The Dare Collection June 2019. Rachael Stewart
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He wrapped a hand around my waist. ‘Let’s start with this room.’
‘Everything. The lamps. The view. The bed.’
‘Hmm. We haven’t made it to the bed yet. What especially do you like about it?’
‘It’s sturdy. It could pass for an antique even though I know it’s not. It gives the guest a feeling like they’re sleeping in a bed fit for a king or queen. Or a naughty courtesan sneaking in for a tryst.’
He stiffened slightly. ‘Is that what turns you on, Neve? Illicit assignations with strangers you meet in bars?’
My breath caught on a dart of hurt. ‘If you’re trying to be offensive, don’t waste your time. I’ve never done anything like this before but I don’t regret it.’
I read his scepticism loud and clear. Told myself I didn’t care.
I knew my truth but couldn’t help adding, ‘There’s nothing wrong with that if all parties are free and consenting adults.’
He inhaled slowly, his gaze turning turbulent. I sensed his withdrawal even though his arm tightened around me. ‘And what would you have me do in this tryst of yours?’
I draped my arms around his neck. ‘I’d like to move to the bed, test my theory for real.’
‘As you wish.’ His concession held a definite bite.
Perhaps I should’ve called a halt to things then. But Damian Mortimer was kissing me as he carried me across the floor. Potent kisses I wanted to enjoy just for a few more hours. We were consenting adults after all.
So why fight it?
Damian
I tried.
Fought to resist her.
When I couldn’t, I wanted to punish her for reminding me of everything I wanted to forget. For tempting me enough to break the rigid rules I’d ring-fenced my life with for twelve long months. Most of all, I wanted to punish her for unwittingly re-enacting that sordid little scene downstairs.
The one that reminded me of the worst moment of my life.
That reminded me of why I was here on the wrong side of the pond when I yearned to be back in London, in the place I thrived and loved the most.
The part of me that knew it was irrational to take things out on this woman whose brazenness shouldn’t have been a turn-on—and yet had touched parts of me I’d thought were withered and dead—winced. But hell, I was drowning beneath the bitterness and vitriol festering inside me.
And she...
I tossed her on the bed, watched the most beautiful woman I’d seen in a long time beckon me with a come-hither smile.
She was irresistible. Just enough for my needs. Because after that phone call, after hearing the anger and bitterness and disappointment, I’d wanted to dive into a bottle of whiskey. I’d wanted to forget that I’d betrayed the one person closest to me.
Gideon Mortimer.
My flesh and blood. But more than that, my best friend.
But even that avenue was now closed to me.
A casual drink at a bar was what had started my descent into hell.
But Neve Nolan wasn’t off limits. She was wide open and willing, a tangible port in a black sea of despondency and frustration.
I intended to take with no regrets.
Just for tonight, I would break my own rules. And if regret came in the morning, I’d toss that too into the seething abyss that was my life.
Neve. Two years later...
DESPISE. LOATHE. ABHOR.
Nope, none of them quite fit.
I hate Damian Mortimer.
There. That was better. I’ve hated him with every single breath I’ve taken for the last two years. Since he took my offer of relief and turned it completely against me. Since he crippled my business and trashed eighteen months of back-breaking work and sacrifice with nothing more than a few gruffly muttered words to Malcolm Cahill.
This TV show was my one attempt to exact some payback.
Every day since that fateful morning after, when Malcolm Cahill shattered my dreams, I’ve vowed to teach Damian Mortimer an unforgettable lesson.
That he hadn’t even bothered to hide his part in the demise of my affiliation deal with Cahill Hotels was just the first in a despicable series of low blows that had started with his disappearance from my bed the morning after our night together. Hard on its heels had come Cahill’s phone call.
‘I’m sorry but I’ve had second thoughts, Miss Nolan. My partner, Damian Mortimer, believes this deal isn’t as viable as I previously thought. I’ll no longer be going forward...’
Bruised but undaunted, I’d risen like a phoenix from the ashes of near catastrophe, rebranded myself from Cephei Hotels to Nevirna Resort and Spa Hotels and seen steady growth, with the best quarter so far under my belt. Something I hoped my grandparents would be proud of, even if my mother believed I’d made a mistake.
My gut clenched against the dart of pain as my thoughts lit on my mother. Another area of my life Damian Mortimer’s betrayal hadn’t helped. Another area I needed to heal, despite the sinking feeling that the promise I’d made to my grandparents might never be fulfilled. They’d gone to their graves never having repaired their rift with their daughter. They’d made me promise to keep trying with my mother.
Lately, that battle seemed unwinnable.
Fresh from the loss I’d suffered at Damian’s and Cahill’s hands, I’d called my mother in a moment of weakness, for a shoulder to cry on.
Her advice had been the same—sell the resort she believed was hers by birthright and give her her due share. My refusal had estranged us for six months.
But I’d become adept at problem solving and putting out fires through sheer hard work.
The incredible success I’d achieved in those two years had drawn the attention of the producers of Raider’s Den—a TV show I wouldn’t usually lower myself to. But the discovery that this was a Damian Mortimer project was too tempting to resist. What better way to beat the devil than on his home turf?
If the rumours were true and he planned to return to England, this was my last chance to teach one particularly arrogant, insanely sexy Brit a lesson.
With a deep breath, I settled into my seat and read through the pre-show paperwork one last time. The show had been separated into four segments according to specialised industries. My segment contained sixteen young contestants, each hoping for start-up funding and partnership for their business in the hospitality industry.
I was scanning the list of contestants when the double doors to the conference room opened.
Sunlight pouring through wide rectangular windows on the fortieth floor of Mortimer Plaza, the five-star hotel and retail tower in Manhattan, lovingly illuminated the stunning physique of the man who entered.
He wore a suit. Bespoke. Naturally.
For several betraying heartbeats, anger took a step back to accommodate the hot spike of lust that lanced my belly before detonating in my pussy. Even as I clawed back control and fought the urge to squirm in my seat, the traitorous dampening between my thighs mocked me.
It brutally reminded me that the only thing better than Damian Mortimer