Page 17 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Then I come up with a clear plan. Sharedcontrol, ironclad clauses protecting the Hammond name and core employees. It’s a long shot. A Hail Mary pass based on the hope that beneath the ruthless billionaire facade, there’s a strategist who values a smart rebuild over a quick demolition. And maybe respects a fighter.

Okay, Blackwell,I think, rubbing my tired eyes.You want to see value? Tomorrow, I’ll show you value. Hammond & Co. isn’t dead yet.

The thought brings a flicker of determination, but exhaustion pulls at me. My mind drifts, unbidden, back to those sharp blue eyes, the faint smirk, the unexpected intensity of his presence.

Focus!

He’s the adversary!

The very attractive, infuriatingly competent adversary.

Tomorrow.

My turf.

Let’s see how well Mr. Blackwell enjoys playing away from home.

I just hope I have enough coffee to survive it.

6

Lucy

Ismooth down the front of my Roland Mouret dress. Power red, because subtle is for people who aren’t teetering on the brink of financial annihilation. My heels click sharply on the floor of the Hammond & Co. lobby, a sound that usually feels authoritative but today just jangles my nerves.

The echo mocks the silent fury I’d been nursing for the past sixty minutes. An hour. Christopher Blackwell was late.Again.Just like he’d been for our meeting at his office. When Carol’s voice finally crackled over the intercom announcing his arrival at precisely 10:00 AM, a full hour past schedule, I told her I needed five minutes. Petty? Maybe. But turnabout is fair play, even when you’re negotiating from the business equivalent of a sinking ship. Can’t let him think he can just dictate everything, including time.

Five minutes later, having achieved absolutely nothing except feeling slightly less trampled, I head toward the front of the office.

Carol, Dad’s assistant and the closest thingHammond & Co. has to an immovable object, gives me a tight-lipped, almost imperceptible nod from behind the mahogany reception desk as I approach. It’s her ‘Good luck, don’t let the shark bite’ look. She’s seen generations of Hammonds face down crises, but I bet even she hasn’t seen one quite like this.

And there he is. Not pacing, not looking inconvenienced by my five-minute power play, but seated comfortably in one of the slightly worn leather armchairs in the waiting area. Legs crossed, casually scanning a copy of theWall Street Journallike he hasn’t just waltzed in an hour late.

Of course he doesn’t look bothered.

His suit is charcoal gray, making our slightly faded grandeur look, well, faded. He’s alone today, no intimidating assistant or obvious security detail, though I bet he has men standing guard outside.

He lowers the newspaper slowly as I approach, those sharp blue eyes instantly finding mine across the lobby. And then he smirks. That infuriating, knowing little smirk that says, ‘Nice try, cupcake, but I’m still running this show’.

God, I hate that smirk. And the way my stomach does a stupid little flip-flop when I see it.

He rises smoothly, folding the paper and placing it neatly on the side table. “Ms. Hammond,” his voice is smooth, deep, and laced with barely concealed amusement. “Ready to begin? Or were you hoping I’d leave?”

“Mr. Blackwell,” I reply, stepping forward, hand outstretched. My palm is embarrassingly damp.Get it together, Lucy.“Welcome to Hammond & Co. Thank you for agreeing to meet here.”

His hand envelops mine. It’s warm, firm, and thecontact sends another ridiculous jolt up my arm. His grip lingers just a fraction of a second too long, his thumb brushing lightly against my pulse point.

Is he doing that on purpose? Power play? Or just… him?

I pull my hand back, maybe a little too quickly.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, the smirk deepening slightly. “Always interested in historical sites. Though I confess, I usually prefer ones with fewer… structural issues.”

Ouch.Okay, so we’re starting with insults disguised as observations. Lovely.

“We prefer to think of it as character, Mr. Blackwell,” I say brightly, forcing a smile that hopefully looks more confident than terrified. “Something built to last, not just to flip. Shall we?”

“You say it like flipping is a bad thing,” he retorts.