The Dare Collection June 2019. Rachael Stewart
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and climb it.
I rejected both ideas. Years of trying had shown the futility of attempting to outrun my demons. Staying right here, pursuing The Mortimer Group’s best interest, would at least bring a modicum of satisfaction.
So I nodded to Rachel. ‘Show him in.’
I’d be done here in another two or three weeks. A month, tops.
Then I intended to throw the gates of hell wide open and confront the devil.
Neve
The warehouse in the Meatpacking District in Manhattan where the latest series of Raider’s Den was being filmed had been decorated to resemble a pirate ship. Treasure chests with costume jewellery spilt out over red embroidered silk strategically placed around a wide rectangular platform on which were set six throne-like antique leather armchairs.
On the far side of the wall hung two banners with a matte black imprint of a skull and crossbones denoting the show’s name. The rest of the space was draped in blood-red curtains, cherry-oak tables and black, red and white spotlights.
The whole marauder vibe added dramatic tension to the show and even though I wanted to roll my eyes as my heels clicked on the hardwood plank from the audition area towards my designated seat, I had to grudgingly admit that the set designer had done a fabulous job. The scene was perfect. Enough to make me tingle.
Applicants who braved the plank to present their ideas had to bring their A games. The formidable panel wouldn’t be a walk in the park.
I’d arrived an hour early not just to stop the butterflies in my stomach from turning into crows, but also so as not to be wrong-footed in any aspect of this project.
But Damian was already there, seated in prime position in the centre, once again impeccably dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit, one ankle resting casually on his knee.
It would’ve been cheap and snarky to mock his need to project his presence but the chair could easily have been a minor accessory. It in no way detracted from his imposing presence.
He didn’t even need the spotlight poised above his head that would be activated when filming started. From producers to make-up artists to film crew, eyes flickered to him with the frequency of homing beacons.
He remained oblivious to all of it, his gaze on the document he perused.
My heels echoed louder the closer I got to him and he raised his head when I was a few feet away.
Intelligent, piercing hazel eyes flicked to me, dropped in a quick skim over my body before rising. ‘Neve. Glad you made it.’
I delivered a neutral smile. ‘And with a whole hour to spare.’
Long, capable fingers tapped his ankle as his eyes conducted another sweep over me. ‘The commute from out of town wasn’t horrendous, I hope?’
I wasn’t going to be impressed that he’d remembered my flagship resort was based in Westport, Connecticut. It hadn’t mattered an iota when he’d advised Malcolm Cahill to kill the affiliation deal without giving me a chance to argue my case for my business and home. ‘I’m staying in town this week. To avoid any unforeseen timing issues.’
One sleek eyebrow lifted at my chilled tone. ‘Am I still not forgiven for arriving at the meeting late?’
I shrugged. ‘Forgiveness, like trust, is earned.’
He paused for a long stretch. ‘The cameras aren’t rolling, Neve. No need to show your claws just yet. We’re all friends here.’
My stupid breath caught at how easily he said the words. How unnervingly sincere he sounded. How could I not have spotted this two years ago? Oh, yes. Lust completely blinded me. ‘This is all a game to you, isn’t it?’
He tensed. ‘Beg your pardon?’
I waved a hand around the room. ‘All this is one giant playground for you to roll around in, isn’t it? What do you do, get up in the morning and roll a dice and decide who you’re going to meddle with?’
Hazel eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.’
My hackles rose. ‘Of course you don’t. Must be hard to keep track of your games when you’ve been at it for as long as you have.’ My voice dripped with bitter acid.
His face grew tauter, his lips twisting with that unique mixture of amusement and cynicism. ‘I’m attempting to get back into your good graces but I see I’m wasting my time here.’
The utter nerve. ‘It’ll take more than a half-smile and a courteous enquiry about my commute to achieve that, Mr Mortimer.’
He grimaced. ‘Can we drop this bloody Mr Mortimer crap? It’s getting a little tedious, don’t you think, Neve?’ he asked pointedly, and raised a hand when I opened my mouth. ‘We’re supposed to be business competitors but only up to a point. You throwing out that rigid formality I hear in your voice won’t make for good television.’
‘On the contrary, I think the high prospect of me clawing your eyes out for a deal is exactly what will keep viewers’ interest.’
His gaze dropped to the fingers wrapped around my coffee cup. ‘I think you should save the clawing for something more...beneficial.’
I thoroughly despised myself for the hot throb that started between my thighs. I counteracted it by moving to the seat farthest from him. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mortimer. I’m great at multitasking.’
He muttered something under his breath. Something that made my temperature kick up for no reason. ‘What did you say?’
His mocking smile said he wasn’t going to repeat it. ‘You’re in the wrong seat.’
‘I didn’t realise the seats were assigned.’
‘They aren’t. But as Executive Producer, I have a little discretion. And I prefer you next to me. Besides, Nate has already bagged that seat.’
I gave a challenging little laugh. ‘Are you sure you want me next to you?’
The rapier-sharp retort I expected didn’t materialise. Instead a cloud drifted over his face, his expression mirroring the one I saw yesterday when his phone rang. Now, like then, I wanted to ask if everything was okay. If he was okay. I staunched the absurd urge. If I wanted to play in the big leagues, I couldn’t be blinded by emotion. Not unless I wanted to be chewed up and spat out again.
‘It makes for good optics, according to those who’re fussed about such things,’ he replied in his crisp accent. Except his voice was colourless. Flat. As were his eyes. ‘Totally up to you whether you want to take it up with the producers, of course.’
Oh, how very neat of him to lob the ball back in my court. Make it impossible for me to do anything but take the seat he preferred. Because how much of a diva would I be if, as one of the newest members of the group, I started throwing my toys out of the crib over seating arrangements?
I swallowed my reservations, urged my runaway pulse to calm the hell down and took the seat to his right.
A hint of a smile twitched his mouth. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me just yet. You might live to regret it.’ A part of me already regretted it after one whiff of his aftershave immediately threw me back to when I’d experienced that scent up close and very personal.
‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ he answered cryptically.
The other mentors’ arrivals put paid to our conversation. Final instructions were given, we were miked up and official shooting began.
The first contestant’s pitch was mediocre and unanimously dispatched. Nate snapped up the second participant’s golf-ball-retrieving invention suited to his golf-based