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  HOT SHADE

  Tamara Lush

  ¶

  PRONOUN

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  All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

  Copyright © 2017 by Tamara Lush

  Cover design by Hang Le

  Interior design by Pronoun

  Edited by Jami Nord

  Copy editing by Rebecca A. Weston

  Distribution by Pronoun

  ISBN: 9781508056638

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  HOT SHADE

  HOT SHADECHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  NO ESCAPE

  After Luca Rossi lost everything to the Italian mafia, he used his skills to write a stunning expose and managed to put a key don on trial for his life. But now Luca must hide out on a Florida island until justice is served in Italy. All is well until he meets a lovely young American reporter who won’t stop asking questions. Soon, he’s fighting the urge to hush her with a kiss…and much, much more.

  Skylar Shaw took a job with a small Florida paper, determined to make her mark on the journalism world. She may spend her days writing about alligators and boring commission meetings, but when she meets a handsome mystery man on the beach, she’s not afraid to dig into his past and the danger stalking him from across the seas. There’s just one problem … will her efforts help Luca, or bring danger straight to him?

  Luca knows all too well the journalist drive to keep digging. Can he trust his lovely Skylar to keep his secrets, or must he push her away to save both their lives?

  HOT SHADE

  TAMARA LUSH

  To Marco, my real-life Italian hero. Ti amo.

  HOT SHADE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Luca Rossi encrypted his email to the prosecutors of an Italian Mafia boss with the press of a button. Sighing, he glanced up from his laptop and was startled to see the nose of a plane overhead. It was a small two-seater, and it silently soared past the terrace where he sat.

  It was too damned close. The wind from its wings cooled the sweat on his face as it sliced through the sun-washed Florida sky in rapid descent. It shaved a few fronds off a tall palm tree on the nearby beach.

  Tensing his shoulders, Luca jumped from his chair and looked wide-eyed over the railing. His gaze zoomed in on a single beachcomber lazily shuffling across the sugary sand, his back to the plane. The man wore oversized headphones and waved a metal detector in front of his feet, completely oblivious to the impending disaster.

  “HEY! HEY! MOVE! GET OUT OF THE WAY!” Luca hollered and waved his arms.

  The man didn’t hear.

  Luca gripped the terrace railing with one hand and used his other arm to shield his face, unable to watch. The plane came down hard, hitting the sand with a thunderous smack. Uncovering his eyes, Luca saw it come to its final resting place in shallow water, about forty feet away on the other side of a gate that separated the public beach from the private enclave in which he was staying. Luca blinked several times, unable to process what he witnessed.

  The man with the metal detector lay on the sand like a discarded doll. Was he twitching and squirming? Luca squinted in disbelief. How could the guy be alive?

  His hands shook as he took the phone out of his pocket and pressed 9, then 1. He paused. Would he have to give his name? His address? Surely the call would be recorded. In Italy he would have to give detailed information, but he wasn’t sure about America. He couldn’t risk it, not in his situation. He slipped the phone into his pocket, feeling horrible. The man on the beach was suffering, and he had to help somehow.

  Pulse pounding in his ears, Luca snatched a towel off a chair then grabbed his gun and his keys on the way out the door. He slipped the 9mm into the waistband holster tucked in between his hip and cargo shorts, then pulled his baggy T-shirt down to conceal the bulge. Would he ever get used to having a weapon nearby? He had traveled the world without one, but his uncle recently gave him the gun. Just to be safe.

  It didn’t take him long to sprint past the pool and out the gate leading to the public beach.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  The man writhed and screamed. Blood gushed from his left bicep. From the precision of the slash it appeared to have been made by the plane’s propeller—or maybe even the tip of the wing. It was a miracle the guy wasn’t decapitated.

  Luca whipped his head around, looking for someone, anyone, to help. But he was alone on the beach with the bleeding man. The waves were feet away. Should he try to move the guy to drier ground? No, he’d read enough to know that he shouldn’t move the injured, and he sent a silent plea into the universe, hoping the salt water wouldn’t reach the man’s wounds.

  He wondered briefly about who was inside the plane, but the question dissolved as he caught a glimpse of visible muscle under the blood on the beach victim’s arm, and Luca fought a violent wave of nausea. Dropping to his knees, he studied the wounded man’s face and gently clasped his uninjured shoulder, wanting to provide comfort. Sand mixed into the guy’s hair, and sweat covered the leathery skin of his narrow face.

  “It hurts,” the man yelled.

  Kneeling and draping the towel he’d brought over the bleeding gash, Luca looked for other injuries. The man wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his torso had no visible cuts or wounds, only a thick smear of blood, probably from the arm gash.

  Luca cut a glance toward the plane. A balding man climbed from the cockpit, and Luca’s heart sped up even more. In water up to his calves, the pilot turned. Slack-jawed, he waded a few steps forward and stood on the sand.

  “I didn’t mean to…I didn’t mean to…”

  Luca squinted up at him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  “I…I think I’m okay. I might have hit my head on the windshield. The engine just cut out.”

  Luca wiped sweaty hands on his shorts then carefully wrapped his towel around the man’s bleeding arm, ensuring it was snug. He called to the pilot, “Do you have a phone?”

  The man gave a hesitant nod.

  “Call 9-1-1. Now. Please.”

  Luca used a firm voice, and the pilot frantically shoved his hands in his pockets and pulled out a phone, tapping the screen with shaking fingers. The man under him continued writhing, and Luca pressed his towel down more firmly
upon the gruesome limb. The guy’s eyes were brown, wild and glassy. Luca swallowed hard to banish the growing lump in his throat.

  “What the fuck happened?” the injured man panted. His arm twitched, and Luca grasped it tighter.

  The wounded man still had yellow headphones over his ears. Clasping the towel and the mangled arm with one hand, Luca slipped the headphones off with the other, trying not to cause further discomfort.

  “You were hit by a plane. Stay calm.”

  “I was hit by a—?”

  The man groaned when Luca applied pressure. The thirsty towel turned red. When would the damned paramedics get here? The air smelled like rust and fear.

  “Calm down. I’m going to try to slow the bleeding, okay?”

  The man grunted again.

  “It’s okay. Be calm and don’t move. You’re going to be okay. The ambulance will be here soon. What’s your name?”

  “J-Jesse.”

  “Okay, Jesse. You’re going to be fine. Breathe. Be still.”

  Jesse’s moans turned into a long whimper, and Luca held firm to his arm. The seconds ticked by, becoming entire minutes, and soon it seemed they had been together for an eternity. Lines of sweat dripped down Luca’s temples to his jaw.

  The sound of feet slapping the sand mixed with the Gulf’s gentle surf, and a group of men in crisp blue shirts and dark pants swarmed around the injured man and Luca.

  “Sir, thank you, we’ll take over from here.”

  Help had arrived. Finally.

  A paramedic dropped next to Luca on the sand and scooped the injured man’s arm into his hands. Taking a deep breath, Luca stood. Another medic clapped him on the back and said, “Good job. You definitely saved his arm—might have saved his life. It’s a damn good thing this happened here where it’s not crowded. Otherwise we’d have had a mass casualty on our hands.”

  Luca nodded, uncomfortable from the feeling of his T-shirt sticking to his back. He wanted to wipe the perspiration from his forehead but resisted the urge because Jesse’s blood and sweat coated his hands. Grimacing, he saw three elderly people standing, gawking. But no one was taking video on their cell phones, thank God.

  Paramedics strapped Jesse to a backboard, and Luca took the opportunity to slip away. Jogging up the beach and unlocking the gate to the private enclave, he made his way back toward the house, passing under an arched hedge made of jasmine vine. Looking down, he saw a streak of blood staining his hand and also his T-shirt. He stripped the shirt off and balled it up as he reached the pool then drew a huge breath and exhaled. Unlocking the back door, he walked inside.

  The shirt went directly into the washer and Luca scrubbed his quaking hands in the kitchen sink. Craving something familiar, he made an espresso. He didn’t care that it was hot liquid on an infernal August day; the coffee aroma might erase the lingering odor of jet fuel and blood. If only he had a cigarette. But he’d quit a year ago and wasn’t about to drive to the store.

  Taking the espresso upstairs, Luca passed through his bedroom on the way to his private terrace. Reaching down, he gingerly took the handgun out of its holster and laid it upon the patio table next to his laptop, which was still open to his manuscript. He remained standing and let out another long exhale.

  He sipped the hot espresso and scanned the beach. The downed plane marred his normally calm view of the Gulf of Mexico, as did a growing crowd, and he wondered why the plane crashed. Squinting into the midday sun Luca memorized the N-number on the tail then pulled his smartphone from his pocket. He typed it into the FAA aircraft registry website and read the listing for the owner. He Googled the name and was relieved to discover the pilot was a retired manufacturing executive and a member of the Southwest Florida Flying Club. Online photos proved he was the same dazed guy who’d climbed from the cockpit.

  Luca breathed a sigh of relief. The plane wasn’t here for him. That much was clear. Had it been the Mafia, the pilot would have found a way to kill him right on the beach. His shoulders relaxed away from his ears, and Luca wiped itchy pinpricks of sweat off his brow. Maybe with the Mafia boss’s arrest, he was truly safe. Maybe he really could stop being so paranoid, just like his uncle said.

  The temperature hovered around ninety degrees, on the ugly edge of unbearable. Combined with the humidity it was like sitting in an oven inside of a steam room. Maybe he’d swim later in the pool. Or in the Gulf when the temperature dropped. He wished he was home in southern Italy with its dry heat and cool Mediterranean breeze—a frequent wish, but one he knew wouldn’t come true anytime soon. He hadn’t tasted those pleasures for more than a year.

  Luca glanced at the blue expanse before him. Palmira Island was boring, but he did enjoy the water. It was bright blue, and gin-clear. He felt most free when he dove beneath its surface. When he glided through the salty sea he forgot about everything, including the fact that he was staying at his long-lost uncle’s empty house on a tiny island in a strange American state.

  Strange? Take this spooky, silent plane crash, for example. Just another weird Florida story. Crazy shit happened here all the time.

  Luca stared at the wreck and the people gathered below. While his first instinct had been to help the injured, a second strong desire kicked in now. Luca imagined interviewing the pilot and taking notes. He could practically feel the pen and notebook in his hands. So many possible questions to ask.

  Once a journalist, always a journalist.

  Police unfurled yellow crime scene tape. More gawkers drifted over to check out the plane. Luca noticed a young reporter in a long white beach dress. She had a press credential around her neck. Why was she wearing such a ridiculous getup to cover a story? Luca scowled in her direction. Amateur.

  She nodded while taking notes and interviewing the pilot, who wiped his cheeks with his palms. Luca remembered that part of journalism well, the quest to plumb the depths of broken, grieving people. These days, Luca had his own shattered world to deal with. It had been fifteen months since his parents were murdered, and the pain was still ever-present.

  He watched the reporter move toward the gate separating the public beach from the private enclave and rattle the doorknob. Luca rolled his eyes. But of course she wanted to find more people to interview. Why did it annoy him so much when that was exactly what he used to do as a reporter?

  Clearly she wasn’t deterred by the sign that read PRIVATE PROPERTY. Somehow the young woman snaked her arm through the close-together iron bars to unlock the gate from the inside. As she opened the door and slipped in, however, the seam of her long dress caught on the rail’s bottom spike, causing a huge tear.

  Luca marched downstairs, out the door and toward the beach, intending to put a stop to the silly reporter’s quest. Tensing again, this time with anger, he cursed silently at how the security gate of the beach enclave was so easy to breach. He’d have to tell his uncle to talk to someone about this. One unlocked door could lead to his death.

  He approached the reporter with a sneer, watching her scan the homes. She gathered her long hair and arranged it over a bare shoulder.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, biting back a displeasure that softened as his gaze swept down her body. Her ripped dress revealed a shapely and toned leg. The torn fabric of her dress, and what was underneath, proved impossible for him 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. Luca rubbed his lips together. His hand went instinctively to his hip, and he realized with a pang of unease that he’d left his gun on the terrace. Exhaling, he hated himself for automatically being so paranoid. This woman wasn’t a threat. She was just a young reporter. An amateur.

  He shook his head and tried to ignore her pretty face. His eyes settled on a clump of san
d clinging to her knee, and he was struck by an overwhelming desire to brush it off with his fingers and then run his entire hand up her smooth leg. “I don’t want to be in the paper.”

  She flashed a little smile, and her gaze lingered on his chest. Oh. Right. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Her eyes shifted to the tattoo on his left bicep, her smile grew wider and her gaze skittered to the ground.

  “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?”

  When she raised her eyes he was struck by their pale blue hue, the color of the Gulf on a clear day, a startling and beautiful contrast with her chestnut-colored hair. Luca stepped back, shook his head again and smiled despite himself. “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 in Luca’s ears. She blinked and stared at his hand, which was suspended in mid-air because he was trying to make a point while talking. He lowered his hand, suddenly self-conscious of the broad way he gestured.

  “Trust me? Of course you can trust me. And, anyway, I’m really 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.”

  Luca shrugged when she pointed to his arm. She couldn’t make him talk.

  “You have an accent,” she said, undeterred. “Where are you from?”

  He swallowed, not prepared that she would try to get so personal so soon. “Europe,” he muttered.

  “Well, that narrows it down.” She grinned and rummaged through her straw tote bag then handed him a business card. Plucking it from her fingers, Luca studied every inch of her face. Even the freckles on her nose were adorably sexy.

  He glanced down and read her card aloud. “‘Skylar Shaw. The Palmira Post.’”