Page 51 of Beautiful Enemy

The feeling deep in my stomach, expanding in my chest, isn’t only attraction. It’s not only about how irresistible he looks in his dark suit, how his dirty-blond hair and electric-blue eyes lull me into thinking he could have been the boy next door…

If the boy next door kept a safe full of secrets capable of slicing you clean in two.

“You’re an asshole,” I whisper, but the warmth in my voice betrays me. “And a prick. And a liar—“

“And you missed me.” The gleam in his eye is so sexy it derails my brain.

“I did not.”

“Then why did you text?”

“It was an accident.” A flush crawls up my face, and his grin widens.

“Ah. But you were thinking of me.”

“I’m thinking of how much money I’m going to make in my final two weeks here. But if it helps your ego,they’rethinking of you.” I nod to the fan club across the room.

The women are both pouting their full lips and adjusting their skirts to show even more insanely toned thigh. From the way they’re staring, they miss his company.

“My attention is occupied.”

I can’t stop the surge of adrenaline that pulses through me or the breathless smile that tugs at my lips.

I ask something I know I shouldn’t.

“Where do you… you know?”

“What?”

“Hook up. You don’t do it at the house. I would’ve heard you if it was in your room, and I explored every inch of the villa while you were gone. There’s no secret sex room or anything.”

“Ah. Because I’m such a prolific adorer of women, I must be bedding them indiscriminately? Including since you arrived?”

The flash of his eyes should be a warning.

“Pretty much. I mean, you are the chairman of the British Billionaire Club.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a thing,” I go on, deadpan. “You have elections, and meetings, and a dress code. Plus closed door events where you whip out your cash and measure how tall the stacks are.”

He leans in and tugs on my hair, his expression solemn. “You’re not supposed to know about that.”

I toss back my head and laugh. It feels so damn good, and when he grins too, I wonder if it’s contagious.

“Besides,” he goes on, “I’m keeping busy with the DJ in residence at ‘one of Ibiza’s hidden gems.’”

He holds out his phone.

I scan the social media post from an influencer who happened to be at one of last week’s shows.

His hand covers mine. The contact has my pulse thudding harder as I finish scanning the raving post. “That’s fucking awesome,” I say.

“It’d be more fucking awesome if she’d clean my pool with her thong.”

We made that bargain weeks ago. Something has shifted between us since, though I never gave permission. Now, the alcohol and high from the show and the way he’s looking at me have me feeling invincible.

This place might not be my home, but I can’t argue with the feeling pulsing through me, the familiarity of the staff and the setup and the bar, the hope that I could belong here—not only Little Queen, but Rae too.

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