by JC Harroway
Lifelong romance addict JC Harroway lives in New Zealand. Writing feeds her very real obsession with happy endings and the endorphin rush they create. You can follow her at jcharroway.com, Facebook.com/jcharroway, Instagram.com/jcharroway and Twitter.com/jcharroway.
If you liked Tempting the Enemy, why not try
Just One More Night by Caitlin Crews
Fast Lane by Margot Radcliffe
Reawakened by Rachael Stewart
Also by JC Harroway
Billionaire Bedmates
Bound to You
The Pleasure Pact
Bad Business
Bad Reputation
Bad Mistake
Billionaire Bachelors
Forbidden to Want
Forbidden to Taste
Forbidden to Touch
Discover more at Harlequin.com
TEMPTING THE ENEMY
JC HARROWAY
I dedicate my final DARE to everyone who loved this line—the authors for their fab stories, the Harlequin team for their expertise and the readers for their support. It’s been an amazingly fun ride for this romance author, one I’ll always cherish.
Love, JC
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from Fast Lane by Margot Radcliffe
CHAPTER ONE
Ava
IF YOU WERE going to gatecrash an office party, the lavish shindig thrown by BLD Global Ventures would be the one to choose. It’s a shame I’m not here for fun. Driven by desperation, I’m hunting Sterling Lombard, head of the New York division of BLD, which is housed in his building, Bold Tower—a gleaming, state-of-the art skyscraper in Manhattan’s financial district. Hopefully, the elusive billionaire, who’s been dodging my attempts to secure a face-to-face meeting, will make an appearance as host of his own staff’s function.
As work parties go, this one is a blast—delicious canapés, an open bar, a band and dancing. It’s what I’d expect from Lombard, one of America’s wealthiest men and one of three partners who head up BLD, or Bold, as it’s often termed.
Just like his partners, Hudson Black and Monroe Dove, the renowned businessman Lombard has the Midas touch. His handsome face regularly peers out from the covers of the Financial Times or Bloomsburg Businessweek—sandy blond hair, piercing green eyes and a smile to rival any male pin-up on the planet. His success is as eye-watering as his good looks and confidence.
But even the little people deserve an audience.
I smooth one palm down the skirt of my little black dress and glug a mouthful of champagne as I scan the cavernous, multi-level room for my enigmatic quarry.
Part of me is impressed that my grandparents’ small logistics company, the company I inherited from them after their recent deaths, attracted the attention of a hard hitter like Lombard. But what were they thinking, signing over so much equity to BLD, which now owns the controlling stake? Times must have been hard, even harder than they are currently under my leadership...
Ava tries hard but logistics isn’t her forte.
I stand taller. It doesn’t have to spin my wheels. I owe my grandparents everything.
I wander over to the windows, concealing my frustration with a serene smile. It’s pasted on my face as if I’m totally okay with flying solo at a glamorous party where I know no one and don’t belong. But needs must when it comes to safeguarding my business.
It’s all I have left.
Ignoring the lower Manhattan views of the Brooklyn Bridge lit up over the East River, I scour the forty-seventh-floor office once more. Familiar panic rushes through me like the fizz and pop of champagne bubbles. The same panic that keeps me up at night—I can’t let Pops and Nonna’s company fail.
I shake off the pessimism threatening to drag me under and eye the mezzanine level, which seems to be where all the top BLD executives are congregating. All I need is five minutes of Lombard’s time in which to convince him he wants to sell me back his shares. If only he were here...
After ten more fruitless minutes of cruising the entire room, I surrender to a final defeated sigh and drain the glass of champagne I’ve managed to make last over an hour. In the three months since Nonna died, when I discovered BLD’s investment in Hamilton’s from the lawyers, Lombard has evaded my attempts to secure an appointment. Trespassing his staff party was an audacious long shot I hoped might win me full ownership of Hamilton Logistics.
Not that you had anywhere else to be on a Friday evening...
Dejected, I leave the party and clip across the marble foyer towards the bank of elevators. What do I do now? I won’t just give up. My mission is deeply personal. Hamilton’s is my last tie to my family—my grandparents and, through them, my parents.
All four of them are now gone.
I was fourteen when my parents died and my grandparents took me in. Ever since, I’ve focused on helping out—working for them after school, interning as warehouse manager through college and eventually running their business after graduating, when Pops’s health took a downturn. Making Hamilton’s a success is what keeps me too busy to actually feel my life’s losses. Bone-deep exhaustion staves off any unhelpful comparisons: wondering what my life might’ve been like but for a drunk driver in a souped-up sports car losing control on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway one fateful night.
Failure drags at me until all I can think about is donning my snuggliest pyjamas and comfort eating my way through a huge bowl of pasta. I glance up at the digital reading for the elevator, craving my cluttered apartment—a Williamsburg brownstone in Brooklyn, filled with memories. I can’t bear to throw out any of my parents’ personal belongings—their books, their old vinyl collection and their favourite kitchen paraphernalia.
The electronic ping of the elevator’s arrival snaps me from ruminating how I’ve spent most of my adult life rudderless.
The brushed steel doors slide open and I step forward towards the car. I start, my eyes clashing with those of the only other occupant—the man himself, Sterling Lombard.
For a split second, I’m frozen with shock on the threshold, one stiletto-clad foot in and one out. The sparkle in his green-grey eyes makes me double-take. He’s way more attractive in person, taller than I imagined, his body lean and toned and his tailoring immaculate.
And he oozes power and success.
‘Going down?’ His deep voice somehow renders the innocent question sinful and seductive. He smiles and I’m jerked into action by the dazzling sight, the grooves in his cheeks and the sexy stubble on his strong jaw, the way he seems to fill the elevator with his commanding persona alone.
‘Yes, thank you.’ I step fully inside and clutch my purse tighter in an attempt to slow the gallop of my pulse. I can’t believe my luck. After an hour and a half of boredom at his party, my chance of a one-on-one with the boss has landed conveniently in my lap.
I stare straight ahead as the doors close, urgency gripping my throat like a vice. I have probably less than a minute to persuade him to hear me out. But I’ve got this. Work is pretty much all I do. I know all there is to know about Hamilton Logistics.
Say something. Now!
I turn and offer him a friendly smile. What is it about elevators and sharing an enclosed space with a total stranger that pushes us so far out of our comfort zone? In his case, it’s a good kind of discomfort, full of intrigue and possibility.
‘Leaving the party early?’ he says before I can engage my brain to speak.
I’m fascinated by his sexy, anglicised New York accent. I recall reading somewhere that he studied at university in London and spent years living there before returning to the States. I imagine his dirty talk, how that voice would sound strangled with desire...
What the hell? Focus.
‘Yes, I am leaving, although it’s a fabulous bash.’ I struggle to ignore his extreme masculinity and highly engaging charisma. I’ve seen him a hundred times in the business news, but in person he’s just so much more imposing, attractive and mesmerising. ‘Are you done too?’ I’m supposed to be propositioning, not seducing him. But there’s something about him that I wasn’t expecting.
He nods. His body fills his suit to perfection—wide shoulders, narrow hips and strong thighs. My eyes want to devour him. But that’s not why I’m here. I run through my opening spiel, trying to remember my mission before we arrive at his floor and I miss my opportunity.
I wanted to talk to you actually... I’d hoped to meet you tonight... Do you have a second to discuss some business...?
This was easier in my head.
‘I’ll let you in on a little secret.’ He leans close conspiratorially, and I’m doused in the delicious manly scent of him. ‘I’d rather be working than attending an office party.’ Before I have time to clear the lust fog in my brain, he thrusts his hand in my direction. ‘Sterling Lombard.’
‘The man with his name on the door. Ava Hamilton-Wade,’ I say, giving him my full name, although I usually shorten it to my mother’s surname alone for professional clout. Sparks fire my erogenous zones as I shake his big, warm hand. Gorgeous and friendly. I wasn’t expecting him to be so down-to-earth, personable, and...hot.
‘I know what you mean about parties.’ I glance at my watch and roll my eyes. ‘Before nine and I’m all dressed up but headed home. I work sixty hours a week,’ I add in explanation. ‘Sleep is my downtime.’
Pathetic...
‘Ah, I see we have something in common,’ he says, as we share a knowing grin. Unexpected flirty banter wasn’t on tonight’s agenda, but I can’t seem to help myself.
I shiver with desire, looking away. I should just launch into my pitch, right here in the elevator. It’s the opportunity I came here for.
But...
It’s almost a shame to ruin this moment with business. From looks and instant chemistry alone, this guy is exactly my type. And I’m enjoying the distraction from constantly worrying about the prosperity of Hamilton’s. To say it’s ailing would be a terrifying understatement I try not to think about.
He shifts beside me. ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘what good is success if you can’t celebrate it every once in a while? That’s what the party upstairs is all about.’
‘I agree.’ My pulse leaps, arousal pooling in my belly.
He’s flirting with me, and my body is fully on board. It’s as if I’ve awoken from a long hibernation, my libido unfurling into the warmth of the sun. That’s the reason my reaction to him is so violent—I’ve practically been a nun for the past ten months. But my grandparents were sick, one shortly after the other. Part of me is convinced that Nonna died of a broken heart without Pops by her side.
The sudden, stomach-sinking slowing of the car tells me we’re about to stop on his floor. I shake off the sadness of losing Pops seven months ago and Nonna four months later, pressure building in my temples. If I don’t act quickly, Sterling will disappear and I may never again have this chance.
I swallow past my dry throat and flash him my alluring smile. ‘Perhaps we should head back upstairs and enjoy a drink together, snatch that chance to celebrate?’ My rusty seduction skills seem to surprise us both. But a friendly drink could be exactly the way to butter him up and secure the appointment I came for.
Yeah...that’s why you’re breathing hard and imagining his body under the clothes.
His stare takes a lazy tour of my face, ending on my mouth. My lips tingle as if he’s touched them with more than just his gorgeous green eyes. I realise I want that. He looks as if he’d be an excellent kisser and probably a sensational lover.
Lombard presses his lips together in a curious half-smile. ‘I have a better idea.’ The lift stops and the doors slide open. He presses the button to hold them apart. ‘There’s some twenty-five-year-old bourbon in my office. Can I tempt you?’
Probably into the fiery pits of hell...
‘I could be persuaded.’ I melt under his focused eye contact and that intense, seductive look on his face. But a private chat works even better for my purposes.
What the hell am I doing? Surely I intend to use my good fortune for my cause, not just to entice this man out of his ten-thousand-dollar suit?
Why not both...? Maybe we can laugh about this in the morning before we move on to business?
He holds out his arm, indicating the direction. ‘After you.’
I exit the elevator and follow him to the only lit office space on this floor. He holds open the door for me and I smile, murmuring my thanks. I’m a sucker for some good old-fashioned gentlemanly manners.
This guy’s positive attributes are growing.
His massive corner office boasts a sleek wooden desk and twinkling views of lower Manhattan’s financial district and the bay beyond. There’s a luxurious seating area with plush leather sofas, a colourful contemporary rug and convenient bar in one corner. A single lamp on the otherwise uncluttered desk lights a solitary laptop, leaving the rest of the office dimly lit and intimate.
For a second, I’m distracted by thoughts of my own cluttered workspace, the organised chaos of invoices and logbooks and potted plants on my desk. Sterling is a serious neat freak. An intriguing, nice-to-look-at neat freak.
‘Tell me, Ava,’ he says, shrugging out of his suit jacket and hanging it on a hook near the door, ‘do you work for Bold? I don’t recall seeing you before and I’d have definitely remembered.’
He loosens his tie and rolls up his shirt cuffs, his gaze swooping over me with clear interest. His compliment sends electricity dancing over my skin.
Now would be a good time to tell him exactly why I’m here. Instead I tilt my head, flashing my good side and subtly rolling back my shoulders so my breasts look their best in my slinky black dress.
‘No, I came with a business colleague from one of your companies.’ Just a little white lie. ‘We’ve never met before, although of course I know you by reputation.’
And now we’ve met I suspect sparks would fly were we to take this flirtation to the next level.
And why shouldn’t I indulge? I’ve spent years working my ass off for Hamilton’s, and I was happy to do it. Not only is the business my grandparents founded my legacy, I also owed it to them to join their company, which literally grew out of their love. After all, rearing a moody teenager whose world had fallen apart would have been no easy task.
One night with the famous Sterling Lombard could be my reward for the long hours and the lack of work-life balance I’ve tolerated for too long.
‘I see.’ He nods and heads to the bar. ‘So what do you do?’
I watch as he reaches for and then uncaps the bottle. The fine cotton of his shirt moulds to his muscular chest and arms. His narrow waist tapers to the most delicious butt. He must spend a lot of time doing squats in the gym.
‘I run my own business, but I don’t want to talk shop right now.’
‘Fair enough.’ He returns with two glasses. ‘Take a seat.’
I slide onto his leather couch and accept the glass, which i
s half-full of amber liquid and ice cubes. I take a sip as he joins me on the sofa. The bourbon is delicious—smoky and smooth with hints of caramel.
‘So this is how you spend your Friday evenings? Working late while the rest of Manhattan parties?’ I wince at the hypocrisy of my question. I’m practically a hermit. I usually spend my downtime relaxing in the kitchen, cooking from my mother’s dog-eared handwritten recipes and freezing healthy meals for the working week ahead.
‘Yes, I’m afraid you’ve saved me from myself tonight. And perhaps I’ve saved you, too.’ He smiles and touches his glass to mine with a clink of expensive crystal. A delicious spasm jolts through me. ‘To you, Ava. And to chance meetings that make Friday evenings a million times more interesting.’
I take a sip, my stare held captive by his, then lick the bourbon from my lips. What am I doing? I’m supposed to be convincing him to sell me back his shares in my business, not thinking about how long it’s been since I had sex and how I’ve never physically reacted so strongly to a man I’ve just met.
But Sterling Lombard isn’t just any man. I always thought the rumours about him couldn’t possibly be true—wealthy, intelligent, with a reputation for dating glamorous ladies—but, now I’ve met him in the flesh, his sexual magnetism speaks for itself. Directly to my aching nipples, which are peaking through the thin fabric of my dress.
‘That’s what I love about New York,’ I say. ‘In a city of eight million people, you just never know who you’ll meet and where it will lead.’ The alcohol moves through my blood, warming and relaxing as it travels.
‘Where do you want it to lead?’ he asks directly. His voice turns gravelly. ‘Because you should know that I’m definitely going to want your number before you leave.’
His confident, forthright manner is a major turn-on. His eyes seem to see right through me. It’s not unpleasant, kicking up my heart rate and flooding me with thrilling heat.
I should present my case for Hamilton’s, but now that I’ve experienced our fierce chemistry, my heart is no longer in it. I’ll have another chance. I could give him my number—he’s exactly the type of man I’d date if we met under different circumstances.