The Dare Collection June 2019. Rachael Stewart
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out the door.
I fought to keep my voice even. ‘No, Mom. I’m not saying that.’ But the part of me that had always judged her a little for her decisions wouldn’t be soothed. From the letters I’d discovered as a teenager, Richard Nolan had loved his wife. Enough to uproot his life to follow her to the States. Enough to forgive her first infidelity and the many that had followed. It was only after I was born that my father had put his foot down. He’d thrown down the gauntlet of his desertion in the hope that she would come to her senses. She hadn’t. He’d walked away.
Seven years later he was dead and I was left with a parent who’d spent the best years of her life looking for love and validation in all the wrong places.
I swallowed my knotted heartache and lowered the phone long enough to check the time. ‘I have to go, Mom.’
She didn’t respond for a long moment. ‘New Jersey isn’t the other side of the world, Neve.’
It felt like it most days. ‘I know. I’ll visit when I can.’
I ended the call with shaking fingers and lacerated emotions. I straightened my spine and attempted to pull myself together. My problems with my mother weren’t going to go away any time soon. But I was going to be late to dinner if I didn’t move my ass.
I was shown to our table mere minutes before Damian walked through the restaurant. His laser-sharp gaze fixed on me as he strode through the room, again oblivious to the heads he turned with the sheer jaw-dropping magnificence of his presence.
Even with the width of the table between us, his sexual dynamism hit me like a wild tropical wave. Right up until he froze, his eyes narrowing. ‘Is everything okay?’
I bit the inside of my lip, cursing the shaky composure that hadn’t quite righted itself since the call with my mother. ‘I’m fine.’
He sat down, no...he lounged as if he owned the place, drawing attention to the dark olive-green shirt that clung to his streamlined torso, the open collar revealing a swathe of hair-dusted skin that made me itch with that infernal need. The casual jacket and matching trousers were also dark, the overall effect nothing short of spectacular.
When he flicked open the single button to his jacket, I shifted in my seat, desperately wishing I were immune to his obscenely handsome face. A little perturbed, I busied myself powering off my phone, while attempting to tamp down my body’s involuntary reaction, deny the effect of that unnerving stare as it continued to sizzle deep inside me.
As there had been two years ago, there was a mildly puzzled texture to his stare that thrilled me with the possibility that he couldn’t help his visceral reaction to me.
Was that why he’d behaved so appallingly after our night together?
Why are you finding reasons to excuse his behaviour?
And what did it matter now, when I could use it to my advantage? ‘There are a hundred other deals out there that you could put your name to. Why are you intent on attaching yourself to Fantasy Rooms?’
His mouth twisted slightly and the heat lessened in his eyes. ‘So much for thinking this would be a cordial dinner.’
‘I don’t have time to beat around the bush.’
The waiter approached. Damian ordered a bottle of water, then raised his eyebrow at me.
‘A glass of Chablis, thanks.’
The waiter nodded and left.
Damian eyed me. ‘It’s a great business opportunity. The Mortimer Group owns thousands of hotel rooms across the world. A concept like this, with innovative marketing targeted at an exclusive clientele, could eventually add considerable revenue to the business. And once you get over your dislike of me you’ll realise this could be hugely beneficial to you too, regardless of my involvement. Or perhaps even because of it,’ he tagged on after a few seconds.
‘Deals struck on the show are binding, but there’s a cooling-off period, isn’t there?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you attempting to insult me again?’
I shrugged. ‘I’m merely triple-checking facts.’
‘Triple-checking or trying to piss me off?’
I sent him a saccharine smile. ‘Which one suits you best?’
‘Careful, Neve, or you might get a reaction you’re not entirely ready for.’ His gaze didn’t stray from my face but I felt as if he’d stripped me bare, branded my skin with his words. And more.
‘I’m a big girl. I can handle myself. And while we’re discussing the subject of handling, let’s talk about your so-called role.’
One corner of his mouth tilted. ‘So-called? You make it sound imaginary.’
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘You’re still hung up on rumours?’
I raised my eyebrow and waited.
‘Tell my why you looked troubled when I arrived and I’ll tell you.’
My stomach dropped in alarm. ‘We’re not here to get personal. We’re here to—’
‘Discuss business. I know. But my reasons are personal. And you’ve been probing all week. So those are my terms.’
‘I could get up and walk out of here. You know that, don’t you?’
‘And leave all those questions buzzing in your head unanswered? I don’t think so.’
I needed ammunition; to probe his weaknesses to achieve my own goals. If I had to give a little to gain a lot... ‘Phone call with my mother a little while ago. We have a...fraught relationship.’
His gaze remained steady on me. Penetrating. Almost...encouraging.
I dropped mine to the table, a little puzzled as to why I felt compelled to elaborate. ‘She’s my only remaining relative. The one I’ve had the longest relationship with even though it’s been difficult at best.’
‘And you hate failing. So you persevere,’ he stated simply.
Icy chills chased over my skin at those simple, insightful words. ‘I’m human. I don’t actively like failing.’
He continued to watch me, his gaze far too knowing. Slowly his expression altered, becoming... understanding. And not at all to what I wanted. ‘We both know it’s more than that. We’re all marked in some way by dynamics we can’t control until it’s too late. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
My instincts blared dire warnings. Much as they had two years ago. But I remained seated, arranging my own features into a question. One he was required to answer now I’d exposed a precious layer of my skin.
His lips compressed. ‘It’s true. I’m wrapping things up in the States. I’m returning to London in a matter of weeks.’
‘Because you’re bored?’
‘Because it’s long bloody overdue,’ he returned in a gruff whisper, as if the words were torn from his soul.
The waiter arrived, setting down our drinks with barely a murmur, as if afraid of disturbing the atmosphere. We ordered our food after a cursory look at the menu and I barely registered his retreat.
‘You sound as if it’s been a prison sentence.’ The mild scorn I attempted failed. In its place was a quietly churning urgency. A fierce need to understand this man. To understand why.
I wrapped my fingers around the bulb of my wine glass and waited.
His jaw rippled with tension. A shamefully heated part of me wanted to run my lips over the spot. To taste the chaos. ‘A prison sentence is finite, even if one’s release is via death. Mine is...fluid.’
‘And