Seven Nights with my Worst Enemy

Isla Reyes had practiced her face the whole boat ride. Chin up, shoulders back, eyes bored. It was the face of a woman who had never once been rattled by Damian Cole. But when the boat bumped against the dock of Halcyon Cay and she saw him standing at the far end of it, hands in his pockets, staring at the sea like he owned it, her stomach dropped anyway. She hated that it did. She hated even more that he looked good, tall and relaxed in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up, as if the last three years of fighting her had been a nice vacation.

"You're late," Damian said without turning around. His voice was low and calm, the same voice that had once told a room full of investors her company was a very expensive hobby. Isla walked up beside him and let her heels click loudly on the wood. "I'm exactly on time. You're just early because you can't stand not being first." He finally looked at her, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that slow, annoying smile that had cost her three contracts and a lot of sleep. "Good to see you too, Reyes. I almost missed hating you."

She didn't answer, because the truth was that she had missed it too, in a strange way. For years Damian had been the one person who pushed her to be sharper, faster, and meaner than she ever wanted to be. Every deal she won, she had won with his face in her head. She had built her whole company on a simple rule, which was never to let him get the best of her, and standing beside him now, with the wind pulling at her hair, she wasn't sure what she would be without that rule.

They had both come because of Alder Whitmore. The old man had been a legend in the hotel business and a close friend to both their families. He had taught Isla how to read a contract when she was nineteen, and he had slipped Damian his first loan when no bank would take him seriously. Three weeks ago, Alder had died quietly in his sleep. At the funeral, Isla had sat on one side of the church and Damian on the other, and she had refused to look across the aisle even once. She hadn't cried either, because crying in front of Damian Cole would have felt like losing.

Now the lawyer was waiting for them in the resort lobby, a nervous man named Mr. Pell who kept wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. The lobby was beautiful, all white marble and tall windows with the ocean glittering behind them, but Isla barely noticed it. She was staring at the leather folder in Mr. Pell's hands. "Alder left you both the island," he said, and his voice cracked a little. "Halcyon Cay, the resort, everything. It's worth more than both your companies put together." Isla's heart skipped. Damian went very still beside her, and she knew, without looking, that he was thinking the same thing she was. Alder would never give them something this big without a catch.

Mr. Pell read the condition out loud, slowly, like he was afraid of them. The two of them had to run the resort together for seven nights. Six guests, chosen by Alder himself, would arrive today and stay for the whole week, and the pair had to host them as a team. Only after the seventh night could they sell the property, keep it, or split the money. If either one left the island early, both of them would lose everything. "He wrote it himself," Mr. Pell added weakly. "He said you would understand."

Isla read the page twice, and her hands began to feel cold. Her company was in trouble, though nobody knew it yet. Damian's rivalry had drained her contracts for years, and a bank loan was due in the spring. If she walked away, she would lose the only chance she had to fix it. She glanced at Damian and found him watching her, his jaw tight and his eyes unreadable. "He knew," she said quietly. "He knew we'd rather burn this place down than share it." Damian let out a short, tired laugh. "He also knew neither of us could walk away from this much money."

He took the pen first and signed his name with a quick, sharp scrawl. Then he held the pen out to her between two fingers, and when she took it, her hand brushed against his. It was only a second, but a small, hot spark ran up her arm and settled low in her stomach, and she nearly dropped the pen. She signed her name so hard the paper almost tore. Neither of them said anything about the way his fingers had stayed against hers for a moment longer than they needed to.

The guests arrived that afternoon by boat, one after another, and Isla put on her best professional smile. There was Harold Brandt, a silver-haired banker with a warm laugh. There was Chef Marisol, who was famous and spoke with her hands, and an art dealer named Theo, who was young and very shy. There was a tech investor who never looked up from his phone, a retired judge with sharp eyes, and a woman in a red dress called Corinne Vale, who smiled too much and watched everything. Isla and Damian greeted each of them side by side, sharing the same stiff politeness, and every guest said the same thing. "You two make such a lovely team."

Isla gripped her champagne glass so tightly her fingers ached. Damian leaned in close enough that his breath warmed her ear, and she caught the faint smell of his cologne, something clean and woody that made her pulse jump. "Smile, partner," he murmured. "They're watching." She kept her smile in place and spoke through her teeth. "Don't call me partner." He chuckled. "Whatever you say, darling." The word slid over her skin like warm silk, and before she could stop herself she stepped on his foot with her heel, very politely. He bit back a laugh, and she felt it all the way down her spine.

Dinner went better than she expected. The chef cooked, the judge told ridiculous stories, and the banker toasted to Alder, and for a little while the whole table felt almost warm. Isla caught herself laughing at something Damian said, then quickly stopped. She noticed that he had noticed, and that he looked pleased about it. Across the table, Corinne Vale lifted her glass toward them and smiled her too-bright smile, and Isla felt a faint chill she couldn't explain. She told herself it was just nerves.

By midnight the guests had gone to their villas, and the resort was quiet except for the waves. Isla climbed the staircase to the owner's suite, rolling her small suitcase behind her, and she was so tired that her feet hurt. All she wanted was a hot shower, a locked door, and a few hours of sleep far away from Damian Cole. She pushed open the door and stopped dead on the threshold. There was one enormous bed in the middle of the room, covered in white sheets, and a whole wall of windows poured moonlight across it.

Damian was already inside, his jacket thrown over a chair and his sleeves pushed up, holding a folded note in one hand. He looked up at her, and for once he didn't smirk. "Alder left more instructions," he said. "The owners share the owner's suite for all seven nights. It's in the fine print." Isla let go of her suitcase, and it fell over with a thump. The room suddenly felt much smaller, and the air between them seemed thick enough to touch. "Then you're sleeping on the couch," she said, but her voice came out breathless, and she knew he heard it.

He crossed the room slowly, giving her every chance to step away, and she didn't move. He stopped so close she could feel the warmth of his chest through her dress. "You hate me," he said quietly. "More than anyone alive," she answered, and her eyes dropped to his mouth without her permission. Something flickered across his face, soft and almost painful. "Good," he whispered. "Then this should be easy." His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, and his thumb slid down to rest against her lower lip, and every thought in her head went white and silent.

Neither of them noticed the tiny red light blinking in the shadows behind the lamp, watching.

Isla's lips parted on a breath she hadn't meant to take, and that was all the invitation Damian needed. He kissed her slowly at first, as if testing the ground, his mouth warm and sure against hers, his thumb still resting at the corner of her lip. For one second she stayed perfectly still, remembering every deal he had stolen and every insult he had ever smiled through. Then years of anger turned over inside her and became something hotter, and she grabbed his shirt with both fists and kissed him back like she was trying to win.

He made a rough sound against her mouth, half laughter and half groan, and walked her backward until her shoulders met the cool glass of the windows. The moonlight spilled over both of them and the sea crashed far below. "This is a terrible idea," Isla gasped as his lips moved to her jaw, then down her throat to the pulse hammering there. "The worst one either of us has ever had," Damian agreed against her skin, and she felt him smile. "Tell me to stop and I will."

She should have said it. She knew exactly what the sensible version of herself would have done, which was push him away, lock the bathroom door, and spend the next seven nights hating him from a safe distance. Instead she tipped her head back against the window and let her eyes fall closed. "Don't you dare," she whispered. His hands slid down her sides, slow and deliberate, finding the zipper at the back of her dress, and the sound of it opening was the loudest thing in the room.

The linen slipped from her shoulders and pooled around her heels, and Damian stepped back just far enough to look at her. He didn't smirk, which surprised her. His gaze traveled over her like he was seeing something he had wanted for a very long time and had never let himself name, and his voice came out unsteady. "You have no idea how many times I've imagined this," he said. "Every boardroom. Every stupid gala. You are standing across the table, daring me to look away." Isla's heart stumbled. "You're supposed to be my enemy," she said weakly. "I know," he murmured. "That's what made it unbearable."

She pulled him back by his collar and started on his buttons herself, because she refused to let him control this, and he let her, watching her face the whole time. When his shirt fell open she pressed her palms flat against his chest and felt his heartbeat racing as hard as her own. It was a small thing, but it undid her a little. The great Damian Cole, cold and untouchable in every headline, was shaking under her hands. She kissed the center of his chest, and he drew a sharp breath and caught her chin, tilting her mouth up to his again.

After that there was no more talking for a while. He lifted her easily and carried her to the bed, and the white sheets were cool against her back as he followed her down, his weight settling over her, warm and heavy and exactly right. His mouth traveled slowly, unhurried, over her collarbone and lower, and her fingers tangled in his hair as the heat built under her skin. Every touch was patient and a little wicked, as if he meant to learn everything about her and was in no rush to finish. She arched into him, whispering his name, and the sound of it made him groan against her.

She pushed at his shoulders and rolled them over, because she wasn't going to be the only one undone, and found herself straddling him with her hair falling around them like a curtain. He looked up at her with dark, hazy eyes and a crooked, helpless smile. "There she is," he said hoarsely. "Always trying to take the lead." Isla leaned down until her lips brushed his ear. "Always winning," she corrected softly, and then she moved against him in a slow, deliberate rhythm that wiped the smile from his face and left him gripping her hips with a groan he couldn't hold back.

The rest of the night blurred into heat and breath and sheets tangled around their legs. They fought each other for control, laughed in the dark when they nearly fell off the bed, and finally stopped fighting at all. When the peak came it hit them both together, her cry muffled against his shoulder and his arms locked around her as if he would never let go. For a long minute afterward neither of them moved. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant sea, and Isla lay with her cheek on his chest, feeling the slow thud of his heart settle.

She expected the regret to arrive at once, cold and sharp, but it didn't. What came instead was a strange, quiet softness she had no defense against. Damian's fingers were drawing lazy circles on her bare back, and he seemed to be thinking hard about something. "Alder used to say we'd end up like this," he said at last, almost to himself. "I told him he was senile." Isla lifted her head. "He actually said that?" Damian nodded, a little embarrassed. "At his birthday dinner, three years ago. You'd just crushed my Singapore bid, and he laughed so hard he cried. He said, 'Those two will either destroy each other or marry each other.'"

Isla laughed before she could stop herself, and then, to her horror, her eyes stung. She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide it. She had loved the old man like a grandfather, and she hadn't cried at the funeral because she had been too busy refusing to look at Damian across the church. Damian pulled her closer without a word and held her, one hand cupped over the back of her head. It was the most gentle thing anyone had done for her in months, and it came from the one man she had sworn never to let near her.

Eventually she fell asleep like that, tucked against his side with one leg thrown over his, her hand resting over his heart. Damian stayed awake longer, staring at the ceiling, and for a moment his expression tightened as if a thought had crossed his mind that he didn't like. He glanced toward the dark corners of the room. Then Isla shifted in her sleep and murmured his name, and whatever he had been worried about slipped away. He pressed a kiss into her hair and finally closed his eyes.

Morning came bright and loud with seabirds. Isla woke alone, warm under the sheets with the faint scent of him still on the pillow, and for a moment she smiled into the cotton before she remembered everything. She sat up fast, clutching the sheet to her chest. Damian's side was empty, but a cup of coffee sat steaming on the nightstand with a note tucked beneath the saucer in his sharp, slanted handwriting. Gone to greet the guests. Don't think this means I'm going easy on you at breakfast. She bit her lip, fighting a grin she wasn't ready to admit to.

Then her phone buzzed on the pillow beside her. The screen message, and the grin died on her face as she read it. Sleep well, Miss Reyes? The walls here are much thinner than you think. Her blood turned to ice. She spun toward the door, the windows, the quiet corners of the suite, and for the first time since she had stepped onto the island, Isla Reyes understood that someone on Halcyon Cay knew exactly what had happened last night.

Isla read the message six times before her hands stopped shaking. *Sleep well, Miss Reyes? The walls here are much thinner than you think.* She dialed the number, and it rang once before a flat, robotic voice told her the line was not in service. She tried again, then threw the phone onto the bed and pressed her palms against her eyes. Someone had seen them, or heard them, or worse. Someone on this island knew that Isla Reyes, the woman who had spent years swearing to ruin Damian Cole, had spent the night in his arms.

She forced herself to breathe slowly and think the way she did in a crisis at work. Panic was useless, but information was power. Who could have sent this? There were only six guests, a handful of staff, and Mr. Pell, who had left on the evening boat. She checked the windows, the lamps, the mirror, the vents, and found nothing. The suite looked exactly as innocent as it had last night, all white sheets and sea light, and somehow that made it feel worse.

She showered quickly, twisting her hair into a neat knot, and put on a cream blouse and tailored trousers, the armor of a woman who had everything under control. In the mirror, she noticed a faint mark just under her jaw where his mouth had been, and she covered it with concealer, cheeks burning. Her body still felt warm and strange, soft in places that were usually tight. Part of her wanted to be furious with herself, but another part, a small and traitorous one, kept replaying the way he had held her afterward, with his chin resting on her head, as if she were something that mattered.

The terrace was bright and loud with morning. A long table stood under white umbrellas, covered in fruit, fresh bread, and silver pots of coffee, and the guests were already gathered around it. Damian stood at the head of the table, pouring orange juice for the retired judge, and when he looked up and saw her, his whole face changed for half a second. It was small, just a softening around his eyes, but she felt it in her chest. Then he schooled it into polite neutrality and nodded. "Miss Reyes. Good morning." Isla lifted one eyebrow. "Mr. Cole. You look well rested." A muscle twitched in his cheek, and she knew he was fighting a smile.

She took the seat across from him and tried to focus on the conversation. Harold Brandt the banker was telling a story about a yacht, and Chef Marisol was arguing with the judge about whether eggs should ever be eaten cold. Theo, the shy art dealer, sat quietly beside Isla and kept glancing at her with a worried expression, as though he wanted to say something. Isla smiled at him gently, and he looked down at his plate, his ears turning pink.

"You two look very comfortable this morning," Corinne Vale said suddenly. She was lounging in a chair at the end of the table in a sleek white dress, stirring her coffee with slow circles. Her voice was sweet, almost lazy, but her eyes moved from Isla to Damian and back again like a cat watching two mice. "I had the impression, from all I've read, that you two were mortal enemies." The table went quiet for a moment. Isla felt her pulse jump, and under the table she curled her fingers tightly around her napkin.

Damian answered before she could. "We still are," he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair with an easy smile. "But Alder asked us to behave, and we both loved him too much to ruin his last wish. Even enemies can be civil for a week." Isla added, in her most pleasant voice, "Though I'm keeping a list of everything he does wrong." Laughter rippled around the table, and the tension broke like a bubble. Harold raised his glass to them, and the judge chuckled. Only Corinne didn't laugh. She simply smiled, slow and thin, and took a sip of her coffee.

After breakfast, Chef Marisol clapped her hands and announced that Alder had left something special for the guests. She pulled seven cream-colored envelopes from her apron, each sealed with dark green wax, and a number was written on the front of each. "One for each night," she explained, her accent thick and cheerful. "Alder said we must open the first one this evening, at dinner. He told me nothing more. He was a sneaky old man." The guests murmured with interest, and Isla stared at the envelopes, her stomach tightening. Alder had always loved his games, but she suddenly wondered what he had been planning, and how much he had known.

The rest of the morning was a blur of small tasks. Isla checked the villas, approved the lunch menu, and answered a dozen questions from the staff, while Damian seemed to be everywhere at once. Every time she turned a corner she found him there, quietly fixing something or talking to someone, and every time their eyes met, a bolt of awareness went through her. At one point she reached for a stack of linen at the same moment he did, and their fingers touched. Neither of them moved. A maid walked past, and they both stepped back so quickly the linen nearly fell.

It was nearly noon when she finally caught him alone in the hallway outside the library, and she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him through the nearest door before she could lose her nerve. The room was small and dim, lined with old books, and the air smelled of dust and leather. Damian leaned against the door and crossed his arms, studying her face. "You've been avoiding my eyes all morning," he said quietly. "Are you going to tell me why, or do I have to guess?" Isla hesitated. Then she pulled out her phone and held it out to him with a trembling hand.

He read the message, and she watched the color drain from his face. He read it a second time, slower, and then his gaze lifted to hers, darker than she had ever seen it. "Someone's watching us," he said, and his voice had gone hard and flat. "Last night, in the suite. It must be." Isla nodded, her throat tight. "I called the number. It's dead. I didn't know whether to tell you or..." She stopped, embarrassed by how close she had come to hiding it. "I don't know how to trust you, Damian. Not yet. Not when I've spent three years thinking you were trying to destroy me."

The words hung between them, and his face did something complicated. For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something very important, and she saw it fighting its way up behind his eyes. Then he closed his mouth, stepped forward, and took both her hands in his. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Whatever this is, we'll handle it together. I promise." His thumbs brushed her knuckles, warm and steady, and she wanted so badly to believe him that it scared her. "That sounded a lot like a man making a promise he can't keep," she whispered. He gave a tired, crooked smile. "Maybe. But I'm making it anyway."

She laughed shakily and let her forehead fall against his chest, and his arms came around her at once, holding her close in the quiet dim room. They stayed like that for a long breath, and she felt something inside her loosen that she hadn't realized was clenched. Then his phone buzzed in his pocket, loud against her cheek. He pulled back, frowning, and drew it out. His expression changed as he read the screen, and she watched all the warmth drain out of him again.

"What is it?" Isla asked, reaching for the phone. Damian pulled it back, just slightly, and turned the screen away before she could see. It was only a second, but it was long enough for her to notice that his hand was shaking. "Nothing," he said, too quickly. "Just a business email." But she had seen the number at the top of the message, and it was the same unknown number that had texted her. She stared at him, her heart pounding, as he slid the phone back into his pocket and forced a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Damian," she said softly. "What did it say?"