Page 23 of Beautiful Enemy

I have the sudden urge to do just that, coaxing her if necessary. The brush of a knuckle along the softness of her cheek. The press of my body against the curves of hers, enough to have her responding in kind even in sleep.

But she’s not mine.

I won’t claim another woman as mine again. I might take them to bed—not that even that idea has held much appeal over the past year—but I won’t offer them my life, my heart.

Because those things aren’t what they truly want and because they’re nothing I can offer again. Both are closed for good.

She’s here to fill my club and repay her debt.

I slip out of her room before she wakes, but not before I wonder what she’s dreaming.

* * *

The morning passes in a frustrating glut. The new initiatives at my clubs are taking time and money, and I’m being reminded what a headache acquisitions are as the man standing between me and my latest prize refuses to give a straight answer to my offer.

The club I’m seeking to add to Echo Entertainment isn’t only a line item on a balance sheet.

It’s personal.

Since my split with Eva, the tabloids accuse me of hiding out in my Ibiza villa.

I let them.

Perhaps there’s been some self pity, but I’m laying the groundwork for the biggest deal of my life. I’m in control of a multibillion-dollar company, not a fool nursing a broken heart.

From this day on, every ounce of my attention, my money, and my influence will be devoted to winning La Mer.

When I jog down the stairs for lunch, the sight at the bottom has me swallowing an irritated groan.

The sweatshirt is back on the kitchen table as if I never took it upstairs.

I watch Rae from behind as she makes coffee, moving easily around my kitchen in faded jeans and an orange T-shirt that has slipped off one shoulder. Her hair is caught in a thick ponytail that lays over the opposite shoulder and has me remembering how wild it looked earlier as she talks on the phone and rubs her neck.

“When can I speak with him?”

She takes a sip from her mug, then makes a sound of displeasure. “Have him call me.”

She hangs up, tucking the phone in the back pocket of her tight jeans.

“Boyfriend dodging you?” My slow drawl has the intended effect of scaring the ever-loving fuck out of her as she whirls to face me.

Wide brown eyes scan my form. Most women find me appealing, but she seems to decide I’m barely worth sharing the kitchen with when she points at her mug. “Instant coffee should be banned. I pegged you as a sadist, not a masochist.”

She turns her back on me before I can respond, rubbing her temples before sliding one hand down to her neck.

Withdrawal symptoms.

My sympathy fades.

“I meant what I said about staying clean while you’re in my employ.” The sharpness in my tone makes Rae stiffen.

“Well, now that you’ve tossed my stash, I guess I’ll have to. What exactly did that look like to you? E? Cocaine? GHB?”

“The newest craze is 2CB—”

“Is that what was in my bag?”

My gaze narrows. “I don’t know,” I admit.

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