Page 39 of Claimed By the Enemy
I’m lining up another shot when two blondes in tight dresses and predatory smiles appear.
The taller one slides up to the table, her hip brushing against my arm.
“Mind if we watch?” she purrs. “We love a man who knows how to handle his stick.”
Six months ago, I would have taken that as an invitation. Bought them drinks, made small talk, probably taken one or both of them home. It was simple, uncomplicated, exactly the kind of distraction I used to crave.
Now the thought makes my stomach turn.
“Actually, we’re in the middle of something,” I say, not looking up from the table.
“Come on,” the shorter blonde says, moving closer to Raff. “It’s Friday night. Live a little.”
“My friend here is married,” Raff says, grinning at both women. “But I’m very much available.”
“Married?” The tall blonde looks at me with renewed interest. “That’s too bad. The good ones always are.”
She trails her fingers along my arm, and I have to physically stop myself from recoiling. Not because her touch is unpleasant, but because it’s wrong. Because she’s not Sophie.
“Ladies,” I say, straightening up and fixing them with my most polite smile. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful evening. Somewhere else.”
The tall blonde’s smile falters, but Raff is already stepping in, his arms going around both women’s waists.
“Don’t mind him,” he says. “He’s going through a rough patch. But I, on the other hand, am having a fantastic night. Can I buy you both a drink?”
They giggle and let him lead them toward the bar, leaving me alone with the pool table and the uncomfortable realization that I’ve become someone I don’t recognize.
Six months ago, turning down two beautiful women would have been unthinkable. Now I can’t imagine being with anyone who isn’t my complicated, lying, infuriating wife.
When did that happen? When did Sophie Bellini become the only woman I want?
I sink the eight ball and start racking for another game, playing against myself while Raff entertains his new friends at the bar. The whiskey has made everything slightly fuzzy around the edges, but it hasn’t done anything to quiet the thoughts spinning through my head.
I’m so screwed.
By the time I get home, it’s past two in the morning, and I’m definitely drunk. The house is dark and quiet. Patrice and the other staff have long since retired to her quarters.
I find myself climbing the stairs to Sophie’s room.
The door is slightly ajar, and I can see her through the gap. She’s curled on her side, dark hair spread across white pillowcases, one hand tucked under her cheek like a child. The moonlight streaming through her windows makes her skin look luminous.
She looks peaceful. Younger somehow, without the armor she wears during the day.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her sleep and trying to figure out when exactly my enemy became the most important person in my world. When protecting her became more important than protecting myself.
Sophie shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I can’t make out. For a moment, I think she’s going to wake up, and I’m not sure what I’d say if she found me here, drunk and staring at her like some kind of stalker.
But she settles back into sleep, and I force myself to step away from her door.
***
I’m hunched over work documents when Patrice appears in the doorway with the mail, rain streaking the windows behind her. The sky outside is the color of old steel.
“Anything important?” I ask without looking up.
“The usual business correspondence. And this.” She holds out a plain white envelope, identical to the ones I’ve been receiving.
I take the envelope, noting the lack of a return address and the careful block lettering of my name.
