One Wild Night with Her Enemy Read online

  He dumped his beer on the tray of a passing waiter, scooped up a couple of glasses of fancy fizz and strode past the arbour towards her.

  To hell with the security check.

  Whoever she was, she was the first woman to snag his interest in way too long for him to remember—which gave her considerable cachet in the jaded world of billionaire hook-ups.

  Plus, there was nothing he loved more than a mystery that needed to be solved.

  As he drew closer she looked directly at him, like a deer sensing the approach of a hunter. Their gazes collided and her eyes—hazelnut-brown shot through with flecks of gold that matched her dress—popped wide. With recognition or surprise or arousal, he couldn’t be sure.

  The shimmering gold fabric hugged the round weight of her breasts, making them look even more spectacular up close.

  Is she wearing a bra?

  His breath backed up in his lungs.

  She really was exquisite—much more refined and beautiful than any of the girls he’d hooked up with in high school. He forced his wayward gaze back to her face. The flush of reaction—and guilty knowledge—highlighted her pale cheeks.

  Arousal for sure, then. And recognition. And something else he couldn’t decipher—but he would.

  Lust fired through his bloodstream and hit his groin like a missile.

  Well, damn...

  ‘Hi.’

  He handed her the champagne glass and gave himself a mental high-five when she took it. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman in a while. And before the night was over he intended to have her—after all, his make-out skills had improved considerably since high school, and he’d never had a problem getting any girl he wanted even when he’d been the boy good girls were warned to stay away from.

  But first he was more interested in uncovering all the fascinating secrets lurking in those big, beautiful and guarded eyes.

  ‘Drink up, cher,’ he said, laying on the Cajun manners his mama had drummed into him as a kid. ‘Whatever you said to Dan Carter to send him packing,’ he added, clinking his glass against hers as he mentioned the CEO she’d just given the bird, metaphorically speaking, ‘I salute you. The guy’s an entitled jerk. I have it on good authority.’

  * * *

  Luke Broussard! In the flesh.

  ‘You... You do?’ Cassie spluttered, taking a gulp of the champagne the man she’d been discreetly trying to locate in the crowd had just handed to her.

  ‘I do.’

  He tapped his nose, his firm, sensual lips stretching into a grin so full of laid-back hotness she could feel the effect right down to her toes—even in the heeled sandals which had been punishing her feet for over an hour.

  Funny thing... She couldn’t feel the pain any more as she became fixated on that seductive smile—full of confidence, and heat, and rueful amusement...and directed squarely at her. As if they were sharing a particularly good joke.

  Although that couldn’t be right.

  She tried to get her jet-lagged brain back into gear.

  Was this actually happening? Or was she imagining it out of desperation and fatigue and the Aperol Spritz she’d chugged down too quickly as she’d struggled to relax enough to make small talk?

  She’d been at the wedding for what felt like an eternity, and there had been no sign of Luke Broussard and no one who knew him had seemed willing to talk about him. But Ashling’s dress choice had worked its magic—or rather its curse—because she’d been approached by a selection of increasingly pushy guys, the last of whom had asked her point-blank if she’d like to spend the night on his yacht.

  She’d met enough American men in business to know they could often be staggeringly forthright, but the leer in that man’s eyes had made her feel unclean.

  Luke Broussard’s eyes, though—a striking emerald changing to a deep forest-green around the rim of his irises—were full of something a great deal more dangerous to her peace of mind... Not to mention her breathing... Because the look in them had triggered an urge to step closer to him, to gather the hint of his clean scent—pine soap overlaid with man—and bask in the mocking approval in his expression. Which could not be good.

  His husky American accent sounded different from the others she’d heard this evening too. Slower, deeper, less sharp, the soft purr brushing over her skin and making it tight and achy.

  The snapped, mostly blurred shots she’d found of him on the internet hadn’t done him justice. He’d seemed conventionally handsome in those pictures, but in person his features were more rugged and a great deal more breathtaking. The strong jaw, darkened with the first hint of stubble, was matched by a prominent nose and chiselled cheekbones. His left brow was rakishly bisected by a piratical scar, and his dark wavy hair looked as if he’d missed his last few appointments at the barbers.

  The hint of a tattoo on his collarbone—was that barbed wire?—revealed by the open collar of his shirt, only added to the aura of raw masculinity, untamed and defiant, and as out of place in this exclusive setting as she was... But for entirely different reasons.

  The shock of having him walk up to her so boldly gave way to curiosity—and that odd yearning which she’d have to examine later. Much later.

  For goodness’ sake, Cassie, say something smart and erudite. Draw him out. Don’t stare at him like a dummy.

  She took another sip of champagne to buy some time and think up something coherent to say. Why did this feel like a strange exotic dream—both dangerous and exciting—rather than a golden opportunity to further the interests of Temple Corp?

  ‘I’m not sure if Mr Carter is a jerk,’ she managed, having finally grasped enough of the conversation to actually participate, ‘but he was certainly very forward.’

  ‘Forward, huh?’ Broussard’s scarred eyebrow arched and his lips quirked as if she’d said something amusing. ‘What was his pick-up line?’

  ‘He invited me to spend the night on his yacht. Apparently it’s very big.’

  His lips quirked some more. ‘Classy,’ he murmured. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him the truth—that it probably wasn’t a good idea as I can get seasick on a pedalo.’

  His eyes sparkled, the tantalising curl of his lips making her breath thready. What was it about his smile that made it seem dangerous and precious at the same time?

  ‘A peda—what, now?’ he asked.

  ‘A pedalo. It’s like a small paddle boat with pedals you use to propel it, usually on a boating lake...’ She babbled to a stop as those beautifully sculpted lips tipped up even further at the edges.

  Shut up, Cassie, why are you composing an encyclopaedia entry on pedalos for him?

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, even though they both knew what she’d just said wasn’t interesting in the slightest. ‘You’re British, right?’

  ‘What gave me away?’ she asked, and the appreciation in his eyes added a spurt of exhilaration to the tangle of nerves in her belly.

  She took another hasty sip of the champagne to calm them. It didn’t work.

  ‘The cute accent,’ he said, with that dangerous gaze roaming over her face. ‘And the peaches and cream complexion.’

  Her peaches and cream complexion heated accordingly.

  ‘You blush real prettily too, cher,’ he added.

  Her cheeks promptly ignited.

  The sun had dipped behind the headland in the distance and a row of flaming torches was now lighting the gardens edged by a lavish arboretum—expertly planted with everything from Mesoamerican ferns to African impatiens, according to the plaques Cassie had read while trying to pluck up the courage to talk to strangers. But even in the glow of twilight Luke Broussard had to be able to see her blush. The fact that he seemed to be enjoying her gaucheness wasn’t making Cassie feel any less out of her depth.

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked, trying
to steer the conversation back to neutral territory and give herself time to get her breathing back on track. ‘Shar?’ she asked, struggling to pronounce the word he’d used. ‘It sounds French.’

  ‘Cher?’ he said again, and she nodded. ‘It’s Louisiana French, or French Cajun. I’m from the bayou originally—a sleepy little town just outside Lafayette.’

  It was more information than she’d been able to glean about him online, but as she tried to think of a follow-up question his emerald-green irises darkened to a rich jade.

  ‘And cher is Cajun for cherie...which is what you call a lady when you like the way she blushes.’

  ‘Oh,’ she managed, and her next question was drowned out by the thunder of her heartbeat.

  Was Luke Broussard hitting on her? It seemed so outside the realms of possibility that she didn’t know what to do with the information. Other than pray it didn’t send her pulse-rate any further into the red zone. Passing out would definitely not be good.

  She knew she wasn’t a troll, and that Ashling’s dress was doing its best to advertise every single one of her assets. But right now she really wished she had a lot more sexual experience than a few unimpressive kisses at college... For example, was the heavy weight now wedged between her thighs and pulsing in time with her heartbeat normal?

  She’d always assumed she wasn’t a sexual person. And she had always thought she preferred it that way. Her career was all she needed, because it defined her and motivated her and gave her life meaning and purpose.

  But that had been before she’d stood in the glow of firelight, inhaled the scent of salt water and rose petals and pine soap carried on the summer breeze off San Francisco Bay, and felt a strange thrill charge through her system as Luke Broussard’s attention—and those playful green eyes—focussed solely on her.

  She couldn’t think clearly...couldn’t feel anything but the prickle of sensation awakening every one of her nerve-endings...and couldn’t say anything except, ‘That’s...very sweet.’

  Broussard’s brows shot up, and he barked out an astonished laugh. ‘Fair warning...’ His gaze darkened as he traced his fingertip over her burning cheek. ‘No woman has ever accused me of being sweet, cher.’

  The casual endearment sounded anything but sweet in his deep, husky purr, and the torturously light touch ignited the weight between her thighs.

  ‘My name’s Luke Broussard,’ he said. ‘Of Broussard Tech,’ he added, as if there was any need—surely everyone in San Francisco knew who he was?

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  ‘That leaves me at a disadvantage. Because I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘Cassandra James. I work for Zachary Temple at Temple Corp as his executive assistant.’

  She bit her tongue the minute the words were out of her mouth. Should she have told him that? After all she was supposed to be here incognito, until Temple made a decision on her investment report’s recommendations.

  To her relief, he seemed unfazed by the information.

  ‘Temple Corp, huh? I’ve heard of them,’ he said.

  She remembered he had no way of knowing yet that Temple was considering investing in his company. Her panic downgraded a notch.

  Until he asked, ‘So how do you know Remy and Matt?’

  Anxiety kicked in as she struggled to recall the story she’d invented on her eleven-hour flight. But then something Ashling had once said to her—after they had sneaked out of her father’s stultifying house one Saturday, for a day of adventure in Soho, and ended up getting interrogated by her governess—rippled through her consciousness...

  ‘If you have to tell a lie, I’ve heard it’s better to stick to the truth as much as possible.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t know the grooms,’ she confided. ‘I’m here as Temple’s representative. He wanted to pay his respects, but he couldn’t make it himself.’

  Which wasn’t actually a lie. Temple Corp was one of Remy Carlton and Matt Donnelly’s biggest clients, because Temple always preferred to use their boutique hotels whenever he travelled, and his invitation to the wedding had been entirely genuine.

  Broussard nodded, but a small frown appeared on his brow. ‘That’s a thing now?’

  ‘What’s a thing?’ she asked, panicked again by his sceptical look. She really was not cut out for industrial espionage, however slight. It was already hard enough to keep hold of the conversation when the sensation now sprinting up her spine was turning her nipples into lethal weapons.

  Please don’t let him notice I’m not wearing a bra.

  ‘Getting your executive assistant to stand in for you at social events,’ Broussard supplied, then gave another of those rough chuckles which tickled her right down to her toes. ‘I need to get me an executive assistant like you. I hate being sociable.’

  ‘Are you kidding? You’re a lot better at it than I am,’ she said bluntly, her guilty conscience loosening her tongue.

  This time he threw back his head to laugh, giving her a glimpse of the strong column of his throat and the tattoo peeking above the open collar of his shirt.

  That strange bubble of exhilaration burst in her chest when that dangerous green gaze met hers again and she saw approval in his eyes.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you you’re super-cute, Cassandra?’

  Efficient? Professional? Smart? Boringly conventional? Yes. Super-cute...?

  ‘Um...no, never.’

  He continued to chuckle, his playful grin making his rugged features look almost boyish. ‘Have you ever been to the city before?’

  ‘No, I’ve never been to Frisco before,’ she said.

  ‘I can tell,’ he said, wincing theatrically.

  ‘How?’ she asked, mesmerised all over again by the approving look.

  ‘If you’d ever been before you’d know what the locals think of that nickname.’

  ‘Frisco is bad?’ she asked.

  ‘Frisco can get you a one-way ticket to Alcatraz. I found that out the hard way when I moved here.’

  ‘Good to know.’ She grinned.

  Were they flirting? Why had she never tried this before? It was actually fun. And she wasn’t as horrendous at it as she had assumed.

  ‘How about we get the hell out of here?’ he said as he lifted her now empty glass from her numb fingers. He placed it and his own on a wooden bench. ‘Seeing as being social really isn’t our thing, I could show you the city they don’t call Frisco.’

  The husky intimacy in his tone, and the intensity darkening his gaze to a rich emerald, made it clear that the offer was loaded with all sorts of possibilities—not one of them safe.

  For a fleeting moment it occurred to her that accepting Luke Broussard’s offer would be the perfect opportunity to find out more about him for Temple... But she knew that wasn’t why she wanted to say yes.

  She felt light-headed, detached from reality. Every practical and pragmatic consideration in her head was becoming soft and fuzzy and insubstantial as a heady shot of adrenaline powered through her veins.

  She studied his outstretched hand—capable, tanned, scarred—and the reckless streak she hadn’t even known she had shot through her like a drug.

  And then she remembered what Ash had said what seemed like a million years ago in London.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with mixing business and pleasure occasionally.’

  Why not take him up on his offer? There was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy herself while she found out a bit more about him. It’s just a drive.

  She raised her gaze to Luke’s and had the strangest sensation that she was about to step off a cliff. But before she could second-guess herself, she placed her hand in his. ‘Yes, I’d like to.’

  His hand wrapped around her fingers and he lifted them to his lips. The chivalrous gesture was comprehensively contradicted by the heated purpose in his gaze when he mur
mured something in heavily accented French.

  ‘Laissez les bon temps rouler.’

  She had no clue what the words meant. But as he led her through the crowd the jolt of adrenaline became turbo-charged.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SPELLBOUND.

  That’s what he was.

  Luke figured he probably ought to be disturbed by how much he had wanted Cassandra James to say yes. But as he placed his hand on her lower back and handed his ticket to the valet, and she shuddered violently, he found it hard to give a damn.

  He hadn’t discovered a thing about her except that she was British, and she worked for a British billionaire investor whom he’d heard of but didn’t know much about. But that didn’t stop his yearning to place his lips on the nape of her neck below her hairline and inhale her scent.

  Even gilded by the dusk, that killer blush still ignited her cheeks. Cassandra James presented a challenge—a challenge he hadn’t even known he wanted. She seemed unable to hide her physical response to him, and he sensed she lacked the sexual confidence of the women he usually dated.

  He had no idea why he found that so refreshing. He wasn’t a guy who had ever prized honesty when it came to dating—everyone had their secrets, him most of all, and he respected that, understood it. Sex didn’t mean intimacy—certainly not where he was concerned—but she excited him on more than just a physical level.

  The valet pulled up at the kerb, riding the vintage 955cc motorbike Luke had reconditioned himself last winter.

  Cassandra swung her head round, her golden eyes widening to saucer-size. ‘You’re not serious? I can’t ride that.’

  He chuckled—he couldn’t help it. Her shocked expression was as hot as her slight pout of disappointment.

  ‘Sure you can. I have a spare helmet,’ he said, as he handed a hundred-dollar bill to the valet.

  ‘How much change do you need, sir?’ the boy asked.