One Wild Night with Her Enemy Read online

  Nor did he need her to admit what she’d done. All he needed to do was make sure she didn’t do his company any damage. Keeping her here for the next few days, maybe even the whole week, didn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. At least if she was stuck on Sunrise, with no cell service, it would save him the trouble of having to brief his legal team to get her to sign an NDA.

  He dried himself off and dressed in the sweats he kept in the mud room.

  With the edge taken off his need, and the shower having revived him, it occurred to him that he was ravenous. All he’d had since breakfast was a couple of energy bars and a flask of coffee.

  He headed into the kitchen.

  He had staff for the house—as well as Mrs Mendoza the housekeeper he also employed a maintenance woman and a forester—but, as he’d told Cassandra, he always had them vacate when he was on the island. He hadn’t lied when he’d told her he preferred his privacy.

  He huffed out a tortured breath.

  The irony would almost be funny if it weren’t so damn aggravating.

  The truth was, the main reason he’d bought Sunrise and built the house was so he could be alone here. He liked his solitude. The outdoor activities available when he needed downtime were a great way to stretch his body as well as his mind. And when he was working on a particularly tough or troublesome new design this was the perfect place to hole up and get it done without any distractions.

  Right about now, though, he wished Mrs Mendoza and the rest of his staff were in residence, because he could use a cooked meal without having to do it himself. And having a buffer between him and his resident spy would also be useful.

  The sunset cast a reddening glow over the kitchen’s granite surfaces, highlighting a mound of something on the main countertop, draped in a paper napkin. He lifted the napkin to find a mountain of bread and cheese and baloney, drenched in enough condiments to sink a battleship.

  What the...?

  His hollow stomach growled, but not with any particular enthusiasm. Then he noticed the passive-aggressive note jotted down on the napkin.

  I made you a sandwich.

  You can thank me later.

  This mess was supposed to be a sandwich? It looked barely edible. Not only that, but it had clearly been sitting on the counter for the last eight hours. He pressed his finger into the bread to test it... Yup, hard as a slab of concrete.

  Wrapping the whole mess in the napkin, he dumped it in the trash can.

  He might be starving, but he had standards. And if she thought that pathetic attempt at a peace offering was going to go any way towards appeasing him after what she’d done, she was living on another planet.

  By rights she should have taken the damn initiative and cooked them something decent for supper. The house was fully stocked, and she’d been sitting on her butt all day, doing nothing, while he’d been out trying to work out a way to get them off the island. Maybe that wasn’t going to happen any time soon, but he’d be damned if he’d let her freeload for the rest of her stay.

  If he was going to be forced to keep her here—to keep his company safe from her shenanigans while he took a well-earned break—she could damn well make herself useful.

  ‘Cassandra!’ he shouted up the stairs. ‘Get down here now. You’re on kitchen duty tonight.’

  * * *

  ‘But I already made you a sandwich.’

  Cassie stared at Luke Broussard’s hard, handsome face and cursed the flush spreading across her collarbone. She’d figured out several hours ago that they wouldn’t be leaving the island tonight. So she’d spent the time trying not to let her anxiety go into free fall while she’d scoped out a bedroom for the night and hunted up a nightlight.

  She had raided Mrs Mendoza’s closet again for more clothing, just in case Luke’s threat of being stuck here for more than one night played out. She did not plan to be unprepared for whatever he might throw at her. She’d also taken the opportunity to do some snooping.

  To her astonishment, while looking through the wardrobes in his four guest bedrooms, she hadn’t managed to find any leftover clothes from previous girlfriends. Perhaps Luke had actually been telling the truth when he’d told her he’d never brought a woman to the island before... Not that it meant anything. The women he hadn’t brought here were the lucky ones—at least they hadn’t ended up stranded here.

  Satisfied with her haul from Mrs Mendoza’s wardrobe, she’d headed to Luke’s study in a futile attempt to find an internet connected computer, or at the very least a phone charger in case the coverage returned, because her phone had now died. Unfortunately, the only chargers she’d found were for Broussard Tech phones, and all the computers had elaborate security systems so she hadn’t even been able to turn them on, let alone access the internet.

  Seriously...who did that? Who had several layers of security on their computers when they were in a study in a locked house on a private island that no one could get to without a plane or a speedboat? Paranoid much?

  After nearly an hour spent trying to crack his security, Cassie had returned to the guest room and dropped into a deep, exhausted sleep. She’d woken up about an hour ago, groggy and raw, still feeling the effects of the sweaty erotic dreams which had chased her in sleep...

  Beyond grateful that the star player in every one of those dreams was still out of the house, she’d managed to figure out the coffee machine and made herself a cup to enjoy with the view of the sunset from her bedroom.

  She’d spotted him coming up the stairs from the dock about twenty minutes ago, his head bowed and his body looking far too buff in a clinging wetsuit, his damp hair dishevelled, the way it had been last night when they’d come in from the storm.

  Don’t think about last night.

  As he’d entered the house, the surge of longing had convinced her to stay well clear of him for the night. Confronting him was pointless—all it would do was make her more aware of the desire that would not die, or more anxious about her predicament, because they clearly weren’t going to be going anywhere tonight.

  She’d managed to find some crime novels on his bookshelves... They should keep her entertained, and might even contain a fiendishly clever and undetectable way to murder a man in his sleep.

  But then she’d heard him calling her to come downstairs... Not calling her, summoning her—as if she were an employee instead of a hostage.

  Ignoring him had been impossible, and it would have made her seem weak. So she had steeled herself against the inevitable surge of heat and forced herself to remain calm. Or calm-ish...

  But then he’d demanded she cook them both dinner, because—as he’d put it so charmingly—‘I don’t like freeloaders any more than I like spies.’

  That was when she’d reminded him of the sandwich.

  ‘I threw the sandwich in the trash,’ he replied now.

  What the actual...?

  A blush rose up her throat, combining with the surge of temper that she’d been keeping carefully at bay ever since his many hissy fits that morning had threatened to blow her head off.

  ‘You... You...’ she stuttered, so shocked at the sneering tone and the complete lack of gratitude for her titanic effort that morning in taking the high road that the words got stuck in her throat. ‘You did what?’ she blurted out at last.

  ‘I threw it in the trash. Next time you make me a sandwich, don’t drown it in mayo. I hate the stuff. And don’t leave it sitting on the counter all day, so all that’s left of it when I get a chance to eat are its fossilised remains.’

  She gasped—she actually gasped—so aghast at his audacity and his total inability to show any appreciation for her effort whatsoever that she was actually struggling to draw a decent breath. ‘Next time?’ she spat the words out. ‘You have got to be joking. There isn’t going to be a next time. I’d be more willing to make a sandwich for my worst enemy than yo
u.’

  ‘I am your worst enemy right now, and you still owe me,’ he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘I’ve been out all day working my butt off and I’m starving, so a sandwich—even if it were actually edible—isn’t going to cut it. Let’s see what else you’ve got,’ he finished, before stomping past her.

  She gulped, a sudden spurt of panic chipping away at her fortifying fury. ‘What do you mean, what else I’ve got?’ she asked.

  Although she had a horrid feeling she already knew.

  He wasn’t kidding about expecting her to cook him supper.

  A hot supper, with actual ingredients, from scratch—something that didn’t come out of a ready meal container or off a takeaway menu.

  He stopped and stared down his nose at her. ‘What else you’ve got in your repertoire of go-to meals. Other than prehistoric sandwiches,’ he added.

  But the dig didn’t even register this time as her panic started to consume her.

  But I don’t have a repertoire.

  It was what she wanted to say. But she couldn’t say it because she knew it would make her look pathetic. Because it was pathetic.

  She didn’t know how to cook anything. Not anything complicated. Nothing other than maybe beans on toast, or scrambled egg, or warmed-over soup from a tin. And she was fairly sure that wouldn’t cut it with this man any more than her ‘fossilised sandwich’ had—because he could whip up a pancake batter from scratch and had been a short-order chef in a diner when he was still a teenager.

  The truth was, she had no excuse. She should have learned how to cook for herself a long time ago. But she’d avoided learning, avoided even attempting to learn. And the reason for that was even more pathetic.

  She hated being in a kitchen and doing any kind of domestic chores because it reminded her of the day she had discovered exactly how much her father disapproved of her...

  Not even disapproved of her, really. Because disapproval required some kind of emotional input. And the truth was Aldous James hadn’t cared enough about his daughter to put in any emotional effort.

  He hadn’t disapproved of her. He hadn’t even seen her. And the day she had discovered exactly how little he cared had haunted her every day since—whenever she spent any time in a kitchen.

  For five years—from the day Ash and her mother had come to live in the servants’ quarters at her father’s house on Regent’s Park West—the kitchen had become a place of solace and sanctuary for Cassie. A place of vibrancy and life and excitement, for good times and good feelings.

  Until the day her father had chosen to change all that without telling her.

  The heat in her cheeks exploded as she recalled that day in vivid detail.

  She had raced down the stairs brimming with exhilaration because it had been the first day of October half-term. She had known Ash would be up early, having her breakfast while Ash’s mother, Angela, put together her father’s breakfast tray. Her friend would already be concocting some marvellous new adventures for them both for the holiday. Because Ash always came up with the best adventures.

  But it hadn’t been only Ash’s latest mad plans that Cassie had been anticipating as she’d shot down the back stairs in her family’s ten-bedroom Georgian town house—a house that had felt like a prison to her—a prison full of ghosts—until Angela had appeared one day in the staff quarters and introduced Cassie to her daughter.

  ‘Sure, you two are about the same age. I won’t mind a bit if you want to come down and keep Ashling and I company while your father is busy.’

  She hadn’t just been excited about spending some quality time with her best friend again after weeks and weeks of boring school, when they’d only got to see each other for a few hours a day because of the endless hours of homework Cassie was set by the posh private school she’d attended. She’d also been anticipating basking in the homely atmosphere Angela and Ash had created ever since they’d come into her life.

  She’d loved all of it. The comforting wittering of Angela Doyle’s conversations about fairies and crystals and other nonsense, the sound of Ash’s slightly off-key singing as they sang along to her favourite show tunes while sharing the headphones from Ash’s MP3 player, the tempting aroma of the scones and breads Angela baked from scratch and the scent of lavender floor polish.

  She’d burst through the kitchen door that crisp October day when she was thirteen with the wonderful feeling of belonging, of friendship, bursting in her heart—only to find the room cold and empty and silent.

  And Ash’s hastily written note on the table telling her they’d been forced to leave.

  A cold weight sank into her stomach all over again, joining the sharp twist of inadequacy as she recalled the conversation in her father’s study later that day.

  ‘Angela Doyle is no longer in my employ. We don’t need a housekeeper any more as you will be boarding at St Bride’s after half-term and I can simply eat at my club.’

  ‘But, Father, what about Ashling? She’s my best friend.’

  ‘Ashling is a housekeeper’s daughter. She is hardly a suitable companion for you.’

  Cassie pushed past the recollection, disturbed by the realisation that her father’s callous words that day and his blank expression—impatient and vaguely annoyed—still had the power to make the muscles in her stomach clench into a knot.

  How pathetic that she could still recall that day in such vivid detail. Especially now, when the last thing she needed was to give Luke Broussard more ammunition.

  For goodness’ sake, Cassie, get over yourself.

  How ridiculous to let the devastation of that day still control her all these years later... Maybe her life had been more colourful with Ash and her mum living in the staff quarters. And, yes, it had been thoughtless and insensitive of her father to wrench them away from her without a thought to how she might react. But to think she had avoided learning to cook because of that one painful memory...?

  Seriously, it was beyond pathetic.

  Especially when she considered that everything she’d thought she had lost that day had never really been lost at all. Ash was still her best friend. They’d made sure never to lose touch during all those miserable years Cassie had spent at St Bride’s. They had been sharing a flat together for the last four years, ever since Cassie had finished uni and begun her career at Temple’s as a graduate associate.

  It was all good. Give or take the odd bra-less dress debacle and tuxedo ditzkrieg.

  Cassie cleared her throat.

  Except for one glaring problem. She did not have a ‘go-to’ meal repertoire which she could use to whip up something now and impress Luke Broussard. Not even close. Which meant the only course of action open to her—as her tormentor continued to stare at her with utter contempt—was to bluff. Because she would actually rather die than let him know she had allowed that easily bruised, painfully lonely child to continue to lurk inside her for so long.

  ‘Cook your own supper,’ Cassie said, drawing herself up to her full height—which was still a lot shorter than his—and trying to draw on the outrage of a moment ago. ‘I’m not your personal chef.’

  She swung round to make what she planned to be a dignified and speedy exit.

  Too late.

  ‘Not so fast, Miss Priss.’ He grasped hold of her elbow to tug her back.

  A spike of adrenaline shot up her arm, adding shocking heat to the twist of pain and inadequacy already festering in her belly.

  To her horror, instead of accepting her perfectly reasonable rebuttal, Luke Broussard tilted his head to one side, studying her in that strangely unsettling way he had that made her feel totally transparent.

  ‘You can’t cook, can you?’ he said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  ‘How do you...?’ She stopped, her pulse tripping into overdrive as the weight in her stomach grew to impossible prop
ortions. ‘Of course I can,’ she said, scrambling to cover the gaffe.

  ‘Uh-huh?’ he said. ‘Then prove it.’

  ‘I don’t have to prove anything to you,’ she managed, but she could tell from his expression that the game was up.

  ‘What are you? Some kind of princess?’ he said, contempt dripping from his words now. She should have been prepared for it. She wasn’t. Especially as she didn’t even have anything resembling a decent excuse. The weight in her stomach twisted and throbbed on cue.

  ‘No, it’s just... It’s not a skill I’ve ever needed. Particularly...’ she said, desperately trying to cover her tracks. Bluffing hadn’t worked. Maybe bluster would.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We had s-staff when I was little, and I went to boarding school.’

  She stumbled over the word ‘staff’, because she’d never thought of Angela as her father’s employee. Angela Doyle had been the closest thing she’d ever had to a mother. Which was why she had been devastated when her father had let her go—as well as Ash.

  But Luke didn’t need to know any of that. Playing the privileged spoilt princess made her feel stronger, somehow, than the truth... That she’d been a needy, lonely child, looking for affection from people who had been paid to care for her. Angela had never made it seem that way, but that was the reality.

  ‘You had staff...’ he said, cursing softly under his breath. ‘That’s the excuse you’ve got for not learning a basic life skill?’

  ‘Well, it can’t be that basic if I’ve survived perfectly well without it,’ she said.

  ‘Until now,’ he said, sounding exasperated with her incompetence. ‘I mean, damn. What about your mama? Didn’t she teach you something? Anything?’

  ‘No, I was only four when she died.’

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wanted to take them back. Because his eyes darkened and what she saw on his face, instead of distrust or anger or even heat—which seemed to be his go-to emotions where she was concerned—was pity.