Beautiful Enemy (The Enemies Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Beautiful Enemy

  Enemies #1

  Piper Lawson

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  BEAUTIFUL ENEMY

  Enemies #1

  I sold my soul to a man I hate.

  Now, he owns me.

  I had a plan: Sign a contract and board a plane to Ibiza. The anonymous deal would salvage the smoldering wreckage of my life.

  It would not involve billionaire Harrison King, the reason I need saving in the first place.

  He’s as beautiful as he is cruel. A British business titan who makes a living getting what he wants.

  The man flies private. Dates supermodels. But the crisp accent and cocky smirk don’t fool me. He’s a gentleman on the outside, a savage beneath. Dangerous, rough and brutal.

  Because after my attempt to publicly stand up for those who needed it...

  He destroyed my reputation.

  Now, he’s come for the rest of me.

  I can’t back out. No matter what he has in store for me.

  Harrison King knows my secrets...

  But kings keep secrets too.

  BEAUTIFUL ENEMY is book 1 in the ENEMIES trilogy. Harrison and Rae’s addictive story continues in BEAUTIFUL SINS and concludes in BEAUTIFUL RUIN.

  1

  Rae

  The man across the arrivals lounge in Ibiza is abrasively beautiful. The kind of attractive that could rip you in two.

  Which is exactly what seeing him does to me.

  Wearing a dark suit, cut close to his strong body, he carries himself with a confidence no man should possess.

  No one is that right, least of all him.

  The man in the lounge turns, calling out to a woman across the room. He’s handsome, but I realize he’s not the man I haven’t been able to get out of my head for the past two months.

  This man has dark eyes, not electrifying blue ones. He lacks the crisp British accent that reeks of boarding schools and privilege. Plus, I don’t have that feeling in my gut, as if the ground is vibrating beneath my feet.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Madani.” The baggage clerk’s bright voice drags my attention back to the counter. “Your bag was tracked from New York to Heathrow but hasn’t shown on the system since.”

  Her words settle in, and a knot forms in my chest. “That’s not possible. I need that bag.”

  “If we can’t deliver it to you in twenty-four hours, you will be reimbursed up to five hundred euros.”

  I press the heels of my hands to my eyes.

  Barely sleeping on the plane, then stumbling onto the next after stopping to brush my teeth and collect a Starbucks grande to get me through customs and the transfer is catching up to me.

  I should’ve known it was a bad idea to put everything I owned in that bag.

  Including my pills.

  Someone bumps me from behind, and I glance back to see a string of five women in matching white minidresses. The woman at the front of the bachelorette train that was on my plane is wearing a crown and sash, and the train hollers about “one last time.”

  I’m the only one here not looking for a party.

  “I understand this is disappointing. A young woman like you, I bet you had your vacation wardrobe chosen.” The woman takes in my black tank top and ripped jeans as if I’d do better to start from scratch.

  “I’m not here on vacation.” I shove a chunk of dark hair out of my face and feel for my crossbody bag, the computer nestled inside.

  Thank fuck.

  I wonder what she’d say if I told her the truth. That I’m here because I set my career on fire standing up for what I believed in and every venue that was fighting to finger me two months ago is dodging my calls.

  When I leave the baggage area, the low-grade throbbing in my gut won’t quit.

  The company that hired me said they’d send a ride. Sure enough, by the doors is a huge man in a linen suit with graying hair. He holds a sign that says “L. Queen.”

  “That’s me.” Professionally, at least. “You can call me Rae.”

  “No baggage?”

  “I wish. What’s your name?”

  “Toro, señorita.”

  I fall into step with him as we dodge tourists and head out the double doors.

  “Looks like everyone’s here to party,” I notice.

  The people pouring out of the airport are ready to dance and drink and party their cares away.

  “And you?” Toro asks.

  “I’m here to help them.”

  I slide my sunglasses onto my face, the warm air washing over me. It was spring in New York yesterday, and now it’s summer in Spain.

  The ocean breeze washes over me as Toro shows me to a Mercedes limo and holds open the back door.

  “I’m riding up front.”

  Before he can argue, I pull on the passenger door and lift a book off the seat—Eat, Pray, Love.

  “This your throwback book club pick of the week?” I set it on the dash, and my lips twitch as I cut him a look. “Don’t get me wrong, I read it. Upper-middle-class blond chick searches for purpose after her divorce. Found it as relatable as you probably did. Some of us don’t need an international journey to find ourselves.”

  I fasten my seatbelt as he pulls out of the spot.

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  I shift in my seat under his suddenly curious gaze. “Dream come true. You mix in Ibiza, you can work anywhere.”

  But this gig isn’t just my big shot…

  It’s my last shot.

  I’m twenty-four years old, and if I don’t crush this residency, I might never get another chance to do for a living the one thing that makes me feel alive.

  I’ve wanted to make electronic music since I first put on headphones in front of the computer my parents got me after a traumatic sophomore year of high school.

  DJing connects me with an audience in a way that’s safe and intimate at once. Unlike other performances, they don’t come to watch me.

  They come so I’ll move them.

  My music stops being about me and starts being about them. How it makes them feel.

  There’s no better trip.

  But the industry doesn’t exactly welcome new people with open arms. I’ve fought with everything I have to get where I am.

  Or at least where I was two months ago.

  “You came alone,” my driver says as we pull out of the airport, and I arch an eyebrow.

  “You’d be surprised what a woman can do without a man, Toro,” I tease.

  I can’t imagine being serious enough about a guy to have him travel with me for work.

  I’m not blaming my viewpoint on divorced parents. More like every time life has gotten hard, I’ve found myself alone.

  It’s amazing how fast people leave when having your back costs them something.

  “I have a grown daughter I haven’t seen in some time. She is independent like you. That is why I’m reading the book. My wife said our daughter enjoyed it, and I would like to understand what she likes.”

  It’s so paternal my chest tightens. “She’s lucky you take an interest.”

  “I’m sure your parents are very proud,” he says, and I swallow the hard lump that rises up my throat without responding. “I will take you to your accommodations.”

  “Would you take me to the club instead? I need to check on some specs.” Besides, there’s nothing I’ll do at the villa except stress about my bag.

  Toro palms the wheel like a caress. “Debajo. It means below.”

  We pass another venue
on the beach side of the road. The sign marking the entrance to the outdoor club is huge, and I watch it in the passenger mirror, a shiver starting in my chest and leaving me tingling all the way down to my toes.

  “That’s La Mer.” I sit up straighter.

  People plan their entire vacations, their entire years, to join the party at one of the biggest clubs in the world.

  “I’m going to play there someday.”

  Toro laughs. “No woman has.” He shrugs at my curious look. “My daughter is into EDM.”

  I slide my sunglasses down, feeling my ribs expand with possibility. “Tell her I’ll be the first.”

  Debajo is housed beneath a resort, a fact I forgot until Toro parks around the side of the hotel and walks me to a back entrance.

  The underground venue used to be popular but has seen better days, but it still picks up crowds on the long weekends in the summer—like everywhere else on the island.

  Toro speaks to security in rapid-fire Spanish, and they let me in.

  “Call when you are ready to go to the villa,” he insists, pushing a card into my hand as I sling my crossbody bag over my shoulder.

  I send him away with a promise that I will.

  When he’s gone, I turn to survey my space.

  Everything is industrial, black and chrome. Bars along either side and the stage at the far end of the floor. Booths surround the dance floor. A catwalk overhead wraps around in a balcony and cuts over the middle of the floor, partially obscured by a low, black wall—probably VIP booths.

  Two guys work behind the bar, readying it for the evening ahead, while another moves boxes with a cart. None acknowledge me. Capacity is supposed to be two thousand, not that it pulls in that many now.

  Still, it’s nicer than I expected, and for the next month, this place is mine.

  Despite my terrible year so far, tonight is the start of something better. I can feel it.

  “Damnation.”

  I jump at the female voice before a woman straightens from behind the setup of boards and sound equipment on stage.

  When she spots me, her eyes narrow. “Doors don’t open for another twelve hours.”

  “I’m not a tourist. I’m mixing tonight. Raegan Madani. Little Queen,” I go on, supplying the stage name I picked years ago because of its similarity to my given name and because it gave me a persona to build on.

  The woman’s cropped blond hair has a little gray, but she’s midthirties, slim, and wearing a green sundress. A shrewd elf with a tan. “Leni. I run the club.”

  “And you’re American,” I say, noticing the accent.

  “Hawaii. Big Island, born and raised.”

  I take the stairs to the stage, then turn to survey the sleek, black Pioneer media players flanking the latest mixer. A lifetime of dreams turned into switches and dials that put power in one person’s hands.

  “It’s had a makeover,” she says, noticing my appreciation. “I’m taking over from the previous management long enough to get her on her feet.”

  “Her?”

  “Every club is a woman. Don’t think a man could hold this much passion or euphoria. Or this many secrets. She’s had a rough patch, though.” Leni pats the board but her knowing gaze lands on me. “Must sound familiar.”

  I bristle, hands gripping the strap on my bag tighter.

  “Calling out the head of Echo Entertainment on social media for everyone to see was a dumbass move,” Leni goes on, folding arms across her chest.

  “A woman was assaulted at their venue on a night I was playing. No one at the club or the organization took responsibility.” I shrug. “Harrison King owns the company.”

  “You knew the woman who was assaulted?”

  “Not personally.” I lift my bag and set it on a free spot.

  “Let me guess—since then, the clubs that were knocking down your door won’t touch you.”

  I look around pointedly. “This one did. Soon, the others will realize they overreacted.”

  I pull out my notebook computer and peer into my bag, remembering my costumes were also in my checked bag. Shit.

  “Was it worth it?” she asks.

  “Yes.” My gaze flicks to hers. “People need to be held responsible for their actions. I don’t care how much money Harrison King has. Or how pretty he is. Or how big his dick is.”

  Her slow grin is feline. “You’re the only one. Paparazzi stalk him. Models throw themselves at him. He built an entertainment empire most moguls on their deathbeds would envy, and he did it without a gray hair in sight.”

  I shiver. From sleep deprivation, not from remembering what it felt like to stand a breath away from that man.

  “There’s been no media on him in weeks.”

  “Rumor is he’s hiding out,” Leni replies. “Maybe you hurt his feelings.”

  “That would require him to have feelings.”

  Leni smirks as she holds out a network cable. I lift the lid of my notebook and hit the power key, but the battery’s dead.

  “I’ll never play another of his clubs for as long as I live.” I pull the laptop’s power cord and adapter from my bag. Before I can reach for the power bar across the desk, a smooth, impossibly male British voice comes from overhead.

  “That’s a shame. Because the contract you signed says that, for the next month, you’re mine.”

  2

  Rae

  Harrison fucking King.

  The man himself appears on the catwalk in one of the VIP booths, wearing tailored pants the color of sandy beaches and a white button-down shirt that skims his broad shoulders and muscled chest.

  Every inch of his form screams wealth and privilege. His hair is perfectly trimmed, the dull burnished gold darkened to a warm brown in the low lights of the club.

  A strong, straight nose and square jaw compete for attention with his firm lips.

  He must have a decade on me but looks as if he could make the Olympic swim team without breaking a sweat.

  Our first and only confrontation is forever imprinted in my memory. When I approached the billionaire stranger at the wedding reception of two musicians who are mutual friends, I had been riding high on righteous anger. Anger I’d kept in check during the actual wedding—to spare my friends—and unleashed soon after with the help of a few drinks.

  I don’t make a habit of hating people, but this man makes me rethink that stance.

  “What the hell is going on?” I demand.

  Electric blue eyes, not unlike the neon sign outside, bore into me.

  “You signed a contract to play my club.”

  He starts toward the stairs, taking them with leisurely strides until he reaches the main floor.

  “It wasn’t yours when I signed the contract.” I would have noticed if his company, Echo Entertainment, had been on the documents.

  Harrison crosses to us, stopping in front of the stage. His shirt is open at the collar to expose a tan throat, the muscles flexing lightly.

  “Not my problem you can’t keep up with the industry.”

  His mouth curves to reveal a smile as perfect as it is cold.

  The staff behind the bar have snapped to attention. They didn’t look up when I arrived, but now, they’re hustling to wipe imaginary spots off the surface while sneaking furtive looks at the man before me.

  I whirl to face Leni, who lifts a shoulder as if anticipating my accusation.

  “Listen…” she starts.

  “Leni.” He holds up a hand, cuts her off without so much as a word.

  Arrogant prick.

  I slam the cover of my notebook and slide it in my bag before shouldering it. “I’m not playing your club,” I toss at the man in front of the stage. “Not tonight, not ever.”

  I stalk down the steps and head across the dance floor.

  I make it across the club, then yank on the door.

  It doesn’t open.

  Desperation rises up the second I feel him at my back.

  “I’m disappointed.” That sm
ooth voice is inches from my ear, close enough his breath tickles my skin. “I’ve been anticipating this since our first meeting.”

  I spin around, my nostrils flaring as I stare up at his infuriatingly gorgeous face.

  How could I have mistaken the man at the airport for Harrison King?

  No man on earth has his intensity, his charisma.

  Even as I want to get as far from him as possible, I can’t help appreciating his beauty.

  “A woman was assaulted at my gig in LA,” I bite out, angry with both of us now. “My gig at your club. Your booking agent didn’t give a shit. No one at corporate returned my calls demanding an explanation. When I finally got to you, you didn’t give a shit either.”

  “When you confronted me about it at a mutual friend’s wedding, you mean.”

  He says that like it matters.

  Too many people give powerful men a pass. I’m not going to let it slide this time.

  “If you think I have time to personally care for everyone who sets foot in a building with my name on the deed,” he goes on, “you underestimate the size of my empire.”

  I lift my chin. “If you can’t protect the people you serve, you have no right to one.”

  His throat bobs, a flicker of surprise flitting through his eyes.

  Because he’s surprised I think that, or because I’m unwilling to back down?

  It doesn’t matter.

  What matters is even kings have vulnerabilities.

  I try the door again, realizing the lock is on. After turning it, I yank the door open, grab my bag, and run past the confused security guard on the other side.

  In the parking lot, I’m breathing heavily as I pull out my phone to call Toro. I need to get out of here—out of this man’s presence. At my resort, I can figure out what the hell to do next.