Mistresses: Enemies To Lovers. Maureen Child

dog, howling into the night. She settled herself primly on the edge of the nearest sofa, her back straight, her dark red hair in a long, silken tail down her back. Everything about her deliberate, careful posture, he realized as he threw himself on the sofa opposite her, irritated him. Made him feel too big, too wild, too dangerous. Too dirty, too beneath her. Too much.

      Oh, yes, he thought. She’d pay.

      “Are you trying to provoke me?” His voice was hard, cracking across the lavish table that slouched between them, glass and gold and a riot of fresh flowers in the center. “Is that why you’re acting as if you’ve been thrown into a lion’s den?”

      “I have been,” she replied, her eyes gleaming green with the temper that didn’t—quite—sound in her voice. “Who knows what you might do next? You introduced yourself mouth-first.”

      “Are you claiming what you feel right now is fear?” he asked, almost amused again. Or so he told himself.

      She only glared back at him, clearly unaware that he found her defiance impossibly sexy. He had no intention of sharing that with her. Women like this one already had far too many weapons at their disposal. Why should he hand her another?

      “Your pulse is racing,” he told her softly, as sure of this, of her, as he would have been about any opponent in any ring. He hadn’t lied when he’d told her he was good at what he did. “And your skin is flushed. Your pupils are slightly dilated and you keep worrying your lower lip with your teeth. That is not fear. It is attraction.”

      For a moment she stared at him, aghast. And then Ivan saw that something else move beneath it, that simmering fire that was causing all of this trouble in the first place.

      “You don’t know me well enough to make that determination.” But her voice was far too constricted and she sat even straighter, if possible, and pressed her soft lips into a tight line.

      He wanted to lick her all over, starting there.

      “I don’t need to know you at all.” He shrugged. “I know people, and I know how to read physical tells.”

      She scowled at him. “What do physical tells have to do with anything?” Her hands tightened on her lap, as if she wanted to clench them into fists, but thought better of it at the last moment. “The physical is the least important part of attraction. It’s nothing but smoke and mirrors. The brain is what really matters.”

      He really was amused. Finally. He leaned back against the sofa. “Then, Professor, I am sorry to tell you this, but you’re doing it wrong.”

      She was so much prettier in person, he thought then, even as she glared at him in all of her high-class fury. He was so much more susceptible to her than he’d ever dreamed he’d be. Damn her. It made everything that much more complicated. Or it made him a fool. He supposed it was the same result either way.

      She tensed as if she was debating running for the door. But she only breathed for a moment, then relaxed again, however slightly, and he wished he knew why. He wished he could read whatever was going on behind that smooth, compelling triangle of her face. He wished, and he was old enough, battle-scarred enough, to know better.

      “Is that why you think we should date?” she asked then, her tone crisp with disbelief. And all those other things he wanted far too much to uncover and identify, one by one. “So you can regale me with your theories about the physiological reactions of total strangers?”

      “That would be a side benefit, of course.”

      “This is ridiculous,” she said, standing then, practically vibrating with tension. Or was it something else? He had the sudden sense that she was far more emotional, perhaps even fragile, than he’d imagined. Than she showed. But he didn’t want to think of her that way. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here. My life is disintegrating around me and your solution is to date?”

      “Calm yourself, please.” He stretched his legs out in front of him as if he had never been more at ease, enjoying the way her dark eyes narrowed in outrage. It was better than the possibility of tears, however remote. “It obviously wouldn’t be a real relationship. I am well aware of your opinion of me. I am no fonder of you. In that sense, we are perfectly matched.”

      Which was true, of course. But it did not address this thing between them that had nearly burned him alive where he stood earlier. And Ivan only had to look at her to know that bringing up the best way he knew of to deal with that kind of wildfire, out-of-control chemistry—in the nearest bed, for a week or so—would only cloud the issue unnecessarily. Not to mention, force her to vehemently deny something that he had every intention of proving to his satisfaction. At length.

      But not now.

      “Why would you even suggest something like this? Is that how people do things in Hollywood?” She looked scandalized. “I didn’t think that was true. Not really.”

      “Surely you cannot deny the power of that kiss,” he said, for no other reason than to poke at her. Or so he told himself. He shrugged languidly when she stiffened. “If you can, you are alone. Last I checked, the clip has been watched in excess of—”

      “There is no accounting for taste,” she blurted, as if she couldn’t bear to think about how many people had seen the video. Seen them. The perfect Ivy League professor with a shined-up Russian thug all over her. She no doubt felt contaminated by his very public touch. Forever marred. It made him want only to dirty her further. Here. Now.

      “Indeed.” He eyed her. Forced his voice to remain cool. “Just as there is no denying our on-screen chemistry. Think of the headlines we could generate if we actually tried.”

      “You have to be kidding me—” she began, though he could see the heat across her cheeks, telling him far more than her words ever could. For one thing, that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her, however loath she was to admit it.

      He could use that. He would.

      “I am changing careers.” He watched her process that. That blink. That considering tilt of her head. Why should he find such things so powerfully compelling? “Again.”

      “Racing about the world claiming that unnecessary kisses are a new form of chivalry?” she asked drily. It was as if she couldn’t help herself. “With your fame and fans, I’m sure you could turn it into quite the cottage industry. A moveable kissing booth, if you will. Headlines and chemistry at every turn, just the way you like it.”

      “Philanthropy,” he replied, and watched her redden further, as if he’d chastised her. “My last Jonas Dark movie comes out in June. My new charity will be kicking off with its first major event a week or so later. It can only benefit me, as I make the switch from action hero to philanthropist, to have my most outspoken critic show the world she sees me as a man, not merely the Neanderthal fighting machine she has claimed I am on every available media outlet for the past two years.”

      That had been the main thrust of his publicist’s argument earlier, as Ivan had watched the clip of the kiss on one of the major gossip programs in disbelief. Ivan had been unable to get his head around the fact that he was now linked to his nemesis in this way. And worse, that he had no one to blame for his predicament but himself. That last had been Nikolai’s main point—that and the suggestion that he take this opportunity to neutralize the Miranda Sweet issue once and for all.

       Why had he kissed her?

      But Ivan was nothing if not practical. No matter the force of his fascinations. No matter what price he might have to pay. And so there was no reason he couldn’t make this little game work for him on a number of levels, he thought as he watched her now, that dark shimmer of red in her hair, that lush mouth, that unconscious patrician certainty of hers. No reason in the world.

      The plan had practically made itself. Revenge might have been a dish better served cold, but that wasn’t to say it wasn’t just as effective hot and wild. He supposed he’d find out.

      “I