Dear Enemy

I want to lean into that warmth, soak him up. Something catches my eye. North stands a few trees away. I’d forgotten he was here. He isn’t watching us—but scanning the perimeter—and is far enough not to overhear. But the sight is enough to snap me out of the haze I’d been pulled into.

I swallow down my bite of fruit. “Don’t flirt, Macon. It won’t make me more biddable.”

The intensity of his gaze plucks at my skin, but his expression remains neutral. I want to squirm. I’m vastly aware of how well he can read me and wonder what my expression gives away.

But then he simply smiles, all easy and relaxed. “Damn, you caught me out.”

I eye him warily because he relented a bit too easily. “Mm-hmm . . .”

He nods in agreement. “It was stupid, thinking you’d fall for that.” His voice lowers as he takes a small step forward. “You’re completely immune. Always were.”

My voice doesn’t appear to be working properly. “Right.”

Macon rests a hand on the tree trunk, his big body angling toward me. I press my back to the tree, all too aware that his inner arm almost touches my cheek. God, he has pretty eyes. I have issues.

A smile plays about his mouth as his gaze lowers to my mouth. His voice pours over me like hot syrup. “Doesn’t matter what I say, does it? I could tell you that watching you suck on that juicy bit of mango was one of the erotic highlights of my life. That I want to lick the pink, pouty curve of your lower lip to see if it’s sticky sweet.”

Gently, he touches the swell of my lip, and I feel it deep within my sex.

“Such a pouty fucking mouth,” he whispers. “Always frowning at me with that plump lower lip.”

I. Cannot. Breathe. I am flush with fever-bright heat.

And it is all Macon’s fault.

Macon, who watches as my breasts rise and fall with increasing agitation. Macon, who makes a pained grumble deep within his throat.

The tips of my breasts graze his chest with each breath I draw. His own breath hitches, and I make my move, leaning just close enough so that my mouth is by his ear. He doesn’t move an inch, but I see the tremor run through his shoulders.

I find myself smiling, though I’m too hot, too weak kneed to be truly amused. “Macon?”

He makes a sound that is the approximation of “Yes.”

I allow myself one nuzzle, the briefest brush of my nose against the curve of his ear—loving the way he tries to suppress a shiver—and then I make my voice hard and firm. “Bugger off.”

Macon rears back as though goosed, his brows raised high in surprise. His gaze clashes with mine, and then he’s laughing—a wry, self-deprecating sound that’s just a bit too forced. “For a second, I thought I had you.”

“Not a chance,” I say, making my own show of laughing the moment off.

But when we resume shopping, walking close enough that our arms occasionally brush, I wonder who is the bigger bullshitter here.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Delilah

The next day, when North pulls around with the car, Macon tells him we’re dining out for lunch. “We”—not him. I don’t want to be a “we.” I especially don’t want to have lunch with his agent. If the one-sided phone conversation I’d overheard is anything to go by, the woman is already dead set against me. Not my idea of a good time.

“No, I have menus to plan and a list of frivolous crap to take care of.”

Macon gives me a deadpan look. “None of the tasks I ask you to do are frivolous.”

“Oh, really? Sending some chick a batch of cardamom cupcakes with lavender frosting made by a specific baker that I have to drive all the way out to Laguna Beach to pick up, because of course they don’t deliver, isn’t frivolous? Hell, I can make those myself. I can even put happy birthday on them in little gold letters like you wanted.” Frankly, I’m surprised he hadn’t specified what font should be used.

“But they wouldn’t be from her favorite baker,” he tells me, then makes a sound of exasperation. “She’s my makeup artist. The woman I have to spend hours in the chair talking to. She needs to know she’s appreciated.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to bribe people with goodies, Con Man.”

“Everyone here does.”

“So being yourself isn’t enough?”

At that, he shoots me a slanted smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Why, Ms. Delilah, are you saying that my personality is capable of winning people over?”

“You could charm the skin off a snake if you wanted to, and you know it.”

His chuckle is smug, and I turn away to look out the window so he doesn’t see my reluctant smile.

North takes us to Chateau Marmont, an old Hollywood hotel that looks like a castle holding court over Sunset Boulevard.