Dear Enemy
“You’re nothing like your sister,” North says suddenly, his eyes on me.
My steps falter. Of course I’m not; anyone with functioning eyes would be able to tell that in one glance. Still, I’m surprised he mentioned it. My estimation of North sinks a bit, and I find myself disappointed.
He grimaces, obviously reading my expression well. “That wasn’t meant as an insult. It just struck me that you’re very different in temperament.”
It becomes clear that Sam has had her hooks in North at some point. Over the years, I’ve learned to recognize the signs—the slight strain in a man’s voice when he speaks of her, the unfortunate mix of disappointment and wistfulness in his eyes.
“And in looks,” I say before I can stop myself. Then I’m the one grimacing. I sound bitter. I’m not, really. I’m simply used to that comparison too.
North’s expression turns solemn. “Yes.” His gaze flicks to my breasts so quickly I might have missed it if I wasn’t looking at his face. Then his eyes meet mine, and he smiles faintly. “Again, that’s not an insult.”
Warmth washes over my cheeks. North is capable of turning on the charm when he wants to. I almost pity any woman who gets a full dose of it.
He appears to remember why I’m here and starts walking again, his back straight and tight, his pace quicker now.
Unfortunately. I’d rather dally here. God, Macon’s going to be pissed. And he isn’t going to go easy on me.
Why am I here? I shouldn’t be here.
I think about Mama’s voice this morning. “I could never give up on either of you; it would be like giving up on myself, losing another piece of myself.”
Yeah. That.
The sound of my heels clicking against the floorboards bolsters my spirits. Grandma Belle used to say that a woman wearing her best red heels and favorite red lipstick can accomplish anything. There is some truth to her words. When Grandma Belle donned her red pumps and a glossy coat of Dior Rouge, she fairly glowed with an inner confidence that reduced men to obedient puppies.
While I do not possess the classic beauty of Grandma Belle, nor do I think Macon Saint will ever act anything close to an obedient puppy, I do admit to feeling a bit more powerful in my red suede Jimmy Choos and Ruby Woo lipstick.
At least that’s what I tell myself as North stops by a closed door and knocks.
I’m so worked up at this point that I’m sure my pulse is visibly beating at the base of my neck.
I nearly jump out of my skin when a deep masculine voice bids, “Come in.”
North opens the door and then steps back to give me room to enter. For a brief and shining second I envision myself turning tail and running for the nearest window like the Cowardly Lion. But I step into the wizard’s lair instead.
CHAPTER FOUR
Delilah
There are times in life when everything sort of slows down, all your senses go on high alert, and you see everything from a distance.
This is one of them. I’m taking in the whole of the room at a glance—the retractable glass wall that’s open to the ocean view; the built-ins with a gold Emmy sitting among various books and decorative items; the massive desk cluttered with books, papers, and dishes; and him.
His presence rubs over me like a pervasive itch that won’t go away.
Sitting behind his desk, he’s turned my way, staring at me as I stare at him. I take him in as a whole: his big muscled body—the sheer physicality of him. And I see the details. The details are what throw me.
“You look like hell,” I blurt out.
His eyes lock onto me, and I’m momentarily hurtled back to being seventeen again. Those eyes, deep set and carob brown under black brows that are straight, angry slashes. When he was a kid, those eyes somehow managed to appear angelic and sweet with their long curling lashes and shining depths. Now he resembles an Old Testament archangel, all fierce judgment and wrath—the type who smites wrongdoers with one look.
“Well, hello, Ms. Delilah Baker,” he drawls. “So nice to see you too.”
“Sorry.” I force a smile, though it feels strained on my face. “That was rude of me.”
He waves an idle hand. “No, no, do go on. It’s been years since anyone has insulted me to my face. I’d say about ten years.”
“Surely I haven’t been the only one to insult you in all this time.”
Macon’s lush wide mouth, surrounded now by stubble so thick it’s nearly a beard, pulls in a half smile. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And I do look like shit, so . . .”
He doesn’t really. He’s still Macon, brutally handsome and possessing far too much charisma for one man. He’s just beat up as all hell and in a wheelchair. A cast encases his left leg from the knee to his foot. Another soft cast is on his right wrist. He wears his hair cropped so short it borders on militaristic, but it also highlights the clean bone structure of his face and the fact that his right eye is black and blue and slightly swollen. Various scrapes mar his tan skin, and a line of surgeon’s tape bisects his right brow.