Enemy Dearest
Winter Renshaw
Contents
Copyright
Important!
Also By Winter Renshaw
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
SAMPLE - Trillion
About the Author
Copyright
COPYRIGHT 2021 WINTER RENSHAW
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
* * *
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Also By Winter Renshaw
THE NEVER SERIES
Never Kiss a Stranger
Never is a Promise
Never Say Never
Bitter Rivals
* * *
THE ARROGANT SERIES
Arrogant Bastard
Arrogant Master
Arrogant Playboy
* * *
THE RIXTON FALLS SERIES
Royal
Bachelor
Filthy
Priceless (an Amato Brothers crossover)
* * *
THE AMATO BROTHERS SERIES
Heartless
Reckless
Priceless
* * *
THE P.S. SERIES
P.S. I Hate You
P.S. I Miss You
P.S. I Dare You
* * *
THE MONTGOMERY BROTHERS DUET
Dark Paradise
Dark Promises
* * *
STANDALONES
Single Dad Next Door
Cold Hearted
The Perfect Illusion
Country Nights
Absinthe
The Rebound
Love and Other Lies
The Executive
Pricked
For Lila, Forever
The Marriage Pact
Hate the Game
The Cruelest Stranger
The Best Man
Trillion
All Books Available here!
Free Content Available here!
Description
I loved him. I lost him. And now he’s back.
August Monreaux was a stormy sea of a man, the dark between the stars, an electric chill cutting through a crowded room—all wrapped into one wicked, beautiful package.
He was also off-limits.
My entire life, I was kept a safe distance from the notoriously virulent Monreauxs, banned from so much as breathing the same air. And like the good daughter I was, I obeyed those rules.
Until the one time I didn’t …
Only while I sampled him, he devoured me like the forbidden fruit that I was. And in the blink of an eye, my worst enemy became my first love. His poison became my antidote. His touch, my addiction.
After we went our separate ways and severed our ill-fated ties, I thought I’d never see him again … until he crashed back into my life at the worst possible moment—and asked me to marry him.
But it wasn’t that simple.
It never is.
It turns out marrying a wealthy powerhouse of a man comes with a price.
But walking away could cost me everything.
I was never anyone else’s, not for a moment, not for a breath.
Before you, I was yours, but waiting;
all my life
I’ve been
waiting.
* * *
I know
nothing but peace,
understanding
this.
* * *
—Tyler Knott Gregson
Chapter One
Sheridan
* * *
I sink to the bottom of the glimmering midnight pool, the cashmere-soft water swallowing me whole. With a lungful of sticky night air held tight in my lungs, I wait until my toes scrape the concrete bottom before floating to the surface.
My father always says, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight.”
But it’s 1 AM.
And this is divine.
I brush a ribbon of chlorine-soaked hair from my face, take a deep breath, and close my eyes, letting the full moon paint my body as I float on my back. Muscles liquid. Mind emptied of the day’s worries. Naked as the day I was born and as free as a dove.
I could stay here forever—which is ironic because I shouldn’t be here in the first place.
Technically, I’m trespassing.
Eyes shut, I inhale the distinct scent of pool water and nearby rose bushes, and try to imagine what it must feel like to be a Monreaux, growing up behind these privileged iron gates, a world away from us ordinary locals.
Not that there’s anything wrong with be
ing ordinary.
In fact, I’m quite content being a nobody.
There’s more to life than having the world at your fingertips. It’s okay to struggle, to want for things. Mama says it builds character; gives us the grit we need to get through the runaway rollercoaster that is life. Or maybe that’s what she’s had to tell herself all her life to get through the of inflictions God saw fit to gift her—a rare vagus nerve disorder that makes her body overreact to even the mildest stressors, a weak heart that makes everyday tasks feel like scaling Everest, and just this year he thought it’d be fun to throw in a bout with Guillain-Barre syndrome.
Mama also said no one every promised life would be fair for everyone. We all have our crosses to carry and comparing them doesn’t do us any good. She also said that if all we have is each other, that would be enough. We don’t have much in terms of money or possessions or bragging rights, but we have our loyalty and love, and for us, it’s all we need to get through this life.
Squinting, I study the blanket of stars above, distracted by Cassiopeia’s flickering constellation and the rich section of Milky Way that runs through her—until a light flips on near the back of the Monreaux estate.
A second later, a door slides open with a jarring slick before slamming shut with so much force the sound echoes off the water. My heart beat ricochets in my chest before whooshing in my ears so loud it drowns out my panicked thoughts.
Righting myself, I swim to the closest ledge, half-obscured by a manmade waterfall trickling over a boulder grotto.
Heavy footsteps pound the pavement, growing louder, closer.
I hold my breath—as if that could possibly make me invisible—and pinch my eyes shut.
“Show yourself,” a man’s voice booms over the trickling water splashing around me. “I know you’re out here.”
This morning I ran out for coffee for Mama and overheard someone talking about how the Monreauxs were on their annual trip to St. Thomas this week—which was partly why I saw fit to scale their six-foot fence and dip my toes into these forbidden waters. That and it’s been hot as Hades all week, and our air conditioner decided it’d be the perfect time to kick the can.
More footsteps.
I wince.
It has to be a property caretaker. Or maybe a house sitter. People like this don’t just leave their massive homes sitting empty while they’re snorkeling off some island in the Caribbean. Their staff doesn’t take a vacation just because they do. I know that. I guess I figured whoever was here would be fast asleep this time of night …
“You can’t hide in there forever,” he says with a voice too sharp, too young-sounding to be someone left to tend to a multi-million dollar estate in its owners’ absence. He exhales, shoes shuffling closer. “Come on. I don’t have time for this. Get your shit and get off my property.”
He must’ve spotted my dress, bra, and panties, resting in a heap on one of the lounge chairs.
I swim out from behind the waterfall, keeping everything below my neck beneath the surface. Scanning the length of the mystery man, I start at his designer sneakers and trail up his ripped jeans before stopping for a brief detour at his broad shoulders, which are hardly contained in his gray t-shirt. Lastly, I arrive at his moonlit glare.
His dark brows angle in as he captures my stare, his expression unreadable. A warm breeze plays with his mussed, sandy blond waves and star-cast shadows frame his chiseled features.
He’s beautiful, obscured in moonlight and all.
But his eyes glint, unamused.
And he doesn’t smile.
I brace myself for a lecture or a cruel handful of words to be thrown in my direction, but the handsome figure simply takes a swig from the thick beer bottle in his hand, keeping his attention trained on me. My gaze falls to the complicated mess of tattoos covering the exposed skin of his left arm. And when I dare to meet his cold stare, I discover two small barbells piercing his right eyebrow.
This is a man who gives zero fucks.
“I’m sorry.” I’m not above apologizing. I’m in the wrong. I shouldn’t have come here tonight. Shouldn’t have scaled his fence. Shouldn’t have stripped out of my clothes and dove into his luxurious swimming pool like I owned the place. “If you’ll let me get my things, I’ll be out of here in two seconds. You’ll never see me again. I promise.”
His full mouth arches into a devilish smirk, and his silence sends a shiver down the back of my neck.
I’ve got less ground to stand on than a mouse who wandered into the den of a ravenous lion.
“You’re August, aren’t you?” I take a friendlier approach.
There are three Monreaux boys. Soren’s the oldest and a bona fide rock God. I’d know his face anywhere thanks to the billboards all over town any time they tour through Missouri. Then there’s Gannon. I’ve never seen him, but I know he’s quite a bit older than me. August is the baby of the family, though if it’s truly him standing before me, there’s nothing infant-like about him.
He was only two when his mom died. She was jogging—near our house actually—when she was struck by a car and left to bleed out on the side of the road.
His father tried to blame my father for her death.
They have a history …
A dark, rooted, tragic, ugly history that I don’t dare discuss around him and Mama unless I want to see his eyes turn cloudy and send Mama off to the bedroom in a fit of tears. A history so shrouded, I don’t even know the half of it—I only know that we don’t talk about it.
If my parents knew I was here, they’d kill me. Figuratively, of course.
My entire life, it’s been made abundantly clear that the Monreaux family is off-limits in every sense of the word. I’m not to go near them, not to breathe their toxic air. Not to so much as even whisper their name under our roof.
Being here, in these waters, on this property, is blasphemous to the Rose family name.
I didn’t come here out of spite.
I didn’t come to hurt anyone or to prove some kind of point.
But if my parents found out, they’d be devastated.
“I’m the one who should be asking questions, don’t you think?” He takes another drink, his gaze all but penetrating my soul.
He isn’t wrong.
This isn’t the time to be friendly. Last thing I need is August telling his daddy that the Rose girl broke into their back yard and was skinny dipping in their pool. Word would get out. Phone calls would be made. Coronaries would be had. My parents probably wouldn’t believe it anyway, but that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
Before I have a chance to utter a single word, August makes his way to a stone-covered cabana and returns with a fluffy white towel. Crouching by the ledge, he hands it to me. It’s a simple exchange, yet the uneasy flutters in my chest do double-time when our fingers graze.
“So what name should I give the police when they arrive?” He rises, towering as he peers down. “You look like a … Harper to me. Chloe. No. Addison. Definitely an Addison.”
Pretty girl names … or are they basic?
Is he trying to flatter or insult me?
I draw in a hard breath as I climb out of the water and quickly wrap my body in the soft warmth.
He tosses back another mouthful of beer, this one more generous than its predecessor.
“You’re not going to give them any name.” I keep my tone sweet as I tug my sundress off the chair, and then I turn my back to him and pull it over my damp body.
“What makes you so sure of that?” His words are subtly slurred. I imagine this isn’t his first beer of the night.
I face him once more, hardening my confidence. “Because if you’re who I think you are, you’re not twenty-one. You’re not going to be calling the cops with liquor on your breath.”
His head cocks to one side, as if he’s studying me from a new angle. “If I’m who you think I am, then you should know … my family pretty much owns the cops. Sorry, Sugar Tits, but I’ve got noth
ing to be scared of in this scenario. You, on the other hand …”
Either he’s trying to get a rise out of me or he truly is as big of an asshole as they say …
I may be known to keep sweet, but I’m not going to stand here and let someone objectify me because I made one bad decision.
“Sugar tits? I guess it’s true what they say—money can’t buy you class.”
He laughs, unfazed, as if my insult merely ricocheted off his steely exterior.
“So what should I call you then?” His penetrating stare falls to my chest before skimming back to my eyes.
“You’re seriously going to turn me in? I didn’t steal. I didn’t break anything. I didn’t hurt anyone. I only went for a swim …”
I fold my arms across my breasts, which I’m quite certain are standing at full attention, and toss him a frown.
“You trespassed on private grounds,” he says. “Last I checked, the police don’t take kindly to illegal activity in this part of town.”
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