Pleasure Payback. Zara Cox

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.’

      ‘And the rumour that you’ve resigned from six projects in the last month. Is that boredom or because you’ve stretched yourself too thin?’

      A watchful gleam entered his eyes. ‘It’s neither. Every partner I’ve dealt with has walked away more than content, not that I owe you an explanation for the way I operate.’

       But you owe me an explanation for why you stabbed me in the back for no reason!

      I reined in anger and hurt. ‘By the same token, I don’t owe you an explanation on how I approach my relationships.’

      We stared each other down for a long silent stretch. Then his mouth twitched. ‘If nothing else, our friction will make for good entertainment.’

      I forced a smile. ‘And that’s all that matters in the long run, isn’t it? Good entertainment?’

      Another frown attacked his forehead. ‘With all parties walking away with a handful of sound business deals, of course.’

      ‘Of course,’ I echoed, unable to keep bitterness from staining my voice.

      Damian rose and approached. A couple of feet from me, he stopped. This close, with the sun highlighting every feature, it was difficult to look away from his physical perfection. ‘I was under the impression that you were a strong, level-headed woman who wouldn’t let one encounter cloud her business judgment. Are you going to prove me wrong?’ he taunted baldly.

      God, I hate, hate, hate Damian Mortimer.

      By the skin of my teeth, I managed to pin my smile in place. ‘Are you referring to the same encounter where you played hard to get when I bought you a drink but couldn’t resist showing up at my hotel room afterwards with a hard cock and a couple of tired one-liners?’

      Annoyance flared his nostrils. ‘You think telling you you’re beautiful was a glib one-liner?’

      I cursed the heat staining my cheeks. ‘I’ve heard more original lines.’

      ‘It was true then. It’s true now. One thing you should