“Sorry for making you uncomfortable,” he says instead, his tone infuriatingly calm. “Come on, there’s someone I need to talk to. Sir Whitmore’s CFO.”
I huff and adjust my shawl, trailing after Liam. As he works the room, schmoozing the rich and pretentious, he doesn’t lay a single finger on me again. And a teeny tiny bit of me loathes to admit that I’m disappointed.
“Do I hear one hundred thousand?” The auctioneer booms from the stage, presenting a small statue of a naked, voluptuous, Roman-looking goddess.
Lord Fossil Pervert’s hand shoots up from across the hall, his fifth priceless “artwork” bid of the night. I can’t resist rolling my eyes because, honestly, it looks like something from IKEA’s bargain bin. An hour into this ridiculous auction, and I’m appalled by the excess on display.
My silent rebuke earns me a scorching look from Liam. Damn him. He’s taking up too much space beside me with those thighs splayed wide and toned arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Next up, a true maritime gem—theGeorgieyacht!” The posh auctioneer gestures to a photograph with a theatrical flourish. “State-of-the-art navigation, every conceivable amenity for luxurious voyages. Let’s start the bidding at a modest two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, shall we?”
Liam’s hand lifts, and I try not to splutter.
Across the room, another bidder counters with two seventy.
Liam raises his hand again, and I turn to scope out the competition. Tall, blond, and handsome—definitely giving off Thor vibes.
“Alastair Charles Harrington,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone. Owner of Vertex Capital.
The bidding war intensifies. I squint at the yacht photo, trying to figure out what all the fuss is about. The numbers are jumping up in fifty-thousand-pound increments. When the auctioneer booms, “One million pounds,” Liam raises his hand, and I’m pretty sure my jaw is on the floor.
“Sold to Mr. Liam McLaren for one million pounds!” The gavel cracks down amid stunned applause.
I turn to Liam. “Congratulations. I thought you already had a yacht.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Now I have one more.”
“I can’t imagine needing more than one yacht.”
Amusement flickers in his eyes, like he’s indulging a silly child. “It’s to show Sir Whitmore my appreciation for his charity auction. A gesture of goodwill.”
“You really want to win brownie points with this guy, huh?” I murmur, keeping my voice low so only Liam can hear.
I glance over at Alastair, who’s staring our way, a blond runway model type at his side. He doesn’t seem too bothered by the fact that Liam just snatched the yacht out from under him. Maybe he’s had a moment of clarity and realized that spending a million pounds on a boat is a bit like setting fire to a great big pile of cash.
Thank goodness, Liam’s little impulse buy is the last item on the auction block. As we stand up to leave, I turn to him, eyebrow raised.
“Don’t look so shocked, Gemma. This is standard fare for these auctions.”
I can’t contain my skepticism. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m in the market for a gold-plated toilet brush or something equally overpriced,” I quip. Curiosity gets the better of me. “So, how much is that boat really worth?”
“Original asking price. Quarter mil.”
My jaw drops. “That was one hell of an expensive dick measuring contest.”
Liam’s eyes darken, his jaw ticking as he leans in close. “I don’t need to measure anything.”
I swallow hard, my mind flooded with very inappropriate images of his cock. Great.
“Come on. It’s time to pay our respects to the man himself.” He takes my arm, steering me toward what I can only assume is my impending doom.
Liam leads me over to Sir Sebastian Whitmore—the man, thelegendI so foolishly insulted just days ago—and his son who looks like a younger, hotter version of his dad.
I’m not sure why I didn’t tell Liam about my run-in with Sir Whitmore. Maybe I just wanted to cling to my shiny new doubled salary for a bit longer.
Anyway, Sir Whitmore might not recognize me with all this makeup on. Or maybe he’s got crap eyesight. A girl can dream.
“Sir Whitmore, Will,” Liam greets them with a lazy drawl that somehow manages to sound both bored and threatening at the same time. “This is Gemma, my HR manager at Ashbury Thornton.”
