“Well, you can’t go out there like that,” Roxanne said. “I’ll go make some kind of excuse.”
“No,” he growled, turning his back to them and strolling down the hallway. “I said I’d do it.”
Damn, Ceci thought. What are they going to think when they see him with that swollen, purple eye? She was lost in thought, gazing at that straight-spine walk of his, when she heard a loud cough.
“Ahem!”
She turned to see Roxanne, a royally pissed-off look on her face.
“It’s not enough that you rattle my client in just about any room you find him in.”
“I told you it was an accident.”
“That’s beside the point. Because of you, he’s going to have to go out there with that eye. Any idea what kind of fun the auctioneer is going to have with this? Not to mention the press and social media.”
Ceci couldn’t afford to piss off Roxanne.
“How can I make it up to you?”
“Bid on him.”
If it was possible for one’s jaw to drop to the floor, Ceci would have managed it.
“Before you say no,” Roxanne said, “I’m not asking you to win. I’ll arrange for someone to outbid you. Start at ten thousand dollars.”
“What?”
“I need the bid to be high to get some good press out of this. When someone outbids your bid, you outbid them. Go as high as fifty thousand.”
Ceci gaped. “Rox—”
“I promise you. Your bid will not be the winning bid. Once you get to fifty thousand, someone will outbid you and your obligation to me will be fulfilled.”
“You guarantee it?”
“I do.”
Fuck that and a bag of chips.
“O-kay,” Ceci groaned.
Roxanne sighed. “Good. I better go see how he’s doing.”
When Ceci returned to the table, the auction had already begun, and Aunt Delilah was in rare form. She slammed the table so hard the bourbon she’d slipped into her teacup sloshed over the brim.
“Your aunt’s upset. That was the third one she’s bid on. And lost.”
“What in the name of all that is indecent happened to him?” Aunt Delilah boomed as Clarke walked out.
That eye looked worse. Why didn’t he just bow out? If he felt bad about the money, he could have just donated a sizable chunk himself. He could afford it.
The auctioneer showed him no mercy.
“Didn’t realize it was that rough out there. You and Anker get into a scuffle? I thought that only happened on the track, usually with you getting only a brief glimpse of his backside.”
Laughter circulated around the room.
That injury really should have been an eyesore. It should have been the thing that marred a pretty face. Because Clarke had classically handsome good looks that one might call pretty, with those dreamy caramel eyes and long black lashes. But he had other features, like that square jaw and those bold cheekbones, that weren’t pretty at all. Not to mention those lips, which most of the time were fixed in a rigid-straight line but occasionally curved, suggesting something almost sinister. A strandof hair that looked like a dark honey stick slung over his one good eye, brushing the tips of his lashes. He slipped the strand between a couple of his long, elegant fingers and swept it back.
