Page 7 of Hitched to My Enemy
The emergency lighting cast dramatic shadows throughout the confined space, transforming Harlow's face into a study of light and darkness. We were trapped, likely for several minutes, in an enclosed space that suddenly felt dangerously intimate.
"This better not be some elaborate manipulation," she whispered, her voice carrying suspicion even as her eyes remained locked on mine.
"Even I'm not that devious," I replied, though the irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent weeks orchestrating every detail of tonight, but this particular development was completely beyond my control.
The silence stretched between us, filled with the hum of emergency power and the distant sounds of controlled chaos from below. In the crimson-tinted lighting, Harlow looked like something from a fevered dream—beautiful and dangerous and utterly unexpected.
"Are you?" she asked softly.
"Am I what?"
"That devious." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Because standing here in the darkness with you, I'm beginning to question everything I thought I understood about tonight."
Before I could respond, the elevator lurched back to life, and the doors opened to reveal my penthouse. Main power had been restored, and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see the Strip's neon brilliance blazing against the night once again.
But as Harlow stepped out of the elevator and into my private sanctuary, her dress shimmering in the restored lighting, I realized that whatever game we'd been playing downstairs had fundamentally changed.
The real danger wasn't the power failure.
It was the woman standing in my penthouse, studying me like she was seeing me clearly for the first time—and wasn't entirely certain she could trust what she was discovering.
Chapter Three
Harlow
The elevator doors slid shut behind us with a soft whisper, sealing me inside Easton's private domain. My heart still raced from the crisis below, adrenaline mixing with something far more perilous as I took in his penthouse for the first time.
This wasn't what I'd expected from a man whose public persona screamed excess and ego. The space was sleek, almost austere in its minimalist beauty. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living area, offering a breathtaking panoramic view of the Strip that stretched out like a constellation of vice and dreams. The furniture was modern but understated—clean lines in rich leather and dark woods, everything perfectly placed yet completely natural.
It was sophisticated. Tasteful. Nothing like the ostentatious shrine to wealth I'd imagined.
"Impressive," I murmured, moving toward the windows despite myself. The city sprawled below us, neon signs paintingthe darkness in vivid blues and crimson. From this height, Vegas looked almost beautiful instead of tawdry.
"You sound surprised." Easton's voice carried a note of amusement as he moved to a bar cart in the corner—crystal decanters catching the restored lights like faceted jewels. "What did you expect? Gold-plated everything and a tiger in the bathroom?"
Heat crept up my neck. "I expected..." I paused, realizing I didn't have a good answer that wouldn't insult him further. "Something different."
"Something more befitting the arrogant bastard who tried to circumvent gaming regulations?" He poured two generous measures of what looked like very expensive whiskey, his movements precise despite the evening's chaos. "Sorry to disappoint your preconceptions, Investigator Clarke."
I turned away from the window to study his face. His usual composed mask had slipped slightly—there were stress lines around his eyes I hadn't noticed downstairs, a tension in his jaw that spoke of barely controlled pressure. For the first time tonight, Easton Hardwick looked human rather than untouchable.
"That wasn't planned," he said suddenly, holding out one of the crystal tumblers. "The power outage. In case you're wondering if this is all some elaborate setup."
I accepted the drink, my investigator instincts automatically cataloging details. His hand trembled almost imperceptibly as he passed me the glass. His breathing was slightly elevated. Whatever calm facade he'd maintained downstairs, he was shaken.
"I know," I said, and realized I meant it. "Your reaction was too genuine. No one's that good an actor."
Something flickered across his features—surprise, maybe relief. "You'd be amazed what desperation can drive a man to do."
The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. I sipped the whiskey, letting the burn ground me as I processed this different version of him. Not the polished charmer from downstairs or the arrogant entrepreneur from my memories, but someone more... genuine.
"Is that what this is? Desperation?" I gestured to encompass the party below, the casino, everything he'd built. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like success."
His laugh was short and harsh. "Success? Harlow, I'm three signatures away from losing everything again. Half my investors are already spooked by the regulatory delays. The other half are waiting for any excuse to pull out." He moved to the window, staring down at the city as if it held answers. "Senator Voss's husband owns shares in Enzo Ricci's property group. Marcus Kellerman's firm is heavily invested in the Mirage Continental. And that's just the beginning of the political web I'm tangled in."
I blinked, processing this admission. "You're telling me your investors have conflicts of interest?"
"I'm telling you that everyone in Vegas has conflicts of interest. The question is whether you're going to use that against me." He turned back to me, those storm-gray eyes intense. "But then again, you've never needed much ammunition to destroy what I've built."
