Page 82 of Beautiful Enemy

Most women want what I can give them—the trappings of my world.

Rae doesn’t want them.

I can’t buy her affection. Instead, I’m toiling for every inch of trust she parcels out in a muttered admission or an allowed touch.

I don’t know who hurt her in her life before she took my stage.

When I find out, I will bury them.

My parents were good people who provided everything for me and Ash. I’ll never be a saint, but thanks to their influence, I look after my own. A small group that expanded to include Rae while I wasn’t looking.

Her final show is coming up, and I’m not ready for it.

I don’t want her to go.

“At the risk of sounding patriarchal,” Christian says, his voice dragging me back, “the men will now talk business in the library.”

Our plates are cleared, my ex murmuring her appreciation. “The sirvia was excellent.”

Fucking liar.

Mischa and I follow Christian to the library, where we take seats.

Christian doesn’t waste time with more small talk. “La Mer is the jewel in my collection. Forty years ago, I would have dreamed about having two businessmen such as yourselves vying for it. Alas, men become greedy, and I am but a man. So, with two such suitors, I must weigh the relative offers.”

He shifts back in his leather chair. Despite the words, he enjoys holding court.

“There are day-to-day concerns with a club of this size. For instance, millions in revenues. I have a request of you both first. Consider it a practical test.”

I shift forward.

“We lost a performer due to unforeseen circumstances and must find someone suitable to put in his place. The long weekend.”

“The big producers have been booked for months. Years.” But my mind is already scanning through possibilities. Between Leni and me, we could probably call in a favor.

“I’ll find the perfect act.” Mischa’s teeth are bared in my direction, but not in a grin. He’d like to hurt me right now, but we’re not boys in school anymore. Even if he wanted to make this physical, he wouldn’t dare. It’s an unspoken rule that we fight our war with money and strategy, not with blades or blood.

Christian strokes his chin. “I would like to speak to each of you in turn about your vision for my venue. Mischa first. Harrison,” he goes on before I can argue, “allow my daughter to refresh your drink while you wait.”

I rise, fastening my jacket with one hand. Each stride toward the door is tight with frustration.

Sylvie greets me in the hallway with a tentative smile. “I’ll get you a drink from the kitchen.”

I follow her there and help by retrieving the bottle she wants from a shelf. The moment I set it on the counter, her mouth is on mine.

She’s innocent and determined, and I hold her arms gently as I push her away. “I can’t.”

Her expression caves. “You don’t find me attractive.”

“It’s not that. There’s someone else.”

The light in her eyes dies.

I pour a drink and hand it to her. “Perhaps you could use this more than me.”

She accepts it with a tiny nod.

I was going to pump her for information, but the sadness on her face makes me reconsider.

---