“True, but a bit late to object. How about we have another wager?”
“Uh-huh.” Something tells me he’s been planning this for the last four-and-a-half thousand miles. “Terms?”
“If you win, I’ll fuck you gently,” he says, then pauses to blow a little excess chalk off the tip of his cue. “If I win, I tie you up and fuck you any way I please.”
And he says it in that damn sexy voice, too.
My breath catches, and I have to steady myself on the edge of the table. Nipples tightening, stomach clenching, heat pooling.
Declan gives me that sadistic little smile of his and leans back. “Your break.”
Cheating bastard.
He’s got ropes in his panniers. Even though he hasn’t had them out yet, I know they’re there.
He’s made sure I know they’re there.
How am I going to be able to focus enough to play now?
Declan’s watching me, half amused, half with heat in his beguiling, pale blue eyes.
I am so going to lose.
Can’t wait.
Sneak Peek: Captive Ruin
Coming Soon: Book two in my Dark Acquisitions series.
One
Amelia
The bouncer barely glances at the invitation I’ve handed him before waving me through the door.
The tension I’ve been carrying since the cab ride drains out of me. I’m in.
A private party in an understated, old money venue in Manhattan, a charity gala for the obscenely wealthy and bored.
It’s an art auction, of course; Serranto’s usual hunting ground. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s here looking for more naïve, wealthy women to prey on. I’d love to stop him for good, but I’ll have to settle with keeping him away from my sister.
It’s my fault they were introduced. But I’m going to set that right andun-introduce them, starting tonight.
The room is large, well-lit, with clean lines and a white marble floor. It’s not a gallery but it’s been converted for the occasion, with various pieces on the walls and some sculptures on plinths throughout. There’re maybe a hundred people here, though there’s enough space so it doesn’t feel crowded. The guests are predominantly men, all in tuxedos, and the few women I see wear cocktail dresses that ooze elegance and money.
Mine oozes Macy’s.
I self-consciously smooth it down, checking the straps cover my bra. At short notice, it was the only suitable option I had for an event like this, and it still falls short. A navy midi that is great for my usual evenings out, but here clearly marks me as an outsider among the rich and shameless. It doesn’t even match my clutch.
But I don’t care. I’m not here for appearances or the art on offer. I’m here for Lucy, to blackmail Serranto into leaving her the hell alone.
The auction isn’t due to start for another two hours. This is the pre-session, soft music playing from hidden speakers at a volume that doesn’t curtail conversation; canapes and glasses of champagne; networking and schmoosing. I accept a glass from a passing server in a uniform, sipping without tasting it.
I don’t care much for what’s on display, but it’s not the art that bothers me, it’s the people. This sort buys for investment—or worse, a tax write-off—then stores it somewhere no one will ever see it. To me, that’s the real crime. The work on these walls is predominantly decorative, society portraiture, chosen because it matches a sofa, and they’ll bid ridiculous sums for all the wrong reasons. It’s a quietly painful place to be.
I stop at a piece here and there that catches my eye, but I’m really using them as an excuse to navigate my way around the room, looking for my quarry.
And then I see him, and my anger unfurls, cold and eager.
