“Not enjoying yourself?” I keep my voice neutral, but I’m studying every microexpression that crosses her face.
“Being auctioned off isn’t exactly on my bucket list.” A flash of spine beneath the vulnerability. Interesting. “So, no, Mr. Ward. Not really.”
“Ronan. Call me Ronan.” I step closer until our faces are just inches apart. She’s shorter than me, so the top of her head only reaches my chin—even when she’s in high heels. “And for the record, I don’t think it’s on anyone’s bucket list. I wouldn’t want anyone bidding on me, either.”
“So why did you? Bid on me, I mean?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I let my gaze drop to her mouth and have to physically restrain myself from claiming her in front of this crowd.. “Or rather, the three-hundred-thousand-dollar question.”
The coordinator clears her throat. “Everything’s in order, Mr. Ward. Ms. Silva is all yours until Monday morning.”
All mine. The words trigger something possessive I didn’t know existed in me. I’ve never wanted to own another person before. But this night has proven extraordinary. Nothing ever made me want to stake my claim so badly like this. Nothing that made me feel almost delirious with want within minutes of seeing someone.
“Do you have a coat? Anything you need to collect?” I ask Rayne.
She shakes her head and gestures to her small purse. “Just this.”
I nod to the coordinator, dismissing her with a look, before turning back to Rayne. “My car’s waiting outside.”
As we walk through the auction hall toward the exit, I’m acutely aware of the eyes following us. Men who lost the bidding. Women calculating what made this particular auction item worth three hundred thousand dollars. I place my hand on the small of Rayne’s back—a clear signal to everyone watching.
Touch her and you die.
She stiffens momentarily at my touch, but eventually relaxes, moving closer to my side as we navigate the crowd. Her instinct to trust me pleases something primitive in my brain.
Outside, the night air is cool and clean after the perfumed, champagne-heavy atmosphere of the auction hall. My car idles at the curb, Jackson, my driver, standing at attention beside it.
“Ms. Silva,” I say as Jackson opens the door, “after you.”
“Rayne. Please call me Rayne.”
She slides into the backseat, arranging her dress carefully. I follow, settling beside her but leaving space between us. The door closes with a solid thunk, sealing us in the quiet luxury of the car’s interior.
Up close, in the dim light of the car, I can see the subtle signs of strain around her eyes. Fatigue, worry, sadness. Emotions at odds with someone who should be celebrating a charitable triumph.
“Three hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money,” she says quietly, breaking the silence as Jackson pulls away from the curb.
“Not to me.”
She wrings her hands together and looks out the window. “For a weekend with a stranger.”
“I don’t make investments I don’t fully intend to enjoy.”
Her eyes snap to mine, alarm flickering through them. I realize how my words sound. Shit.
“I meant the company,” I say, waving a hand. “Nothing more than you’re comfortable with. If there’s one thing you should know about me, Rayne, it’s that I don’t force myself on anyone.”
The tension in her shoulders eases marginally. “Why me? There were other women tonight. More ... beautiful and experienced ones.”
The question surprises me with its directness. I consider lying, saying something smooth about her beauty or grace. But something tells me Rayne would see right through platitudes. For some reason, I also refuse to lie to her.
This is unlike the cold, calculating me everyone knows. I’ve never been this considerate to anyone before, except for my son, Ryan, that is.
“Because you didn’t want to be there,” I say finally. “Everyone else was selling. You looked like you wouldn’t be there if you had any other option.”
She bites her lip lightly, and it takes herculean effort not to drop my gaze again and give in to the instinct of tasting her. “That obvious?”
“To me.”
