The Dare Collection November 2018. Christy McKellen

      I froze. ‘What contract?’

      She made a face. ‘They want something binding so you take this seriously. They think thirty days of no adverse publicity ought to do it.’

      Sweet Lord, this just got better and better. ‘They’ve got the bloody lawyers involved without even discussing it with me first?’ The realisation shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. Same way what Damian had done continued to drill a gaping hole inside me.

      Not for the first time, I wondered why I’d bothered returning home to London. Why I didn’t stay in Singapore, co-managing the hotel construction company I started with my brother, Bryce, eight years ago, instead of merging it with TMG. Everything outside the glass walls of this giant skyscraper that housed The Mortimer Group had gone to shit the moment I took the CEO position.

      ‘Nelly, wait for me outside,’ I heard Flo murmur. She waited until her assistant left the room before she approached. ‘I’m the last one to be indelicate but I’m going to come right out and say it. You’re in danger of being permanently scarred from what happened three years ago. It’s time to take firmer control of your life, Gideon.’

      My fist balled and that tight band of rage around my chest I kept especially for such reminders threatened to suffocate me. ‘I was betrayed by my own flesh and blood, Flo. By the person I trusted the most,’ I gritted out.

      She laid a gentle hand on my arm. ‘I know. And while this may sound like an atrocious idea to you right now, taking a step back from the...excess may provide a little clarity.’

      She meant well, and yet I couldn’t stop the rancid bitterness that ploughed through me. Nor did I particularly welcome the unspoken accusation. The one that suggested I was repeating past mistakes of parents I barely knew.

      ‘I’m not like my mother, Flo,’ I bit out tersely. ‘If I suffered from any form of addiction, I wouldn’t turn up at six a.m. every morning and work my bloody arse off for this family.’ I knew my mother’s addiction to the heroin that eventually caused her to drive her Maserati off a cliff in Switzerland ten years ago was another invisible stain on my character. ‘There’s nothing to remedy. But I’ll sign their damn paper if that’s what they want. And when I pull this deal off without hint of a scandal, I expect every last one of them to come crawling to me on their hands and knees to beg my forgiveness.’

      ‘And I’ll sit by your side and we’ll sip cognac and laugh as they do.’

      I couldn’t summon the smile she expected so I just nodded.

      ‘I’ll tell the lawyers to have the papers ready for you to sign this afternoon. Now, I’d better be on my way. I don’t want to be late for my next appointment.’

      Alone in my office, I stood at the window and stared, unseeing, at the view.

      What the bloody hell did I just do?

       You just agreed to behave for thirty days. Ergo, no partying. No gentlemen’s clubs. No sex.

      No finding an avenue—no matter how futile—for the demons that crawled out of the woodwork at night and taunted me with might-have-beens. No distraction from the hell of losing the person I’d once believed was my best friend to an act of betrayal that still hollowed me out in the dead of night. My fist clenched as memories raked raw pain over me.

      I hoped to God my impending suffering was worth it or someone’s head would roll.

       CHAPTER ONE

      Leonie. Two weeks later

      NO MAN WAS worth it.

      I slammed the phone down, and then got even more annoyed that I’d lost my cool. For three days I’d jumped through every hoop imaginable and some I’d never thought even invented.

      Granted, if I succeeded, this would be the sale of a lifetime. My fifteen per cent stake in this deal would double my already-impressive bank account but, more important, put me squarely on the map in a place where arrogant billionaires with egos the size of small countries lounged on every corner.

      Hell, I could even relocate to another sun-drenched locale. One that didn’t hold the ravaging memories this place did.

      I glanced out of my office window and was greeted by the stunning marina a good percentage of the world’s population believed was the gateway to paradise. Most people would give a piece of their souls for this.

      Not me.

      To me, this would always be ground zero of the worst moment of my life. The most humiliating, too. Definitely the most heartbreaking—

      I wasn’t ashamed to admit part of my reason for wanting this deal over and done with was the shattered heart bit. I’d used my work to patch myself together and lately I’d become aware that I might have missed a few vital pieces in my repair job, like a broken leg that hadn’t been set properly.

      It supported you by keeping you alive, breathing, reasoning, but toss in more challenging things like trust and emotional investment and, heaven forbid, taking another chance on happiness, and it withered and shrank, its acute flaws lighting with the dire warnings of its impending malfunction.

      It was too late to salvage the pieces of my heart that betrayal had rotted away, but it wasn’t too late to hit the reset button on the rest of my life.

      If only this damn client would play ball.

      I sighed and let my gaze drift over the horizon.

      The Côte d’Azur in June was living up to its hype where the cloudless blue sky, dazzling sunlight, sparkling ocean and blinding bling were concerned, at least. In the marina, multimillion-pound yachts bobbed smugly in the midmorning heat.

      With almost undeniable compulsion, my gaze shifted left beyond the marina wall to the superyacht moored a quarter of a mile away in deeper waters.

       La Sirène.

      My biggest and riskiest investment to date.

      Larger than all of the other boats currently moored, it was a sight to behold. Every client who’d attended the boat show a week ago had rhapsodised over it.

      Fresh off the tram lines of the shipping yard in Greece, it was truly breathtaking. The most innovative vessel of its kind with unimaginable luxury to please even the most jaded appetite.

      The day I’d received the call that my investment had been accepted, that I was part owner of one of the most breathtaking vessels ever built, was the proudest moment of my life.

      But I’d learned to detach myself from falling in love with it. I didn’t get attached to things any more, especially things I was actively attempting to sell.

      One by one the stragglers had fallen away until only one remained.

      Gideon Mortimer.

      A potential client who could be the answer to my achieving next-level status. A client with demands so absurd—

      I jumped as the phone rang. I took a beat to calm my pulse before picking up the handset.

      ‘Branson Sales and Leasing, Leonora Branson speak—’

      ‘You hung up. I wasn’t done talking, Miss Branson,’ interrupted the deeply masculine, very arrogant voice.

      Despite my irritation, the sheer sexiness of his voice sent a decadent shiver over my skin. I turned my back on the view and tried to ignore the sensation.

      ‘I got tired of being on hold after ten minutes.’

      He made a sound as if he was grinding his teeth. ‘It was for less than five minutes and I believe my assistant told you I might have to take a call I’d been waiting for all day. Maybe you need a refresher course on the basics of customer service?’

       Maybe you need a refresher