Page 4 of Beautiful Enemy

“A woman was assaulted at their venue on a night I was playing. No one at the club or the organization took responsibility.” I shrug. “Harrison King owns the company.”

“You knew the woman who was assaulted?”

“Not personally.” I lift my bag and set it on a free spot.

“Let me guess—since then, the clubs that were knocking down your door won’t touch you.”

I look around pointedly. “This one did. Soon, the others will realize they overreacted.”

I pull out my notebook computer and peer into my bag, remembering my costumes were also in my checked bag. Shit.

“Was it worth it?” she asks.

“Yes.” My gaze flicks to hers. “People need to be held responsible for their actions. I don’t care how much money Harrison King has. Or how pretty he is. Or how big his dick is.”

Her slow grin is feline. “You’re the only one. Paparazzi stalk him. Models throw themselves at him. He built an entertainment empire most moguls on their deathbeds would envy, and he did it without a gray hair in sight.”

I shiver. From sleep deprivation, not from remembering what it felt like to stand a breath away from that man.

“There’s been no media on him in weeks.”

“Rumor is he’s hiding out,” Leni replies. “Maybe you hurt his feelings.”

“That would require him to have feelings.”

Leni smirks as she holds out a network cable. I lift the lid of my notebook and hit the power key, but the battery’s dead.

“I’ll never play another of his clubs for as long as I live.” I pull the laptop’s power cord and adapter from my bag. Before I can reach for the power bar across the desk, a smooth, impossibly male British voice comes from overhead.

“That’s a shame. Because the contract you signed says that, for the next month, you’re mine.”

2

Rae

Harrison fucking King.

The man himself appears on the catwalk in one of the VIP booths, wearing tailored pants the color of sandy beaches and a white button-down shirt that skims his broad shoulders and muscled chest.

Every inch of his form screams wealth and privilege. His hair is perfectly trimmed, the dull burnished gold darkened to a warm brown in the low lights of the club.

A strong, straight nose and square jaw compete for attention with his firm lips.

He must have a decade on me but looks as if he could make the Olympic swim team without breaking a sweat.

Our first and only confrontation is forever imprinted in my memory. When I approached the billionaire stranger at the wedding reception of two musicians who are mutual friends, I had been riding high on righteous anger. Anger I’d kept in check during the actual wedding—to spare my friends—and unleashed soon after with the help of a few drinks.

I don’t make a habit of hating people, but this man makes me rethink that stance.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand.

Electric blue eyes, not unlike the neon sign outside, bore into me.

“You signed a contract to play my club.”

He starts toward the stairs, taking them with leisurely strides until he reaches the main floor.

“It wasn’t yours when I signed the contract.” I would have noticed if his company, Echo Entertainment, had been on the documents.

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