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Pleasure Payback
by Zara Cox
CHAPTER ONE
Neve
A SINGLE WOMAN walks into a bar...
I felt a little bit like a cliché as I entered the VIP-only bar on the twentieth floor of Hotel M and perched on the stool at the far end of the long smoked-glass counter. At nine p.m. on a Thursday night in late May it was surprisingly quiet, with only a few people seated at the tables, the stunning views of Boston at night their backdrop.
The junior suite I’d splashed out eight hundred bucks for had a fully stocked minibar, more than adequate for my needs. If that failed I could order anything from Room Service.
But...
A single woman walks into a bar. At ease and in control. Because she owns several like it across the East Coast.
Much better.
It’d taken risks to get to this point. Bold risks that had fuelled several sleepless nights. Financially, by gambling every last penny I had on this once-in-a-lifetime deal. Emotionally, by attempting to keep my grandparents’ legacy alive while also fighting to keep the lines of communication with my mother open despite the bitterness and resentment spewed my way every time I braced myself and called.
That particular thread was frayed to the point where I secretly feared my next phone call would be the one that severed our ties for ever. It was why I hadn’t called her in five weeks. Why that dull ache in my chest sharpened every time I thought of reaching out to my one remaining relative even though more often than not she hadn’t been there for me.
To stop myself from dwelling on it, I’d channelled all my energy into making sure the ambitious expansion I was pursuing went off without a hitch, while smothering the whispers of doubt at the back of my mind instigated by those very same phone calls.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Neve?’
‘Shouldn’t you leave this to more experienced people?’
‘You’ll lose everything, then where would you be?’
Cautionary, maternal words that would’ve touched me had they not echoed the same lack of belief in my abilities from the moment I could walk.
I’d smothered the voice, confident in my business plan and the numbers I’d crunched so hard I could taste them in my sleep.
And it’d paid off. That instinct that this would work had earned me an invite to the big leagues.
My goal was within my grasp—a hard-won affiliation deal between Cahill Hotels and Cephei Hotels, my six small but thriving boutique hotels.
So where was the harm in staying out of my comfort zone for one more night? Besides, this was one of Boston’s most prestigious hotels. The hundred-year-old iconic building, recently bought and expertly renovated by the renowned Mortimer Group, sat on prime real estate on Beacon Hill with majestic views of the Charles River. I’d planned on staying at a cheaper hotel, but had fallen in love with the blend of old-world and contemporary decor. It struck that sweet spot of appealing to young artsy types while catering to a mature demographic. Exactly what I was aiming for with my own hotels.
It also didn’t hurt that it happened to be the venue for my meeting.
Excitement fizzed higher.
By this time tomorrow I would’ve signed the biggest deal of my life and set myself on the road to a wider expansion of the hotel and spa group my grandparents had started sixty years ago as a tiny four-bedroom B & B.
Not bad for an almost twenty-nine-year-old.
The thought widened my smile. Enough for the bartender to pause in the act of lining up shot glasses to look my way, interest sparking in his eyes.
I dimmed my smile a touch as he sauntered towards me.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Whiskey sour, please,’ I said, sliding more firmly onto my seat.
He nodded. ‘Coming right up.’
I sighed with relief when he moved away after a brief perusal.
Male attention didn’t bother me. Hell, I enjoyed a bit of flirtation when the mood took me. But I preferred to be in control of the situation, always. What my mother called a flaw I saw as the cornerstone that would ensure I didn’t end up like her, dependent on the wrong men, depressed and resentful when they inevitably let her down. Because of her I’d learned early in life that total independence was my key to maintaining control.
It was why I’d sworn to build on my grandparents’ hard work, why I intended to control my own fate, no matter what. Why I was here tonight, on the cusp of achieving my biggest win yet.
My whiskey sour arrived at the same time as the tall stranger claimed my periphery. A deep compulsion pulled my gaze in his direction; he pulled back the bar stool farthest from me, and hitched one taut, muscled thigh onto it. Bemused, I watched the bartender fall over himself in a hurry to serve him as I wrapped my fingers around the ice-cold glass even as my temperature spiked to furnace-high at the sight of him.
Dry-mouthed, I stared, a hungry tingling sparking inside my belly before nose-diving low and deep.
Dear God, he was hot.
Incandescent.
The kind of hot you initially dismissed as impossible without elective surgery. Or as a trick of light. Or an expert make-up artist’s brush on a vain model.
As I was busy checking him out, a chilled bottle was placed in front of him. He examined it for several seconds before twisting the cap off his sparkling water. Under the elegant half-moon lampshades hanging over the bar, his hair appeared black until closer examination showed the dark mahogany highlights. A slash of dark eyebrows were gathered in a thunderous frown but they didn’t stop me from noticing that he had the most insanely long eyelashes I’d ever seen on a man.
He looked remote. Forbidding.
As he poured the water into a glass, I shamelessly stole the seconds to further examine him. A superbly cut
suit draped his body. Dark navy with thin pinstripes and, underneath it, a matching waistcoat and white shirt, finished off with a stylish tie, currently tugged loose, around a masculine neck that framed a square, rugged jaw sporting designer stubble, and a face so impossibly breathtaking, it was a struggle not to gape like a drooling fool.
I sipped my cocktail, hoping the pleasant burn would calm the butterflies flailing in my belly. All it did was awaken impulses that had gone dormant in the hunt of fulfilling dreams.
The bartender murmured something to him. The stranger shook his head and waved him away with a flick of an elegant hand.
My gaze dropped to that hand. To delicious possibilities. To stepping further out of my comfort zone.
I cleared my throat, even then unsure whether I sought to attract his attention or steady my own nerves.
He tensed slightly, his movement slowing. It was the only indication that he’d noticed me. After a moment, he lifted his glass and gulped down half his water.
The bartender sauntered over to me. ‘You want another?’ He nodded to my glass.
I looked down, a little startled to see my almost empty glass. ‘Yes, thanks.’ He was back moments later with a fresh drink. On the wildest whim, I said, ‘A shot of your best whiskey for him too on my tab.’ I cocked my head at the stranger. He looked like a single-malt-savoured-slowly kind of guy.
The bartender hesitated. ‘You sure about that?’ he asked in a low, concerned voice.
I wavered for the tiniest fraction. ‘Of course, I’m sure.’
Trepidation and...yes, anticipation scrambled through me as the bartender reached for the bottle from the top shelf, poured a shot and set it in front of the stranger.
He stared at the expensive amber-coloured drink as if it were poison. As if it were his worst enemy and he were moments away from pummelling it into oblivion with his bare fist. After an eternity, long after the bartender had gestured at me and taken a step back, that sexy head swung my way and I was caught in the headlights of his mesmerising stare.
Sharp hazel eyes widened as if, despite sensing me a moment ago, he was surprised by my presence. For one indecent moment, something hot and filthy and carnal twisted in that gaze, firing up the blaze in my belly, conjuring a fleeting burst of feminine satisfaction.
Far from the look he’d given the glass, he stared at me as if he wanted to devour me, stark hunger I’d never glimpsed before stealing over his face for several blistering seconds.
Right before his jaw clenched tight. ‘Thanks but no, thanks. I don’t pick up women in bars,’ he said.
Momentarily dumbfounded, I couldn’t speak. Not when I was confronted by further potent scrutiny from his unique, piercing hazel eyes and the cut-glass English accent that sent a pulse of heat straight to my clit.
I relocated my tongue. Assembled enough composure to swivel to face him. ‘Great. Neither do I.’
My comeback triggered a twisted smile. Only to disappear seconds later beneath the quiet carnage of whatever was eating him up. I should’ve left him alone then. Should’ve listened to instincts I’d trusted above all else thus far. Ones that warned that tangling with this man would be extremely thrilling, but also deadly.
But he was rising from his seat, nudging the glass of whiskey along the counter as he sauntered towards me. Two stools away, he stopped. Stared with a blatant heated interest I felt to the tips of my toes.
‘I also don’t accept drinks from strangers.’ His second delivery wasn’t drenched in ice but it was still cool enough to draw a shiver.
For the first time in a long time, I ploughed ahead despite the warnings to retreat. Despite wondering how on earth my mother went back for more of this kind of treatment when the tops of my ears were already burning from one rejection. ‘Now I think you’re just trying to hurt my feelings.’
One lean shoulder rose and fell. ‘You’ll get over it, I’m sure,’ he said.
His gaze lingered, dropped to my crossed legs, then back up, pausing for longer than was polite on my cleavage, then up to rest on my lips.
The pulse between my legs throbbed harder, my breath fracturing the longer he stared.
Maybe it was his inability to look away, despite his words, that bolstered my confidence. Or maybe I was making excuses.
But for whatever reason I wanted to draw him out of the funk eating him up. I was in a celebratory mood and wanted someone to celebrate with. And he intrigued me. A lot. Enough for me to slide off my stool and venture closer, accepting that my motives weren’t wholly altruistic.
Long before my last boyfriend, Gray, had tossed his bags into the back of his Chevy and made a false promise to call when he reached his new job in Chicago eight months ago, I knew the relationship was as dead as the lacklustre sex we’d been having. When he’d failed to call, my primary emotion had been relief.
I hadn’t been fucked to anywhere near my satisfaction for longer than I could remember.
This stranger, with the harsh, handsome face, brooding eyes and wickedly sexy hands, could cure me of the ache between my legs. Barring that, he could make it so my evening wasn’t wracked with the last-minute doubts plaguing me. Doubts that had fuelled my decision to come down to the bar instead of celebrating solo in my room.
He watched me with a dark gleam in his eyes, his nostrils flaring as I paused with one stool between us. Slowly, he blinked, a slightly bewildered look whispering over his features, as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether I was friend or foe.
Walk away. Return to the safety of your suite.
My feet had other ideas though. They stayed put, compelled by that look in his eyes.
Time slowly ticked by, the atmosphere thickening as we stared at one another, acknowledged the dirty desire eddying around us.
‘You shouldn’t let it go to waste.’ He tapped a fingernail against the whiskey glass without taking his eyes off me.
‘It won’t if you drink it.’
His mouth firmed. ‘Do you make a habit of buying four-hundred-dollar shots for strangers?’ he asked, one eyebrow quirked.
This time eighteen months ago, that price tag would’ve made my eyes water. Not any more. Pride swelled inside me for all I’d achieved and I shrugged. ‘I can afford it. And you look like you need it.’
He stared at me for a beat, shifted closer and leaned down until his lips brushed my ear. ‘You don’t have the faintest clue what I need,’ he breathed, sending a wild shiver down my spine.
I swallowed as his scent—rich and earthy and mouth-watering—engulfed me. ‘Don’t I?’ I challenged faintly.
Hazel eyes ringed with darkness clashed with mine. ‘You’re looking for someone to tangle with. Nothing wrong with that. But I’m not your man.’ Despite his words, I heard the throb of betraying lust in his voice.
He wanted me, and that dark, torrid longing stopped me from calling quits to this strange but exhilarating exchange. I’d never done this before. But I’d never pulled a multimillion-dollar deal together before either.
His dark intensity was a little scary but that only amped up my buzz.
‘You take yourself far too seriously.’
His sensual lips twisted as he straightened. ‘You have no idea.’
‘Go on, enlighten me,’ I invited, aware that he hadn’t moved away. If anything, he’d leaned closer.
He stared at me for an age, myriad expressions flitting across his face. A few too fast to catch. Others lingered. Interest. Lust. Bleakness. Hard-edged determination.
‘It’s private,’ he finally said in a tone that reeked of deep, dark secrets.
‘If you want privacy, you shouldn’t have come to a bar.’
From close by, I heard the bartender’s swift intake of breath. I ignored it, keeping my attention on Tall, Dark and Acerbic.
‘Tell you what. Let me return the favour and we can call it even,
hmm?’ He lifted a hand and beckoned the bartender.
I flicked my hand too, belaying the order. ‘No need. I’m all set. Two drinks is my limit anyway.’
He flicked a glance at my glass with something approaching approval. ‘That’s probably wise.’
I raised my glass, wrapped my lips around the thin straw and sucked. The cold tartness went nowhere near cooling the fires his darkened gaze stoked as it landed on my mouth. Beneath the soft layer of my black wrap cocktail dress, my nipples tightened, my skin tingling under his scrutiny.
Whoever this man was, his words were saying one thing but his body was betraying him mercilessly, broadcasting his interest.
Shamelessly feeding off it, I slowly swirled my tongue over my bottom lip.
Hunger, raw and potent, blazed in his eyes then slammed mercilessly into me.
‘Did you need something else, Mr Mortimer?’ the bartender interrupted.
He blinked, then frowned at the intrusion.
Mr Mortimer? Of The Mortimer Group? Inside, the butterflies in my stomach somersaulted. Surely that wasn’t a coincidence.
Did I really just try to buy the owner of this amazing hotel a drink?
The bold and reckless demon inside me grinned wide even as the less effervescent Neve cringed.
But why the hell not? He was wildly attractive, with the kind of sexual charisma that set women’s panties alight with alarming frequency. What was wrong with wanting a piece of that?
The grim set to his jaw put paid to that wild fantasy.
I was already at my two-drink limit, a hard cap I’d set myself after witnessing countless times what alcohol did to my mother. The dark depths of despair interspersed with endless bitter rants about the world at large and me in particular whenever she’d had more than a few. Much as I’d told myself that it was the alcohol talking, the barbs she’d thrown my way had found their mark.
Thoughts of my mother dampened my mood. Tucking my purse under my arm, I turned to the bartender. ‘Put the drinks on my room, please. Suite 6799.’
Baring It All Page 17