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No sex with him anymore.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve danced in the last eight years.
It’s surprising how much I miss it.
The music is too loud for the hotel room but I doubt any of the staff will be sent to tell me to turn it down, since it was Noam who booked the room for me and Noam who signs their paychecks.
I’ve told him I can pay for my room but he insists. He knew that being downtown in meetings all day, I wouldn’t have time to head home to change before dinner, so he booked me a room at his hotel. Not one of the suites, but just a space to have a few moments by myself.
I get to my feet and pick up the robe before I dress, leaving the music loud to distract me from my thoughts.
I’ve come a long way since my days as a dancer.
Squaring my shoulders, I offer my reflection a tight smile. Time to go to work.
Not that it’s work with Noam. Noam Tate is one of the few men who treats me like a person rather than an object to be purchased or possessed. He also likes to focus on who I am now, rather than who I was and where I came from.
That’s why the urge to dance was a surprise. It’s been years since I headlined at Spider’s Den Gentlemen’s Club and I’m no longer known as Kitty Cat or Black Widow or The Siren.
I’m Cady Quinn, owner of Spider’s Den, and fourteen other clubs across Canada, ranging from gentlemen’s clubs, two sex clubs, and a handful of nightclubs where people go to dance and there’s no sex allowed on the premises.
I’m also the former owner of E, the infamous “dating” site for married men, and the current owner/operation of the Mature Adult Female website—or Moist and Frisky as some call it.
And as of three weeks ago, I’m a billionaire.
The music switches to Beyoncé, and I have another dance before I get dressed for dinner.
2
Maximus
It sounds like there’s a party in the room above me.
I’m tempted to go check it out, but dealing with dear old Dad is the priority.
According to him, anyway.
“I don’t understand why you left the negotiations,” Dalton Steele demands, his voice as cold as—you guessed it—steel as he rages at me across the country, via my cell phone.
“I told you.” I keep a firm grasp on my patience because getting upset will only get me another lecture about my continual immaturity and what he considers insubordination, resulting in threats of kicking me out of the company and the possibility of disinheritance.
Both sound pretty damn good right now.
“I’m leaving for Turks and Caicos tomorrow for Marcus’s wedding,” I explain to my father. “And Patel wasn’t able to accommodate my requests to finish this today because of family commitments.”
“We’re offering him a quarter of a billion dollars to accommodate your requests,” Dalton rages.
“He had a funeral,” I tell him, a hint of scorn edging my tone. “Celebrating the deceased trumps business for him. It’s not a bad thing.”
“Enough of your rudeness,” my father snaps.
That wasn’t rude. Rude would be to tell my father to take a running fucking leap off the shortest pier Aarush Patel owns on one of the islands he’s sitting on in Muskoka.
An island my father desperately wants to buy to redevelop into the latest Sandflower Resort.
It looks good on paper—five sweet little one-acre islands around a monster fifteen acres of God’s country in the middle of Lake Joseph. Dad wants to build the next Sandflower Resort on the big one and cottages on the little ones, so guests will have the private island experience.
People would pay a lot for that.
