Beautiful Enemy (The Enemies Trilogy Book 1)

by Piper Lawson

  I don’t check it often because the only thing I need money for is a roof over my head and plane tickets from show to show, both of which are usually covered by the venue.

  Still, the balance is lower than I’d like.

  I scan through the recent transactions.

  One automatic withdrawal from last month—rapidly approaching for this month—makes me curse.

  I hit a contact on my phone, chewing my lip as I wait for the line to pick up.

  “Hello, cousin,” I say when it does.

  “Hey.” Rustling sounds come over the line as if Callie’s getting out of bed.

  Since we were kids, we had a running joke of greeting each other formally. Living a few hours apart, we’d mostly see one another at family events and holidays. We weren’t allowed to have cellphones until high school, and we weren’t supposed to use our computers to message.

  Of course, we did anyway, but we kept up appearances to fool our parents.

  Since high school, I haven’t been close with my brothers or parents. Callie’s the nearest thing I have to family, and though we don’t hang out on the regular, she’s the one person who’s stood by me since I was a kid when I needed it.

  I picture her in the West LA apartment she shares with a roommate as I press the phone to my ear to pick up more sounds around her, clues as to her well-being. “Are you working this week?”

  “Um, I’m not sure.” More noises, as if she’s moving around.

  My cousin is normally upbeat and inquisitive. Her response makes me pull up, stepping away from the route so we don’t get trampled by runners or tourists. “Listen. I’m calling because I might not have the money this month.”

  I hold my breath as I wait for her disappointment, or protest.

  “It’s fine,” she says, her voice flat.

  “You don’t need it?”

  “We need way more. Something we were counting on fell through. I’m not sure we’ll make it this time.”

  Alarm has my hand tightening on the phone. “How much are you short?”

  She sighs. “Twenty thousand.”

  Shit.

  There’s no way I have that kind of free cash, even with this contract.

  “Can you get a loan?”

  “I tried. We’ve just been served an eviction notice.”

  The sunshine is every bit as bright, but as the dog tugs me down the path, my feet are heavy as bricks.

  “Your landlord can’t kick you out, especially given the circumstances.”

  “He doesn’t care. I’m going to be spending the next week packing.”

  I’ve been trying to figure out how to leave Ibiza in one piece, but my chest aches when I think of Callie, the one person who’s always had my back.

  When I help her, it’s because I want to and I can. Not because she asks.

  “Don’t pack yet. Let me get back to you.”

  When I return to the villa, I’m still trying to think of how to help Callie.

  I step inside, the leash looped around my wrist. I stop to yank off a shoe.

  Before I can, the dog bolts.

  I trip each step as he drags me across the floor, up the stairs.

  “Stop. Licorice! Costas! Siegfried! Roy! Bowie!”

  He hesitates at the last word, and I manage to suck in a breath before he lunges again, nearly knocking me flat on my face.

  He galumphs down the hall with me stumbling behind. The door at the end is cracked, and he sticks his nose in before shoving it wide and barreling into the room.

  I barely notice the wood furniture and sunny orange walls of an office.

  Especially when my gaze lands on the man on the phone, seated on the edge of the desk.

  “Unacceptable. We had this solved last week.” Harrison King is impeccable in dress slacks and a blue shirt that matches his eyes. Eyes that widen when the dog launches himself onto the man.

  “That was the whole point of the deal,” he bites out into the phone. “We invested in the renovations expecting a return. This is a multibillion-dollar business, not fucking child’s play.”

  I stop in the middle of the room, the leash still taut.

  “That’s your job,” he goes on. “I suggest you do it.” Harrison stabs a finger at his phone, ending the call.

  “Down, Bowie,” I say belatedly. I don’t know what Harrison King is doing here, but seeing the dog put his paws all over the expensive clothes is oddly satisfying.

  Harrison’s gaze drags up my body from my running shoes, a slow study. Judging from his drawn brows, it seems to leave him with no more answers than when he started.

  “Bowie?” He shifts off the desk and crosses to me.

  “I don’t know his name. But he seems pretty rock and roll.”

  Harrison loosens the leash from around my wrist. The Rolex on his wrist glints in the light from the open windows.

  “It’s Barney,” he says as he releases me. “And he’s my dog.”

  Surprise slams into me.

  “You and your dog are staying at my villa.” I look around the office again, needing somewhere to focus that’s not his unrelenting attention.

  “No. You and your attitude are staying at my villa.”

  Horror washes over me.

  I slept at this man’s house last night? Walked his damned dog?

  What kind of a controlling freak invites a contractor who hates him to live with him?

  And skips the invitation, I might add.

  “Why?” I blurt.

  His gaze is chastising. “I decided it would be easier to keep an eye on you and ensure you complied with your contractual responsibilities. An impulsive decision I’m already regretting,” he adds, frowning as he searches my face.

  I could scream, but I’m still distracted by an idea as my attention drags back to his watch. I could probably pawn the thing and solve all of my cousin’s financial problems. And the villa wasn’t even mentioned in his list of homes he owns according to the articles I skimmed.

  Harrison King could snap his fingers and pay off the debt of a small country.

  My mind spins as I concoct a plan that keeps me one step ahead. “About the contract—”

  “I’ve told you, if you break the contract, I’ll sue you.”

  “I want to renegotiate.”

  His mouth snaps shut.

  “You’ve invested a lot in its renovations. I can help. Give me twenty-five percent of the door for the next month and I’ll fill Debajo.”

  He folds his arms across his chest, the blue fabric pulling across firm muscles. The way his eyes narrow as he clicks smoothly into business mode is as compelling as it is intimidating. “Because you can do things my PR firm can’t?”

  I match his posture. “Obviously.”

  I’m not as confident as I’m acting. Publicity isn’t my strong suit, unless you count publicly going down in flames.

  But he doesn’t need to know that.

  “And if you don’t?”

  “I don’t get paid. But when you make money, I make money.”

  Something nudges at my thigh, and I look down to see Barney inserting himself between us, tail wagging.

  “Ten percent,” Harrison replies as I bend down to scratch the dog’s head.

  “Twenty. And I’m moving to alternative accommodations.”

  “Fifteen, you stay, plus I get three requests of my choosing.”

  The evenness of his voice has my jaw dropping. This man acts as if he always gets his way.

  “What kind of requests?”

  “Any requests,” he says impatiently. “If I want you to clean the pool using your thong as a filter, you will.”

  My hands fist at my sides. “You’re a pig. Clean your own damn pool.”

  Harrison turns away. “Then there’s no deal.”

  The dismissal is swift and brutal.

  I don’t understand his endgame. One more mystery about the already-confusing man before me.

  But I know that what he wants is to put me
in a corner.

  “These requests don’t involve other people,” I say at last, and his head cocks.

  “Only you.”

  The way he says those two words makes me shiver.

  “Eighteen, plus favors,” I counter.

  His blue gaze is intense enough I feel my ribs crack.

  We shake, and electricity runs up my arm at his touch.

  He pulls away first. “I’ll have my solicitor send a new copy of the contract. I expect your signature by the end of the day. Along with my jacket.”

  My head snaps up to meet his mocking expression. “You knew you’d get it back. That’s why you gave it to me.”

  “It’s Brioni.” He says it as if it’s an answer.

  “You’re unbelievable. Controlling, demanding, manipulative… No wonder your fiancée left you.”

  His fist clenches around the leash in his hand, and when he speaks, his voice is dangerously low and quiet. “Be careful what you say when you still want things from me.”

  A knock on the door is followed by the housekeeper’s immediate entrance.

  “Ah, perdón!” she gushes when she sees us. “I see you and Señor King are getting more acquainted.” She’s either oblivious to the tension or ignores it. “I thought señorita would like to know her suitcase is in her room.”

  My heart leaps. “The airline found it?”

  “No,” Harrison intervenes. “The contents were spilled when we retrieved them, but I trust everything is there.”

  He found my suitcase when the airline couldn’t. Through what, some kind of billionaire black magic?

  Relief surges through me, though it’s short-lived when I remind myself who’s responsible for it.

  His voice follows me to the door. “You may buy replacements for anything missing from your luggage and charge them to my account, with one exception. I do not tolerate my employees on drugs of any kind.”

  Son of a…

  “And don’t forget my jacket.”

  I sprint down the hall and unzip my suitcase, tossing clothes and wigs and toiletries out onto the floor.

  The pill bottle is zipped into an inside pocket.

  And it’s empty.

  7

  Harrison

  My father used to say, “You can’t control a man’s thoughts, but you can command his actions.”

  In other words, you can’t make him like you, but you can make him bend to you.

  That’s what I’m intent on doing today in the office—forcing men’s hands.

  One man’s hand in particular.

  On paper, Christian Geroux owns Ibiza’s greatest club.

  In my mind, it’s already mine.

  I’ve wanted it since I was twenty-one.

  Finally, I got word he’s open to selling. I won’t waste this chance.

  But making headway amassing the greatest collection of entertainment venues in the world requires the right frame of mind.

  I finish my outdoor workout before seven, ready to take on the day and already thinking about my meetings and strategies for my next acquisition.

  I’m not thinking about the young woman I installed in my villa.

  At the time, it seemed like a way to supervise her. I regretted the decision the moment she tripped into my office uninvited yesterday, towed by my dog like a water skier behind a furry yacht.

  After acting as if she’d have cut off a limb if it would have gotten her out of the contract she’d signed, she flipped my deal and proposed a new one.

  Negotiation 101. When you have all the leverage, there’s no need to make further concessions.

  But she caught me off guard, and I was curious what had changed for her since the night before when I’d set her in a cab with my favorite jacket around her shoulders.

  The one I found swimming in my pool the next afternoon, the chlorine doing God knows what to the wool and the striped lining.

  I ground my teeth together as I retrieved it with a cleaning implement, looking up to be sure she wasn’t watching from her balcony.

  She’s nothing like the women I spend time with. She says she doesn’t care for money or wealth.

  Except she asked for a raise.

  Which means, on one level, she’s exactly like the women I spend time with.

  Now, when I return to the villa after my workout, there’s a sweater hanging on the back of a chair at the dining table.

  My first thought is of payback. Dropping this into the pool and picturing her finding it there.

  What the fuck is she doing to me?

  I’m thirty-five years old, and I’m giddy with the prospect of ruining something of hers just to see her reaction.

  The fabric is surprisingly soft as I lift it. A thin woven cover-up that’s more feminine than I expect.

  “What are you doing?” Natalia’s voice makes my spine stiffen like a schoolboy caught masturbating.

  I glance back to see her watching from the kitchen. I lower the garment, trying to forget the scent, warm and floral with something like vanilla beneath.

  “Removing this from my dining room.”

  It shouldn’t irritate me that she’s made herself at home in the past two days. I’m the one who brought her here.

  I start up the stairs to the open hallway that runs along one side of the villa, her sweater dangling from my fingertips like a limp rag.

  Now, Rae’s door is closed—it’s midafternoon, and she’s still asleep despite not having a show last night—but sounds inside have me frowning. Movement, shuffling.

  Is someone else in there?

  The possibility arouses dark thoughts.

  First, she destroys my jacket. Then brings someone home to my house…

  I crack the door, and my dog comes barreling out.

  Light beyond the door beckons, and I peer inside.

  She’s alone in bed.

  On her side facing the door, her dark hair is a wild mane around her head.

  Her baggy T-shirt is twisted, pulling tight across her breasts above the sheets, as if she was fighting sleep itself. Her lips are parted, her lashes a thick fringe that twitches against her cheeks as she dreams.

  A rope tugs tight low in my gut.

  Is there any time of day, alone or surrounded by people, when she finds peace?

  If there is, perhaps she’ll let me in on her secret.

  I fold the sweatshirt and lay it on the dresser, taking in the belongings scattered around the room. My fingers itch to straighten the things strewn about, the clothes and gadgets I went through myself when the bag arrived thanks to a call placed by one of my staff to the airline, stressing the importance of finding this particular bag.

  Her clothes are so unlike the ones I’m used to women wearing around me. Denim. Off-label trainers. Cotton lingerie.

  The wigs are curious. She owns as many of those as clothes, yet most women I know spend hours and thousands of dollars to try to replicate what her hair seems to do naturally.

  There’s no sign of the unlabelled pill bottle I found in her bag.

  It had to have been recreational. No seasoned traveler would pack a necessary medication in her checked bag and risk losing it with a missing suitcase.

  Drug use in Ibiza is practically a prerequisite, and I can’t keep it out of my clubs. But I can keep it out of my employees, which was why I dumped the pills without a second thought.

  Rae stirs, mumbling under her breath.

  If she was mine, I’d shift over her on the bed, brush the hair from her face, and prompt her to repeat herself.

  I have the sudden urge to do just that, coaxing her if necessary. The brush of a knuckle along the softness of her cheek. The press of my body against the curves of hers, enough to have her responding in kind even in sleep.

  But she’s not mine.

  I won’t claim another woman as mine again. I might take them to bed—not that even that idea has held much appeal over the past year—but I won’t offer them my life, my heart.

  Because tho
se things aren’t what they truly want and because they’re nothing I can offer again. Both are closed for good.

  She’s here to fill my club and repay her debt.

  I slip out of her room before she wakes, but not before I wonder what she’s dreaming.

  The morning passes in a frustrating glut. The new initiatives at my clubs are taking time and money, and I’m being reminded what a headache acquisitions are as the man standing between me and my latest prize refuses to give a straight answer to my offer.

  The club I’m seeking to add to Echo Entertainment isn’t only a line item on a balance sheet.

  It’s personal.

  Since my split with Eva, the tabloids accuse me of hiding out in my Ibiza villa.

  I let them.

  Perhaps there’s been some self pity, but I’m laying the groundwork for the biggest deal of my life. I’m in control of a multibillion-dollar company, not a fool nursing a broken heart.

  From this day on, every ounce of my attention, my money, and my influence will be devoted to winning La Mer.

  When I jog down the stairs for lunch, the sight at the bottom has me swallowing an irritated groan.

  The sweatshirt is back on the kitchen table as if I never took it upstairs.

  I watch Rae from behind as she makes coffee, moving easily around my kitchen in faded jeans and an orange T-shirt that has slipped off one shoulder. Her hair is caught in a thick ponytail that lays over the opposite shoulder and has me remembering how wild it looked earlier as she talks on the phone and rubs her neck.

  “When can I speak with him?”

  She takes a sip from her mug, then makes a sound of displeasure. “Have him call me.”

  She hangs up, tucking the phone in the back pocket of her tight jeans.

  “Boyfriend dodging you?” My slow drawl has the intended effect of scaring the ever-loving fuck out of her as she whirls to face me.

  Wide brown eyes scan my form. Most women find me appealing, but she seems to decide I’m barely worth sharing the kitchen with when she points at her mug. “Instant coffee should be banned. I pegged you as a sadist, not a masochist.”

  She turns her back on me before I can respond, rubbing her temples before sliding one hand down to her neck.