Page 183 of Enemies

“It’s a famous club,” the boy in the driver’s seat boasts. “The biggest on the island. But you know that.” He flushes.

“I’ve heard,” I say, not unkindly.

The car winds up into the mountains before pulling up to the gates of the villa.

In the past eight months, through festivals and gigs from Sydney to Tokyo to Paris, my career has exploded in the best way.

I shift out of the car and start up the steps of the villa. The door opens before I can knock.

I expect to find a doorman, but I’m instantly accosted by a familiar face and body. One that has every muscle in me screaming.

“You’re the last person I expected to see at the door of my villa.”

If I thought Mischa Ivanov would look the same as I remembered, I was wrong. He’s leaner, as if the past year has taken a toll on him.

Like a stray dog, he doesn’t look weak. Only hungry.

“Then it’s your lucky day.”

His surprised eyes flash, cold in the Spanish heat surrounding us. “What would your lover say if he knew you were here?”

“Former,” I correct, though I have no doubt he knows that. “And because he’s former, I don’t give a shit what Harrison would say.”

I fold my arms behind my back, my thumb and forefinger lightly encircling the opposite wrist, pressing on the tattoo there.

Habit.

“Now is when you invite me in,” I say.

He stares at me in disbelief, stunned the woman he hit wants to be invited into his home.

But I guess I’ve changed in the last year too.

I hold his gaze, unflinching.

Finally, he opens the door wider and motions with a jerk of his head.

I follow him.

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