Page 17 of Beautiful Enemy

“You would like breakfast when you return?” Natalia gestures toward the kitchen. “And tea?”

I’m not used to being served by anyone, but my stomach growls—probably because I haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. “Coffee would be great.”

I take the dog out and let the sea breeze go to work on my brain.

Telemanco, where the villa is, isn’t as busy as Ibiza Town. It’s relaxed and stunning, and I could totally take a vacation here if I had the money.

No matter what Ash says, I can’t stay, can’t do my best work knowing I’m making money for a man I hate.

Which means I need to find Harrison’s weaknesses.

As I walk, I use my phone to read articles about Harrison King and Echo Entertainment. Avoiding the personal stuff is hard. Search engines keep insisting I want to know about his travels with his ex-fiancée, model Eva Nilsson. There are photos of them in cafés, on the red carpet, at charity galas, and even on the beach.

She’s stunning, and I can’t help noticing the way she beams at him.

Maybe Ash is full of shit. I don’t see a woman who would’ve left. She looks utterly devoted.

Not that there’snothingto respect about Harrison King. He relentlessly built an entertainment empire, so he’s clearly focused. But he’s soulless.

It was easy to forget when those bottomless blue eyes were boring into me last night in the VIP room. For a moment, I couldn’t help wondering how deep you’d have to fall to find something more in him, and whether it might be worth it.

A grinning old man descends on us, speaking to the dog. “His name?” he asks me after a moment.

I tuck the phone away, stalling. “Licorice.”

The man looks surprised, but the dog barks agreeably. After a few more pets, we continue on our way.

“That was embarrassing,” I inform the dog.

He cocks his head, lifting both ears.

After we’re interrupted another few times, I realize walking the dog is not a way to get quiet time to myself. Everyone wants to interact with him.

So, I make a game of it and give him a new name every time.

“Costas.”

“Siegfried.”

“Roy.”

I wind “Bowie’s” leash tighter to rein him in as I scroll through my banking information on my phone.

I don’t check it often because the only thing I need money for is a roof over my head and plane tickets from show to show, both of which are usually covered by the venue.

Still, the balance is lower than I’d like.

I scan through the recent transactions.

One automatic withdrawal from last month—rapidly approaching for this month—makes me curse.

I hit a contact on my phone, chewing my lip as I wait for the line to pick up.

“Hello, cousin,” I say when it does.

“Hey.” Rustling sounds come over the line as if Callie’s getting out of bed.

Since we were kids, we had a running joke of greeting each other formally. Living a few hours apart, we’d mostly see one another at family events and holidays. We weren’t allowed to have cellphones until high school, and we weren’t supposed to use our computers to message.

---