Engaging the Enemy Read online

  Engaging the Enemy

  Susanne Bellamy

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Engaging the Enemy

  Susanne Bellamy

  One building, two would-be owners and a family feud that spans several generations: all relationships have their problems.

  Andrea de Villiers can’t lie to save herself. But when developer, Matt Mahoney, buys the building she and a friend have established as a safe house in the Melbourne CBD, she decides that protecting The Shelter is more important than her aching heart. She will confront Mr Mahoney, and she will emerge victorious. There are no other options.

  But Matt has other plans for Andie, and she soon finds herself ensnared in a web of well-meaning lies and benevolent deceit. To protect the building and the families that depend on her, Andie agrees to play the part of Matt’s fiancée, and play it convincingly.

  But lies soon bleed into truth, and what was once a deception starts to feel all too real. Can Andie accomplish her goals and protect The Shelter, without losing her heart to the charming Irish developer?

  About the Author

  I am a mad keen traveller. Paris will always be one of my top spots, and I fell in love with Scotland when we visited the west coast (it had nothing to do with the fine single malts), but I only recently had my first real trip to Italy — tick off one of my ‘bucket list’ items! I’ve celebrated New Year in Kathmandu and trekked in the Annapurnas, sailed in Ha Long Bay on a junk, and stayed on a floating hotel beside a tethered elephant in Thailand. I love the Peak in Hong Kong and the cable car ride in Singapore.

  My fictional heroes have to be pretty special to live up to the real-life one who saved my life then married me. We live on the edge — of bushland and a mountain in beautiful sunny Queensland, Australia, with our two children and two dogs. I write contemporary romance novels set in exciting and often exotic locations.

  Acknowledgements

  Wonderful critique partners and fabulous friends who feed me coffee and wine — I treasure your intellect and your bravery in telling me the truth at all times then offering me the appropriate beverage. But to one in particular, Annie Seaton, I say thank you.

  To the wonderful women of B2 — thanks for your friendship and support. You have kept me sane while I tried to keep all the balls in the air!

  And to Steve — for everything.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Chapter One

  Andrea de Villiers couldn’t have orchestrated the accident better if she’d planned for a year instead of just one night.

  Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres were almost finished as she edged closer to the group of Melbourne’s wealthy charity patrons and supporters and lined up her tray of drinks with Matt Mahoney’s chest.

  One second to launch.

  She took a deep, steadying breath and stepped forward.

  His blonde companion’s arms drew a giant circle in the air, collided with the edge of her tray and Mr Mahoney, corporate developer and all-round jerk, was instantly wearing expensive champagne as an accessory to his Armani dinner jacket.

  Round one to Andie.

  Served him right for refusing to meet her. He brushed futilely at his shiny lapels and a thrill raced through her.

  I did it.

  Andie-never-puts-a-foot-wrong-de Villiers had done the unthinkable. If only she could tell him who she was, her triumph would have been complete.

  The maître d’ bore down on the group, anger and conciliation vying for supremacy in his expression. Instant dismissal was a minor inconvenience; the job was only the means to an end which she was about to achieve.

  She kept her expression contrite and turned back to apologise to Mahoney. After all, he was the after-dinner speaker and he was dripping Moët all over the parquetry floor.

  Up close and personal, she took her first good look at her nemesis.

  Stormy, midnight-blue eyes fringed by long dark lashes looked down from his six feet plus. Even in killer heels she’d barely reach his shoulder. This guy was eat-me-up-for-breakfast, drop-dead gorgeous, from the heels of his patent leather shoes to the tips of his dark brown hair. Despite dripping with champagne, he radiated power and a sense of being in control.

  Up close, Mr Gorgeous was so much more than she had bargained for.

  And he was her enemy. She had to remember that. His handsome face wasn’t going to suck her in. Not with so much at stake. But no villain should look so hot.

  Heart pounding, pretence slipping, she sucked in a deep breath and stammered. ‘I…I’m sorry, sir.’

  The maître d’ stepped into the circle of stunned guests, effusive in his apologies. Anger emanated from him when he turned to her. ‘Clean this up now.’

  Subtext — she’d be dismissed as soon as he got her out of the reception.

  Typical snarky type.

  Even though she’d planned one, this accident was not her fault. So long as she got two minutes alone with Mahoney to present her case, it didn’t matter. She could do this. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d faced hostility alone.

  The willowy blonde, presumably Mahoney’s date, stepped between her and the manager and addressed him in a drawling Southern accent. ‘Hold up there a minute, this isn’t her fault. Matt keeps telling me I talk with my hands. Matt, honey, stop looking so thunderous. It was an accident and entirely my fault.’

  Bemused by the odd way her plans had turned out, Andie turned to the woman. Grey eyes full of sympathy met hers.

  Oh my God, it’s Serena Sang. Of course Mahoney would have a supermodel for his date.

  ‘Sorry ‘bout that but don’t y’all worry none. I’m sure this here gentleman understands you’re not to blame.’

  ‘Ms Sang…I…I’m sorry—’

  ‘No harm done. Are you okay, honey?’

  Andie nodded, unable to speak.

  Distracted by Serena’s apology, the manager reassured the model. ‘Accidents happen, madam. Please allow me to assist you.’ With a show of gallantry, he offered Serena his arm and led her away from the pool of Moët to a nearby chair and then summoned a waiter to bring more champagne.

  Serena smiled. ‘You have a wonderful staff.’

  Andie made a mental note to follow Serena’s style in future. The model handled men like an animal trainer — with sweet words and superb control.

  Including over Mahoney, it appeared.

  What Andie wouldn’t give to be able to do that.

  Not that being invisible to the male sex didn’t have its uses. It had got her to within striking range of her target but there were times she wished for Serena’s height and cool control. And she doesn’t have to put up with red curls.

  The manager clicked his fingers at her, impatient and demanding at the same time. ‘Get this cleaned up immediately and then report to the kitchen.’

  Had she missed an order? She glanced at Mahoney, disconcerted to discover his gaze on her lips. Pressing them firmly together, she hurried to clean up the m
ess.

  Awkwardly, she squatted, the tight skirt of the uniform inching up her legs as she reached for a glass near Mahoney’s shoe. Warm masculine fingers, sticky with spilled wine, brushed hers and hooked the stem as she grasped the bowl. Connected by the glass they held, she glanced up.

  His blue eyes darkened. Finely chiselled lips tipped up as he smiled and there was the hint of a dimple on his left cheek.

  ‘Hurry up.’ The manager’s gruff command washed over her.

  ‘I’ve got it.’ Mahoney’s tone was amused but his expression revealed unexpected sympathy.

  For me?

  How odd. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

  Gently, he prised the glass from her fingers and added it to her tray.

  ‘Let’s deal with this mess, shall we? Be careful, there’s a glass next to your foot.’

  She dived for it and ducked her head in confusion at his about-face attitude and soft Irish burr.

  Irish? Mahoney’s Australian, isn’t he?

  Had she mistaken this foreigner for her quarry? She tried to remember what she’d read about him.

  He twisted to retrieve two more flutes and a well-muscled male thigh brushed against hers. Heat raced along her skin and lodged at the apex of her legs, ready to burst into spontaneous combustion.

  The manager hovered beside her. ‘Please, sir, don’t concern yourself with this.’

  Mahoney held up a hand and cut off further protest. ‘Not a problem.’

  Lithely, he stood and then reached down to take her elbow in a warm and decidedly firm grip. ‘Now, how about you lead the way somewhere we can clean this jacket up?’

  She blinked several times and stared at his hand.

  This was Matt Mahoney? Was he the heartless bastard who’d bought The Shelter and planned to demolish the home of the women and children who sought her help there? That Matt Mahoney was merciless, unfeeling and hadn’t responded to her calls for a meeting to discuss his new acquisition. This man expressed concern and offered help to a clumsy waitress. Surely he couldn’t be her target?

  Impossible.

  He’d just offered her the perfect opportunity for a quiet word. If only she’d tipped wine over the developer instead of this guy, everything would have been perfect.

  But being me I got the wrong man. How could I?

  How could she have blown her one and only chance to force a meeting? The model had called him Matt but he wasn’t Mahoney.

  Miserable at her failure when so much was at stake, she sniffed. Tears stung her eyes. She willed them not to fall as she led Wrong Matt through the swing doors to a quiet corner of the kitchen. Just her luck to throw wine over a sensitive, smoking-hot guy with an accent to die for.

  Bile rose in her throat and her chest tightened. White-knuckled, she clutched her tray and swallowed the sour taste of failure. How could she face the women depending on her? Her last shot fizzled and her shoulders slumped. Andie sniffed again and bit down on her bottom lip. She grabbed two clean tea towels and began dabbing at Wrong Matt’s lapels.

  Damn it. I won’t cry. I won’t.

  But her best intentions had gone horribly wrong — again — and she was going to let down those women who depended on her.

  So what else is new? Haven’t you learned anything? You’re always disappointing somebody. She pressed her lips together and rubbed extra hard at the shiny lapel as her vision blurred.

  Wrong Matt’s warm, long-fingered hand covered hers and stilled her jerky movements. As he pressed her hand against his chest, calluses at the base of his fingers, the kind that came from hard, honest labour, scraped over her knuckles. Strong, tanned and downright gorgeous Wrong Matt did more than shuffle paper and the touch of his work-hardened hands comforted her.

  Through a haze of tears, she stared at the expanse of wet white shirt plastered to his broad chest. Like a second skin, the material stretched over toned muscle that her hands were now firmly pressed against. Tempted to trace the outline of well-defined muscle, she opened her fingers wide and slipped her hand beneath his jacket.

  He leaned into her touch. Did he welcome it? A muscle jumped and her little finger slipped between the buttons of his tuxedo and touched warm, smooth skin.

  How would his skin taste? Of champagne? Almost certainly. Her lips parted.

  Metal clanged on a stove top. ‘Service ready.’ A waiter moved swiftly through the exit door nearby, his passage a sudden reminder of where they were.

  Embarrassment fired up her cheeks.

  And elsewhere. Heat from his skin scorched her palms, his hand warmed her fingers. She stared at his chest, wanting him to remove the jacket, the shirt.

  Don’t say it. For goodness sake. Dread seized her, freezing her brain. Propositioning the man was the last thing she should be doing.

  ‘It might be easier if I take it off, don’t you think?’

  Oh my God, I didn’t ask him to. Did I?

  Like smooth cognac on a cold winter evening, his soft suggestion sent goose bumps racing along her skin. His voice, his touch, his concern — kindness personified. Lustful thoughts vanished, along with her earlier resolve to confront Mahoney.

  You got the wrong Matt.

  Distracted as he shrugged off his jacket and laid it on the stainless steel counter, she bit her lip and nodded. Just one more sight of the concern in his face and she’d howl with frustration and misery. Adrenaline that had sustained her through her bid to meet with the developer drained away and she swallowed the bitter taste of failure.

  Again.

  She folded one towel lengthways and inserted it beneath the front of the jacket. As she folded the second towel, Wrong Matt gently tipped her chin up, his fingers warm against her cool skin. Automatically she lifted her eyes to meet his and lost herself in blue depths.

  Wrong Matt could be so right. Under other circumstances.

  Duh, why didn’t you check you’d got the right guy before jumping to conclusions, Andrea-my-middle-name’s-Impetuous-de Villiers?

  Why had she tipped wine over this man? Why couldn’t she ever meet a hot guy and just get to know him without somehow making a fool of herself?

  Because you’re a born klutz, Andie.

  Her stomach fluttered as his softly accented voice insinuated itself into her meandering thoughts.

  Calm and confident amid the noise of the busy kitchen, he offered, ‘I’ll speak to the manager.’

  ‘Please, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You won’t lose your job, I promise. It was Serena’s fault, not yours. She can’t talk without using her whole body.’

  ‘It’s not your concern. It doesn’t matter.’

  Oops. I shouldn’t have said that. If she was who she pretended to be, this job would be important to her. She might have stuffed up by throwing wine over the wrong man but she refused to compound that error by lying.

  She met his frank interest. ‘Look, I’ve got another job I can put more hours into. But thanks.’ Furious at herself for the deception, she worried her lip and handed him a dry towel for his shirt.

  He grabbed a handful of shirt at his waist and pulled it taut. Distracted by the view of pumped pectoral muscles, she followed the movement as his hand rubbed up and down.

  Mr Darcy be damned. Colin Firth in a wet shirt has nothing on this guy.

  Reluctantly, she forced herself to turn back to the counter top and thumped a second towel on top of his jacket and then smoothed her hands along it, pressing out the dampness. He’d be able to wear the jacket, sticky as it was.

  ‘I’ll pay for your dry cleaning.’

  ‘Thank you, darlin’, but there’s no need.’

  At least he didn’t have to stand in front of the glittering throng outside and deliver a speech. That was Matt Mahoney’s reason for being here tonight. And Mahoney was somewhere out there in that crowd.

  Belatedly her brain kicked back into gear. If Wrong Matt was at this function, he might know the developer. Maybe he could point him out. She slipped her
thumb nail between her lips and grimaced at the taste of wine.

  Was it worth the risk?

  The spectre of her failure to find Mahoney loomed over her promise to the group of mothers before she left for the fundraiser this afternoon. Matt’s concern for her and her job were the marks of a decent man. Perhaps he would help her. The families needed her to succeed.

  I need me to succeed.

  Of course it was worth the risk. What did she have to lose?

  You can do this. He’s a nice guy. He’ll listen.

  Waiters hurried past with the final selection of canapés. As the kitchen door swung back, the scent of his cologne wafted across her. Tangy, like a fresh sea breeze.

  He leaned against the counter at her side, half turning to face her.

  ‘I will have a word with the manager, though. He did seem to blame you and injustice doesn’t sit well with me. But we Irish have quite a bit of experience in that area.’

  The gods were finally smiling on her. He’d handed her the best opening. Before she could change her mind she jumped in.

  ‘Nor me. But what would you call it when some big bully developer wants to kick helpless women and children out of the only home they have?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ His warm smile faded and he frowned.

  She took a deep breath and launched into an unrehearsed plea. ‘Do you know Matt Mahoney very well?’

  He nodded. ‘Pretty well. What’s he got to do with bully developers?’

  ‘There’s a rundown building in an alley off Swanston Street.’ Words welled out of her before she could rethink the plan. What plan?

  ‘There’s many such places in the CBD. What of it?’ He didn’t move but she had the impression his shoulders stiffened and his gaze became wary.

  ‘He’s just bought ours. The old pub that—’

  Jaw muscles tightened, his lips pressed firmly together. ‘I know it, but how do you? I thought that was secret.’

  A sense of foreboding shivered up her spine. Had she misread him? She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance while her stomach did backflips. She wouldn’t be sidetracked this time although prickles of tension rose on her scalp. ‘That’s irrelevant.’