Page 10 of Midnight Enemy

I continue down the path toward the resort, growing increasingly furious the closer I get. The place is incredibly opulent. I admit it’s tasteful, which for some reason annoys me even more. Everything is clean and well-tended, from the neat flower beds to the manicured bushes to the paving slabs that are free of weeds and sparkling whitein the sun. As I near the main building, I can see that the windows are freshly cleaned and the front steps have been swept. The porter who is carrying the luggage for a couple of guests who have just arrived is wearing a smart suit.

I climb the steps and go into the main building. The lobby is huge with high ceilings and large windows that overlook the view of the well-maintained gardens and pools to the back. The reception desk to the left and the tables and chairs in the waiting area by the windows are made from a light wood, probably kauri I think, and everything smells of polish and coffee from the bar to the right. The staff is dressed in black with white shirts and they all look professional and give pleasant smiles.

“Good morning,” the man behind the reception desk says as I walk up to him. His gaze skims down me super quickly, and suddenly I’m conscious of dripping water onto the floorboards. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Cavendish,” I say stiffly, trying to act as if I come to places like this all the time.

“Do you have an appointment?”

I shake my head.

“He’s very busy,” the guy says. “But I will see if he’s available.” He picks up his phone and is in the process of calling when he looks up and says, “Oh, there he is. Mr. Cavendish? There’s a lady here to see you.”

Heart racing, I turn—then stop and stare at the man walking toward me. It’s not Orson. This guy is about the same height as him but older, maybe in his late forties. He’s clean shaven, and his hair has the same white flashes at his temples, although the rest of it is also sprinkled with gray. Oh my God. I think this is Spencer Cavendish—Orson’s father, and my dad’s bitter enemy.

He stops before me and gives me a pleasant smile. His gaze appraises me briefly, the way the man’s behind reception did, but he’s polite enough not to comment on my state of disarray.

“Good morning,” he says. His voice is deep and resonant. “Can I help you?”

I blink at him, my heart hammering and my chest rising and falling quickly. I can’t form a single thought. I’ve been programmed to hate this guy and everything he stands for. I’m not sure if I can even be civil to him.

When I don’t reply, he exchanges glances with the guy behind the desk, then frowns at me and says, “Is there a problem?”

“Scarlett?”

We both turn at the sound of Orson’s voice as he strides across the lobby. “Jesus,” he says, staring at me. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Orson,” Spencer scolds.

Orson throws him an icy glance, which surprises me. Clearly there’s no love lost between father and son.

“Are you okay?” Orson stops before me.

I look down at myself and realize it’s worse than I thought. Much of my dress is soaked and clinging to my legs and breasts. Oh no. I wrap my arms around myself, trying not to shiver.

“Here.” Orson flips the button of his jacket open, slides it off, and places it around my shoulders.

“I’ll get it wet,” I protest.

“I don’t care about that.” He tugs it closed around me. “What happened?”

“I slipped off the stepping stones.” I tremble under the gaze of the two men in front of me.

“Scarlett?” Spencer repeats, his eyebrows rising. “Scarlett Stone?”

“Yeah,” Orson says.

“Amiria’s daughter,” Spencer says softly.

I frown, surprised that he didn’t say ‘Blake’s daughter,’ and I give a short nod. I’ve never felt so intimidated in my life. Wealth rolls off these guys like smoke. Spencer’s suit is navy and Orson’s is dark gray, but they’re both obviously tailor-made and fit them like a dream. They’re both wearing cufflinks and tie pins and polished black leather shoes. Their haircuts are razor sharp as if they were done yesterday, although Spencer’s hair is a little longer all over and is combed back neatly, while Orson’s is fashionably spiky on top and fades almost to bare skin at the nape.

“What are you doing here?” Spencer asks.

I direct my glare at his son. “We haven’t come to any agreement yet.”

Orson lifts his eyebrows. “I know. I thought that’s what we were going to discuss today.”

“So why are your men on our land?”

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