Dirty Lies
Dirty Lies
Tamara Lush
Contents
DIRTY LIES
A note to the reader
1. Crash
2. Ambition
3. Skin Against Skin
4. The Kiss
5. Complications
6. The Anger Of Annalisa
7. Lust In The Produce Aisle
8. Not So Simple
9. Engulfed
10. Dawn
11. Memories In Blood
12. The Devil Drinks Coffee
13. A Kiss In The Library
14. No Regrets
15. Hungry
16. The Promise
17. Sweet Dreams
18. Obsession
19. Curiosity Killed the Reporter
20. Fantasies
21. Things Heat Up
22. Electricity
23. Danger In The Night
24. The Past Is Off Limits
25. The Spy
26. Awkward Pauses
27. A Taste Of Normal
28. More Kisses
29. Revelation
30. Stalking
31. A Surprise Visit
32. Like Watching A Movie
33. Please
34. Cuts Like A Knife
35. Too Intimate
36. Destroyed
37. Falling
38. Spill
39. An Unexpected Visitor
40. Blood
41. More Questions
42. Summer Fling
43. Interrupted
44. Breaking News
45. The Wrong Choice
46. Not Okay
47. Falling
48. Pulverized
49. A Planned Goodbye
50. Complicated
51. Revelation
52. Dead Girl
53. Moonlight
54. Closer
55. The Dirty Truth
56. Admitting Is The Hardest Part
57. Rite Of Passage
58. Fear
59. Casting A Spell
60. The Reckoning
61. This Is How You’ll Die
62. All Apologies
63. The Only Choice Is You
Epilogue
DIRTY SECRETS
CRAVING MORE STORIES?
About the Author
DIRTY LIES
Burning Secrets Series
* * *
Head to Tamara’s website for info on new releases:
www.tamaralush.com
Copyright © 2015 Tamara Lush
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
To Marco, my real-life Italian hero. Ti amo.
A note to the reader
THIS BOOK WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED UNDER THE TITLE HOT SHADE.
This edition has undergone an extensive edit from the 2015 original.
Chapter One
Crash
LUCA
I approached the reporter with a sneer, watching her scan the opulent beach homes behind me. She gathered her long, chestnut-colored hair and arranged it over a bare shoulder.
"Can I help you?" I asked, biting back a displeasure that softened as my gaze swept down her stunning body.
I focused on her legs. Curvy and toned. The fabric of her dress, and what was underneath, proved impossible for me to ignore.
"Hi." She flipped her sunglasses to the top of her head. "I'm with The Palmira Post. I'm looking for people who saw the plane before it crashed on the beach. Do you live here? Did you see it? The plane?"
The reporter's press pass dangled in between her breasts and a red bikini flashed like a stop sign under her white dress. Why was she wearing that to a crime scene?
I rubbed my lips together. My hand went instinctively to my hip, and I realized with a pang of unease that I'd left my gun on the terrace. I hated myself for automatically being so paranoid. This woman wasn't a threat. She was just a young, eager reporter. Harmless.
Still. I wasn’t going to tell her that I saw the entire crash from my balcony. Watched as the small plane landed on the beach. It clipped the leg of a man, making him bleed all over the sand. I ran down and helped him as fast as I could.
Tried to stop the bleeding, probably saved his life.
Then I casually walked back inside before anyone noticed me. And I wanted it to stay that way, dammit.
Grunting, I shook my head and tried to ignore the reporter’s gorgeous face.
My eyes settled on a clump of sand clinging to her ankle, and I was struck by an overwhelming urge to brush it off with my fingers and then run my entire hand up, up, up the inside of her smooth leg. Over her calf, skimming the side of her knee, grazing her inner thigh.
All the way up until my fingers reached something hot and wet. I licked my lips and shook my head again. "I don't want to be in the paper."
She flashed a pretty smile, and her gaze lingered on my chest. Oh. Right. I wasn't wearing a shirt. Her eyes shifted to the tattoo on my left bicep, her smile grew wider and her gaze skittered to my abs before she raised her eyes.
"My name's Skylar. You can call me Sky. I understand that you don't want to be quoted, but could you tell me anything off the record?"
I was struck by the pale blue hue of her eyes, the color of the Gulf on a clear day, a startling and beautiful contrast with her hair.
I stepped back and smiled despite myself. "I don't do off the record. People should never talk to the media, you know."
She laughed. "Ohh, come on. I'm one of the good reporters. I won't misquote you."
"Really? Don't all reporters say that? Why should I trust you?"
She stopped laughing, which was too bad, because the sound was sweet as honey. "Trust me? Of course you can trust me. And, anyway, I'm looking for the person who helped the man hit by the plane. One of the paramedics said he was young and maybe had a tattoo."
I shrugged when she pointed to my arm. She couldn't make me talk.
"You have an accent," she said, undeterred. "Where are you from?"
I swallowed, not prepared she'd try to get so personal so soon. "Europe," I muttered.
"Well, that narrows it down." She grinned and rummaged through her straw tote bag then handed me a business card. Plucking it from her fingers, I studied every inch of her face. Even the freckles on her nose were impossibly sexy.
I glanced down and read her card aloud. "'Skylar Shaw. The Palmira Post.'"
She took a pen and notebook out of her bag. The pen's end was frayed with bite marks. I arched an eyebrow. "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."
I 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 I entertained a filthy fantasy of rubbing my thumb over them. Shoving my thumb in her mouth. Commanding her to suck.
How I'd love to play with this girl.
I managed a tight smile and tried to focus on her forehead, but her blue eyes were like magnets that held my gaze for a few unblinking moments.
"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."
&nbs
p; I tilted my head, surprised at her snark. I wasn't much older than her.
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 I admired that. Maybe she wasn't such an amateur. And yet, no way would I reveal that I'd helped the plane crash victim. I wanted publicity, and reporters, to stay as far away as possible.
Especially this supremely fuckable reporter.
I leaned forward and lowered my voice, acutely aware of my Italian accent. It was so different—seemed so...heavy—from her smooth American cadence. "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 as she looked down at the tear in her dress. "I just came in over there. The gate was so easy to open. Too bad I tore my dress a little on the bottom of the fence.”
"Yes. It’s a shame.” I tried to contain my attraction and fought back a grin.
Her tenaciousness, her eagerness to get the story, was endearing. Smart women were hot. Women who were smart and hot were potentially a one-way ticket to hell. But, given the heat and my circumstances here in Florida, maybe I was already in hell.
"Well, I thought I'd find more people to talk to in here, more sources." She wasn't giving up.
Waltzing into a private enclave was exactly what I would have done when I worked for the newspaper in Italy. "I saw your elegant entrance as you broke in. Now I'll open the door for you so you can get on with your reporting. I wouldn't want to rip more of your dress off."
Actually, ripping that gauzy white dress off her juicy body was exactly what I'd love to do.
I moved the few paces toward the gate. Turning the knob, I held the door open with an expectant look.
She stared at me intently. She was short, and I couldn't help but imagine how I'd have to bend slightly to kiss her.
Her eyes went to my bicep, to the bold tattoo, a line of Italian words.
Chi più sa, meno crede.
The more one knows, the less one believes.
It was my motto, my truth.
She was about a foot away now, and her blue eyes, pale skin and pink lips were even more gorgeous up close. Less resistible. More deadly. My gaze drifted to the light sheen of perspiration that nestled in between that soft line of cleavage between her tits. My dick twitched.
Jesus, I needed to stay away from her.
"You have my cell number on my on my card...if you want to talk."
Talking was the last thing I wanted from her. Kissing, sucking, fucking? All of that. Conversation? Hell no.
"Talk?" I smirked.
"Yeah. Talk. If you remember some details about the crash. Or if you suddenly decide you trust reporters."
I entertained the possibility of inviting her inside. If I did, I'd have to lie about so many things. Like my name and profession. Not like I hadn't done that before with other women in other countries, but it was another thing to deceive a reporter.
Those kinds of lies could come back to haunt me here in America, where my uncle was a well-known lawyer. I was here on the down-low, and only my uncle knew anything. There was no way I could ask a stranger inside without fully investigating her background, something I'd do as soon as she left.
Yet, if everything about her background checked out, what could it hurt to call her? Surely she'd be open to one night of fun. American girls were easy. Her eyes were just shimmery and seductive enough to make me believe that she wouldn't say no to an offer of a drink, dinner or more.
More could be quite satisfying, I reasoned as I eyed her tits again.
I'd have to think about it first. Maybe if I did get particularly lonely and horny one night, maybe I would call her under the guise of talking.
"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 I caught the scent of her perfume. Orange blossoms.
Closing the gate, I grinned as she shuffled off through the sand toward the downed plane.
Luca Rossi, Italy's top investigative journalist, not answering another reporter's questions…
I laughed out loud at the rich irony.
Chapter Two
Ambition
SKYLAR
Yasssss.
I snapped my laptop shut as adrenaline coursed through my body.
It had taken hours to interview everyone I could find. I'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 my cell phone. After all that, I wrote a longer article while sitting in my car.
My phone buzzed with a text from my editor, Jill. Great job on getting the pilot and witnesses. You rocked it today. You're free to go.
Jill rarely praised her reporters.
I grinned and gave myself a mental fist pump. This was just the story I needed.
I'd been with the paper three months, and during my recent probationary review, Jill told me I was "doing well." Because I had always done better than well in school, I needed Jill to tell me I was doing excellent—better than anyone else.
I was starting my career in journalism on the bottom rung of the media ladder—a small, daily newspaper—and I wanted to be the biggest fish in this small pond.
As that sexy shirtless guy had said, I'd gotten a job in a dying field at the end of the recession, and I was damn proud of it. Now, all I had to do was prove myself to Jill…and editors at bigger papers.
This plane crash was my first big breaking story since coming to Palmira. I was the only reporter to interview the pilot because I'd been the first reporter on the scene. By the time news stations arrived, the pilot had left for the hospital. Because he'd revealed so many details and sobbed during the interview, I 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 better. I knew it in my core.
The but with this plane crash surrounded the good Samaritan. If I had only found the man who helped the victim. It would have been a better story. More dramatic. More hopeful.
I pawed through my tote bag for a pack of organic lavender-scented hand wipes. Where had he gone? “It was like he vanished into the misty surf of the Gulf,” witnesses told me. Unless it really was that gorgeous guy…
I wiped my hands with the cool cloth, then dabbed my neck and arms.
I'd spent a few hours in the Florida sun and probably smelled nasty. I flung the cloth on the floor of my passenger side, which was cluttered with filled-up notebooks, granola bar wrappers, and weeks’ old copies of my newspaper—all the accumulated crap from long days of reporting on everything from government meetings to crime to feature stories.
Even though I was technically finished for the day, I wanted to peek at the crash site again so I could write a follow-up story the next day. The FAA had arrived and would probably be towing the plane away later.
Climbing out of my car, I strode down a wooden walkway onto the beach. Trudging through the sand in my flip flops, I passed the yellow crime scene tape that cordoned off the plane. I wondered how long it would be until the beach was cleared of debris—this was where I 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.
I felt a pang of guilt at my thoughts. My mother, who had been a yoga teacher, would be disapp
ointed at my glaring lack of compassion.
The salt air mixed with the smell of jet fuel and made me 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 my favorite cop. He always slipped me off-the-record information, probably because he was dating Emily MacLean, a sports reporter at the paper who was also my closest friend in the newsroom.
Earlier, he'd helped me 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."
I opened my mouth to tell Jimmy about the shirtless guy with the tattoo, but he spoke first.
"Hey, me and a couple guys on my squad are going for a beer later at the Sloppy Iguana. Emily's out of town, but you're free to join us. Wanna come? They're single."