Seducing the Enemy (Entangled Indulgence)

by Noelle Adams

  Marietta turned onto her side, facing the empty side of the bed. But it wasn’t empty. There was something she hadn’t noticed laid on one of the pillows.

  A single pink sweet pea.

  She knew everything she needed to know.

  Sweet peas meant good-bye.

  …

  After processing the heartbreaking truth, Marietta grabbed the sweet pea and jumped off the bed.

  She wasn’t stuck. She wasn’t helpless. And she wasn’t going to accept something so incredibly wrong.

  The flower still in her hand, she ran out of her room and nearly collided with Gordon.

  “Is he still here?” she blurted out.

  “He’s getting ready to go down to the car. We just carried out his luggage.”

  She whirled around, then froze, disoriented in the endless halls of the mansion. She had no idea which way to go.

  “The car is waiting around the back,” Gordon murmured. “To reach his room, you should take the back stairs on this wing and then head up the opposite stairs to his wing.”

  With a hurried thanks to the butler, Marietta sprinted through the hall.

  She was taking the stairs up two at a time to Harrison’s room when she met him on the landing. He carried his leather case in one hand and his phone in the other. He was clean-shaven and handsome in tailored trousers and a blue dress shirt, but he looked tired.

  “Tell me what the hell is going on.” Fear and frustration pushed her into a more dramatic confrontation than she’d intended.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I had understood my uncle explained the situation to you. I’m flying to California to tell Benjamin about his brother.”

  She stared at him, baffled and upset by how cool and controlled he sounded. “I know that. But why were you leaving without talking to me?”

  He glanced at his watch, like he was impatient to get away from her.

  “I know this whole thing is awful and heartbreaking, but we can get through it. Why can’t you just talk to me?” She reached out to grab his arm and make him really see her. His body was present, but he wasn’t really here.

  His face tightened, but his eyes, when they glimpsed the sweet pea then returned to her face, were empty. “I would have thought you’d understand the significance of the flower.”

  She had understood. She just couldn’t accept his message.

  Marietta tightened her grip on his arm, his bicep rock hard beneath her hand. “This is really hard, but it’s not a good enough reason to walk away from me. We’re not living in a Victorian novel where family issues should keep us apart.”

  He pulled his arm out of her grip and said in a colder voice. “You think, because we’re living in another century, family is somehow less important?”

  “Of course not! I know it matters that your cousin accidently killed my sister, but there are ways to deal with it. I wouldn’t hold something like that against you. You know I wouldn’t. It doesn’t change my feelings for you.” Her voice wobbled, since saying the words aloud was such a big risk.

  He looked away again. This time, when he met her gaze, his expression was even stonier. “I was trying to make this easier for both of us, but…I think you might have misinterpreted where things stand between us.”

  “What?”

  “Obviously I had a good time with you, and we get along well. But I have certain priorities in my life. And having a fling with a pretty girl for a couple of weeks just isn’t one of them.”

  She gasped, almost choking on the inhalation. “You don’t mean that. I can’t believe you mean that. Why are you doing this?”

  He arched his eyebrows almost arrogantly. “I told you. I make decisions based on my priorities. And you’ve overestimated your importance to me.”

  Tears welling in her eyes blurred his face. “This is wrong, Harry,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “It’s just wrong.” She couldn’t have been so mistaken about him, about them, about their feelings. He was trying to get her to go away, but she couldn’t believe he really meant it.

  “It may feel that way to you, but it isn’t wrong for me. You’ll see things more clearly soon and you won’t be so upset. I do need to go, or I’ll miss my flight.”

  Then he walked past her and started down the stairs.

  Marietta stood, dazed, for a few seconds. Then she realized that if he walked away now, she’d lose him forever.

  She ran after him. “No, wait.” She grabbed his arm again and pulled him around to look at her. “Wait, Harry.”

  He jerked out of her grip and said in a voice she didn’t recognize, “I said I have to go. What about that don’t you understand? This conversation is over.”

  “Harry—”

  “Do not call me that again.” He took a step backward. Away from her. His face, his eyes, were stone cold. “My name is Harrison Damon.”

  His icy response paralyzed her. She couldn’t argue anymore. She dropped the sweet pea. The delicate flower fluttered as it fell onto the stair at Harrison’s feet.

  She should have panicked, should have felt her throat close and the blood drain from her face. This was what she’d always been afraid of—the world rising up to crush her again.

  The worst had happened, and she couldn’t feel…anything.

  She took a step back and missed the stair behind her. She would have fallen, but she grabbed the railing.

  Part of her was aware Harrison had reached out as she stumbled. Then he stopped.

  She heard someone on the stairs below her and looked blindly down at Gordon. He was asking if she needed assistance.

  She almost laughed at the irony. She might have declined his help. She wasn’t sure. Her legs began to move.

  Then she achieved a great victory.

  She found her way back to her room.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’ve got to tell you, man,” Benjamin Damon said, finishing off the last of the beer in his bottle, “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks,” Harrison muttered, stretching out his legs to get comfortable in the one chair in the room.

  Benjamin’s apartment was small and Spartan, with an open concept and a tiny bedroom. There was one couch, one chair, a television, and a cluttered desk. Other than piles of books against the walls and a collection of architectural magazines and unopened mail, there were no other furnishings in the room.

  Benjamin had ignored his calls when Harrison arrived in California, so he had just shown up at his cousin’s front door. He’d convinced an annoyed Benjamin to let him in, and then he’d told him the truth about Michael.

  Benjamin hadn’t appeared surprised. He’d barely reacted at all—just said Michael had always been reckless, and that the family could handle the situation however they wanted.

  With his familial duty accomplished, Harrison could have gone home. But he didn’t want to. Not until he pulled himself together. Marietta would be gone, and he didn’t want to face a house where every room would remind him of her.

  So he’d stayed the night at one of the Damon properties in Los Angeles and pretended to take care of business there. This evening, he’d returned to his cousin’s place in hopes of feeling like he had something worthwhile to accomplish.

  “You don’t look all that great yourself,” Harrison responded. He sipped the Scotch he’d poured himself after Benjamin had made a vague gesture toward the kitchen, the extent of his hospitality.

  Their uncle would definitely not approve.

  Benjamin appeared healthy but as different from a Damon as was possible. He’d grown a full beard, and his hair needed trimming. He wore faded jeans and a ragged T-shirt with a crude slogan on the front. He had a large tattoo across one inner forearm, but Harrison hadn’t been able to get a good look at it.

  “At least I don’t look like someone stomped my heart into the mud,” Benjamin replied. “What was her name?”

  Harrison tensed at his offhand tone.

  “She dumped you?”

  If the mood had been s
erious, Harrison never would have answered. “No.”

  “Well, that’s your third drink since you got here, and you look like you haven’t eaten or slept in days. It might be time to reconsider dumping her.”

  “I didn’t dump her,” Harrison said automatically. That was a lie. He’d never made any sort of commitment to her, never even asked her out on a date. But he’d broken her sweet heart all the same. She’d cared about him. Given herself to him. Trusted him. Believed he was worth something.

  He gulped the last of the Scotch, the pungent liquid burning his throat.

  It wasn’t strong enough to forget the sight of Marietta’s face as he’d forced out his final words. He’d been desperate to get away from her and hadn’t known any other way to do so. To hold on to the decision he’d made.

  She’d been devastated. Broken. By him.

  “Who is she?” Benjamin asked again, his tone still casual, but not as intrusive.

  Harrison didn’t know why he answered. “Marietta Edwards.”

  It took a moment, but Benjamin’s expression transformed beneath his beard. There was a moment of understanding, almost sympathy. Then it shifted to anger.

  “You fucking Damons are all alike,” he bit out. “You and your damned anachronisms. Michael is dead. So is the Edwards girl. They’ve been dead for fifteen years. It’s terrible. It’s terrible. But it’s done.” He was almost shaking with fury, a long history of bitterness spilling over into his tirade. “So you’re miserable now. And I’ll bet you all the cash in my pocket that she is, too. For nothing.”

  Harrison stared at him, fuzzy from both surprise and too much Scotch.

  “They’re dead,” Benjamin repeated, his voice softer. “You didn’t do it. None of you did it. They’re just dead.” Silence followed the blunt words, giving them an inexplicable poignancy.

  Harrison got up from the uncomfortable chair and poured himself another glass.

  And he wondered if Marietta was as miserable as he was.

  …

  “Welcome to Le Vieux Oiseau,” Marietta said to the middle-aged couple who had entered her grandfather’s restaurant. She gave them a practiced smile. “Just the two of you? Let me show you to your table.”

  She walked the couple to a cozy table in the far corner of the dining room, offered them menus, and gestured toward Jeanne, their server, who chatted with André across the room.

  On her way back to the hostess station, Marietta crossed paths with Jeanne, and the older woman squeezed her shoulder.

  It was a silent gesture of sympathy, and Marietta appreciated it. She was trying to act normal—as composed and friendly as she’d always been. But she was pretty sure her act wasn’t convincing.

  She’d thought returning home—to the charming town, fragrant hills, and glowing sunshine of Provence—would be comforting, like a blanket sheltering her from the world. She’d always felt safe here, cut off from all that might hurt her. But the familiar setting and much-loved faces didn’t offer as much solace as she’d expected.

  She’d flown in two days ago and spent the first hibernating. She’d insisted on returning to work yesterday, hoping a normal routine would help ease the suffocating ache in her chest.

  It didn’t. Somehow, it felt even worse.

  Her grandfather emerged from his office for the sixth time in less than two hours. He pretended to read the reservation list, but Marietta wasn’t fooled. He was really checking on her.

  “Good crowd for so early in the day,” he said, eyeing the tables in the main room.

  “Yes. Looks to be mostly tourists.” Her voice, her smile, her posture all felt stiff and awkward. She was already exhausted from pretending to be fine so people wouldn’t worry, and it was only her second day back.

  Her grandfather’s eyes lit on her face. She knew she was paler than usual and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She hadn’t slept much, but at least she’d stopped crying.

  To distract him, she asked, “Did you hear from Mr. Damon again?”

  Grandpapa nodded. “They’re planning the trip out here for next week.”

  “I hope—” She cleared her throat. “I hope you’ll listen to what he has to say. He really wants to make amends.”

  “I know.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  Her grandfather’s shoulders stiffened. “One of his nephews killed Melissa. Another of his nephews broke your heart. You think I should make peace with this family?”

  Marietta’s throat closed up, but she pushed her words through it. “But none of that was Mr. Damon’s fault. He’s been hurt by all of this, too. And my heart isn’t…”

  Her grandfather gave her a sharp look but said nothing.

  “I’ll be fine.” She smiled again, but not faking as well as she had earlier. “Really. Every girl gets her heart broken at least once. We survive.”

  Her grandfather seemed relieved by her matter-of-fact tone. She was glad she’d convinced him that losing Harrison wasn’t the end of the world.

  She wished she could convince herself.

  …

  A few hours later, Marietta was returning to the hostess station after seating a family of six when she halted abruptly.

  A tall man in a business suit stood with his back to her, looking out the big front window of the restaurant. He had broad shoulders, long legs, and short, dark hair.

  Marietta’s heart pounded. She could barely catch her breath, but she managed to stumble back to the station to put down the wine list the family hadn’t needed.

  The man must have heard her, because he turned. His cheerful smile and blue eyes were like a kick in the gut.

  The man’s smile faltered as she gaped at him.

  He was a complete stranger.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, “I’m waiting to meet someone for lunch.”

  “Of course,” she replied hoarsely. “Would you like to wait here or at a table?”

  “Here is fine. Especially with such appealing company.”

  Marietta felt shaky after the dramatic rush of excitement and the sharp letdown. But she plastered on a courteous smile and made small talk, sidestepping the man’s attempts to flirt. He was nice enough and seemed intelligent. Certainly, he was good-looking. A month ago, she probably would have found him very attractive. Maybe one day she would again.

  But for now, she was relieved when another patron showed up for what was obviously a late business luncheon.

  She kept her composure as she seated them and walked back into the office. “Do you mind taking the front for a few minutes?” she asked her grandfather, feigning a casual tone. “I feel like I need a rest.”

  He agreed with alacrity, obviously happy to do something to help her. After he left, she closed the door and turned the lock. Then she sank into the soft leather sofa.

  She struggled to take a deep breath.

  For a few moments, she’d thought that man was Harrison. She’d let herself hope that he’d changed his mind, that he’d come for her. She’d allowed her heart to believe what her mind told her would never happen.

  And then it was all ripped away at the sight of a face that wasn’t his.

  Her shoulders shook as she suppressed the rising emotion. It would be easier if she believed Harrison didn’t really care for her, that he’d used her for a good time, like he’d intimated in their last conversation.

  But he had cared for her—just not enough.

  And that made it worse.

  …

  Harrison stared blindly at his computer monitor, pretending to read an e-mail.

  He’d landed in London at midday and arrived at Damon Manor a few hours later. Andrew was out, and his uncle was on a conference call, so he’d dropped his bags in the hall and gone into his office.

  He was bone tired after not sleeping for too many nights. His head hurt with a dull pounding that wouldn’t go away. His inbox was flooded with e-mails. Gordon had given him a silent, disapproving look when he’d greeted him at the doo
r.

  And he ached for Marietta.

  Harrison willed his eyes to focus on the screen so he could type up a reply. But it was hopeless. He needed a shower and a cup of coffee. He needed a good night’s sleep. He needed…

  He needed Marietta.

  He couldn’t let himself think about her. For distraction, he checked and saw his uncle was still on the call.

  When he returned, he discovered Gordon had been in his office. On his desk was a hot cup of coffee.

  Beside it was a leather-bound journal.

  Harrison flopped in his chair and stared at the familiar book, now over twenty years old. Then he let out a huff of bitter, self-directed laughter.

  The journal hadn’t made an appearance since Michael died. Harrison must be a pitiful wreck if Gordon thought he needed it now.

  He was far too old for journaling, but he opened the book anyway—just to look at what he’d written before. He swallowed over an ache when he read the lists he’d scrawled at twelve years old. It hurt. Even now. The memory of how scared and confused and lonely he’d been when he first arrived at Damon Manor.

  He flipped through list after list of things that were wrong with the world until he got to the first list of what he’d do to make it better. The first item on the list: Make sure airplanes don’t crash anymore.

  He kept turning the pages until he got to the most recent. At twenty, he’d thought the journal was utterly stupid, but he hadn’t wanted to hurt Gordon’s feelings, so he’d scrawled a couple of to-do lists. Most of the items were things he needed to take care of in the aftermath of the accident. They conveyed little of his grief and guilt.

  At the very bottom of the last list he’d written something vague enough to reveal nothing to anyone except him: Do a better job.

  He’d tried to do a better job ever since.

  Andrew was right. Marietta was right. He couldn’t hold his world together just by trying.

  And he’d sacrificed too much in the attempt.

  A tap on the door broke into his disconnected thoughts. Gordon entered with a fresh cup of coffee.

  Harrison hadn’t even started on his first cup, which was already lukewarm.

  Gordon made no mention of the journal as he offered the mug to Harrison and nodded benignly at his thanks.