Dear Enemy

“My room is at the end,” he says. “Your room is here.”

We stop at a door one down from his. I’d been hoping for the other end of the house.

Reading me well, Macon gives an amused look. “You need to be near in case I need something in the night.”

“Seriously? Is this some form of extra punishment?”

Macon’s nose wrinkles in affront. “Jesus, Delilah. I’ve been in a car accident. I need someone nearby. End of story.”

He looks so put out and offended that my shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I’m a little tense.”

“You think?” But his scowl eases as he reaches out for the door. He rolls into the room and then moves back so I can enter.

The room is incredible. It’s as big as my living room back home, with a sitting area on one side and a bed with a cream-colored linen headboard on the other end. But it’s the view that grips me, all glittering ocean and sunlit skies. A set of french doors that open up to a wide veranda beckons me closer.

“Still want to live in the guesthouse?” Macon says behind me.

I take another look around, tempted to either fling myself onto the soft white bedspread or race out onto the balcony, where a set of cane chairs waits for me. “I suppose this will do.”

“While we’re waiting for North, I’ll show you around, and then you can make me breakfast.”

I’d almost forgotten why I was here.

He leads me past other guest rooms, an upstairs gym, an office, and then down we go to the main level, where there is a home movie theater, a glass-walled wine room, a cozy den, and an open great room. It’s all gorgeous, but I head for the kitchen, itching to look around.

I try to contain myself, but it’s difficult. No expense has been spared, from the marble countertops that will be perfect for baking to the Sub-Zero catering fridge.

I let out a small gasp at the sight of the massive black-enamel-and-brass stove. “A La Cornue.”

“A what?” Macon asks, frowning as if I’m off my rocker.

“Your stove.” I stroke the sleek edge of it just because I can. “It’s exceptional for cooking.” And about forty thousand dollars retail. I swear, my eyes water a little.

Macon moves farther into the kitchen. “I have fans who look at me the way you’re looking at that stove.”

“Their priorities are out of whack.” I bend over to inspect the oven. Flawless. “Have you ever even used this thing?”

“I believe I burned some eggs while attempting an omelet. Mostly, I use the microwave.”

I place my hand on my chest. “You are killing me here.”

He gives me a rare genuine smile, and it transforms his face from stern and bitter to something almost boyish. It makes him breathtaking. I’m so stunned by the sight, I almost miss his reply. “I have a kick-ass blender, if you’re interested. I make a mean kelp smoothie.”

“Getting excited over a kelp smoothie? I almost pity you, Saint.”

All at once, his affable expression dims. “Don’t call me Saint. I don’t like the way it sounds coming from you.”

Stung, I turn away and inspect the fridge. I’d almost forgotten that Macon and I don’t rub well together. It’s easy to do, and that has always been part of my frustration when dealing with him. Because when Macon wants to, he is utterly charming, fun, and engaging. He draws people in like moths to a bright flame. Only I’m the one who constantly gets burned. Everyone else walks away happy and wanting to know him better.

“You’ll need to tell me how you want to take your meals,” I say, keeping my attention on looking over what I have to work with. “Do you want them delivered on a tray? Set up in a certain room?”

His presence is a weight against my back, and I know he’s watching me. Tough shit.

“Also any food allergies you might have,” I go on when he doesn’t answer. “I read over the dietary restrictions the studio’s nutritionists have placed you on. I’m going to have to get creative because there isn’t much to work with. I’ll go shopping later.”

The kitchen clock ticks softly.

“You pouting now?” Macon finally asks in a flat voice.

Sharp pricks dance along my skin, and my jaw begins to ache from clamping it shut. When I know I won’t shout, I answer in measured tones. “I’m maintaining a professional manner with my employer.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

Because I might grab one of the lovely heirloom tomatoes you have displayed in this fruit basket and chuck it at your fat head.

“I wasn’t aware that you needed constant attention,” I grit out.

“Now you know better,” he says equably.

Of all the . . . a breath hisses out between my clenched teeth. Slowly I turn to find him smirking as if he knows perfectly well he’s working my last nerve.