Page 21 of Enemies

The one I found swimming in my pool the next afternoon, the chlorine doing God knows what to the wool and the striped lining.

I ground my teeth together as I retrieved it with a cleaning implement, looking up to be sure she wasn’t watching from her balcony.

Clean your own pool, she’d said.

She’s nothing like the women I spend time with. She says she doesn’t care for money or wealth.

Except she asked for a raise.

Which means, on one level, she’s exactly like the women I spend time with.

Now, when I return to the villa after my workout, there’s a sweater hanging on the back of a chair at the dining table.

My first thought is of payback. Dropping this into the pool and picturing her finding it there.

What the fuck is she doing to me?

I’m thirty-five years old, and I’m giddy with the prospect of ruining something of hers just to see her reaction.

The fabric is surprisingly soft as I lift it. A thin woven cover-up that’s more feminine than I expect.

“What are you doing?” Natalia’s voice makes my spine stiffen like a schoolboy caught masturbating.

I glance back to see her watching from the kitchen. I lower the garment, trying to forget the scent, warm and floral with something like vanilla beneath.

“Removing this from my dining room.”

I start up the stairs to the open hallway that runs along one side of the villa, her sweater dangling from my fingertips like a limp rag.

Now, Rae’s door is closed—it’s midafternoon, and she’s still asleep despite not having a show last night—but sounds inside have me frowning. Movement, shuffling.

Is someone else in there?

The possibility arouses dark thoughts.

First, she destroys my jacket. Then brings someone home to my house…

I crack the door, and my dog comes barreling out.

Light beyond the door beckons, and I peer inside.

She’s alone in bed.

On her side facing the door, her dark hair is a wild mane around her head.

Her baggy T-shirt is twisted, pulling tight across her breasts, as if she was fighting sleep itself. Her lips are parted, her lashes a thick fringe that twitches against her cheeks as she dreams.

A rope tugs tight low in my gut.

Is there any time of day, alone or surrounded by people, when she finds peace?

I fold the sweatshirt and lay it on the dresser, taking in the belongings scattered around the room. My fingers itch to straighten the clothes and gadgets I went through myself when the bag arrived thanks to a call placed by one of my staff to the airline.

Denim. Off-label trainers. Cotton lingerie.

The wigs are curious. She owns as many of those as clothes, yet most women I know spend hours and thousands of dollars to try to replicate what her hair seems to do naturally.

There’s no sign of the unlabelled pill bottle I found in her bag.

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