Page 24 of My Enemy, My Obsession

Almost forty-five minutes later, I’m at the fancy hotel, and I do mean fancy. It’s a five-star property called Mandarin Oriental, and it blows me away. I’m not sure why they would put me up in a place like this unless they are convinced they want the Zoey line. At least until Ethan nixes that idea. Or not, I remind myself. Positive thinking matters, and it’s possible he admires the way I turned my pitch around from department storeto Prada, aka Zoey.

My room is awe-inspiring, with a view of the Hudson Bay, cozy couches, and fancy gold chairs that match the gold in the carpet design. I lay my lucky dress out for tomorrow—it’s actually my mother’s dress—unpack, and then decide it’s time to go to the bar where I can order a snack and a drink to calm my nerves. I snatch up my MacBook to review my pitch for tomorrow and head downstairs. Soon, I’m sitting in a horseshoe leather booth with a small table in front of me, sipping a rich and creamy White Russian, my mother’s favorite cocktail. I’ve ordered a basket of fries, while a salad would likely be better brain food, as would the trip to the gym my father suggested to ease my stress.

I’m studying my presentation when my fries arrive, and I thank the waiter, who quickly departs, and that’s when the tingling on the back of my neck starts. My gaze lifts and locks with the man at the opposite side of the bar, in the exact same booth setup as me. The devastatingly handsome man looking at me with unreadable, intense eyes.

Ethan is here.

Chapter Twenty-One

For a moment, timestands still.

There is just me and Ethan, staring at each other from across a bar, while the rest of the world fades away. It takes me several seconds to even process any thought at all, let alone thoughts about what is happening right now. This isn’t a coincidence. Ethan is too intelligent, too calculated, and too in control to allow a chance meeting at a hotel. Again. No, he planned this, but judging by his dark, brooding energy, it’s not for another hot hookup, either. There’s a message in this planned action that I don’t fully understand. Or maybe I do.

He's in control.

I am not.

That’s what he’s telling me.

The thing is, he doesn’t need to drive this point home. I actually respect his control in this situation, but I think he perceives my “name game” as it must seem, a belief otherwise. My mother used to tell me that while in conflict, to flip the switch and think of how others might feel if I were in their shoes. He was fairly open about people in his life being disingenuous, and he must feel I’m no different. I had an agendain his mind, I can only assume. And he most likely believes that agenda involved my career and his money. On some level though, he has to question the truth in that assumption, considering I left without a word and seemed to fall off the radar.

Unless he believes I suddenly felt so much guilt, I ran, a bit like I did when I tried to escape him to the elevator.

And he’d be at least a little right on that point.

But he has to know I’ve made the decision to face him head-on or I would not be here for this meeting. Of course, perhaps he doesn’t know I know he’ll be here, therefore, he believes me to be utterly shocked right now, which I am not. Not really. I expected him tomorrow, not in the hotel bar.

I’m not sure what he expects of me now or what he wants, but I feel like I’ve been offered the opportunity to do just what I’d hoped to do—talk to him before the board meeting. And no matter how wildly my heart races with the idea, facing him here and now is the right thing to do. He won’t come to me. He expects me to either be brave and come to him or tuck my tail and run.

I won’t run.

I cut my stare, rake my teeth over my bottom lip, and suffocate my nerves in necessity. This conversation between us isnecessary. I’m on my feet with that thought and walking toward Ethan. He lifts his drink, which I assume to be a Macallan 25, and sips, but his eyes never leave me. He watches my every step with calculated intelligence, and while the look on his handsome face gives away nothing, I cannot help but wonder if he’s thinking about us naked, and his hand on my backside, about just how well he’s controlled me. Maybe he just wants me to think about those things, and quite obviously, I am. My night with him might very well have ruined me for other men. I have no idea how anyone will ever live up to Ethan. No matter what happens next, that night can’t be washed away.

And that may well be the problem for both of us. Business and pleasure do not mix.

I reach his table, and I don’t ask for permission to sit with him. His very presence at the same hotel as me is the only invitation required. I claim the seat across from him, and this close, he’s more handsome than I remembered, his jaw chiseled, a dark shadow I remember rasping my belly, my face. Other places. He is male perfection personified, and I was always out of my league with him, but then it was only one night, or so I thought. “Hi, Ethan,” I say softly.

His eyes narrow on his name on my lips and darken, his lips twisting cynically. “Hello,Sofia.”

I opened myself up for this direct attack on the problem between us, but it’s for the best, I decide. “The name thing just happened,” I explain, no prelude to me jumping into the deep water.

“Did it now,” he replies drily, cynically, and it’s not even a question. It’s a well-deserved accusation.

And it bites with a conviction he’s already ruled to be worthy of my crime. “Why am I even here?”

“Isn’t this the opportunity you wanted?”

“Yes, but the truth is—”

He sets his glass down and leans in closer. “Yes, do tell me the truth,Sofia.”

I decisively wave my hands in front of me in a cutting motion, side to side. “I’m just going to explain it all and then go back to my room, and if you want me to cancel the meeting, I’ll go back home. I’ll pay for my travel. I only knew your name. I had no idea you’d be at the event in Hawaii. And the reason I knew your name is the reason I allowed myself to let you believe I was Zoey.” I draw in a breath and just push onward. “My father is Robert Cameron. He talked with you about—”

“Investing,” he replies. “I’m aware.”

“You were with him as I now know you to be—frank and honest—but he took it as rude and degrading. I’m protective of my father,so I expected to hate you. I expected you to be,” I hesitate and cautiously add, “a lot of things you are not.”

His brow inches upward. “And what things would those be?”

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