One Wild Night with Her Enemy Read online

  ‘That’s tough, cher.’

  It was the first time he’d used the endearment since discovering Ash’s text, and to Cassie’s horror the growled condolence had an effect she couldn’t mitigate or guard against, brushing over her skin and making her heartbeat slow and her ribs squeeze, cutting off her breathing.

  She stiffened and re-inflated her lungs with an effort.

  ‘You’re weak, Cassandra, that’s your problem.’

  Her father’s voice slashed across her consciousness. She forced herself to keep breathing past the pain in her chest and the boulder in her throat.

  Don’t you dare cry—not in front of him. You’re just tired and stressed. This is not a big deal.

  ‘Not really. I don’t even remember her,’ she lied. ‘And, anyhow, that’s a little sexist, isn’t it? To assume my mother would teach me how to cook?’ she added, trying to regain at least some of her self-respect and the fighting spirit she’d worked so hard to create over all the years of her father’s indifference.

  Men like Luke Broussard saw a weakness and exploited it. That was what they did.

  Luke shrugged, but his expression didn’t change, his clear mossy-green eyes still shadowed. ‘I guess it could have been your papa,’ he said, the French inflection on the word sounding strangely intimate. ‘I just asked because my mama taught me. She always said I needed to know the basics...’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Gumbo, Jambalaya, crawfish étouffée and pancakes.’

  ‘I only know what one of those things even is,’ Cassie supplied, stupidly relieved as the knot in her stomach loosened a fraction.

  As much as she might want to stand up to him, handling confrontation head-on had never been her strong suit—just ask her father.

  Luke swore again, but she felt the knot release a little more. Maybe he despised her, but at least she wasn’t going to have to fake any cordon bleu cooking skills now.

  Always an upside.

  ‘Well, we’ve both gotta eat tonight. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna do it all. If you want, I can show you how to cook my mama’s Jambalaya?’

  Warmth blossomed in the pit of her stomach alongside a burst of astonishment. But then she got a grip and saw the pity still shadowing his eyes.

  The off-hand offer wasn’t really meant as an olive branch—she totally got that. He was quite possibly only doing it to demonstrate to her exactly how pathetic she was. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to tell him where he could stick his offer.

  Unfortunately, she was fairly sure her inability to tell him no wasn’t just because she was so hungry she was more than ready to eat anything—even humble pie—but also because darkness was closing in outside the window, and spending the evening with him without having to argue with him would be better than spending it alone in the guest room.

  ‘I think I could probably manage that,’ she said cautiously, hating herself a little bit for folding far too easily, but deciding she could always go back to standing up to him tomorrow. Tonight, she was too stressed and exhausted and famished. ‘If you tell me exactly what to do.’

  The quirk of his lips took on a wicked tilt—and suddenly she was fairly sure he wasn’t thinking about cooking any more. Because neither was she.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m real good at giving orders.’

  Don’t I know it? she thought, but didn’t say. Because with the thought came a blast of unhelpful memories about the orders he’d given her the night before, and how much she’d enjoyed obeying them without question.

  Way to go, Cassie. Why not turn a catastrophe into a sex-tastrophe? Because this isn’t already awkward enough...

  ‘Go grab the bag of crawfish from the freezer,’ he said, the teasing glint instantly gone again, ‘and then I’ll show you how to make Jambalaya.’

  She was so relieved that he seemed as disinclined to flirt as she was, that she was halfway across the kitchen before she thought to turn around and ask, ‘What does a crawfish look like?’

  He paused while grabbing a pan from the rack above the kitchen island, a low chuckle bursting out of his mouth. ‘Hell, cher, don’t you know anything?’

  Apparently not. But suddenly not being able to cook didn’t seem like her biggest problem, when the rusty rumble of spontaneous laughter rippled over her skin and made the ever-present weight in her stomach start to throb.

  Hello, downside, my old friend.

  * * *

  Whose dumb idea was it to give her cooking lessons?

  Luke watched Cassandra’s forehead crease as she shook the skillet. The sizzle of frying scallions and garlic was doing nothing to mask the smell of his pine shampoo on her hair. She scraped the pan with the spatula.

  Oh, yeah, your dumb idea.

  ‘Just tease it,’ he said, wrapping his fingers around her wrist to direct her movements.

  Her pulse jumped under his thumb and she jolted. The stirring in his groin, which he thought he’d taken care of an hour ago in the mud room shower, hit critical mass. He let go of her wrist as if he’d been burned. Because that was what it felt like—as if she were a live electrical socket which he couldn’t resist jamming his fingers into.

  ‘That’s it...you got it,’ he said, regretting his spur-of-the-moment decision even more as he got another lungful of her clean scent over the pungent smell of frying garlic. His burgeoning erection hardened and he stepped back, far too aware of the urge to press it into the curve of her backside.

  He cursed silently.

  By rights he should be exhausted.

  By rights he should have taken care of this yearning in the shower and during twelve hours of chores and outdoor pursuits.

  By rights he should want to have nothing whatsoever to do with this woman.

  She’d lied and cheated and had intended to use the connection between them to spy on him for her boss. So why couldn’t he get his hunger for her under control? And why had the look on her face when he’d demanded she cook him supper, then asked her about her mama, torn at his insides?

  When she’d come back from the cellar where he kept a chest freezer, holding a bag of frozen crawfish aloft like a fisherman with a prize catch, the smile of accomplishment which had split her face had hit him square in the chest. And he’d known he’d made another major error of judgement. Because spending any time with her, let alone teaching her something she should have been taught long ago, was going to be pure torture.

  Why did she have to look so hot in Mrs Mendoza’s jeans? And why had the truth about her mama made him aware of her fragility instead of her duplicity?

  He set about dicing bell peppers and then instructed her on how to sift and rinse the rice and make the broth. All the while trying to persuade himself that he had been played again.

  How did he know that the brave, motherless girl act wasn’t as much of a con as the forthright, artless sex goddess act of yesterday?

  But somehow, as she worked diligently to follow his instructions to the letter and make as little eye contact with him as possible, he couldn’t shake the memory of the look of devastating loss which had shimmered in her eyes when he’d harassed her about her cooking skills.

  And somehow he knew, even though he wanted to recapture his previous cynicism and harden his attitude towards her, that Cassandra James wasn’t that good an actress.

  He’d touched a nerve somehow. A nerve he’d never meant to expose. And he couldn’t quite bring himself to exploit it.

  Picking up the rice she’d sorted, and the sausage he’d fried earlier, he chucked it into the skillet on top of the vegetables.

  ‘Is your mother still alive?’ she asked carefully over the sizzling of the food.

  ‘No, she died when I was sixteen,’ he said, not only surprised by her decision to break their truce, but also by the pulse of connection he felt. Just because they’d both lost their mothers when they we
re still kids, it didn’t make them friends.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘She was very beautiful.’

  ‘How would you know?’ he asked, pushing his cynicism back to the fore. Damn, was she still spying on him?

  ‘I saw a picture of the two of you on your desk,’ she said, her forthright expression daring him to make a big deal out of it.

  ‘What were you doing in my office?’ he demanded.

  ‘Trying to find a phone charger so I can save my career,’ she shot back, but then her gaze softened. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she added, and he could see she meant it. ‘I didn’t see any photos of your father, but I hope—despite his bad reputation—he was still...’

  ‘I never met him,’ he lied smoothly. ‘After she died I was on my own. But that was the way I wanted it.’

  ‘Then why are you so worried about people finding out about him?’ she asked, her expression open and uncomplicated. ‘Surely his reputation can’t hurt you? Not after everything you’ve achieved?’

  He swallowed, but the lump of anger in his throat, that was always there when he thought of his father had faded. ‘I’m not worried about it any more,’ he said, astonished to realise it was true. ‘Now, stop snooping and start stirring,’ he added, suddenly desperate to change the subject before the compassion in her gaze got to him.

  She stiffened at the curtness in his tone, but did as she was told. The recollection of how she’d followed instructions last night, too, sent a shaft of heat through his overworked system. But this time he welcomed it as he set about defrosting the crawfish in the microwave.

  He didn’t want to care about her loss—didn’t want to feel any connection to her grief or recall how much he had needed his own mom growing up, and how much he’d missed her when she was gone.

  His mother had been the only person to stand by him through all those years of being despised, being kicked around and treated like dirt because of his old man. He definitely didn’t want to think about how much it had hurt when he’d lost her too soon.

  But as he peeled the crawfish it reminded him of how he’d watched his mother doing the same task in their trailer. And the words she’d spoken to chastise and console him.

  ‘Don’t go getting yourself into more fights—you hear me? It won’t change a thing. All it’ll do is give them an excuse to judge you more.’

  She’d been right, of course, and eventually he’d listened. But what would it have been like to have none of that guidance, none of that care and compassion when you needed it most, no one to tend you when you were hurting, to teach you what you needed to be taught?

  The tightness in his chest increased.

  Not the point. She still used you. Just because she lost her mama young, it doesn’t make her someone you can trust.

  He breathed deep, to calm the pummelling of his heart and the low-grade pulsing in his pants. Leaning closer, he poured the broth into the pan. It spat on the hot metal and made her flushed face glow.

  Heat slammed into him again. ‘You can stop stirring,’ he said.

  She dropped the spatula and edged away from him, obviously finely tuned to how volatile his feelings had become—which just made the feeling of connection more acute. Damn her.

  ‘It’ll take a while to cook now,’ he said, placing the lid on the pan so the food could steam. He glanced her way, taking in the gentle sway of her breasts, which he could detect even under the housekeeper’s sweater, and making him far too aware of how much he wanted to cup the plump flesh...

  ‘I’m afraid we’re gonna be stuck here together for a couple of days at least,’ he murmured.

  Her eyebrows rose up her forehead, and the flush on her cheeks intensified, but the argument he’d been expecting didn’t come.

  ‘I assume it’s unavoidable?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ he said. Even though it wasn’t...entirely.

  Truth be told, he could get her back to the mainland sooner rather than later if he was prepared to spend the next couple of days fixing the speedboat’s hull. Or, when the cell service came back—which it would—pay to have a mechanic flown out to fix Jezebel...

  But he was forcing himself to stick to the plan of action he’d decided on earlier. Why should he ruin his vacation or spend a small fortune just for her convenience?

  Plus, keeping her here until the product launch was good insurance.

  He knew she was right in what she’d said—his father’s sins had never been his. Why should he keep them hidden any longer? Didn’t that just give the bastard a power over him that he had never deserved?

  His gaze flicked over her breasts and back to her face as the heat continued to pulse in his groin. But just because he still desired her, and she’d made a good point about his old man, it didn’t mean he was going to let this attraction get the better of him.

  She was watching him with those guarded eyes, and he had the weirdest vision of a young doe bracing itself for the hunter to shoot when she said, ‘I’m sorry this happened. I really didn’t intend to spy on you...’

  She swallowed, and he realised he wanted to take her words at face value.

  ‘I’ll be sure to stay out of your way until I can leave,’ she added.

  ‘You do that,’ he said, annoyed at the pulse of regret he felt when she stiffened at his surly statement. ‘If you need food, Mrs Mendoza leaves stuff in the freezer that you can nuke,’ he added, to soften the blow while also making it crystal-clear that no more impromptu cooking lessons would be forthcoming. ‘I’ll shout once this is ready and you can eat in one of the guest rooms,’ he finished.

  ‘All right.’

  She walked away, and the strange pang in his chest increased. But then she turned back.

  ‘Thanks for teaching me how to make your mother’s Jambalaya.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he murmured.

  Even though he knew it was a problem—she was a problem—which he had a bad feeling he now had even less of a clue how to fix.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CASSIE STEPPED OUT through the back door of the housekeeper’s annexe wearing the raincoat she’d borrowed from Mrs Mendoza’s dwindling supply of clean clothing.

  Sun shone off the dew clinging to the ferns and rhododendrons lining the path and burned away the last of the morning mist. After a whole day yesterday spent hiding out in her room, in between sneaked trips to the kitchen to heat up food whenever the coast was clear—which had been most of the time, because Luke seemed to be avoiding her with the same dedication with which she was avoiding him—she was going stir crazy.

  She zipped up the raincoat, settled the borrowed backpack on her shoulders and set out along the path which, according to the map, led to a trail that circumnavigated the island.

  Worrying about her inability to contact her office—or anyone, for that matter—and how long it might be before she got back to San Francisco, not to mention the job of avoiding her reluctant host and any more too revealing heart-to-hearts at all costs, wasn’t helping with her sleep deprivation. Or her stress levels.

  She needed to get out of the house. Perhaps she was not the outdoors type, but the only way to take her mind off Luke and the things she’d learned about him two days ago was to fill her time with something else. And a hike was pretty much her only option.

  From what she could remember when they’d flown into the bay three nights ago, the island was more than big enough to contain both of them without there being much chance of her bumping into him. She’d managed to find a small guidebook to Oregon’s bird life. She would tour the area, scope out the terrain, and see if she could spot some of the birds indigenous to the Pacific Northwest. Because staying holed up in his house all day yesterday had given her far too much time to mull over the conversation they’d had about his childhood.

  ‘After she died I was on my own. But that was the way I wanted
it.’

  Did he really believe that? She frowned. And why did she care whether he did or not? She’d had no business probing, or offering him advice about a relationship with the father he’d never known, when her relationship with her own father could best be described as barely functional. She couldn’t even sort out her own daddy issues, so what made her think she could sort out his?

  One thing she did know, though: keeping busy had always kept her sane—especially when she was dealing with a problem outside her control, such as the loneliness she’d fallen into when her father had pushed Ashling and Angela Doyle out of her life without any warning, or the fact that she’d got stranded on a taciturn billionaire’s private island and started to delude herself into believing they had something in common, when they clearly did not.

  Avoidance had always been her great go-to strategy. So, having stuffed the backpack with the bird book, some energy bars, a bottle of water, a map and a pair of binoculars, she was all set to make the best of things. Plus, physical exhaustion might help with her sleep issues.

  Wisps of moisture still clung to the headland as the path meandered past the dock and into the forest. She breathed in, the air so crisp it hurt her lungs. A bracing walk and some bird-spotting would do her the world of good. Not that she knew the first thing about bird-spotting, but how hard could it be?

  * * *

  Two hours later Cassie wheezed to the top of another steep incline on the cliff path. She bent over to catch her breath, stunned again by the startling natural beauty of Sunrise Island... And by how chronically unfit she was. Who knew two spin classes a year weren’t enough to prepare you for a ten-mile hike?

  After drawing in several deep breaths of the clean air, she stood to admire another staggering view.

  The outcropping of volcanic rock she stood on formed a natural archway, revealing a hidden cove eighty feet below her. The black sand beach, scattered with driftwood from the recent storm, curved around the headland, edged by the vivid green of the towering redwoods and pines on one side and a sheer rock face on the other. Her breathing slowed and her heart swelled. The scent of salt water carried on the breeze and tempered the heat of the midday sunshine.