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 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