people’s homes unless I know their names.”
He grinned lazily. “Luca.”
“Luca. Italian?”
He nodded. “Si. Yes. Now come with me.”
Luca. What a beautiful name. Skylar rolled it around in her mind as she followed. Luca.
He led her through a heady-smelling hedge of jasmine vines and through another iron gate. They emerged into a courtyard with a grotto-like pool surrounded by palm trees and bright green tropical plants. An enormous, Mediterranean-style home loomed behind the pool. She breathed in the scent, intoxicated by the fragrance and the obvious luxury.
“Gorgeous,” she murmured.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get some water.”
He gestured to one of four wide rattan chaise seats pointed toward the setting sun. Skylar sank into a white cushion. The diffuse orangey-red light and the sound of the gentle Gulf surf was soothing after covering such a depressing story.
Luca returned and handed her a tall glass with a lemon slice. She tried to be dainty but took two giant gulps. He sat on the edge of the lounger next to her and leaned in her direction, as if he was interested in watching her drink.
“Thank you,” she said. “I guess I was thirsty.”
His eyes unlocked from hers and traveled to her lips, then her breasts, then farther down to her hips and bare legs. Skylar’s stomach fluttered as he so obviously checked her out. Such attention from such a good-looking guy was flattering and welcome after everything she had been through in the last year.
He hastily looked up at her face. “So. I read the paper’s online story about the crash. Good job on getting all those witnesses so quickly. You also tweeted details throughout the day. Lots of sources. Impressive. You were busy.”
He’d read her article? He’d looked at her Twitter feed? Luca’s words might be the hottest thing any man had ever said to her.
My words. In his brain.
“No thanks to you,” she said, unable to help smiling. “For all I know, you were the best source today.”