Pleasure Payback Page 3

  ‘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 in a three-piece suit was Damian Mortimer naked. Gloriously ripped. Utterly divine.

  His soul as dark as a tar pit.

  Remember that.

  But even the stern admonition didn’t stop my recollection of spectacular, mind-melting sex.

  I’d believed I knew what good sex was before I met Damian. Oh, how pathetically wrong I was.

  If I despised one thing more than the man himself, it was that since our night together my body hadn’t come even close to craving what he gave to me with anyone else. I only had to think about him for every cell in my body to come alive, for my needy pussy to remind me of its continued famine and for those X-rated thoughts about that arrogant bastard to hit the play button.

  The dating app my assistant had defiantly signed me up to had resulted in two mind-numbingly boring dates, after which I’d deleted it.

  Even my vibrator had taken a much-needed holiday, leaving me pent up and aggravatingly in need of a good seeing to.

  Which made me hate him even more.

  So was it any surprise that by the time his towering six-foot-plus frame reached me I was already seeing red?

  His gaze skittered past the other mentors already seated as if they were part of the furniture, sauntering as if he weren’t twenty minutes late. ‘Gentlemen,’ he drawled on his way to his seat at the top of the table.

  Then his eyes lit on me. His stride didn’t break but a hard light flickered in his gaze and muscles twitched in his jaw. Then followed the slow elevation of one eyebrow.

  ‘Neve, I didn’t know you were a part of this meeting.’

  ‘It’s Miss Nolan, and I’m shocked, Mr Mortimer. I was under the impression you knew everything.’

  He didn’t so much as flinch at my sarcastic tone but his eyes reflected wariness and mild shock.

  He probably wasn’t used to women talking back to him and preferred everyone to ask how high when he said jump. He’d kept the producers hanging on for weeks before finally committing to the latest Raider’s Den production last week.

  He probably hadn’t even read the brief that announced that three of the members of the panel wouldn’t be returning for the new season and would be replaced by three new mentors, including me.

  I took a calming breath. ‘I hate to throw out clichés so early in the morning but time is money for me, Mr Mortimer. So if you’re certain you’re absolutely present, can we get started?’

  That drew varying looks from my fellow Raiders, ranging from bemusement to wariness. One sniggered.

  A scathing look from Damian wiped the look off the man’s face.

  ‘I had my assistant send my apologies twenty minutes ago to say I was running late. If that won’t suffice, I’ll be sure to draw you a pint of blood once the meeting ends if that’s what you need to appease you?’

  I’d silenced my phone for the meeting so any incoming emails wouldn’t have registered. I hit the home button on my phone and there it was, a message from Damian Mortimer.

  Shit.

  Stupid heat crawled up my neck but it didn’t stop me from boldly meeting his sardonic gaze. ‘Keep your blood. I wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with it.’

  ‘You sure?’ he enquired mockingly, one hand reaching for the leather binder in front of him.

  ‘These days I’m just a little more selective with my tastes. Shall we proceed?’

  He paused, eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening at the insult. ‘Since I’m chairing the meeting, you’ll have to curb your enthusiasm for another minute while I get up to speed. Can you do that, Miss Nolan?’

  I forced a smile, tried to quell the effect of the deep-voiced, cut-glass English accent that reminded me far too much of a certain young royal prince and shrugged. ‘Of course, although I would’ve thought you’d be all caught up by now.’ Another shameless dig, but I couldn’t help myself.

  His eyes gleamed with that flint-hard expression I’d spotted the first time we met. Some things hadn’t changed, then? Whatever demons he’d harboured two years ago still snapped at his heels.

  Satisfaction I’d expected to feel about that never arrived, leaving me faintly bewildered. I forced the sensation away and watched his gaze drop to the document before him. For the sixty seconds he took to speed-read, my stupidly compulsive gaze dragged over his face, noted the harsher lines etched into his features.

  There were other changes too. Lips that had delivered magnificent orgasms were no less sensual now than they’d been two years ago but they appeared sterner, as if he spent too long pursing them. The skin around his eyes looked strained and his hair was longer. And yet, not a single thing detracted from the jaw-dropping package.

  His head reared up suddenly, and I couldn’t avoid the piercing gaze that crashed into mine or the eyebrow elevated in silent query.

  ‘Let’s get started. First of all, welcome to the team, Miss Nolan.’

  Okay, not what I was expecting. ‘Thank you,’ I responded briskly.

  He stared a moment longer. The scrutiny was fleeting, but my skin reacted feverishly to the heat of his gaze on my face and chest before he swung his gaze
around the room.

  ‘Gary, Preston, welcome,’ he addressed the other mentors. ‘The rest of you know the brief. This may be a TV show but it’s a profit-making venture, catering to the discerning. Our viewers are in the upper-middle-class demographic. They’re engaged by savvy, intelligent investments, not by us playing up to the cameras. I don’t need to tell you that if you make a crap investment, it’s not just your money on the line but your reputation. And more than that, it’s my reputation. So don’t fuck it up.’ His gaze travelled the room, met mine, lingered.

  Gary Withers leaned forward. The newspaper mogul had branched into venture capitalism a decade ago, and was known for his aggression. He was definitely one to watch. ‘Heads up, when I see something I like, I go after it, no holds barred. I didn’t come here to pussyfoot around.’

  Damian’s gaze left mine after lingering one more second. A second that felt like a whole hour and left me annoyingly breathless.

  ‘The show isn’t live. It can be stopped at any time. If you need reminding that you’re being an ass, Gary, it’ll happen.’

  Damian’s evenly delivered words drew chuckles around the room, but the steely undertone registered.

  It was clear who was running the show.

  The need to take him on, and win, burned brighter. ‘We’re sticking to the two offers, two mentors maximum per pitch, correct?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Correct. It’s been a tacit rule since the show started.’

  ‘But not everyone’s averse to bending the rules, or screwing a fellow mentor over, are they?’

  The atmosphere grew strained, thick with the unspoken words I wanted to flaunt at him. Those laser eyes narrowed again. ‘If you’re seeking an ironclad promise, Miss Nolan, you’re not going to get one.’

  I smiled, letting my cynicism drape my lips. ‘Of course I’m not. Where’s the fun in that, right?’

  His gaze dropped to my mouth, blatant mockery in his stare. ‘Exactly. Don’t forget that this is business. But no reason why it can’t be pleasurable, as well.’

  The note in his voice caught me deep and heavy, snagged at the taut strings of lust I’d thought were long since slackened from disuse. Beneath the conference table, I squeezed my thighs together as his gaze lingered, the green in his eyes standing out the longer we traded stares.

  A throat cleared. ‘Since we’re talking...possible leeway, how about we lift the rule on pursuing prospects outside the show?’ Preston Roper, owner of Roper Casinos, asked.

  ‘Once the six-month non-compete deal with your fellow Raiders passes, sure,’ Damian replied.

  Preston groaned. ‘Seriously? Six months? You know how quickly the market can change in six months.’

  ‘Not my problem,’ Damian replied. ‘Anything else?’

  Other queries arose and were batted away by Damian. The man knew his stuff. I couldn’t deny it. But the devil was an expert in his line of work too.

  ‘Just so we’re clear, can you confirm that you haven’t seen the pitch list? That you haven’t cherry-picked projects for yourself?’

  He stiffened and a chilly breeze wafted through the room. ‘Are you calling my integrity into question, Miss Nolan?’

  Yes! ‘I’m the newbie. I’m making sure we’re all on the same page.’

  Long masculine fingers drummed on the table for a moment before he replied, ‘As it’s been since the beginning, only the senior producer knows what the candidates will pitch. They’re picked based on a module that matches our business needs with the candidates. Otherwise we’d all be wasting our time. If I wanted to attach my name to a fixed, mindless reality TV show, I wouldn’t be on this project.’

  I raised my eyebrow. ‘So that’s a definite no, then?’ I goaded.

  A tight smile flickered over his lips before he angled his chair away from me. ‘If there are no more questions, I’ll let the producers know we’re good to go.’

  Satisfied I’d made my point, I closed my folder and stood.

  ‘A word please, Miss Nolan?’

  Although framed like a question, one look at his taut face said it wasn’t. He couldn’t have stopped me from leaving, of course, but I was intrigued by what he had to say. More than I suspected was wise.

  The others trickled out, and immediately the atmosphere thickened. Or it could’ve just been my inability to take a full breath around this man. Irritation ramped up. ‘I have somewhere else to be, Mr Mortimer.’

  He nodded briskly. ‘I won’t keep you long. Please sit. And it’s Damian, as you well know.’

  I raised a surprised brow as I retook my seat. ‘Two pleases in one minute. That must be a record for you.’

  Several seconds ticked by as he eyed me. ‘Are we going to have a problem, Neve?’

  A hot little fizzle lit up my midriff when he said my name—soft, sexy, dangerous, much like the way he had that night. I actively ignored it.

  ‘You tell me. There’s nothing in the contract that stipulates one member of the panel isn’t allowed to fuck another. And despite all the professional vibes you’ve been attempting to throw out, I can tell you’re a little...affected. So maybe you should be asking yourself that question?’

  He cursed under his breath. ‘You go straight for the jugular, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m just stating facts.’

  Firm lips pursed as a muscle ticced in his temple. ‘Did you read the email my assistant sent?’

  The question threw me for a second. I rallied quickly. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘If you had, you’d have seen that I was late because I was dealing with a personal matter. One that went on longer than I anticipated. I detest being late but it couldn’t be helped. You have my word it won’t happen again.’

  The unfettered admission threatened to dissolve my anger, much as I’d let the bleakness in his expression sway me two years ago. But the simple truth was Damian Mortimer believed himself above the rules that governed mere humans. So what if he admitted to a single flaw? He had more damning ones lodged in his soul. Ones he probably didn’t think he needed to answer for. ‘If that’s supposed to be an apology for your tardiness, I accept.’

  ‘Doesn’t answer my question though. This is my last appearance on this show. I want things to go smoothly. So again, are we going to have a problem?’

  ‘With my participation in this show? Not a one,’ I replied.

  ‘Why do I sense you’re playing semantics with me?’

  ‘You have a terrible imagination?’ Or a much-needed prickle of a guilty conscience?

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You seem...different. Were you this distrusting of everyone two years ago or have I done something in particular to earn yours?’ he enquired tersely.

  Hell, no, he wasn’t going to do this. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘When it comes to business I’m nothing but. But if I recall our one and only encounter was less business, more...something else?’

  Something else. Something that didn’t even warrant its proper definition in his book?

  Sex. Filthy, sheet-clawing, scream-yourself-hoarse fucking.

  I searched his face for acknowledgement of what had been a highly memorable encounter for me in more ways than one. All I got was the apathetic stare of a bored business mogul.

  Had I been that forgettable?

  It stung. And in that burn my resolve to make him pay solidified.

  Perhaps it was feminine pride getting the better of me. Perhaps it was that indomitable aversion to failure sparked to painful life one unforgettable night spent in a child protection service’s halfway house when the threat of losing everything had loomed large and scarily real. Unwilling truth be told, twenty years later, that threat of being alone, of never seeing the mother who’d wilfully admitted to caring very little about me, still lingered at the back of my throat and chose times like these to manifest itself, much to
my dismay.

  Whichever it was, as I watched him, my goal settled heavy and unmoving inside me.

  Damian would succumb to me sexually.

  Before we were through with this project, I’d make it impossible for him to forget me. This time he would be the one stumbling away in bewilderment.

  Purpose sizzled, then blazed. Through my veins and all the way to my fingertips. Until I could see nothing, taste nothing but the need for retribution.

  Maybe I’d known this was coming. Perhaps it was why I’d chosen my clothes with extra care today, why I’d drifted past a closet full of pencil skirts and matching jackets to settle on the low-cleavage pinstriped dress with the short pleated skirt and matching bolero jacket, complemented by my highest work heels. It was definitely why I’d made an appointment with my hair stylist yesterday, shaved my legs and dabbed on my favourite perfume.

  It meant that when I leaned back and casually freed the single button holding the jacket fastened, Damian managed to hold out for all of three seconds before his not so jaded gaze dropped to my breasts. And when I rose from the table and casually walked to the nearest window, I didn’t need to look back to know his eyes were fixated on my gym-honed ass.

  Time ticked by as I leaned on the narrow sill, pretending interest in the frenzied bustle of Lower Manhattan until the force of his stare branded my skin. Until the heat pulsing between my legs, frantically rousing my lethargic libido, compelled me to turn around.

  I perched against the window, subtly angling my body towards the sunlight. ‘Trust is earned. As for distrust...’ I shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I’ve learned to start with a negative balance and let those who are worth it win their way into my graces.’

  Damian shifted in his seat. Eyes two shades darker than they’d been minutes ago rose from my hips, paused on the small but tasteful diamond pendant stroking my cleavage, to my face. ‘That’s a jaded way to approach life, isn’t it?’

  ‘Didn’t you refuse a drink I bought you back in Boston on those same grounds?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Those were different circumstances.’