Enemy Zone: Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Healing-Love Military Romance (Trident Rescue)

by Alex Lidell

  Liam pulled out a series of photographs showing Sky dancing happily, the guys’ hands all over the same ass that Cullen lusted over. And unlike the semifrightened glances Sky gave Cullen, she looked carefree in the pictures. Laughing. Throwing back drinks. Nothing like the Skylar Reynolds that Cullen knew. Or thought he did. The one he’d confided his nightmares to.

  Liam leaned his hip against Cullen’s desk. “Also, this was a private event no reporter should have had access to. She used her fiancé Jaden—he’s a former marine—to get in. Jaden is the one who turned her in, by the way. He’d been there too and contradicted her version of the events. And…there is one other thing.”

  Cullen felt his whole body tense. “What?”

  Liam sighed. “This is the part that’s utterly unofficial, and I only have it because of Lucy—the paper did a covert drug test, and Skylar came up positive. They never told her, of course, but it did go to credibility.”

  “No fucking way.” Cullen shoved the papers back at Liam. “Look at me and tell me you believe a word of what you’re implying.”

  “That an ambitious young reporter who couldn’t get a break used her fiancé to get into an exclusive venue, partied a bit, and then painted everything with a sensationalist brush? That her story happened to be exactly the kind a newspaper would eat up, while conveniently retaliating against the military types who’d hurt her all her life? That she now feels comfortable working for Denton Uncovered?” Liam sighed. “I don’t know what to think. But as the head of a security outfit, I’d tell you not to give her access to any files Peterson may have an interest in, lest she decides she doesn’t like you either.”

  Heat rose through Cullen’s blood, his already short temper flaring as he slammed his palm on his desk. “I’m telling you, she wouldn’t use me or the Rescue to ferret out information for Peterson. I know it in my gut.”

  Liam leaned in, his dark eyes hard. “You willing to risk Addie on that gut of yours?”

  “I don’t have to,” said Cullen. “Everything to do with Addie goes through my private accounts. As for me, I don’t discuss Addie’s business.”

  “Hmm.” Liam gave him a hard stare. “Sounds bulletproof.”

  29

  Sky

  After hanging up the phone, I leaf through the three pages of notes Catherine had dictated to me when she asked me to cover her post for a few days. She truly is a one-man—er, woman—army when it comes to keeping Cullen’s admin in order and, though I’m technically doing her a favor, I’m absurdly keen on doing a good job.

  Checking the time, I pull myself out of the velvety armchair—it constantly amazes me how much nicer this place is compared to my old flea trap—and eye the coffeemaker. Fifteen minutes before having to leave the apartment gives me just enough time for another cup. I’m just finishing pouring the black goodness into a mug when someone knocks on the door.

  “Who is it?” I call.

  “It’s me, Lar baby. Open the door.”

  My hand jerks on my coffee cup, the hot liquid scalding my skin and staining the sleeve of my white blouse as I set the cup down on top of the shoe shelf and crack open the door without disengaging the chain. My chest is tight, my pulse jumping at the sight of jet-black hair, tight camo fatigues, and a familiar muscular physique. Our relationship had had its ups and downs from the beginning, but it ended with a bang after he’d cajoled me into going to one of the military parties during Manhattan’s Fleet Week. He’d promised me an opportunity for an exclusive story. Instead, he’d gotten drunk with his marine buddies, left me to the wolves, and then got me fired for trying to reveal the truth. “What are you doing here, Jaden?”

  The man holds out a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia and two plastic spoons. “Can I come in?”

  “I’m going to work.” I start pushing the door closed, but Jaden gets his boot-clad foot in the way.

  “Then at least let me put the Cherry Garcia safely in the freezer. It’s innocent.” He gives me one of his patented Jaden grins, the one that used to lull me into just enjoying the moment. Or into forgiving him. Though, for the life of me, I can’t figure out why he’d even want to bother now. The engagement is done. We’re done. He taps the tough leather toe of his boot almost shyly against the floor. “Five minutes. I promise.”

  I glance at the clock, doing quick mental gymnastics. I can’t wait the bastard out, and if I don’t let him in, he’ll just accost me in the hallway. At least this way, I’ll avoid a scene. “Five minutes.”

  I open the chain and step aside as Jaden lets himself in, taking his shoes off without me having to ask. When he extends his arms toward me for an embrace, however, I step back and cross my arms. “What do you want?” I demand. “And how did you find me?”

  Jaden holds up his hands, the pint of ice cream still in his large left paw. “No hugs. Message received and understood, ma’am.” Walking around me, he puts the ice cream in the freezer as if the place were his. “The how first—good old investigative journalism. Between seeing your name on the byline in Denton Uncovered and what your mother told me of your sugar daddy, it was easy enough. As for the why…” Jaden slips his hands into his pockets, his head and shoulders curling in a slight aww shucks motion. “I miss you. The break we took made me realize a few things. Among them, just how good I had it with you, baby.”

  I pick up my coffee, my hands tightening around the cup, my heart still pounding in my ears. “First off, we didn’t take a break. We broke up after you decided that the reputation of your precious marine corps was more important than the truth. And second, I don’t have a sugar daddy.” I spit the last two words with venom built throughout the years of my childhood.

  Genuine surprise flickers over Jaden’s face. “Come on, now, Lar. I might be a jerk, but I’m not an idiot.”

  No. He isn’t. Jaden had always been attractive, with his tan skin and muscled shoulders, but it was his intelligence that had drawn me to him to begin with. Intelligence and a keen, instinctive knack for observation. For asking the right questions.

  Jaden sprawls uninvited on my couch. “You’re telling me that your salary at Denton Uncovered pays enough to cover this three-thousand-dollar-a-month rent?”

  I bristle. “Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, indignation gaining the better of me, “but I have two jobs. And I don’t pay three grand a month, because this place is rent controlled. Speaking of my jobs, I’ve got to get to one of them now. You’ve had your five minutes, Jaden. Are you going to keep your word and leave?”

  Getting up, Jaden tugs down on his camo shirt to straighten it. It shows off his defined chest, but I’m no longer interested. “I’m out as promised.” Walking to the door, he grabs a card from his inside pocket and scribbles on the back of it. “Listen. I’m staying in Denton Valley for a week, covering the WorldROCK climbing competition since there’s a cash purse prize. Do me a favor—just think about things. Maybe come out with me to interview some climbers. It’s your thing more than mine anyway. Here’s my cell.” He holds out the card, which I make no move to take. Jaden sighs and sets it down on my little marble entry table.

  “You know, if I were an investigative journalist worth my salt, I might check out whether Pine Towers even actually has rent control,” he adds, already halfway out the door. “I might also ask myself how much this furniture here might cost. Hell, if I were an investigative journalist, I might try to figure out who actually owns the apartment I live in and maybe I’d ask myself what’s in it for the owner to have me staying here for next to nothing. But that’s me. I work for the Manhattan Post, not Denton Uncovered.”

  I wait until Jaden is out of my house before managing to uncurl my fingers from around my coffee mug, my hands shaking. The asshole. The absolute asshole. I’m not all that surprised that he found my address—he’s a journalist, and I’m not hiding—but the fact that he had the gall to show up here after what happened at Fleet Week? That’s low even by his standards.

  Beep. Beep. BLEEEEE
P.

  The alarm on my phone scares me out of my skin. I curse. No matter how much my mind and pulse are currently whirling, I also need to get to work before I’m late. Focus now, Sky. Meltdown later.

  First things first, I tell myself as I weave between a group of employees crossing the lobby and nod my hello to Rachel-the-perfect at reception—I’m not Cullen’s sugar baby. For one, I work for a living. For two, I’m not now nor would I ever be in my mom’s version of a relationship, making my life about some rich jerk’s fantasies. And for three, things between Cullen and me are…complicated.

  Having not been back to the Trident Medical Group building since my interview, I’m taken in by its grandness all over again. The reflective exterior façade. The expansive airiness of the lobby inside with its marble columns and black tile floors and people moving all about. And yes, the giant mural of children’s handprints. The artwork reminds me that whatever else Cullen might be, he also has a kind enough heart to spend a certain portion of his funds on philanthropy. I step aboard the elevator heading for the seventh floor. Cullen’s floor. The fact that I’ll be working two doors down from Cullen all day doesn’t escape my notice either. That, or the other bit about him owning this whole place.

  Despite myself, I’ve been unable to resist cataloguing every behavior of his I notice. The differences in how he speaks to Catherine as opposed to Rachel as opposed to me. How he relaxes with Eli, Kyan, and Liam, but tenses up at the mere mention of Frank. It’s a fascinating phenomenon. No one riles Cullen like Frank Peterson does.

  In short, the mystery surrounding Cullen calls to me like a siren—which is perhaps a hazard of my profession. I long to learn more about his childhood, his military service, his life. I want to know what makes Cullen tick. But most of all—though I know it’s none of my business—I want to smooth Cullen’s nightmares away.

  And yes, the chance to work in Catherine’s office may be a window into the man’s life. I’ve no intention of abusing the position, but anything in plain sight is fair game.

  As with the last time I was here, the CEO’s suite is much emptier than I expect—though given Cullen’s addiction to privacy, I’m not surprised that he prefers his staff to stay behind their own doors. Following Catherine’s directions, I go to her door and enter a code into the outside keypad to let myself inside.

  Settling behind the computer desk, I pull out my notes and spend a lot more effort than is fair on not thinking about what Cullen might be doing in his office just now. Whether he might pop in to say hello. Whether the hello will be anything like the shower—

  Shit. I shake my head to cut off that thought before the heat low in my body manages to soak through my panties. So not going there. Especially not now. Firmly taking myself in hand, I take in the clean lines of Catherine’s office. The mauve walls are so different from the rest of the building, and so are the myriad plants lining one window. Though her desk is walnut and extremely tidy, there’s a row of silver picture frames, all showcasing an auburn-haired woman and her two children. These must be Catherine’s daughter and grandkids. It’s a unique behind-the-scenes foray into the life of Cullen’s number one assistant.

  If only I could have the same sort of foray into Cullen’s life.

  Picking up the next set of bills from Catherine’s inbox, I frown at the note in Cullen’s writing instructing they not be paid from corporate funds, and marking an alternative account instead. Flipping through the invoices, which cover everything from flower delivery to sizable mortgage payments all to the benefit of Adrianna Peterson, I feel my stomach churn. Having paid at least a dozen different charities on Cullen’s behalf this morning, I know the man gives generously, but these bills seem…personal. As does the bank account I’m to pay them from.

  All for Adrianna Peterson.

  He came back here because of Addie. Bar’s Addie. Jaz’s words from our climbing day float back to my mind. They all go way back.

  My stomach twists again, though I know full well it’s got no right to. So Cullen came back to where Addie Peterson, his best friend’s widow and probably his own longtime friend, was left behind. And he wants to take care of her. What’s so wrong about that? It doesn’t mean there’s anything more to it. And even if it did…Cullen and I aren’t a couple. A few hookups give me no claim over the man. Cullen has a full right to see whichever women he wants. Maybe that’s what he and Frank are at each other’s throats about.

  Except why didn’t Addie come to Eli’s barbeque, then? a small voice inside my mind insists. Is he hiding her from you, or you from her?

  Stupid. I’m being stupid.

  Firing up the computer, I log in to the account and pay the invoices as instructed, the checks for roses and gift cards to Bloomingdales and even utility bills flying off to their recipients in cyberspace. I even get into the rhythm of it—all until I come to a receipt for a special-order engraved heart locket from Tiffany’s Forever Love collection and feel bile touch my throat all over again. No matter how I twist it, Forever Love isn’t the kind of thing a guy gives to “just a friend.” And yes, it’s also just too close to the kind of thing my mom likes to brag about.

  After living through my teenage years with a mother who fastened herself to well-to-do men as a means of income, I despise the whole setup with a primal hatred that goes well beyond rational thought. My mom might imagine herself a star in her own Pretty Woman fantasy, but I see her for what she is: little better than a prostitute hanging on a sugar daddy’s elbow.

  No, scratch that. My mom has nothing on prostitutes. Prostitutes don’t lie to themselves about what they’re selling.

  Is that what Addie Peterson is? Cullen’s kept woman? Or is she just one of a bunch he keeps around, primed with trinkets from Tiffany’s, for when the need strikes him?

  Unable to help myself, I scroll down Cullen’s account history, not even sure what I’m looking for. What smoking gun. And then my heart stops, my fingers clicking the mouse dumbly as I stare at the six-hundred-thousand-dollar check written out to Pine Towers, my apartment number right in the memo. No. No, no, no.

  Clicking out of the bank account, I rest my forehead on my hands, my mind racing to work out what I’ve just seen. What to do about it. Jaden had been right, my apartment is no more rent controlled than my expensive furniture or the designer clothes Cullen’s handed me. All because I’m…what? The most indispensable temp he’s ever had?

  I straighten my back, forcing myself to take deep breaths despite the heat now filling my blood and rushing to my face. Whatever else, I owe it to Cullen and myself both to have a conversation instead of burying myself under a heap of circumstantial demons. Standing, I straighten my blouse as if it were some kind of armor and march myself down the hall.

  My pulse thins for a moment as I lift my hand to knock on Cullen’s heavy door and stutters again as he opens it, his pressed white shirt and fitted suit making his muscular silhouette into something that belongs on a GQ cover. I swallow. I’ve seen the man naked, for God’s sake. Have done a great deal more than look when he accosted me in the shower. And yet, walking into his office, with him fully dressed, the scent of starch from his French-cuffed shirt mixing with his spicy male musk, it feels more intrusive. More intimidating.

  “Skylar.” Cullen’s green eyes are cool. Unreadable. “What can I do for you?”

  Well, no better time than the present. “You told me my apartment was rent controlled,” I blurt.

  “It is.” Nothing changes about Cullen’s face, not even a flick of a brow.

  My gut tightens. “You paid six hundred thousand for it. I saw the check, Cullen.”

  “Correct. I’m the owner, and I rent control it.” He straightens his cuff, paying too great attention to the gold square. “Why were you looking through my personal account?”

  I swallow, the air between us vibrating with the same quiet tension that lines Cullen’s beautiful face. Despite his seeming to focus on his task, the fabric of his suit shifts over coiling muscles. Th
ough he’s made no sudden moves, a shiver runs down my spine.

  “Several of the invoices in Catherine’s inbox had a note with the name of the account they should be paid out of.” I raise my chin. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Adrianna’s invoices.”

  His face darkens. It’s the kind of reddish hue I’ve seen before, the kind that says I’d hit on something he was hoping I wouldn’t. He shifts his weight. An off-balance Cullen—now there’s a sight I don’t remember ever seeing before.

  “Is there something I should know about Adrianna?”

  “The note with instructions was from me to Catherine—I hadn’t realized she’d not taken care of them yet,” says Cullen. “Or that you’d imagine detouring into a personal account was within the purview of a temp’s duties.”

  A temp’s duties. Right. A reminder of my place. Yeah, I know the trick. A good defense is an offense that grinds you beneath a combat boot. He knows what those receipts are about, what story they tell—and yet, it’s my fault for finding him out.

  It makes sense, really. Hadn’t Jaz and I just discussed the fact that Cullen doesn’t date? That he’s this rich, ridiculously handsome man who’s always lived alone? Logic says he satisfied his sexual needs somehow, and apparently, I’m the how. Well, me and Addie Peterson and who knows who else.

  The worst part isn’t even that Cullen keeps sugar babies. It’s that instead of seeing the world with eyes wide open, I’ve been busy blindly dissecting my feelings for this man. Jaz might believe all her speculations about how good Cullen is, and where his heart must be, and how us getting together—really together—would be such a wonderful idea. But me? I should have recognized the script from my mother’s playbook. I’ve certainly seen it enough.

  If Cullen is following the playbook, his next move will involve going after me on something unrelated. Diverting the conversation to examine and pound some defect of mine, until it’s me who’s begging his indulgence and understanding.