The Dare Collection June 2019. Rachael Stewart

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       CHAPTER ONE

      Neve

      A SINGLE WOMAN walks into a bar...

      I felt a little bit like a cliché as I entered the VIP-only bar on the twentieth floor of Hotel M and perched on the stool at the far end of the long smoked-glass 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 СКАЧАТЬ