Crystal Green - His Arch Enemy's Daughter

Maybe she was tired, her mind playing mean tricks on her.

She sighed. “Thanks for going easy on me tonight.”

“‘Easy’ doesn’t describe you, Ashlyn.” Again, that ghost of a grin slanted his lips.

Now she really needed to leave, before she curled up next to him, light as a wisp of smoke, to feel the security of his arms.

She opened the car door, grinning at him. “Good riddance” was probably pin-balling through his thoughts, and she couldn’t blame him in the least.

“Good night,” she said softly.

He lifted a hand, gesturing a laconic farewell.

Typical Sam Reno. She walked up the stone stairway, lined by spring’s newest azaleas, their pink blooms reflecting her attitude. He’d smiled, laughed. And the responses made her giddy, layering hope upon hope in her soul.

What if…?

As she turned around to catch a last glimpse, he lightly shut the door and drove away, the Bronco’s red taillamps streaking down her driveway, red as Cupid’s kisses.

As untouchable as Sam himself.

Sam couldn’t believe he’d touched her hair.

Damn him, he’d actually reached out as she’d turned away from him, wisping his finger through one of her short, sandy locks.

He gritted his jaw, guiding the Bronco down the driveway. What had come over him?

They’d been sitting in the car, a typical goodnight-to-you drop-off when she’d smiled at him with all the power of midday sunshine. Then she’d said something cute, something flippant enough to divert his attention from the upstairs-window shadow, lording it over the fancy Spencer mansion and its twinkling porch lights.

Another house that greed had built.

And, dammit, he’d seen enough greed in Washington, D.C., to last him five lifetimes.

Kids, walking home from school, when…

Sam shut his mind’s eye to the sight, punching away the memories.

Instead, he watched his headlights suffuse the pine trees, the willow by the massive Spencer gates.

He’d touched her hair, and it had felt just as soft as he’d imagined. Sam used to touch Mary’s hair, too. He’d done it to reassure her, done it when he’d wanted her to look at him. It had always been an absent gesture, borne of the need for comfort.

When he’d reached out to Ashlyn, he hadn’t even been thinking straight; he’d merely been reacting to the welcome happiness their banter had induced.

What? Happiness?

Sam turned on to the country road, lining up the Bronco in his lane to adjust to an oncoming car. A Mercedes.

He accelerated just as Horatio Spencer slowed down, turning into his driveway. Sam caught a slow-motion glimpse of the man’s miffed glance, the startled moment of recognition as Horatio saw the sheriff’s vehicle.

Sam steadied his pulse, pulling the Bronco away from the mansion. He’d have to come face-to-face with the man someday. Confront his family’s demons head-on.

But in the meantime, Sam would do well to avoid Ashlyn Spencer. He didn’t need another woman in his life, especially after what he’d done to lose his wife. He didn’t need the pain.

Sam drove into darkness, into the dead zone, once again feeling a dull stillness as it settled around his body.

And around his heart.

Ashlyn stepped inside the mansion, the Italian-marbled foyer seeming cold and lifeless.

She thought of going to the kitchen to grab a few leftovers for a late dinner, but decided she was too excited to be hungry. Instead, she wandered to the antique Baltimore secretary leaning against the wall, reaching inside to retrieve the mail that the downstairs maid had dropped off.

Catalogs, junk ads, wastes of good paper. Heck, why couldn’t she even pay proper attention to her mail?

The front door opened, and she felt him. Her father, watching her from behind.

His voice, rough as rocks crashing together in the black of a cave, said, “It wasn’t bad enough when you played bridesmaid to the Cassidys, was it? Now you’re sleeping with the enemy.”

“Hello, Father,” she said, making sure her tone was unaffected. She turned around, grinning her ain’t-I-sweet-as-sugar smile.

He seemed to fill the door frame with his wiry stance, encased by a business suit even this late at night. She’d gotten her height from him, and she shuddered to think what else she might’ve inherited.

His hair, black-and-white as marbled stone, all but stood on end. As he stepped inside, Ashlyn could’ve sworn she saw something like concern tumble through his dark eyes, but then—poof!—it disappeared.

“What circus act of yours brought the sheriff to our doorstep?” asked her father.

His verbal barb was unfair, and he should’ve known it. Ashlyn hadn’t gotten under the law’s skin since her brother Chad had come home last year. And even then, she hadn’t done anything serious—just a practical joke concerning Chad’s shoes and some horse pucky in a paper bag.

She reached up to fidget with her necklace.

Memories flashed through her head: gravel blinding her, dirt drying her mouth, her father’s voice announcing her second-place station in life. Right behind Chad.

She dropped her hands to her sides, tilting her head, grin turning to stone. “I was merely taking in some fresh air, Father. There’s not much to be had at home.”

“You missed dinner, Ashlyn.”

So she had. “I’ll grab something from the kitchen.”

Her father frowned. “Eugene Hampton was here. Did you or did you not remember you were to meet him tonight?”

Oh, brother. Another one of her father’s blind date proposals. Every month held another possibility of some Harvard School of Business graduate coming to dinner to meet Ashlyn, and, predictably, she always did her best to sabotage any hope on their part.

It struck her that maybe she was too good at ruining relationships.

“Sorry, Father. Maybe next time?”

“And there will be a next time,” he said, his voice following her into the foyer. His statement echoed, racing along the spiral stairway that led to a higher floor. “I’ve invited Eugene to the Spenco Toy Factory opening picnic next weekend, so mind that you’re there.”

Ashlyn crossed her arms, met his stare head-on. “Let’s be honest. These things never work out. I can’t believe that, after five years, you’re still trying to set me up with the man you believe is Mr. Right for the Money.”

“You saw what happened when that whelp Nick Cassidy came in and took a bite of our holdings. I’d like your future to be secure.” Her father shut the front door behind him, blocking out the night sounds.

The Cassidy name leveled an uncomfortable silence between them, as if it were a physical reminder of Chad framing Nick for her own brother’s crime. “Please don’t bother with my future, Dad.”

He stepped into her view, stern as the suit of armor decorating the entrance to his game room.

“Sorry. Father.”

“That’s it for now.”

He hesitated, and Ashlyn knew he was dying to say something more about Sam Reno or his family before dismissing her altogether. She willed him to speak, but his hard, dark eyes erased the need.

She wondered how her father would react if she said Sam’s name, allowing it to reverberate through the mansion’s sterile halls. His name was already bouncing off the walls of her heart, every thump reminding her of a teenage boy who’d unwittingly encouraged a little girl’s innocent crush. She still remembered how he’d smiled her way one lonely night—years and years ago—making her feel special. Wanted. Even for an anonymous moment.

Instead he said, “See your mother before you retire, Ashlyn. She’s worried.”

She’s worried. If Chad had been out until the ghosting hour, if he’d been escorted home by the law, her father would’ve been frantic.