Best Enemies Forever, page 1
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
The Story Continues…
Acknowledgements
Other books by Olivia
About Olivia
Copyright © 2023 Olivia Hayle
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be distributed or transmitted without the prior consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.
All characters and events depicted in this book are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and explicit scenes, and is intended for mature readers.
Edited by Andie Edwards of Beyond the Proof
Ebook cover art by Cormar Covers
Model Lucas Loyola, shot by Wandar Aguiar
Paperback chapter art by Ginotage Sandaru
Paperback cover by Books & Mood
www.oliviahayle.com
To ambitious women who are tired of being underestimated... and who are learning to ask for what they want.
Connie
It’s a perfect night—a martini in hand and plenty of interesting people to watch. That’s one of the few things I like about Las Vegas. People gather here from every corner of the world. They do that back in New York, too, but people seem different here, somehow. Louder, brighter, and infinitely more entertaining.
The hotel I’m in, for all its five stars and luxury, still carries the faint scent of indoor smoke. I doubt the Strip will ever lose it entirely.
“Would you like another drink?” the bartender asks. He has a wide smile and a towel thrown over his shoulder, and is standing in front of shelves stocked to the brim with every liquor known to man.
Handsome, I think.
“Yes, thank you, that’d be lovely.”
He gets to work behind the counter, grabbing a bottle of gin. “Enjoying your time in Vegas?”
“It’s been good,” I admit, and cross my legs over on the barstool to face him. “Just here for a convention.”
“Most people are.”
I nod. That much is true. The convention hadn’t exactly dazzled with opportunities for sparkling conversation, but a representative of Contron had to be here, nonetheless. To schmooze, to smile, to shake hands, and to have those all-important meetings behind closed doors. And seeing how David Connovan is in his late seventies, Alec Connovan is the current CEO and far too busy, and Nate Connovan is in London, the job naturally fell to me.
Constance Connovan.
Yes, even my first name is a nod to the conglomerate my family started all those decades ago. Now the company turns over several hundreds of millions in revenue every year, and its diversified investments span across industries and countries. Contron is branded deep into my identity, etched onto my bones.
“Here you go.” The bartender puts a fresh martini down and smiles again. It looks flirty, but so do most bartenders’ grins. “Let me know if you need anything else. I’m not that busy tonight.”
Right. Definitely flirty.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say and push my auburn hair over my shoulder. His eyes track the movement.
“Awesome,” he says with a widening smile. He disappears to the far end of the bar to serve another guest, and I turn my gaze back toward the busy casino. Apparently, Vegas is also hosting the National Marijuana Convention and the Awards Ceremony for Best in Jazz. This makes for some very interesting people-watching.
I should be getting to bed. It’s been a long evening already, with a three-course-meal with the heads of two other national broadcasting corporations. I have an early flight back to New York tomorrow and work waiting for me at Contron.
But the gin and tonic taste great, and there’s a couple of women sauntering across the casino floor in giant feather boas, so maybe I can stay just a little while longer.
Vegas is an experience, even from a barstool. Besides, flirting a bit more with the bartender can’t hurt. It’s been a year since my breakup, and I haven’t exactly been living the dream single life.
My gaze stops on a group of men in the distance. They’re in suits, and one of them has thick, dark hair and a strong profile. It’s a profile I’d recognize anywhere, even at a distance.
Of course Thompson Enterprises sent someone to this convention, too. Never mind that broadcasting is our thing, something Contron does well, a significant portion of our investment portfolio. Thompson’s holdings in broadcasting are minuscule and mainly located in the Midwest. They’ve been trying to enter the market for years, but we’ve beaten them off at every turn.
I should have expected them to send someone… I just didn’t think it would be Gabriel Thompson himself.
I turn to the side and pull my hair forward to hide my face. Shit.
Gabriel is only two years older than me, but he’s much higher up in his family’s company than I am at mine. I’m twenty-nine, but my two older brothers still consider me a child. It’s infuriating. It’s even more annoying when I know that Gabriel seems to have no such problems.
As the heir to the Thompson dynasty and the youngest daughter in the Connovan family, we’d both gone to the same exclusive preparatory school in Manhattan. I’d lost sight of him for a few wonderful years during my undergraduate studies, but we ended up attending the same Ivy League college once I got into law school.
We’d been in the same damn year, too. God only knows what he’d done during those years in between studying.
He’d been annoyingly smug and cocky all through school. Popular and good at sports, and maintained passable grades without putting in too much effort. Everyone has an awkward phase, except Gabriel, apparently.
I’ve never known a world where the Thompson name wasn’t spoken without irritation around my family’s dinner table. Our companies were started around the same time by leaders who were aggressive in their business practices, and with a long history of going after the same opportunities. Contron and Thompson Enterprises have been rivals ever since.
And since birth, Gabriel Thompson has been mine.
I take a long sip of my martini. It’ll have to be my last, and I’ll have to say goodbye to any flirting plans if I want to make it up to my room unscathed. The last thing I want on this trip is to be noticed by him.
But I only make it halfway through my drink before a hauntingly familiar voice speaks beside me.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise? Didn’t know you were in town.”
I retrieve an olive pick out of my martini and turn to look at him.
“What a shame,” I say, and put it into my mouth. Slowly, I pull the olive off. “Imagine how much fun we would’ve had together.”
His dark eyebrows lift at the heavy sarcasm in my voice. I know he’ll give it right back to me. He always does.
“Instead, I find you making out with an olive,” he says. His voice is deep and collected. Gabriel almost never gets annoyed, no matter what I do.
He’s the one who always manages to get a rise out of me.
I chew slowly, like I couldn’t care less. “Still a better kisser than you,” I say.
There’s a satisfying flash of surprise in his eyes. I never mention that night in college, five years ago. Usually, I do my best to not even think about it.
But here I am, doing just that, trying to get a rise out of him. I shouldn’t have had a third drink.
“Interesting,” he says. “You’re on the warpath tonight. Irritated, Connie? Didn’t close the deals you wanted?”
“Thank you for the concern, but my days here have been excellent.”
He gives a nod, eyes glittering, and pats the barstool next to mine. “I assume you’re not waiting for anyone.”
“You’d be wrong,” I say.
He takes a seat anyway, probably hearing my lie for what it is. “I didn’t see you at the convention.”
“I was busy talking to people off the main floor.”
He laces his fingers together on the bar counter. They’re broad across the backs, and his suit jacket rides up to show the hint of a crisp white shirtsleeve. “Were you?” he asks. “Because I think I’ve met with every single supplier over the past three days.”
“And you don’t think I have?”
“Not one has mentioned Contron.”
“Of course they wouldn’t, not in a meeting with you.” I turn to him, catching that annoyingly mocking gaze. “Broadcasting is ours.”
He tuts. “This is a free country, Connie.”
“Yes, which gives us the freedom to be the heavyweight in national broadcasting.”
“You were always good at twisting logic for your own purposes.”
“And you aren’t?” I ask. “The mock trial, final year, in Donovan’s class.”
He grins. It’s a flash of white teeth in a stubble-covered jaw. He’s only gotten more handsome over the years. It’s safe to say, the bastard will never hit that awkward phase. He doesn’t have one.
“I won that case fair and square,” he says.
My hands tighten around my drink and I toss the rest of it back.
“Painful?” he asks.
“It was a long time ago.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
Screw you hovers on the tip of my tongue. It’s there, close enough that I can taste it, but I know saying it means he gets the upper hand. It’s what he wants.
I flag down the bartender instead. He returns, casting a not-so-subtle look at the man who’s appeared beside me.
“Could I have another martini, please?” I ask and give him my biggest smile.
“A glass of bourbon, too. Neat,” Gabriel says.
“Feel free to take a long time with his order,” I say sweetly. “And just so you know, we’re not a couple.”
The bartender chuckles. If he’s confused, he’s excellent at hiding it. “All right, then, you two. A martini and bourbon coming up.”
The moment he’s gone, Gabriel smirks. “Very smooth.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I was at this bar first, and you won’t chase me away.”
“Who says I’ve been trying?”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He catches it and smiles, a mocking acknowledgment. “Maybe I have.”
“You always do.”
“Well, I’m clearly interrupting you trying to get it on with a Vegas bartender. Is this a high point, Connie?”
I force myself to count to three. “As if you haven’t slept with bartenders or dancers or far worse.”
He nods, but not in agreement. It’s more like he expected that response from me. My hand tightens around the glass in frustration. I shouldn’t let him get to me like this.
“So, you really are,” he says smoothly. “Interesting.”
The bartender puts down a bourbon in front of Gabriel, and he reaches for it, twisting the tumbler around. I look straight ahead. Count the bottles on the shelf. Is it childish? Perhaps. But damn it, I was enjoying my evening here first. He doesn’t get to run me off, not when I know he’ll chalk it up as a win.
“Arcwave’s presentation was awful,” he says.
“Terrible,” I agree. “Their company won’t last the year.”
“No, that much is obvious.”
“Thinking of making an offer?” I ask.
A corner of his mouth tips up. “You know I wouldn’t tell you if we were.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“It’s not a yes or a no.”
“Right,” I say. “Broadcasting is still ours.”
He nods, and it’s that mocking movement again because he’s not really agreeing with me. He’s saying right, that’s what you think. “And renewable energy is ours. So, what are you doing, investing in V Solar Tech?”
“It’s a free country,” I tell him. That deal closed only two weeks ago, and my brother had been careful to keep it quiet. He won’t like that Thompson Enterprises already knows about it.
Gabriel snorts. “You’re racing through that martini. Hoping to get rid of me?”
“I don’t care if you leave or stay,” I say. I push a hand through my hair. It’s tangled at the ends after a long day, and my lower back hurts from the hours in heels.
Going to bed would be lovely. But I’m a Connovan. I’d never admit defeat to the man beside me.
“You know, we haven’t had a proper conversation like this in a long time,” he says and takes a long sip of his bourbon. “I’ve missed your snark, princess.”
My eyes twitch. I hate that nickname, and he knows it.
But I make my mouth soften, my face settling into the most insincere smile I can muster. “And I’ve missed your arrogance,” I tell him. “You’re so good at… overcompensating.”
His smile turns sharp. “Lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“So, what’s the real reason you’re guzzling that drink? You couldn’t make Daddy proud with the business deal he wanted you to close here at the convention?”
I lock my eyes on a bottle of Malibu Rum up on the shelf to keep from glaring at him. “Maybe I’m celebrating,” I say. “And if you’re here annoying me rather than doing the same, I’d guess you’re the one who failed in your mission. Why did they send you to Vegas, Gabriel?”
His smile widens. “You know I can’t tell you.”
“Then you can’t imagine I’ll do the same.”
He tips his head to me. Something is burning in his eyes. Competition, arrogance, the desire to irritate me into snapping…
“Another drink?” he asks. His voice is mocking. He expects me to say no. To excuse myself, to throw a parting shot his way, and to slink back up to my room with my tail between my legs.
Surrender would be the best option. The safer option. But it’s the last one I was raised to ever accept.
I lift my drink to his. “I’d love to.”
My tone says everything but.
The bartender sets down a refill for us both and leaves a little bowl of nuts on a counter. I’m not sure if it’s a sign that he thinks I’ve been going through these drinks faster than he’d recommend, but I leave it untouched. So does Gabriel.
The tension is so tight it makes my shoulders ache. One misstep, and he’ll pounce. I know it. I’d never miss a chance to do the same.
“So,” he says, voice dropping. “Drinks alone, and then fucking the bartender. That would be your definition of a celebration?”
“Well, it definitely beats talking to you.” My voice is sickly sweet, and his jaw tenses in response. He doesn’t like it when I use that tone. Excellent.
“If you want me to leave, all you have to do is ask.”
I meet his gaze. “I would never.”
His mouth tips into a smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”
My head is starting to feel fuzzy when I turn it his way. Just a bit, at the temples, and I know I should slow down. Judging by the flush of color that mars his high cheekbones, this bourbon isn’t his first drink of the evening, either. Wherever he’d been before this, he’d been drinking, too.
Dangerous, a voice inside me warns. Nothing I say is safe here. Everything can and will be used against me within the Thompson organization.
“I saw the piece on you in the New York Globe,” I say.
He turns to me fully. His suit jacket is undone and so is the top button of his crisp white shirt, showing a hint of chest hair. “I can’t wait to hear what you thought.”
“Very well produced,” I say. “Undoubtedly well-written, although, that’s more the journalist’s skill than yours.”
“Naturally,” he says. “So when’s your one-on-one interview coming out?”
“Very funny.”
He chuckles. “Have you been pestered by Goodrich from the National Association these days, too?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes.”
“That man has sent enough messages to my assistant that you could mistake him for a lover.”
“How did you get rid of him?” I ask.
“Well, I told him I’d get him an invite to one of the summer parties at Oak Hill.”
My eyes widen in surprise. Oak Hill is the Thompson family’s sprawling Connecticut estate. It’s been in the family for almost a century, and they’re well-known for hosting company retreats, family get-togethers, and investor meetings there.
