Protected By The Enemy (Hacienda Heights Book 2) Read online

  Protected By The Enemy

  Emma Roberts

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Introduction

  Don’t fall into your enemy’s bed.

  Especially when he’s already fooled you once.

  After a whirlwind of passion and lies, I’m alone again.

  Now, I have less than a month before my blackmailer takes a life.

  But my mark is far from reach. I’m f*@ked.

  Or so I think.

  Logan Farraday, my enemy and the best lover I’ve ever had, turns up on my doorstep.

  Brings the six million I need. The body I crave.

  But there’s a price. There’s always a price.

  My only chance is to make a deal and delve deep into a tank of corporate sharks.

  I’m still raw from the last encounter, but I don’t have a choice.

  It’s only for a few weeks. I can pay the blackmailer and get Logan the hell out of my life.

  But he makes me quiver in all the wrong places.

  Can I keep this dangerous man at arm’s length once more?

  Do I even want to try?

  Chapter One

  Mina

  Heather, my assistant, slammed her hands down on the Francesco Molon coffee table that dominated the sitting area of my office. Every book on the overburdened table shivered and several papers drifted loose from their stacks.

  “This has to stop, Mina,” she barked, catching one of the scraps of paper in mid-air before my flailing hands could capture it. I didn’t have time for her temper tantrum, and she was well aware of that fact. She’d been circling me like a vulture for the last half hour.

  Anxiety curled through my body as I furiously calculated the earnings that all my girls had managed to accrue since the threatening email—including what I’d pulled in myself. I didn’t usually work on Sunday unless it was for a special occasion. Lately though, every day had become a work day.

  “Not enough,” I muttered, comparing the spreadsheets in my hands. “Damn it, it’s still not even close to being enough. We’re still nearly three million short.”

  Had it only been two weeks ago that an anonymous sender demanded a ransom from me? Six million, or he’d kill every single one of my girls. Not long ago, I’d thought I’d taken care of this problem. That my hard-earned business, Hacienda Heights Hustlers, and the group of women who, for one reason or another, had never made it big in Hollywood were safe. They weren’t safe. They were the opposite of safe.

  I’d never been blackmailed before. Hustlers posed as girlfriends, daughters, friends, and more. Whatever the occasion called for, we provided, with only a few provisos. No sex. No drinking to excess. No drugs. I didn’t run a ring of prostitutes, no matter what people thought. Hustlers took their jobs seriously, and I only hired actresses with the right skills and temperament. I’d never had trouble before this that amounted to much, thanks to the rules I’d set and insisted were followed.

  Unfortunately, of late, I’d broken every single Hustler House rule. Through a cruel twist of fate, I’d been sent to excise the six million in ransom from the vicious bastard who was my ex-boyfriend, Logan Farraday.

  Furious tears hazed my vision, obscuring the amount that Luciana had earned in the last month. I could have sworn she’d come up a little short, but it was hard to tell through the tears. I dabbed at my cheeks with the sleeve of my gray cashmere sweater, not caring that the moisture would ruin it. What was the point of dressing well if we were all going to die in only a few short weeks?

  My gaze went to the window, where the heat of a California summer was blistering just outside the confines of my office. Curling brown grass dominated most of the landscape. Water was being rationed with the heat at a record high. I’d barely been outside except to walk to the car, and suddenly longed for the peace of mind to be able to do so without looking over my shoulder.

  “I said that’s enough.” Heather took the papers from my hands, offering me a tissue and a glass of water.

  Damn it. I needed to be calm, find a way through this. It wouldn’t do to break down now, especially in my place of work. I couldn’t believe I’d let one man hurt me this deeply twice in one lifetime.

  I gulped down the contents of the glass, wincing as my much abused throat reacted to the influx. I’d been hiding a ring of yellowing bruises beneath chokers and scarves, lest I scare off customers. Just a week before, I’d been choked out by a man roughly the size of a gorilla and dragged into a warehouse where his boss planned to kill me. The bruises were the only souvenirs I’d brought home from Morocco— a shitty memento, if you asked me.

  Heather’s small, dainty hands braced my shoulders and I straightened where I sat. “You need to take a break.” Her serious expression softened as she obviously recognized the panic playing across my face. “I’ll deal with this. There’s a new client waiting for you in the sitting room.”

  I sat up a little straighter and dabbed self-consciously at my face. I was sure to be blotchy from the intermittent crying, and even waterproof mascara could only stand up to so much. It would be just my luck to scare off a client by arriving with eyeliner streaming down my face.

  “Can you send one of the other girls, Heather? I’m too busy.”

  “I would, but he’s asking for you personally. He says the job requires delicacy and he’ll pay double our usual rate for your services.”

  I swiveled back toward her. “You’re serious? What job is worth thirty thousand?”

  The Hustler’s rate was normally around fifteen thousand for acting roles that didn’t require special training. I was devoting the three million I had in savings to the ransom already, and with all of the girls’ earnings for the month allocated to the fund, I was still way too short. How we were going to manage to raise so much money in just over a week, I had no idea.

  “It involves his family. He wanted to explain,” said Heather.

  I supposed I could spare time to meet the man who’d help get us there that much faster.

  Straightening my blouse, I stood, going to the full-length mirror across the room. My face was a little flushed, but not blotchy. Good. I’d only have to apply cover-up to the bags under my eyes. I’d inherited long legs, an ample chest, and bright, eye-catching red hair from my mother’s side of the family. Where I’d gotten my temper was anyone’s guess, as my mother was as quiet and docile as a dormouse, especially when it came to her men. She’d allowed the Senator, my stepfather, to toss me out of the house when my sex tape had been released without my knowledge or consent. Released by none other but my ex, Logan Farraday. Or at least, that’s what I’d assumed for years.

  Now, I didn’t know what to think. Other than I was running out of time.

  “Alright,” I said with a sigh, adjusting the colorful scarf tied around my neck. “Touch me up and let’s go meet him.”

  As I stepped into the room where the new client waited, Gideon Harvey’s chiseled beauty was so reminiscent of Logan’s that it hit me like a physical slap. I rocked back a step and clutched the doorframe, a ti
rade building on my tongue. For a dizzying second, I was almost certain the dirty bastard had somehow forced his way past the security that Tucker, my tech guy, had hired for the Hustlers building.

  Upon closer inspection, I decided my first impression had been a little premature. Gideon’s features, while undeniably gorgeous, were just close enough to my ex’s that the differences were eerie.

  Gideon’s shoulders, while impressive, were not as broad or well-muscled as Logan’s. Gideon’s cheekbones were sharp, but set lower in his face than the haughty cut of Logan’s profile. This man’s eyes were the color of a coffee with two creams and his smile was pure sugar.

  It was as if someone had sanded down all the rough planes of Logan Farraday and repackaged him into the sort of man a woman could take home to mother.

  Gideon stood and offered me a hand as I strode into the room. His eyes searched my face and he seemed to like what he saw, because his smile widened, exposing shining white molars.

  I offered him a shaky smile, though I was sure I looked a mess. My hair was in snarls after running my hands through it, and even the intentionally messy bun wouldn’t hide that fact. Its indecisive shade of red usually landed somewhere between ginger and auburn and had dulled somewhat without the careful care routine I normally kept to. I was paler than usual and even the caffeine I’d knocked back since breakfast couldn’t disguise the fact that I was running on fumes.

  All in all, it was nothing short of a miracle that I appealed to Mr. Harvey at all.

  I took his hand, reveling in the warmth of his palm as it enveloped mine. It had only been about a week since I’d discovered what a dirty, backstabbing sneak my ex was, but it felt like ages since a kind word or touch had been directed my way. Logan had reawakened something primal in me that I’d snuffed out long ago, and I was finding it hard to shove my libido back into a box and out of sight where it belonged.

  “Hello, Mr. Harvey, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I had something urgent to attend to. What can I help you with today?” I motioned for him to sit and did the same. Settling back into the role of the benevolent hostess was easy.

  Gideon’s smile dimmed by a few watts and he fiddled with a small box he pulled from his pocket. He ran his finger over the velvet covering nervously. “It sounds really silly to say it out loud, but I need a fiancée for the next few weeks.” He smiled sheepishly and lifted the box for my inspection. “I brought a ring and everything.”

  “That’s sweet, Mr. Harvey, but it doesn’t answer my question.” I winced at the sharp note that had crept into my voice. Maybe Heather was right. I’d been going nonstop since returning from Morocco. I should probably find time to cram sleep and a healthy meal into my schedule somewhere.

  A pink flush gathered high on his cheeks and he fiddled with the box once more. “My grandmother was recently diagnosed with cancer. She’s decided against chemotherapy, no matter how much we’ve begged her to try. The doctors say without treatment she has, at most, five weeks to live.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Grief clouded those warm brown eyes and he leaned forward, his tone beseeching. “She’s wanted me to find a wife and have kids for years. And now she’s never going to see that. I want to give her that dream before she goes, Miss Blakely. Everyone tells me you’re the best. Were they lying?”

  My heart went out to him. In any other circumstance, I would have charged him my regular rate, refusing the offer for double, but I couldn’t afford altruism at the moment. Besides, bereavement contracts were always the hardest on me, and I didn’t imagine this one would do my mental health any good.

  “No, they weren’t lying to you, Mr. Harvey. I am the best. And I’d like to take your case. What more can you tell me about your grandmother? I need to get acquainted with your family’s history if we’re going to pose as lovers.”

  Moving to my office, I spent the next hour and a half ensconced there, discussing the family of Gideon Harvey with him. Gideon had been adopted only a few days after his birth. He had three brothers and sisters, all adopted from foster care, and only one remaining grandparent. His plan had come to him at the last minute. He had an event he wanted to attend with his fiancée on his arm later tonight, and he wanted his family to meet his future bride beforehand—the reason for the offer of twice my going rate.

  The elation on his face when he spoke of his family flushed the last bit of resentment of a stressful job from my system. He may have borne a striking resemblance to Logan, but they acted nothing alike.

  Gideon’s face flushed suddenly and I wondered just what had flitted into his head to cause the reaction. He hemmed and hawed for a few minutes before broaching the subject bothering him. Definitely not like Logan. I’d never known the man to pull a punch, except to give it more oomph when it finally landed. After nearly a week with my laconic ex, Gideon’s shy and courteous nature was a breath of fresh air.

  “My grandmother will probably expect some wedding talk. And some...” He gestured between us helplessly, the color in his cheeks darkening to a dusky red. “Contact, between us. I was told this wasn’t an escort service and I’m not asking for much but I—”

  I cut him off with a wave of my hand and couldn’t help the laugh that escaped at his embarrassment. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Harvey. Physical contact where appropriate is allowed. I only forbid myself and my girls from engaging in sex during the contracted period. It could impact one’s professionalism.”

  My own shame battled to make itself known on my face. I’d broken every single one of my carefully constructed rules for Logan Farraday. And my only repayment had been the metaphorical middle finger.

  The taste of sour bile rose to at the back of my throat when I recalled his fiancée’s perfect face and high, trilling voice.

  Fuck them both. I had a job to do and girls to save. Logan and his new bride could rot in hell for all I cared.

  “Last question, and it’s a big one,” I said, leaning across my desk to give him a peek of my ample cleavage.

  His eyes darted downward almost unconsciously to peer at the v of flesh exposed by the sweater’s neckline. His tongue darted out to touch his lower lip, as though he were wondering what it might be like to taste me there. Turned out, Mr. Sugar had some spice along with his everything nice schtick.

  A shiver ran down my spine at the thought. And that boosted my resolve. I could move on from the Logan debacle with the help of not only a freezer aisle’s worth of ice cream, but a new man to boot.

  “And what is the question, Miss Blakely?”

  I flashed him a dazzling smile and a wink. “Will you marry me, Gideon Harvey?”

  Chapter Two

  Logan

  Glaring moodily past the glass of scotch in my hand, I stared at my shoes as I stood in my living room, contemplating just which orifice I’d stick my foot in if I had my old man close at hand.

  The old buzzard stuck me with his legacy last year when his health had begun to fail. His congestive heart failure was inoperable, thanks to a rare blood clotting disease called Von Willebrand. There was every chance he could die on the table and leave me running his business for the rest of my goddamned life.

  I’d been forced to move him to assisted living upon my return to the States. His health had taken a drastic downturn during my week-long business trip to Morocco, and the doctors wanted him under observation. No matter how much he’d railed that he was not a damn cockroach and wouldn’t be shoved beneath a microscope, I’d still made the decision to send him to a facility. He’d suffered another TIA in recent days, and the doctor had warned me it could be the sign of a larger impending stroke.

  Dear old Dad called every day to complain about the staff, the quack doctors, the food, and the way I’d been running his company. So when his number flashed on my caller ID screen, I let the call go to voicemail. The old man’s ambition—which now teetered precariously on a blackmailer’s whim—had stolen everything I’d ever wanted in life. My own business plans, my army ca
reer, and the only woman I’d ever loved. He could leave a fucking message for once in his pampered life.

  I set the scotch gingerly aside on the end table and brought up my recent call list. I’d made ten personal calls in the past week and seven of them had been to Mina. I’d tried to get in contact with her once a day and without fail, it went to voicemail.

  After learning about a death threat leveled at her, I’d taken Mina with me on the business trip to Morocco, the idea being that I could keep her safe. That had backfired spectacularly when the threatening party happened to be one of my peers aboard the superyacht. She’d nearly lost her life in the warehouse district of Casablanca, and I’d nearly lost my sanity, trying to keep her out of harm’s way.

  And when we’d returned to the States, there had been a truly spectacular clusterfuck when my sister and her best friend had inadvertently revealed the worst stipulation of the blackmailer’s demands. I was slated to marry Owen Mason’s daughter in mid-August unless I could find a way to squirm out from beneath his thumb.

  “Of course, she never gave me a chance to explain that,” I muttered darkly. “And won’t pick up her damned phone.”

  “What was that, Logie-bear?”

  I jerked, my hand fisting until my phone protested. Fuck. I’d forgotten Phoebe was in the room.

  I spun around, glancing back at her. Most men would probably have been happy to have a half-dressed blonde draped across their couch, but her presence there just irritated me. It was yet another reminder of just how out of control my life was at the moment.