The canapés are adequate.
The company is tedious.
"Vaughn." Richard Moorehouse appears at my elbow, scotch in hand.
Old money. Railroad fortune from his great-grandfather. "Good to see you finally joining us for the main event."
I take a sip of champagne. "Victor suggested I expand my portfolio."
"Wise man, Victor." Richard's eyes gleam. "I've been coming to these for fifteen years. Never regretted a single acquisition.My current companion is exquisite. Brazilian. Trained in—well. Let's just say she'sverytalented."
I don't want to know. Don't care.
But I smile politely because that's what you do in these circles.
"I'm considering the blonde in lot six," Richard continues. "Excellent breeding. Very compliant temperament, according to her file."
Compliant temperament.
They say that about all of them, like women are horses being sold at auction.
Which, I suppose, they are.
"If you'll excuse me," I say. "I should review the catalog before things begin."
I leave Richard to his scotch and his breeding theories and find a quiet corner near the windows.
Outside, the ocean is black and endless.
No moon tonight.
Just darkness and the distant lights of the mainland.
The catalog is thick. Glossy.
Each "lot" has a full-page spread with professional photos and detailed descriptions.
Lot one: Twenty-year-old brunette. Culinary training. Fluent in French and Italian.
Lot two: Nineteen-year-old redhead. Dance background. Virgin.
I flip through without much interest.
They're all beautiful.
All young.
All terrified beneath whatever mask they've been trained to wear.
I'll bid on someone. Anyone.
Just enough to satisfy Victor and the inner circle.
Then I'll set her up in one of my properties with a generous allowance and minimal expectations.
She can leave after the contract expires with enough money to start over.
It's more than most of these men will offer.
