Pleasure Payback. Zara Cox

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