Page 2 of Falling for the Enemy

A year ago, he would have matched her smile and filed every detail away, cataloging her like a promising acquisition. Tonight, every attractive trait seemed rehearsed, every orchestrated offer a little more pointed.

No woman of stature had raised his pulse in months. And every week these dates with various women of social status felt more and more like an interview process for a position he wasn’t even sure he wanted.

Olivia continued detailing her family’s current events like a soft sales pitch, as if greasing him up for future in-laws. She wasn’t difficult company to keep. She was poised, cultured, educated, and an heiress to a long line of generational wealth that rendered her perfectly indifferent to his own fortune.

She wouldn’t take a prenup personally. She was the type of woman who would have one of her own. Their lawyers would form a relationship, likely exchanging Christmas cards every holiday.

So why wasn’t he interested?

His attention drifted to the window where the harbor lights bled across the dark water in long, wavering streaks. Olivia was saying all the right things. Every word out of her mouth was an open door, an invitation to walk into the type of life he planned and wanted, yet he couldn’t be less interested.

Aged bourbon filled his mouth as he let her continue on. The dessert plates had long been swept away. She was merely biding time until he invited her back to his place.

Until? If—he amended.

His eyes dropped to her tasteful décolletage, her body another carefully revealed asset in the presentation. His body registered none of it.

“And you know how that goes,” she said with a delicate laugh. “I swear, my mother’s run through sixteen maids in the last six months.”

Soren’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

He could fuck her. She was waiting for it. Then he could say he had an early morning meeting and push her off for a week or two before needing to sit through another dinner. By then, maybe he would have his head on straight.

His focus returned to her glossy lips. She would make an agreeable wife. Expensive, but agreeable, performing whatever the arrangement required as far as maintaining appropriate social connections, hosting annual galas, and seeing that the children were well educated and reared toward Ivy League schools.

As long as the diamond and allowance met her standards, the marriage would be the low-maintenance sort. He inwardly sighed. Low-maintenance and lackluster, year after year, in perfect civility. They might even get a few decades of fidelity before she busied herself with the pool boy or the gardener. Where would that leave him?

His mind went to one person, and a myriad of images flashed through his head uninvited. Flesh, lush thighs, his fingers fisted in dark chestnut hair, swollen lips, tight nipples, and the earthy scent of carnal abandon.

Shit. He shifted in his seat as those memories manifested in a rush of blood to his cock.

Olivia stopped talking and stared at him expectantly.

He had no fucking clue what she just said, so he lifted his glass and took a slow sip, forcing the misguided blood from his cock back to his brain. “Do you want children?”

She smiled. “Eventually. I mean, it’s expected. But I also enjoy my freedom.”

“How many do you see yourself having?” His questions arrived automatically, polished enough to seem engaged.

She gave a coy smile and countered, “How many do you want?”

“Four.” He knew what he wanted and, as the CEO of Hawthorne Fishery, a multi-billion-dollar global enterprise, he presented a tempting enough package to set an unapologetically high bar for his future family. Sugarcoating his goals would only waste time when the outcome was always going to be exactly what he’d planned.

Olivia’s pale eyes widened. “Four.” Her gaze shifted as she silently considered the damages, probably already planning her mommy makeover. She deserved better than his transactional apathy, but somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, his patience for niceties had waned. “I guess four isn’t much different than two.”

For a half-second, her practiced poise slipped, and he caught something calculating underneath, but it vanished before he could fully decide if it was a superficial loyalty to her figure or a longing for something lost in her own childhood.

“I suppose a big family⁠—”

“It’s getting late.” He unintentionally cut her off. “Sorry. Go on.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Agreeable as always, she deferred to his lead if only to appear polite.

Good enough.

He slugged down the last of his drink and stood, adjusting his French cuffs. “Shall we?”

“Of course.” She stood and neatly set her napkin on the seat. “Did you want to⁠—”