Beautiful Enemy (The Enemies Trilogy Book 1)

by Piper Lawson

  Ash flinches. “Wealth and power make people do strange things.”

  I shake my head, trying to catch up. “Mischa and Harrison are the same age?”

  “Two years apart. But they went to school together.” Ash frowns. “This gala is a bore, but the host is a friend of the family.” His expression brightens. “Come with me as my date.”

  I snort, until I realize he’s serious.

  “Can I wear this?” I gesture to my running clothes, and he barks out a laugh.

  “Fuck no. It’s black tie. I’ll pick you up at eight!” he calls as I head to my room, taking down my hair and eager to shower off the sweat.

  Before I can, my gaze flicks to the nightstand, and I do a double take at the bottle of pills there.

  Same medication. Same dosage. Enough to last me until I leave.

  What the…?

  He’s been avoiding me all week. No more.

  I head down the hall and push in Harrison’s office door without knocking.

  He looks up from his desk, looking caught out but otherwise immaculate in a pale-green shirt that sets off his blond hair and slight tan.

  “You replaced my pills,” I state.

  “I estimated the dosage based on the size of the ones I disposed of.”

  I turn toward his bookshelves. The fact that this man knows more than anyone about my weaknesses has my stomach clenching.

  “Thank you. I like knowing they’re there if I need them.”

  It’s almost as if they’re an artifact from a version of me that no longer exists but one I don’t want to forget.

  There are dozens of books, and I trace a finger along the faded spines before I pull out one in a clear plastic case. “The Count of Monte Cristo. A good man who lost his way on a path for vengeance.”

  “Vindication. Justice. There’s a difference.”

  I open the cover and take in the date, my mouth rounding. “A first edition?”

  “The first edition was published as a serial and in French. This is a second.”

  I nearly drop it in my haste to replace it on the shelf.

  “Why did you let me pick it up? It’s three hundred years old and could fall apart in a second.”

  I turn to glare at him, but the expression on his face sets me back.

  “Beautiful things are made to be touched.”

  The softness in his voice sends shivers through me.

  Like that, I’m rocketed back to the night on the beach. His words, his closeness, his intensity.

  “I understand from Leni the door was up by a hundred last night,” he goes on. “You’ll need to do better if you want to profit from our deal.”

  I frown. “I see our truce is over.”

  “Were you hoping it wasn’t?” He cocks his head.

  I refuse to cop to anything where he’s concerned. He’ll make me pay for it.

  “There’s something about you I can’t figure out.”

  “Only one thing?”

  He ignores me and continues. “What changed from your first night in Ibiza to the next morning that made you renegotiate?”

  I don’t want to talk about this. It’s personal.

  But the man who told me about his parents dying two nights ago replaced my anxiety meds.

  There isn’t a clean line between business and personal with him, if there ever was one.

  “My cousin co-runs a program for women who’ve experienced sexual violence. Their funding has been slashed by government cuts. They need help keeping the lights on for a couple of months, or they won’t be able to keep providing services.”

  He blinks at me as if I told him I wanted to buy breeding rhinoceros and start a farm back in Orange County.

  “That’s very committed,” he says at last. “But you can’t take responsibility for everyone in this world. There are too many evils.”

  Conviction has me standing straighter. “No woman should have to endure sexual violence, and they sure as fuck shouldn’t endure it alone.”

  He studies me long enough that I feel as if he’s peering beneath my skin, under the layers of Little Queen or Rae which are fit for public consumption.

  He shifts in his chair, his strong body reclining as both hands curl over the armrests. “There’s a charity event tomorrow for the local environmental commission. Plenty of cynics like me and bleeding hearts like you.”

  “I heard. Ash asked me to go with him.”

  “Ash?” Surprise flits across his handsome face. Harrison rubs a hand over his jaw. “Tell my brother he can find another date. You’ll go with me.”

  I laugh, incredulous. “What? Why?”

  “I can want the company of an earnest young music producer in my employ. Who knows? Perhaps you can elicit business for your show next week.”

  I could promote Debajo, but that would mean being the date of this man I respond to when I shouldn’t. Fancy clothes, booze, Harrison King looking like the god he is while he wraps Ibiza’s in crowd around his finger.

  Since my conversation with Callie, I can’t help wondering what else he could do with those hands.

  Harrison King might boast about his empire, but he has the goods to back it up, having built a massive company himself.

  Would he be as capable if he applied himself to the challenge of a woman?

  I know he would.

  What I’m less sure of is whether he’d plow through her, demand she bend to his every need until she’s so caught up in his storm she can’t resist it…

  Or whether he’d check his ambition long enough to learn what she wants. To explore and test and play, to step out of his need for power like I watched him step out of his clothes that night at the beach.

  I swallow, affected by both versions.

  Spending a night with him would be more than a quick fix. He’d get under my skin more than he already has.

  If Callie knew this man was the object of my lust, she’d tell me to run away, and she’d be right.

  “I don’t think so.”

  His gaze narrows as he folds his arms across his chest. “You don’t want to spend an evening with me.”

  I cross to his desk, lift the letter opener off the blotter, and hold it out. “In case you need help scraping yourself off the ground.”

  But before I can turn, a hand closes around my wrist, hot and firm and strong.

  “I said it would be more appropriate if you dated my brother. That wasn’t a suggestion.”

  “Really? You’re so damned subtle it’s hard to keep up,” I taunt.

  Bad idea.

  His thumb brushes the underside of my wrist. Soft, deliberate.

  My pulse leaps in response, and the letter opener clatters to the desktop.

  “I need a date, and you owe me three favors,” he drawls. “Consider this the first.”

  I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until he releases me again. “So, what, I’m supposed to dress like a spoiled socialite for the evening and parade around on your arm as if I want your money and your cock?”

  A slow smirk curves his mouth as he turns the letter opener in his fingers without breaking my gaze. “Not necessarily in that order.”

  10

  Rae

  This is a bad fucking idea.

  I take a deep breath as I turn back to the mirror. The dress is the color of tangerines, ripe and lush.

  It’s cut high at the front, circling my neck like a collar. The back is nonexistent, starting above the top of my ass. The skirt has a high slit up one thigh, and the long fabric on either side ripples when I turn or walk.

  Before I could ask Ash what to wear or browse shops on my own, the box appeared on my bed.

  The sky-high wedge sandals that came with the dress are the same color as my skin. They’re uncomfortable as hell when I fasten them around my ankles, but before I can decide whether to take them off, a knock sounds on my door.

  “I understand most women consider tardiness a virtue, but I didn’t expect it of you,” comes the grump
y British voice from the other side.

  I pull it open an inch, and my chest contracts.

  Harrison King is breathtaking in his tux. James Bond come to life, with a hard body, sculpted lips, strong hands, and eyes that promise to steal your secrets and keep them for himself.

  But it’s the naked hunger on his face when he sees me, his gaze dragging over me like he’s starved, that makes me want to turn around and slam the door.

  “It’s more Little Queen than me,” I quip to hide the ripples of awareness.

  “She’s you. And this…” His gaze runs down my figure again. “This is definitely you.”

  His praise warms me. I don’t need anyone else’s approval, but knowing a man who’s seen everything, done everything, could have anyone, gets simple pleasure from being in my presence is a high I never expected.

  “You arseholes coming, or should Toro and I go on ahead?” Ash taunts from down the stairs.

  When I start along the open hallway, Ash spots me from the foyer and dining area below and whistles. “Christ, Rae. If you’re looking for a man tonight—”

  “She’s not,” Harrison informs him.

  I make it down the hall without incident, then trip at the top of the stairs. Strong arms grab my waist, my ribs, before I can spill down to the first floor.

  “Are the shoes the wrong size?” Harrison murmurs at my ear.

  “No. They’re the wrong style.” I go on at his confused look. “If I wanted eight more inches, I’d have asked for it.”

  “And I’d have given it to you,” Ash declares, making me grin and Harrison glare.

  Toro greets us outside. “Beautiful,” he says, beaming at me.

  “Thanks. I had the dress in my suitcase.” I wink, and he laughs. “What about this car?” I nod to the vintage Rolls-Royce, a departure from the usual Mercedes, complete with a chrome ornament on the hood.

  “Had it in my basement,” he teases, and it’s my turn to grin.

  Since I arrived in Ibiza, we’ve found a handful of moments to talk. In the car, I learned Natalia is his wife and that they’ve worked for Harrison’s family a long time. One day, when I found him working in the garden outside, I insisted he let me help him. In exchange, he told me about his daughter.

  He misses her. It’s clear from the way he speaks about her.

  But he and Natalia enjoy taking care of the house, and Harrison and Ash are extended family to them.

  Toro goes to help me into the back of the car, but Harrison holds the door first. I shift into the middle, Ash claiming the other side.

  “This is cozy,” Ash says pleasantly.

  We’re pressed tight, my shoulders brushing both of theirs. But it’s Harrison’s I’m most aware of, his body that makes mine tingle.

  “So, whose place is this?” I ask, trying to settle my nerves.

  “Christian Geroux. A businessman,” Harrison states.

  He looks as if he’s going to say more but pulls out his phone and frowns at it.

  When Ash leans forward to talk with Toro, I glance at Harrison’s screen, doing a double take. “Whoa. That font is size a million.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s barely legible.”

  “You need reading glasses.”

  Harrison presses his lips together and refuses to say more as we head to the party, his strong profile a dark outline against the lights beyond the car.

  The idea he has a weakness pisses him off like a business deal gone sour. I smirk the whole way to the party.

  The villa we pull up in front of is every bit as sprawling and impressive as the one I’m staying in. More formally designed and decorated, it’s meant to be enjoyed by guests as opposed to the people who occupy it when the lights go out.

  There are terraced gardens flanking a curved driveway, discreet security in tuxedos at either side of the door. Twinkling lights are just visible on some patio along the side.

  We head in through the front door, staff immediately descending to offer us drinks. I’m distracted from the sudden surge of nerves by the gorgeous house, every wall filled with art, every corner with lush plants.

  On the terrace, a hundred people are milling about. There’s a six-piece band in one corner and a dance floor. Torches light the huge outside space, with recessed lighting on the inside.

  “This place is incredible,” I murmur to Ash.

  “Christian had it built as his holiday home. He spared no expense. He never does.”

  Before long, people are approaching us—approaching Harrison mostly. When pressed, he introduces me as Raegan. No one calls me Raegan, but as unsettling as it is, there’s something new about it on his lips.

  I’d been expecting Harrison to be distant like in the car or confrontational like every other time, but he’s the opposite. He stands close enough to steer me with a hand on my back, but his presence feels protective rather than controlling.

  For a minute, I wonder what it would feel like to be on his arm for real. He’s a king here, and not only in name. This world he plays in, he runs it.

  The men he considers rivals must be formidable indeed.

  One of the women smiles in my direction as Harrison and her husband, who’s in media, talk global news and business. It’s a strange vibe as she leans in. “Do you model?”

  I choke on my drink. “Not lately.”

  “Ah. Harrison is a master at keeping beautiful women on his arm. But I suppose things change.”

  Her catty tone makes me stiffen. Next to me, Harrison glances over in the middle of his sentence. As if he didn’t hear but sensed my reaction.

  A hand on my back has awareness tingling up my spine.

  “You know,” I say to her, “I was reading a story last week about how this wine tasting club was served the wrong wine. Instead of a thousand-dollar bottle, they got a twenty-dollar one. And they gave it rave reviews.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Quality doesn’t come from a label,” Harrison cuts in smoothly.

  The fact that he was listening enough to stay on top of my conversation, not only his, has gratitude blooming in my stomach.

  He leans in, brushing his lips against my ear. “Everything all right?”

  “I can handle them.”

  “I know you can. That’s why I brought you.” But he squeezes my arm, a brief reassurance as genuine as it is surprising.

  I’m not comfortable at large events. Unless I’m performing, where I have distance from the crowd, I prefer small groups with people I know.

  When I stopped going to parties in high school, around the same time I started working on my music, I figured my friends would understand.

  They didn’t.

  The girls who used to invite me to things turned their backs on me.

  When I tried to explain that I couldn’t relax and enjoy myself, they froze me out.

  Evidently our friendship was based on gushing over our older brothers’ college friends, and getting drunk enough we couldn’t remember what we did the next day.

  Once neither of those things appealed to me, I stopped appealing to them.

  Tonight, Harrison’s telling me he knows I’ve got this. But in case I don’t, he’s got me.

  It’s that realization that has me pulling back. “I, ah, need to find a bathroom.”

  I duck out, feeling his gaze between my shoulders.

  On the way, I get lost and run into a distinguished-looking man in his seventies.

  “Good evening. We haven’t met,” he says, reaching for my hand.

  I let him take it, press a dry kiss to the back. “I was just looking for a bathroom,” I say when he releases me.

  “Bien sûr. This is my house, and I can show you the way.”

  “Oh! Mr. Geroux.”

  “Christian, please.” He graciously spreads his hands. “Make yourself at home. I do enjoy hosting, and I’ll have fewer opportunities when I retire.”

  “Then why retire at all?”

  “Because I have chi
ldren who require me unlike any business. For some of us, it’s a pleasure to build and acquire and possess. A game. For others, it’s their life—they need to prove themselves, to redeem themselves.”

  Christian’s eyes gleam. “My ventures are like my children. I will miss certain ones more than others. La Mer is a once-in-a-lifetime place.”

  My heart kicks. “You own La Mer?”

  “For thirty years. You’ve heard of it.” He looks genuinely pleased.

  “It’s exquisite. I’ve always wanted to—” I cut myself off before saying “play there.” “Attend.”

  “You must while you are here. As my guest, before I sell to one of its many suitors.” He hands me a card. “Give this to the men at the door, and we will let you in.” He pats my arm as we arrive at the bathroom door.

  But as I thank him and head inside, my head is spinning.

  Harrison’s here to see the man who owns La Mer, which can only mean one thing—he’s here trying to buy it.

  This is what he’s been working on all week while he’s been avoiding me. Judging by how big this deal must be, I bet he’s been working on it far longer than that.

  And what of his rival? Does the Ivanov family want La Mer just as much?

  I know what it’s like to have your past snapping at your heels, but it’s bigger for Harrison.

  If tonight is as important as it sounds, why did he go to such lengths to bring me as his date?

  The only thing I can think is that I’d be a distraction for the other partygoers. A tacky novelty.

  Except I remember the way his hand felt on my back. How genuine he sounded when he wanted to make sure I was okay.

  Everything I learn about him makes me more confused, and more drawn to him.

  I touch up my lipstick in the mirror, still surprised by the woman looking back at me.

  She might not be a goddess, but she’s different than she was two weeks ago, and it’s not about the designer dress.

  I have a career again. A club that’s starting to feel like mine, that’s doing better thanks to me.

  I have people I’m interested in spending time with.

  And tonight…

  I have a date.

  My shoes are rubbing in all the wrong places, but I don’t care.