Hostile Attractions Read online

  Hostile Attractions

  Raleigh Davis

  A smoldering standalone romance about a hard-ass billionaire and the enemy he won’t trust—but can’t resist…

  * * *

  Minerva: I’m utterly lost. I’ve been so deep undercover for so long that when I escape with evidence of my boss’s crimes, there’s no one to turn to.

  * * *

  Except for him: Elliot Martell. My worst enemy and the last person who’d hide me. Which makes him the perfect cover, and when he sees what I’ve got on my boss, he’ll have to help me.

  * * *

  But it turns out Elliot is so tightly wound he doesn’t know who he is either. And if my employer doesn’t disappear me first, we might find ourselves together.

  * * *

  Elliot: I’d do anything to protect my brothers—both my blood brother and the ones I’ve made at Bastard Capital. If that makes me a hard ass, so be it.

  * * *

  When Minerva shows up on my doorstep, claiming to hold the key to bringing down our nemesis, my first instinct is to throw her out. My second is to drag her to my bed. Instead, I clamp down on all of it, because if she’s telling the truth, I need her. And it’s not like I’m going to sleep with the enemy.

  * * *

  But as she reveals more about her mission, trusting me to keep her secrets safe, I realize she’s not my enemy. In fact, she might become my everything…

  * * *

  Enter the world of Bastard Capital: Unrivaled men. Unimaginable wealth. Unlimited power.

  * * *

  Books in the Bastard Capital Series

  * * *

  Secret Acquisitions (Book One, Mark’s story)

  * * *

  Unfinished Seductions (Book Two, Logan’s story)

  * * *

  Competitive Instincts (Book Three, Finn’s story)

  * * *

  Intimate Mergers (Book Four, Paul’s story)

  * * *

  Hostile Attractions (Book Five, Elliot’s story)

  * * *

  Private Disclosures (Book Six, Dev’s story)

  Copyright © 2019 by Raleigh Davis

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter 1

  It’s raining so hard I’m not sure if I’m still on the sidewalk or if I’ve somehow ended up in the Third Street canal.

  When people think of San Francisco, they usually imagine fog and cold and hills, and they wouldn’t be wrong. Rain doesn’t usually figure, at least not a hard rain. But sometimes it pours here like cats and dogs, backing up the storm drains until you have no choice but to wade through knee-high rivers.

  Tonight it’s coming down so fast and thick I can’t even see the streetlights, and I’m soaked to the skin, shivering under my suit. Water pools in my shoes, which squelch with every step. I’m miserable, from the dripping-wet roots of my hair to the tips of my freezing toes.

  Weather-wise, this is the worst possible night for me to run. I could drown out here. But in some ways, it’s the best night for me to run. My boss doesn’t like the rain, so he won’t venture out of his estate. Won’t wander into the office and wonder why I’m suddenly gone, won’t notice someone’s been downloading files from his private computer.

  I shouldn’t be cursing the rain since it’s a blessing.

  Cars crawl down Channel Street, trying to drive between the sheets of water and gusts of wind. Their windshield wipers are going full speed, pushing off the rain as fast as it lands. I’m the only person foolish enough to be walking here.

  I’m surrounded by water. Above me, below me, and just to my right, an entire canal, which surprises people sometimes—a canal in San Francisco. Across the Bay, of course, there’s the great port of Oakland with cranes and shipping containers and the massive tankers endlessly churning through it.

  San Francisco used to be a massive port city too, although now the only boats here are ferries and yachts—toys for commuters, tourists, and rich people. The Third Street canal is left over from those days, and it holds the kind of boats you’d never expect to find in San Francisco—houseboats.

  My hand grips the railing tightly, the only thing preventing me from being blown off the sidewalk by the wind and swept right into the canal. I feel my way forward, gritting my eyes against the rain lashing my face. I’ve already passed El Dorado Street, so the gate to the dock should be coming up any moment now. I can’t see it, not with the rain swallowing the light from the streetlamps and the headlights, so I pray I’ll be able to recognize it by touch. I also pray that the dock gate is somehow, against all odds, unlocked. Nothing in San Francisco is ever unlocked though.

  If the gate is locked, I pray that I can pick it. I used to be really good at that, but I’m out of practice. And sitting out in the rain jimmying a lock would draw too much attention.

  I shrink farther into myself, shivering. I can’t attract any attention. Not when every camera in the city could be searching for me. I know where they all are—I helped install them—so I’ve done my best to avoid them, but I was also very good at my job, and I made sure nearly every inch of the city was blanketed.

  The rain will help. I tremble again, my entire body clenching. My muscles ache from the cold and the shivering, and I still haven’t found the gate.

  Not that there’s likely to be anything close to warmth waiting for me when I arrive. But I have no choice.

  The metal of the railing is like ice, hard and slick. My fingers lost feeling somewhere back near the Third Street Bridge, but I keep pulling myself forward.

  My hands encounter something different from the endless railing, a bar of metal that rises up and up. I let my fingers slide over the bar and find something hard and raised and round. A dead bolt.

  I found the gate. I don’t allow myself even a breath of relief. There’s no time.

  With my left hand hanging on to the dead bolt, I use my right to check beneath my shirt, making sure the hard drive is still safe. I know it’s still there because it’s massive and heavy and tucked awkwardly into the band of my bra, but I spent the past five years collecting what’s on that drive. I’m risking everything to steal it. If it’s lost…

  But it’s not. The hard plastic rectangle about the size of a book, carrying eight terabytes of information all packed into a single plastic case, is still stuffed beneath my clothes. Eight terabytes that are going to bring down one of the most evil corporations in the world.

  I feel my way down the dead bolt to the handle of the gate, trying to figure out how I’m going to pick this lock. My hair is plastered over my face, glued to my skin by the wind. There’s no way I’ll get a good view.

  I push my finger against the keyhole. It feels like—

  The gate swings inward, rusty hinges screaming over the wind. Looks like I won’t have to pick anything at all.

  I reach for the railing past the gate, the one attached to the ramp leading down to the dock, and slowly, with tiny mincing steps, make my way down. I can hear the water of the canal under my feet, sloshing angrily. Like it’s mad it can’t get at me.

  I swallow hard and try to go faster. I’ve never really liked water or boats, so it makes perfect sense that this is where Elliot Martell would be. Elliot absolutely hates me.

  But he hates my boss more. That is exactly the thing I’m counting on to keep me safe here.

  The wind rushes between the buildings lining the canal and gusts along the surface of the water, catching the ramp and making it vibrate beneath my feet. I hold tight t
o the railing and swallow my scream.

  It seems to take hours, but finally the ramp levels out and I’m actually on the pier. Problem is, the railing ends where the pier begins, and I have nothing more to cling to. I can only wrap my arms tight around myself, tuck my chin into my chest, and push forward through the wind. I can see vague shadows in the water, which I’m guessing are the houseboats. They don’t seem to be moving at all, which I find odd. Shouldn’t boats be bobbing with the water?

  My breath starts to go sharp, jerky. In the dark, all the boats look the same. Black and hulking, with none of the interior lights on.

  I found Elliot’s address in the company database, complete with satellite photos. But here in the dark, I have no way to figure out which one is his short of shouting his name.

  If he knows I’m coming, he’ll lock the door against me. He might even push me into the canal himself.

  For the first time since I started this entire… thing, I doubt my plan. After five years of pretending to be someone else, of saying and doing things that were completely against everything I’d believed in before, now… now I falter. I’ve got the hard drive under my shirt, but my legs aren’t moving any longer. My knees want to crumple, but I lock them tight. I can’t give up. Not now.

  I notice a light then, at the very end of the dock, or at least what I assume is the end of the dock. In this weather, it’s hard to tell where the dock ends and the water begins. But it’s the only light I can see, so I head toward it.

  The wind and rain seem to grow in strength as I move toward the light—Mother Nature herself is trying to flatten me. If I were superstitious, I’d say it’s a sign I’m making a huge mistake. But I’m not superstitious.

  Wait, scratch that. I did used to be superstitious. Minerva is not superstitious. I am…

  Instinctively I squash that thought. Being anything other than Minerva is too dangerous. Was too dangerous.

  Hell, I don’t know anymore.

  I focus on the light, which reveals itself to be a window in a door as it grows, a single square of cheery yellow in the bleak, black rain. I don’t know if it’s Elliot’s boat, but I don’t have a choice. The longer I stay out here, the more likely it is the hard drive will get ruined. Or that Fuchs will track me down.

  I’m pretty sure that when he finds out what I’ve done, he’ll want me dead. And not in an “Oh, I wish I could kill her but obviously I can’t” kind of way. No, my life will be in very real danger. And with the people he knows in the CIA and the NSA—the people he controls there—it will be very easy for him to make me disappear.

  No one would ever notice, because Minerva Dyne has nothing in her life except her job.

  The light looks so welcoming when I reach it, the only spot of warmth in the dark wet. But I’ll have to step off the dock and over the water in order to get on the boat and to that light. It’s just one step, but I can’t make myself do it.

  Suddenly my old fear of boats and open water comes crashing back, filling my chest, my lungs, my throat. I’m going to drown on dry land. I know it.

  I close my eyes tight. Minerva is not afraid of boats. Minerva is not afraid of anything. I can’t stop shaking. I can’t do this. I can’t step over that water, because it’s dark and cold and I’ll miss the boat and sink down to the bottom.

  No one will ever find me. No one will ever look.

  The door opens, light spilling out and illuminating the ship’s deck. A man’s body is outlined in the doorway. His broad shoulders and long legs take up most of the space.

  “Can I help you? Are you all right?”

  I recognize Elliot’s voice, but just barely. I’ve never heard that tone from him before, like he actually gives a damn about his fellow human beings. He’s not the kind to waste his concern on people he doesn’t care about.

  He wouldn’t use that tone if he knew it was me standing out here.

  “Hello? Can you understand me?” He moves out of the doorway, coming toward me. One hand—a long-fingered, broad-palmed hand—shields his eyes from the rain.

  I know I have to say something, but my voice won’t work. It’s all I can do to hug the hard drive closer to my chest, the edges sharp against my bare skin. I’m more than shivering now—the cold is wracking through me, coming in great, shuddering waves. Like the waves of the water beneath my feet, ready to sweep me away.

  There’s no safety for me here, no rescue. But I have nowhere else to go.

  The light from the entryway illuminates Elliot’s face piece by piece. There’s concern and worry sketched across his features. He looks painfully human. No one’s looked at me like that in years.

  Then he sees it’s me, and it’s all wiped clean.

  He stops dead, almost like he’s internally slamming on the brakes. His mouth twists in a grimace.

  “No.” It’s all he says. Stark and clear and condemning.

  He steps backward into the warmth and light of the doorway, then slams the door.

  Chapter 2

  As the light from the door collapses into a thin wedge, taking my hope with it, my body reacts. My legs push me forward, my feet sailing over the gap between the dock and the deck as if it weren’t there, as if I weren’t utterly terrified of it.

  I grab the door just before it closes, the frame biting into the backs of my fingers. It hurts, but I hold on.

  For a moment I think Elliot will smash my fingers in the door. I’m not surprised.

  Slowly he pulls the door back open. Rain slides into the entryway, spattering his shirt and sweats.

  Wait, he’s wearing normal clothes?

  He gives the door a jerk, a not-so-nice reminder that I’m still holding on to it. I let go as if burned.

  “I need your help.” I stare right at him as I say it, looking deep into his eyes. They’re blue and icy cold.

  He doesn’t respond or even react. Not that I should have expected him to. I could be on fire and Elliot probably wouldn’t spit on me to put it out.

  I squeeze the hard drive case and gather my wits. “I’m the mole,” I blurt. “The one Fuchs has been searching for.”

  My chest tightens as I confess. I’ve been hiding that for so long, and I just… said it.

  He shakes his head. “No, you’re not. You’re devoted to him.”

  Not me. Minerva is the one who’s devoted to him. But I’m not explaining that to Elliot. There are people I need to protect.

  And there’s no point arguing with him since he’s a lawyer. “I have all the evidence.” I reach under my shirt and pull out the hard drive.

  Elliot’s eyes go wide, and he takes two quick steps toward me, instinctively reaching for the drive. His plain white T-shirt pulls tight across his chest, and his sweatpants shift on his hips, riding dangerously low.

  His feet are bare.

  That’s the detail that snags my attention and doesn’t let go. His feet are bare, naked, completely exposed to me. Raindrops collect on his skin, and the floor must be cold against his soles. But he’s rock solid, not even flinching, like he doesn’t feel the cold at all.

  Maybe he doesn’t. As for me, I suddenly realize that I’m shivering so hard I’m in danger of dropping the drive.

  Elliot notices and reaches for it. His fingers brush the case, but I pull it back and over my head. “No.”

  He cocks his head, so slowly it’s almost a threat. I keep the drive held up high, water dripping off it into my hair and face.

  He steps back, holding the door open. “I suppose you better come inside.”

  I’ve never received such a grudging invitation, and I’m one of the most hated women in Silicon Valley. But it’s still an invitation.

  I pull the drive into my chest, and as I curl around it, my muscles seize with cold, locking me into a strange half crouch. Warmth and light and rescue are a few feet away—and I’ve been invited inside like some kind of vampire—but I can’t reach it. I still can’t reach it, after all this effort.

  He glances back at me, his feature
s stark with irritation. “Come on.”

  “I can’t,” I chatter from between clenched teeth. Shame burns through me that he should see me so weak, but it’s not enough warmth to unclench my muscles.

  With one long arm, he reaches out and snags my elbow, pulling me into the houseboat. As soon as my foot lands inside, he drops his hand like I’ve burned him. Actually shakes it out, like I’m coated with acid or something and he can’t wait to get it off.

  “Shoes off,” he says, giving me his back.

  I kick off my heels, which are filled with water, and leave them by the door. I step onto a plush carpet, my feet sinking gratefully into the warm pile of it.

  Even though I’m dripping wet and shivering hard enough to shatter my bones, I can’t help but be impressed by his houseboat. Houseboats usually conjure up images of something dingy and dark and from the seventies, when wood paneling was all the rage. But this is airy and modern with touches of coziness throughout. There’s a galley kitchen against one wall, a long bench seat piled high with pillows under a long row of windows, and a small dining area. To my left is a set of stairs that presumably lead up to the bedroom. The rain pounds at the windows, the wind screaming around us, but it seems more like a show put on for our entertainment when it’s outside this cozy environment.

  It’s small, yes, but it feels luxuriously small, if that makes any sense. Like a person could happily lock themselves away here for the rest of their life. It’s exactly what I could’ve hoped for in a hiding place and exactly what I didn’t expect from him.

  I stand in the narrow entry hallway so as not to drip on the rug throughout the rest of the boat. Elliot’s definitely the kind of guy who wouldn’t appreciate muddy water on his rugs, especially if that muddy water came from me.