My jaw tightens. I recognize this one too—Adrien Keller, tech billionaire, younger than me but with twice the reputation for debauchery.
Fuck no.
The woman’s face pales. Her other hand clutches the small purse she’s holding, knuckles white with tension.
“Two hundred thousand,” I say, loud enough to carry through the now-silent room.
Gerhardt turns back to the stage, contemplating. Keller steps forward, squinting at me through the dim light.
I could do this all fucking night.
“Come on, Ward,” he says with a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. “Spread the wealth. Two-ten.”
She’s trembling now, barely perceptible unless you’re watching as closely as I am. Something protective and primal surges through me.
“Three hundred thousand,” I say flatly.
The gasps are audible. The auctioneer fumbles his gavel.
“T-three h-hundred thousand dollars from Mr. Ronan Ward,” he stammers. “Do I hear any advance on four hundred thousand?”
Gerhardt shakes his head, disgusted. Keller hesitates, then gives me a mocking bow of concession.
“Going once, going twice…” The auctioneer’s voice rises with each word, drawing out the moment. “Sold! To Mr. Ward for three hundred thousand dollars!”
The crowd applauds, more for the unprecedented amount than for me. I ignore them all, keeping my eyes on her as she’s ushered off the stage. Relief washes over her features, but uncertainty quickly replaces it. She doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know if I’m any better than the alternatives.
I’ll show her I am. I’ll make myself worthy of her.
I move through the crowd, ignoring the congratulations and curious glances. In the holding area behind the stage, staff members process paperwork for the “dates” being auctioned. She stands alone by a high table, pen hovering over a document, hesitation in every line of her body.
“Mr. Ward,” a coordinator greets me. “Congratulations on your winning bid. If you’ll just sign here, your companion for the weekend will be all yours.”
I take the pen, feeling her eyes on me as I sign without reading. I know the terms—forty-eight hours, no obligation beyond companionship, all very civilized and proper on paper. What happens between consenting adults after the paperwork is signed is nobody’s business.
Only when I set the pen down do I turn to look at her properly. Up close, she’s even more beautiful … and more frightened. Those blue eyes are deeper than I realized, intelligent and wary. Her skin is flushed, whether from the stage lights or embarrassment, I can’t tell. It makes the freckles smattering across her nose and cheeks even more prominent.
“Ronan Ward,” I say, extending my hand.
She hesitates for a beat and places her small hand in mine. The simple contact sends a jolt down my spine. The world slides to a stop around us, and I’m fully aware of my blood rushing down south, making me harder with every second she stares at me.
It’s nothing more than a handshake, but my mind somehow registers it as foreplay.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I acting like a hormonal teen?
Her skin is cool but soft, and I can’t stop myself from lifting her hand to my mouth and brushing my lips across her knuckles. Even through the noise behind us, I hear her sharp intake of breath.
“Rayne Silva,” she says.
Am I imagining it or is her voice a little breathy?
“First time at one of these?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
She nods, withdrawing her hand too quickly. “Yes. First and last.”
Something about her tone catches my attention. Desperation, perhaps. The kind that drives people to do things they’d never otherwise consider.
Well, I’m no stranger to desperation myself.
