Pleasure Payback. Zara Cox

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