Page 17 of Hitched to My Enemy
"Just remember," she said as the elevator climbed toward my penthouse, "this is still temporary."
"Of course," I agreed, though the conviction in my voice wasn't quite what it had been an hour ago. "Completely temporary."
But the way she looked at me when she said it—like she was trying to convince herself as much as me—suggested that we were both starting to realize that maybe some complications were worth keeping.
Even the ones that threatened to ruin everything we'd ever worked for.
Chapter Five
Harlow
The conference room door closed behind Enzo with the finality of a judge's gavel. I waited until his footsteps faded before turning to Easton, who was gathering the surveillance photographs scattered across the polished table like crime scene evidence.
"Arrogant bastard," Easton muttered, his fingers tightening on the glossy prints. "Probably has copies, but at least we know what we're facing."
"Those photos are the least of our concerns." My mind was already mapping possible threats and vulnerabilities. Less than twelve hours since our impromptu wedding, and we were already fighting for our professional lives. "If he's invested in this level of surveillance, what else might he have uncovered?"
"You think there's more?"
"Enzo Ricci didn't build his empire by playing fair." I moved toward the elevator, strategies already forming. "Weneed to get back to your office and assess what game he's really playing."
***
Easton's penthouse offered sanctuary after the confrontation downstairs. I kicked off the heels Sarah had provided and felt my shoulders relax fractionally.
"Coffee?" Easton asked, loosening his tie with one fluid movement.
"Please. Strong as you can make it." I pulled out my tablet, catching myself following the shift of muscles beneath his shirt as he worked.Focus, Clarke."I need access to your financial systems. If Enzo's orchestrating something beyond blackmail photos, he'll need insider intelligence."
"You suspect a mole?"
"In Vegas, information trades like currency." I accepted the cappuccino he offered, our fingers brushing momentarily—sending an unwelcome spark through my veins. "The question is who's selling and at what price."
Easton settled beside me with his laptop, close enough that his cologne—sandalwood and something distinctly masculine—undermined my attempts at professional detachment.
"Where should we begin?" he asked.
"Financial records, access logs, vendor contracts." I opened my commission database. "People who betray trust leave patterns, even when they think they're being careful."
We worked in unexpectedly comfortable silence, documents and data filling our screens. His periodic lean toward my monitor, each accidental contact between us, echoed the magnetism that had led us to that chapel.
I paused on a sequence of vendor payments processed without proper documentation—all falling just below automatic review thresholds.
"Look here," I said, highlighting the pattern. "These transactions were all approved with the same executive code, but the documentation is conspicuously incomplete. Our culprit knows precisely how to evade standard review protocols."
"Remarkable," he said, studying my screen with genuine appreciation. "Most people would miss that completely. The way you identify these hidden connections... it's extraordinary."
His praise settled differently than the hollow compliments I'd grown accustomed to—from supervisors who wanted something, from my ex who had been mining me for information. This felt genuine.
"Pattern recognition," I said, unable to prevent the warmth rising to my face. "The commission pays me to see what others miss."
"It's more than that." His proximity registered like a physical touch. "You understand how people think, anticipate how systems can be exploited. That's rare, Harlow."
Our eyes locked, and the air between us transformed from professional to something dangerous. The way he looked at me—like I was valuable beyond my usefulness—threatened every boundary I'd constructed.
"Easton..." I began, unsure what warning I meant to deliver.
"I know." His fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face with unexpected gentleness. "This complicates everything. But I can't pretend last night was merely alcohol and bad judgment. Can you?"
