Page 59 of Beautiful Enemy

“Americans. I will never understand them and their sports,” he muses.

“But you want to enough to watch a twelve-hour-old Yankees game.”

“Don’t tell me the winner.” He grins. “Perhaps I will need a house there when I retire.”

He could buy a dozen. More, if he wanted.

He adds, “My daughter has taken a liking to you.”

I glance toward the now-closed doors, remembering the woman who let me in. “That’s very flattering.”

Christian makes an espresso from the machine in the corner and holds it out. I take the coffee as he makes another.

“As uncivilized as it is, let’s be direct,” I say. “My interest in the club remains unchanged.”

“I’m sure it does.” He smirks.

“Your club is unquestionably one of the best. But it is not without weaknesses.” I rhyme off a list of things I observed last night, things he must know about.

His smile evaporates, leaving a deep frown.

“All of these things would lower its market value. But I’m prepared to pay full price.”

“How gracious of you.” His tone drips frost. “Just because you have an idea of what the club needs to be does not mean others share it. You bring it under your empire, it will become a commodity like the others.”

“I will not commoditize your venue, Christian. It’s a cathedral.”

I think of Rae’s comments about me being unreasonable and try a new approach. “You knew my parents. You trusted one another, even worked together on a few deals. I’m my father’s son, and you can trust me to take care of your legacy.”

Christian nods toward two armchairs framing a window, and we each claim one. “On the last point, I agree.”

My hands tighten on the overstuffed chair. “So, you’ll sell me La Mer.”

He takes a sip of his drink—the slowest fucking sip I’ve ever seen. “Why don’t you show my daughter the city first? After, we can talk.”

A dawning sense of horror starts at my toes, creeps up my spine, and finishes on a long inhale.He wants me to take his daughter out?

“…finishing her third year of university,” he’s saying. “Sylvie hasn’t spent time here since she was a child.”

She still is one.

There are two reasons a woman would want me, and only one of which her father would approve of—my money.

I’m not looking to saddle myself with a charge—even if it means landing the property I’ve coveted for as long as I can remember.

My refusal has nothing to do with the face of another woman occupying altogether too much space in my brain. One who’s also too young for me but who elicits an entirely different reaction at the thought of being saddled with her.

I choose my next words carefully. “I’m a terrible tour guide. And I’m quite sure I have nothing else to offer your daughter.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

She’s back with a vengeance. The way she looks playing the booth at my club. How she flips both fingers in the air.

How I want her not to sheathe her claws but bare them, to rake them over every inch of me.

“Perhaps the woman you brought to my party?” Christian presses. “She was charming.”

I gesture toward the television. “An American on holiday.”

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