Page 41 of Hitched to My Enemy
The word suspended between us, laden with implications beyond our professional alliance. Enzo's accusations echoed distantly, but I dismissed them. Whatever shadowed Easton's past, I trusted the man I'd come to know—who had weathered his best friend's betrayal with dignity, who regarded me with genuine fascination.
"Come home," he said quietly. "Let's celebrate properly."
Home.Not his penthouse. Not the Jade Petal. Home. As if we shared one.
Perhaps we did.
"Twenty minutes," I promised, already moving toward the exit, toward him, toward whatever future we were constructing on accidental foundations.
***
The Jade Petal cast emerald radiance against the deepening Vegas dusk. Despite my frequent visits, I couldn't help appreciating its architectural restraint that distinguished it from the Strip's garish excess. Like its creator, it exuded sophisticated power rather than ostentatious spectacle.
Easton waited at the private elevator, his expression transforming upon seeing me—relief dissolving into something more vulnerable. He'd abandoned his usual corporate armor for dark jeans and a slate-gray Henley that accentuated his broad shoulders, appearing more authentic than the casino magnate who had initially been my investigative target.
"You prevailed," he said, reaching for my hand.
I shook my head, stepping into his space unhesitatingly. "We prevailed."
His arms encircled me, solid and warm, and I yielded to him without the resistance that had characterized our earlierencounters. The elevator sealed us into privacy, and I lifted my face to his.
"Say it again," I whispered.
Understanding immediately, he cradled my face, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that accelerated my heartbeat. "I'm falling in love with you, Harlow Clarke."
Rising on my toes, I eliminated the distance between us. "I'm falling in love with you too, Easton Hardwick. I think I have been since you first challenged everything I thought I knew."
The kiss that followed differed fundamentally from our previous encounters—no alcohol-induced recklessness, no desperate need born from professional friction or forced proximity. This was deliberate, chosen, acknowledging something that had simmered beneath the surface since our first confrontation.
By the time we reached the penthouse, we were breathless, my blazer half-unbuttoned, his hair disheveled from my exploring fingers. We stumbled into the living room, reluctant to separate even as he guided me toward the dining area, where champagne awaited in an ice bucket beside crystal flutes.
"You anticipated success," I noted, eyeing the elaborate dinner setting.
His smile carried a hint of characteristic confidence, tempered with genuine emotion. "In you? Absolutely. Even when you were shutting down my first operation, I respected your conviction."
He poured champagne, offering me a flute, bubbles capturing the subdued lighting like suspended gold. "To new beginnings," he proposed, gaze unwavering. "Professional and personal."
Crystal clinked musically as our glasses met. "What began as my life's greatest mistake might be its greatest blessing," I admitted, surprising myself with such honesty.
Easton set down his glass, taking mine and placing it beside his before drawing me closer. "I've been contemplating our marriage."
Nervousness fluttered beneath my ribs. "What about it?"
"It was supposedly temporary. A drunken mistake we'd correct when convenient." His fingers traced my jawline. "But what if it wasn't a mistake? What if Vegas recognized what we couldn't yet acknowledge?"
The vulnerability in his question dismantled my final defense against fully embracing what had developed between us since that first night.
"Are you suggesting we remain married?" My voice barely exceeded a whisper.
"I'm saying I want you as my wife. Genuinely, this time. Not from inebriation or impulse or neon lights, but because I've never encountered anyone who challenges me, comprehends me, sees through my defenses as you do." His grip tightened slightly at my waist. "I want a partner, Harlow. Someone who confronts my arrogance but stands beside me regardless. I believe that's you."
The directness of his declaration—so characteristically Easton in its confident delivery yet uncommonly vulnerable in its content—momentarily robbed me of speech. This was the man Enzo had warned about? The ruthless operator who destroyed those who trusted him?
No. This was the man who had exposed his flaws alongside his strengths, who acknowledged when I was right even atpersonal cost, who regarded me now as if I held answers to questions he'd spent a lifetime asking.
"I want to be your wife," I replied finally, the declaration feeling inexplicably right. "Genuinely, this time."
His smile transformed his features—unrestrained joy that seemed almost boyish on a face normally composed for business negotiations. Then his mouth reclaimed mine, and boyishness evaporated entirely.
