Her Every Fantasy

Wickedly hot billionaire Bryce Mortimer always chooses “dare”—especially in this scorching-hot third book from international bestselling author Zara Cox’s series The Mortimers: Wealthy & Wicked.

The Truth:

Who the hell does Savannah Knight think she is? After three years without a word—after she shattered both our friendship and one undeniably hot night by marrying someone else—she’s back. Only I’ve forgotten Savvie’s effect on me. How the sight of her drives a hot spike of lust through my groin, and that compulsion to keep looking, to keep wanting, to keep devouring. So much so that I can’t resist one more game…

The Dare:

We’re not best friends anymore. She’s not married anymore. Which means there’s no need to hold back. I want her. I want her so badly I ache from the need of her. And so I dare Savvie to spend the rest of our time in Singapore together…exploring all her dirty little fantasies.

And the Dangerous Double-Dare:

I’m Bryce Mortimer. I always negotiate for the very maximum. But the moment I touch that soft, golden skin, I know that this time I won’t be able to walk away from this game a whole man. Not without gambling everything just to satisfy her every delicious need…

Mills & Boon DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Mills & Boon DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

ZARA COX writes contemporary and erotic romance. She lives in the Garden of England—aka Kent—with her hubby and two kids. She loves to read and travel. In 2017 she managed to visit her number one bucket-list destination—Hawaii—and is now actively pleading with her husband to live there! She loves to hear from her readers; you can get in touch with her via Twitter (@zcoxbooks), on Instagram (zaracoxwriter) or Facebook (zaracoxwriter).

Also by Zara Cox

Close to the Edge

Worth the Risk

Pleasure Payback

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Her Every Fantasy

Zara Cox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08719-3

HER EVERY FANTASY

© 2019 Zara Cox

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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This book is dedicated to friends and lovers everywhere.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Bryce

TWO DAYS, THREE HOURS and…seven minutes.

That was how long the email had been sitting in my inbox unopened. I detested that I was reduced to even knowing how long it’d parked itself in my consciousness, taunting me with its presence. Taunting me with that gut-twisting mix of hope and bitterness I thought I was finally rid of.

How I wished it were one of those mundane work emails I’d become so adept at passing to my assistant to deal with. Then, from a safe distance, it would’ve been so easy to tell her to handle it. Or, better yet, delete it.

But here it was. Not handled. Not deleted. And about as far from mundane as it could get.

Not when her name was blaring from the ‘sender’ line: Savannah Knight.

Not when the subject matter stated three simple words: I Need You.

I tossed my pen onto the desk in disgust and shoved my chair backwards, swivelling away from the offensive email for good measure.

Fuck this.

Who the hell did she think she was? Not a single word in three and a half years. Then this?

I’d held out for over two days. Long enough for her to know I wasn’t going to jump.

A fragile but welcome burst of satisfaction settled my ire a little. She needed to know I wasn’t the same person who’d stumbled away from that quaint little chapel in sunny Sittingbourne, Kent, three summers ago a pathetic, emotional wreck.

That man was long gone, after years of living on the edge of ‘Will we? Won’t we?’ was definitively answered once and for all: We won’t. We never will.

In his place was someone I respected better but didn’t always like. A man whose future and focus were as steadfast as a striking sledgehammer.

I might have deluded myself into thinking I was different once upon a time, that I could be softer, less… Mortimer, more…something else, but that time had long passed. For better and, I suspected, worse I was a bloody Mortimer down to my last cell. It’d just taken a little longer, and ironically her help, to make me accept my true self.

Ruthless. Competitive. Take no prisoners. Crazy ambitious. And yes, sometimes, utterly selfish in my quest to achieve all the above.

So why wasn’t that ruthless selfishness directing my finger to the delete button? One quick tap on the mouse and she would be erased as definitely as she’d erased me.

Teeth gritted, I fought and irritatingly lost the fight, compulsion swivelling me back around to face my laptop. To the neat little blue rectangle of temptation taunting me with its secrets.

Open me. Read me.

With a tight curse, I clicked on it, my greedy eyes devouring the words.

Bryce,

I know this is out of the blue so…surprise! It’s a been a while, huh? Guess we’ve both been crazy busy.

Anyway, a little bird told me you’re opening a brand spanking new building in Singapore. Congrats on all your awesome accomplishments, btw.

But I’ll get to the point. I need you.

I cursed that traitorous little flip in my gut when I lingered on those three words. Then forced myself to read on.

More specifically, I need a space in your building for the launch of my flagship store.

My team have researched several locations and they all agree your building will be perfect for my needs.

Another little bird told me you haven’t yet accepted a bid for the ground and first floors. If that’s true—and I really hope it is!—I’d love to be considered for an initial five-year lease of the space.

If my info is wildly inaccurate, then let me know.

Look forward to hearing from you.

Best,

Savannah

Anger blazed in my chest. Singeing. Devastating. So this was how she was going to play it? Act as if nothing had happened? As if we’d simply…fallen out of touch and she was initiating a reconnection while she had a few minutes to spare in her busy day?

Well, I could do cool and impersonal. Hell, I was a master at it.

I yanked my laptop closer and stabbed the keyboard with more force than was necessary.

Savvie,

No, scratch that. Best keep things formal.

Savannah,

It is a surprise. You’ll have to remind me how long it’s been if we meet in the future.

Sadly, my schedule is atrociously tight, so these days I delegate requests like yours to my commercial leasing team. I’ve passed your request on to them—see cc above. They’ll be in touch at some point, I expect.

Good luck with your launch, wherever that may be.

Bryce Mortimer

I hit ‘send’ with one last smug little stab at the button and lounged back in my seat.

An hour later my glee had turned to ash. The button I’d clicked to let me know she’d read my reply had been activated almost immediately.

She’d seen my email. Most likely read it.

Anticipation had risen like an unstoppable tide inside me, only to crash back as the seconds ticked by without a further response. What did I expect? Contrition? Hell, an apology? A plea for me to grant her wish for old times’ sake despite my rightful disappointment in her?

Delusion soured my mouth.

We were both equally successful in our chosen fields. Why would she need a helping hand from me when she could reduce grown men into drooling schoolboys with a flick of her long, seductive eyelashes?

Another sensation stabbed, this time the acrid jealousy I thought was long in my past.

Fuck it. I rose from my desk, determined to put greater distance between me and my laptop before I did something foolish—like fruitlessly click ‘refresh’ on my email. The ping of an incoming message arrested my movement.

Bryce,

Sorry for taking up your precious time. But thank you for the good wishes and for passing me on to your team. I’ve emailed them directly.

Excuse me for saying this, and perhaps it’s just in my imagination, but you sound…cold and distant.

But…whatever. I’m around from tomorrow until the launch date in a little over a month’s time.

I would like to see you again, Bryce, but I understand if your super-tight schedule doesn’t allow it. On the off-chance you haven’t turned into a robot and still like a good steak I’d love to buy you lunch.

Let me know.

Best wishes,

Savvie

PS Since you seem to need reminding, it’s been three years and four months since we last saw each other. Your memory used to be sharper than this. Guess some things do change!

I was torn between grinning at her sheer nerve and cussing at her unsubtle hints that my response was in any way defective. But even as I vacillated between anger and amusement, my gaze remained riveted on the eighth line:

I would like to see you again…

A pulse of resentment sizzled beneath my skin, laced with abrasive disappointment I hadn’t been able to let go in over three long years. That inability to let go, to consign her to my past where she belonged, where I’d successfully archived a lot of emotional crap, was what pissed me off the most.

Case in point: my parents.

Another case in point: my crappy relationship with my siblings, in particular. My extended family, in general.

But somehow, Savannah Knight remained a burr under my skin that wouldn’t be evicted.

Somehow, years ago she’d made it past the barricades I’d erected; somehow even set herself up in her own little bunker, immune from all the shit going on in my life. And every now and then…when I’d felt as if I were drowning, that bunker had been a godsend.

My safe place…until it and she wasn’t.

Maybe I hadn’t dug deep enough to evict her.

Maybe it was time to confront it…her…head-on. Thrash it out once and for all and put it behind me. It’d been festering for long enough and I knew that corrosive wound, coupled with my feelings towards my own family, had contributed to keeping people at arm’s length.

On the family front, I was more than okay with maintaining the status quo. Years of rebuffed advances and the eventual realisation that the Mortimers would never be a close-knit, happy unit like the ones I’d dreamed of had finally put paid to childish imaginings.

Even my brother Gideon’s out-of-the-blue phone call that he’d met the one a few months ago hadn’t dented my cynicism. As for my parents, they’d never wanted me, hadn’t hung around even long enough to see my first day of school before cutting me out of their lives.

But Savannah…

She’d let me believe that, despite hard-learnt lessons, there was a possibility for more…for joy…long after I’d sworn never to let anyone close. Long after a confused eight-year-old had been summoned into a cold study of one relative accompanied by a nanny and informed that the mother who didn’t want him was never coming back, having died when her car went off some cliff in Switzerland. That his hopes of a Disney-style reconciliation were turned to dust for ever.

That child had grown into a cynical teenager, fully steeped in the dysfunction that ruled his super-wealthy, super-emotionally-bankrupt family.

Somewhere along that journey as a fully-fledged teenage malcontent, one Savannah Knight had illuminated my dark soul with grace, humour and a megawatt smile.

And then taken it all away like a magician’s cruel trick.

If nothing else, she deserved a piece of my mind before I relegated her to the past for good. I’d done it with my siblings. I’d achieved it with my parents. With Savannah, all it needed was some good old-fashioned face-to-face.

My answer was shorter than the last. Straight to the point.

Lunch tomorrow. One p.m. My office.

Get your little birds to tell you where if you don’t know.

Bryce

She replied within seconds.

I’ll be there.

Savvie

I wanted to resent the shortened nickname that reminded me so much of our past. Of laughter and secret angst. Of beauty and betrayal. Of daring to stretch the limits of friendship and ending up with nothing but broken promises. And yes, for reminding me of giving in to uncontrollable urges in the privacy of my bedroom.

I wanted to remain steadfast on formal ground. What did it matter, though? Savannah or Savvie, she remained the same person.

The girl who’d been my best friend. My port in the storm. Who’d coaxed me with smiles and laughter to step onto the edge with her. Then left me there.

The woman she’d turned into had betrayed me, shown me in no uncertain terms that our friendship meant nothing.

The phone on my desk buzzed. I ignored it, my fingers creeping once more towards my mouse. The website I called up was one I was unwillingly familiar with, driven to all those years ago by that same crazy compulsion that fuelled everything to do with Savannah. That stuck onto my skin like an unwanted tattoo.

The page had been created before she’d become famous. Before she’d exploded onto the world stage and into the fantasy of every red-blooded male who set eyes upon her.

The Personal Fan Page of Savannah Knight: World’s Number One Plus-Size Lingerie Model.

Her pictures were plastered all over the page, each one more breathtaking than the last. Each shot showing a profusion of her signature dark gold corkscrew curls. Every single picture drove a hot spike of lust through my groin, and even before I was halfway down the page I was as hard as fuck, torn between frustration that she still had this effect on me, a hunger I couldn’t contain and a compulsion to keep going. Keep devouring. Keep salivating. Perhaps even unzip my fly, take out my cock and masturbate like a randy teenager right here in my damn office.

I resisted that last urge by pushing myself closer to my desk, as if shoving my lower half under my desk would kill the insane urge.

Mentally rolling my eyes at myself, I scrolled faster. An addict seeking his sweet spot.

Since launching her own lingerie brand, every runway show Savannah had staged had been a huge success. Every season had brought her more accolades until she now needed a couple of bodyguards for protection from sometimes overeager fans.

At one picture, I just stopped…stared.

Bloody hell, she was gorgeous.

Skin a dark sunset gold, so smooth and soft and warm, it’d been a challenge to keep from touching her when we were platonic teenage friends, when what we’d had between us had been too unique, too sacred to mess with. Adulthood had brought further challenges but, with more restraint, I’d had a better handle on it.

Or so I’d thought…

I shifted in my chair, forcefully reminding myself why Savvie Knight, the only person who’d made it onto a list of one labelled Friendship, no longer resided there. The memories kept tumbling through my mind as relentlessly as the pictures flowing up the screen.

She’d disparagingly called herself a mongrel. I’d thought her stunning beyond words.

Lucky enough to have the noble blood of African chiefs and the integrity of not one but two accomplished professors flowing through her veins. I’d listened with unbridled jealousy, sprawled at the foot of her teenage bed, as she’d offhandedly rattled off tales of her African heritage alongside vexed recounting of interminable Sunday family dinners where her parents had deigned to be present. Had had the audacity to ask her about her day, her month, her year.

So what if there’d seemed to be an underlying discontentment over her family’s single-mindedness about her life? I’d never drilled her over the details because I’d been too busy wondering why she wasn’t just…thrilled to have a caring family in the first place.

Experiencing that unique bond, even from the fringes, had been unparalleled. A reason to safeguard what we’d had.

It’d taken a full year of friendship to confess that Mortimers didn’t do Sunday family dinner. That we could barely tolerate one another even at Christmas. That birthday presents were often organised by executive assistants and presented by delivery men and one was lucky if one received a card. That to my memory and before she’d died, I’d never received a birthday or Christmas present directly from my mother, nor from my father.

That I’d swap my life for hers in a heartbeat. Hand over the multimillion trust fund with my name on it for a slice of the life she took for granted.

But all of that was before she’d shown her true colours.

Before she’d turned her back on me and married Daniel Fucking Wallis.

The name was enough to dispel my useless reminiscing and restore righteous bitterness to its rightful place. Enough for me to hit the X that closed the page and for my hard-as-rock erection to subside.

I slammed my laptop shut and veered from my desk. Across the bay my gaze flitted past skyscrapers and Singapore’s breathtaking Gardens by the Bay, with its hanging gardens and fifty-metre-tall supertrees, to the one building I’d placed my personal stamp on.

Originally named The Diamond Bay, but later changed to The Sylph, a better fitting name.

An iconic building already racking up international architectural awards.

My baby. My special once-in-a-lifetime project.

The one my ex-best friend wanted a piece of.

Savannah might not be my enemy in the true sense of the word but, after her singeing betrayal and dismissal of me from her life, we weren’t friends any longer. After my parents and family, she’d been the third and final strike.

My days of accommodating foibles and betrayals were behind me. She needed to be set straight on that score once and for all.

By this time tomorrow she would know in no uncertain terms that it was a mistake to resurface, to attempt to touch a place in my life that belonged on a crap pile of history.

I should’ve arranged lunch in my office just as I’d planned.

I knew I’d made a mistake even before the buzzer sounded in my Marina Bay penthouse apartment. I’d talked myself into the argument that geography didn’t matter.

Straight. Sharp. To the point before zàijiàn. Sayonara. Goodbye.

Easily accomplished in any language and as effective here as in my office half a mile away. So I’d arranged for my executive chef to prepare lunch here.

In my private space.

Where she could read into it. Where signs of my existence were everywhere. Where everything now seemed…way too personal.

Clever, clever Bryce.

I grimaced at the very vocal inner voice and pressed the button that activated my private lift. The ding sounded in seconds. My stomach muscles tightened as I pulled the door open and awaited my first glimpse of Savannah in three and a half years.

The lift doors parted.

My first reaction was a filthy curse at the internet for the shoddy portrayal of the woman who would turn heads wherever she went. Because the real-life version was so much better than the pitiful digital imitation.

Vibrant. Vivacious. So fucking beautiful.

Dressed in a blush-pink floaty top and skin-tight, chocolate-coloured leather trousers, she was a magnificent vision, powerful enough to slacken my jaw before I caught myself and pressed my lips into appropriately neutral, downright unfriendly lines. Her curvy hips and endless legs were balanced on sky-high heels matching her trousers and, with that combined with her bouncy curls and flawless make-up, I felt my breathing fracture into useless silent hiccups as I stared.

Mine was the only apartment on this floor, a request I’d worked into the architect’s plans when I’d built the luxury complex. It meant that, with over seventeen thousand square feet to play with, the distance from the lift to my front door was substantial. Long enough to broadcast any nerves from my visitor.

There were none.

She effortlessly projected an ingrained confidence and inner strength I’d secretly envied for a long time before finding my own rightful place in the world. She’d exuded that same vibe on her debut runway show, earned herself positive adoration and cemented herself on the fashion landscape in one fell swoop.

That had been my one and only attendance of her show, and I’d silently watched, smiled proudly and applauded her then.

I wasn’t applauding now as I watched Savannah saunter towards me, that heart-stopping smile curving her luscious lips.

I stayed put, let her come closer, looked deeper into her stunning eyes to spot the first signs of wariness.

Three feet from me, she stopped. ‘Hello, Bryce.’

I shoved my hands into my pockets and narrowed my eyes, almost deluding myself that minimising my vision would lessen her physical impact. ‘Hi, yourself.’

‘It’s good to see you,’ she murmured and I gritted my jaw against the evocative effect of her voice. Warm honey. Sultry nights. Hot tangled sheets. The stuff of a thousand wet dreams.

All forbidden best-friend territory.

Except we weren’t best friends any more. Hell, we weren’t even friends.

So I raised an eyebrow, deliberately, but didn’t answer. The faintest flush stained her cheeks.

A little appeased at that reaction, I waved towards the open door. ‘Come in. Lunch is just about ready and I need to get back to work within the hour.’

She studied me for one second longer, either reacquainting herself with my face or assessing my mood before walking past me into my personal domain. My involuntary swallow at the rich, flowery scent that trailed her was annoying but I gave myself a pass, extracting a hand from my pocket long enough to shut the door before I jammed it back into safety.

I arrived in the living room to find her examining every square inch of it. Yeah, definitely the wrong move, bringing her here. When she was done, she faced me with another tentative smile.

‘Your place is amazing. Very stylish. Very…suave.’

I nodded briskly, totally dismissing the pulse of warmth that attempted to steal through me. ‘Thanks. Would you like a drink? I have white wine chilling. Or I can offer you something else?’ No reason not to be civil before the takedown began.

She shook her head. ‘White wine is fine, thank you.’

My living room was a wide, open space with the dining table tucked beneath a slanted floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Currently at a setting that dulled the blinding sun’s rays by a fraction, the glass threw back a dozen perfect reflections. Through one, I saw her staring after me as I went to the silver ice bucket set up on its pedestal next to the dining table. Saw her avert her gaze as I plucked the Chateauneuf from the ice and turned around. I uncorked the bottle, poured two glasses and returned to the living room.

‘Sit down, Savannah.’

Watchful honey-gold eyes ringed with lush eyelashes met mine as she accepted the wine. ‘Are you sure you want me to?’

I froze. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I wasn’t imagining it. You’re cold. And distant. And seriously pissed off with me for some reason. So why invite me to lunch, Bryce?’ she demanded.

One thing I’d forgotten about her. Savvie always shot from the hip, no holds barred. But I was determined to do this on my terms. I shrugged. ‘It seemed as good a time as any to set a few things straight.’

She tensed. ‘Things like what?’

I shook my head. ‘Not until we’ve eaten.’

‘I’m not sure I want to break bread with someone who’s going to spend the whole meal glaring at me.’

‘You’re a grown woman, Savannah. I’m sure you can take it.’

‘I can. But do I want to? There’s such a thing as free will, you know?’ she challenged without losing an ounce of warm seduction from her voice.

It really was the most maddening thing.

Irritated, I shrugged again. ‘You’re the one who reached out. You’re the one who wanted to see me. And unless I’m mistaken you want something from me, correct?’

She opened her mouth, most probably to deny my crisp assessment. Something stopped her response, something apprehensive that raised my hackles. ‘Fine. Let’s eat,’ she replied abruptly, heading across the room before I could respond, but she paused when she reached the table.

The table was set at perpendicular angles, one place at the head and the other at ninety degrees. I dragged my gaze from the tight, plump globes of her arse and the waist I knew I could span with my hands, and pulled her seat out. After casting another furtive glance at me, she set her suede clutch on the table and sat down.

I took the other seat, aware that neither of us had taken a sip of our wine. Again she latched on to my thoughts, reminding me of her uncanny ability to do so from our youth. ‘Is it worth making a toast to a reunion or am I wasting my breath?’

I snapped out my pristine napkin with unnecessary force before draping it across my lap. ‘Sure, I’ll drink to something. Go ahead and make a toast.’

She stared at me a taut few seconds. ‘To old friends and acquaintances?’

‘Is that a toast or a question?’

My chef’s arrival in that moment from the kitchen with the first course stalled her answer. My brief to the chef had been simple—my guest loved everything except string beans and had no allergies. The rest I’d left to his culinary expertise. He must have done his own homework because he’d pulled out the stops. The seafood starter smelled incredible even before he’d placed it on the table.

‘Oh, lobster thermidor! My favourite,’ Savvie gushed when the dish was uncovered, eliciting a wide, slavishly happy smile from my usually pompous Michelin-starred chef.

‘Bon appétit, mademoiselle. And if you wish for anything else, don’t hesitate to let me know.’

I swallowed an irritated snort. Jacques was only half French and grew up in Michigan but he loved to emphasise his accent in the presence of a beautiful woman. I uncovered my own dish as Savvie picked up her fork. ‘I suppose we can drink to good wine and great food?’

‘Why the hell not?’

She tensed, her eyes flashing at me. ‘Bryce…’

I reached forward with my glass, clinked hers and took a large gulp. ‘Let’s not invite indigestion to a great meal, shall we? Jacques seems taken with you. You don’t want to upset him, do you?’

‘I don’t want to upset you. You’re more important to me.’

The unexpected response disarmed me for all of two seconds before I rallied. ‘Am I? If I’m so important why have you done such a bang-up job of avoiding me for the last three years? Tell me, if it hadn’t been for that prime piece of real estate you currently covet, would I have heard from you at all?’ I asked with every scrap of bitterness broiling in my gut.