A Millionaire at Midnight (Bachelor Auction) Page 2

  And… Oh God.

  A pair of stunning, silvery-grey, thickly lashed eyes. Luminescent. The flowery word popped into her head, and though it seemed ridiculous to attach such purple prose to this man with his face of honed edges, cutting angles, almost harsh sensuality, she couldn’t banish it. When she was a kid—when her father was alive—her family would vacation every summer on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. The color of his eyes reminded her of the shimmering surface of the softly rippling lake right after dusk when the moon reflected off the waters. A fist of emotion tightened her throat. She hadn’t thought of those summers of carefree joy in years…

  Crazy how a lovely, grey gaze glinting with…with…

  Disgust?

  Icy contempt dispelled any lingering warmth inside her with an arctic blast.

  Well, damn, all she’d done was bump into him. But he stared at her as if she were a flea-bitten stray that had strutted up to him and pissed on his tuxedo pants leg.

  “Excuse me,” she apologized, stepping back and out of his hold. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “It’s fine.” His hands fell away from her as if he couldn’t abide one more moment touching her. Still…she fought not to close her eyes. God, she could roll around in that voice like bikini-clad strippers in a batch of fresh mud. Just coat herself in it. Even the concise, clipped tone couldn’t tarnish the deep, dark timbre. “You were…preoccupied,” he added, the same disdain that hardened his stare coloring his words. His flinty gaze flicked over her shoulder in the direction the Terrible Twosome had disappeared before resting on her again.

  And that quickly, his glacial attitude made crystal-clear sense.

  The last part of her conversation drifted back to her. “…this city is full of CEOs and millionaires. Where there’s one, there’s another, and most are ready and willing to get laid.” She smothered a cringe. Damn. That had probably sounded awful. Can you say “gold digger”?

  Usually, she wouldn’t have cared about explaining herself, but for some reason, she wanted to melt the ice in those silver eyes. That same elusive logic had her longing to see a smile curving those sensual lips.

  “I think you may have misconstrued what you might’ve overheard…”

  A dark eyebrow arched high. “I doubt it.”

  Surprise at the abrupt interruption winged through her. What the hell… Irritation—no anger—surged hot and heavy inside her. Whether it was at him for his arrogant contempt or at herself for giving a damn about his opinion of her, she couldn’t say. Yeah, she could. Screw him and the high horse he rode in on. He didn’t know her… No one knew her.

  She grinned, and at the same time, treated him to a cool, withering gaze that she’d learned to perfect right along with her knowledge of which dinner fork to use.

  “Oh good.” She sighed. “For a second there, I was afraid you might believe I was only after a man’s money.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “When the truth is I want his money and ovary-exploding orgasms. Those two together are so hard to find, you know what I mean?”

  Patting his shoulder, she stepped to the side and continued toward the ballroom.

  Prick.

  She loosed a low chuckle. And here she’d thought she wouldn’t have any fun this evening. Putting Judgy McJudgy Pants in his place was her definition of fun.

  Fresh air forgotten, she located her table just as the lights flickered, signaling the beginning of the auction. Slipping into the chair next to her mother, she picked up the goblet of water next to her plate.

  Music streamed into the room, and she snickered at the Las Vegas-meets-cruise ship tune, earning a quelling glance from her mother. She shrugged. What could she say? It was cheesy.

  The lights in the ballroom dimmed once more, and a large spotlight zeroed in on the right end of the wide stage that dominated the front of the room. A woman emerged from the wings, her arms spread wide, her hips swinging from side-to-side, working the stage like a runway. She twirled, her smile beaming bright, her dark hair fanning out along with the bottom of her otherwise tight sequined dress, before she came to a halt in the center of the raised platform.

  “Welcome to the Rhodonite Society’s Twelfth Annual Masquerade Bachelor Auction,” the bedazzled emcee announced. “And welcome to a wonderful night filled with lavish and exotic dates, fun, and ten of Boston’s most handsome, eligible bachelors. Every penny of the proceeds will be donated to the Blake Literacy Foundation, which raises awareness of illiteracy as well as provides programming, tutoring, and technology to Boston’s underprivileged youth.” She nodded, as if giving her stamp of approval to the applause that filled the air. “Yes, a very worthy cause. Now”—she paused dramatically—“without further ado, let’s bring on the bachelors!”

  She strutted to the side, and the spotlight swept across the stage and settled on the tall, masked man who crossed the stage in a black tux that seemed tailor-made for his heavily muscled frame. Striding to the center stage, he struck a pose that he’d probably picked up from a GQ magazine. He should’ve left it there.

  “Our first bachelor is a Boston native, born and bred. Though his career keeps him travelling seven months out of the year, he is a true”—pause and wink—“Patriot when it comes to his hometown.” A chorus of laughter and whistles erupted from the audience at the emcee’s not-so-subtle hint at the bachelor’s occupation. She couldn’t fault Bedazzled, though. If people suspected they were bidding on a professional football player, that knowledge would drive the price up. Especially by those women whose lifelong dream was aspiring to be a WAG, a Wife and Girlfriend of an athlete. “His hobbies include camping, cooking, and reading literature classics such as Of Mice and Men, The Great Gatsby…and The Hunger Games.”

  More chuckles, and she snorted. Katniss rocked. Everyone knew that.

  “The lucky woman who wins him will enjoy the date of a lifetime,” the gushing emcee continued. “Three days and two nights in,” dramatic pause, “Maui! Yes, a long weekend filled with sunbathing and swimming on Hawaii’s most notable beaches, snorkeling, hula lessons, luaus, and of course, the famous nightlife. It’s a luxurious dream date and can be yours in just seconds. Let’s open the bidding. We’ll start at $6,000. Six. $7,000. Do we have—wonderful! We do indeed have seven…”

  Morgan popped her paddle in the air, driving the price up from $8,500 to $9,000. After the bid reached $9,500, she dropped out and let the other women duke it out. She’d dated a football player in the past, and well… She believed in charity, but putting up with an athlete, much less possibly getting involved with him, wasn’t worth that much money. The sport always came first, then his ego. And the only thing that would keep him faithful was if scientists somehow came up with an erectile dysfunction implant. After several minutes, the winning bid of $15,000 was declared, and a woman who appeared barely legal enough to vote, much less bid, giggled in victory with her group of friends at a nearby table.

  With a wave, the first bachelor exited, and the second strolled onto the stage. More bachelors, flirty introductions, and furious paddle battles followed, and Morgan engaged in every skirmish. Even her mother shot her a “what are you doing?” glance, but she ignored it. People wanted something to gossip about; she would give it to them.

  “And now for bachelor number nine,” Bedazzled cooed.

  Another tall, masked man appeared on the side of the stage. But that was where the similarities ended. The others had strutted or strolled across the stage, bravado evident in every stride and pose. But this man…stalked. Sinuous, graceful, controlled…sexy. As if that control and sensuality wasn’t limited to just his walk but included other areas. Areas like a bed, sweaty, twisted sheets, and sturdy bedposts.

  Even his black tuxedo, which almost every man in attendance wore, appeared different. The way this man’s tux stroked his wide shoulders, emphasized his lean waist, and embraced those powerful thighs… No, this man wore his monkey suit as if he’d been born to it…as if it sighed in pleasure for being able
to grace such an amazing body. Hell, she was sighing.

  His white mask might’ve concealed his face, but it only enhanced the natural confidence that exuded from him. He didn’t need the posturing that previous bachelors had employed. No, he just stood there, hands in his pants pockets, the stance fairly shouting, “Take me or leave me…but we both know you’re dying to take me.”

  And he wouldn’t be wrong…

  Giving her head a shake, Morgan reclined in her seat. What the hell? Was he a snake charmer or something? Speaking of snake… Her gaze dropped to the front of his pants… Oh for godsakes. That pun was bad—even for her. Disgusted, she shifted her attention back to Bedazzled.

  “Bachelor number nine originally hails from New York, but he has recently changed zip codes and is glad to call Boston home. An admitted workaholic, he confesses that his other bad habits include falling asleep at the office, leaving his clothes on the floor, and having an inability to pass up a Harry Potter book or movie.” The audience laughed at the last bit, and Morgan shook her head. Like who could pass up Harry and the crew? “His ideal woman will have the generous heart and patience to look over all his faults.” More chuckling. “The lucky bidder who wins this bachelor tonight will enjoy a three-night, three-day mini-vacation in beautiful Punta Mita, Mexico. You’ll stay in a luxurious villa complete with an oceanfront infinity pool, spa, two beach clubs, and golf courses. Your every need and desire will be catered to. This sounds so exciting and romantic.” The emcee sighed. “Now, we’ll open the bidding at $7,000. Do I have seven? Yes, we do! Eight?”

  Morgan threw her paddle up, offering $8,000. A low-grade hum set up under her skin. Excitement? Desire? She didn’t take time to analyze it, but damn if it didn’t have her leaning forward in her chair, determined to win this bachelor for her own. If anyone deserved a break, she did. It’s the trip and not the bachelor that has you squirming in your seat, her inner-bitch taunted. Riiiight. With a middle finger to her conscience, she rejoined the fray of paddles. Ten thousand. Twelve thousand. The price went higher and higher, but she was determined not to lose. Curiosity and a sense of…urgency she couldn’t explain drove her to win. Maybe it was the need to discover if this man’s face matched the rest of him. Or maybe it was the subtle churning in her stomach at just the thought of another woman walking away with him tonight. Which made absolutely no sense. She had no claim on him other than her flying paddle.

  They were at $15,000 now, and impatient to end this war, Morgan flicked her hand in the air and called out, “$17,000.” Okay, so she’d committed a slight faux pas by jumping the bid, but so what? She was taking no prisoners…except for the masked bachelor on the stage.

  “Well, okay then,” Bedazzled crowed, not in the least fazed by her leap in price. “We have a generous seventeen. Do we have $18,000? No?” A pause, and then she grinned. “Sold to number 56 for $17,000! Congratulations! Wow, that one was heated, wasn’t it?” She fanned herself, winking as bachelor number nine exited.

  As the emcee moved on to the introduction of the final bachelor, Morgan’s mother leaned over, settling a hand on Morgan’s forearm. “Feel better?” she asked, perfectly arched eyebrow lifted.

  “Immensely.” Morgan grinned.

  For the first time since she’d walked in on Troy and Cynthia and their tender moment of love, the sense of defeat lifted off her shoulders. She’d won. Something. Someone. Yes, it was a shallow, small victory. But, God, it was a win.

  Too soon—and not soon enough—the auction ended. In moments, the men filed back onto the stage and the women—and one man—who’d outbid their competitors moved forward to claim their spoils.

  Morgan’s belly fluttered as she rose from her table. Foolish to be so anxious about a stranger, and one whose face she’d never seen. But logic held no sway over the raptors currently creating wind tunnels in her stomach.

  Even among tall, wide-shouldered men, she easily spotted him. The men had come down to stand in front of the stage. She moved forward until she was face-to-face with him. Heart pounding, she extended her hand, smiling.

  “Hello. I believe you belong to me. Morgan Lett.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he grasped hers, and she barely managed to swallow a gasp. Heat swirled inside her, channeling from her hand, up her arm, and expanding to all points north and south. A low, throbbing cadence echoed between her legs, matching the rapid pulse inside her chest.

  Christ, a simple handshake shouldn’t cause this kind of chemical melee. She hadn’t felt anything so visceral since…since…

  Oh shit, it couldn’t be…

  Releasing her hand, her bachelor grabbed the bottom of the mask and, as if in slow motion, lifted it, revealing a hard jaw and chin, a firm but carnal mouth, a sharp nose, and—

  Gorgeous, storm-wild eyes. Very familiar gorgeous, storm-wild eyes.

  The judgy prick.

  Goddamn.

  Chapter Two

  The gold-digger.

  Goddamn.

  If Alexander Bishop had been double-jointed enough to reach back and kick his own ass, his size thirteens would be firmly planted in a certain body cavity.

  In many of his speeches at the banquets and conferences his Vice President of Public Relations, Kim Matlock, was continuously signing him up for, he always spoke of the things he was willing to do for his company.

  Work later and harder than those he employed.

  Take risks that, on paper, seem precarious and unwise.

  Make the difficult decisions that no one but the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar corporation could, such as shutting down some companies and letting some personnel go so other businesses under the corporate umbrella could thrive.

  But apparently, he’d been too short-sighted in his estimation of how much he would sacrifice for Bishop Enterprises, his family’s corporation.

  Participating in a bachelor auction definitely should’ve made the short list.

  Hell, what was next? Dancing with the Damn Stars?

  Yes, after much browbeating from Kim, he’d agreed to participate in the auction.

  But that’d been before he’d come face-to-face with the slender, gorgeous blonde who was probably the inspiration for Kanye West’s “Gold Digger.”

  He’d known beautiful women. It sure as hell wasn’t his first time meeting a woman who viewed men as walking dollar signs. But this one…

  Beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous. She’d undoubtedly had those adjectives tossed at her so often during her life, she swatted them away like pesky flies. Didn’t make them any less true.

  Crystal blue eyes that would’ve made a contact-lens company millions. Smooth, flawless skin. A slightly wide mouth with a lush fullness that had heat kindling in his gut. No proper lady had lips like that. He lingered on those sexy curves before lowering his gaze to the body that had caught his attention even among hundreds of women crowding the ballroom in their finest gowns and jewels. Considering the glamour of the evening, her relatively simple dress alone would’ve made her stand out. While others had opted for sequins, crystals, beads, and bright, festive colors, she’d chosen a black gown that dipped low in front and lower in the back. But with firm, high breasts that would easily fit in the palm of his hand—a man’s hand, not his—a tucked-in waist that emphasized the feminine flare of her hips, and an ass that rivaled the art on the walls, she didn’t need anything other than the dangling, onyx earrings to embellish the look. She was the adornment.

  Yet, the lovely face and worship-worthy body couldn’t even claim the title of “crowning glory.” That belonged to the long, silken waterfall that streamed over her shoulder.

  Blonde seemed an inadequate term for the color that gleamed like the purest gold underneath the brilliant lights of the chandelier. The glossy, sleek waves invited a man to sink his hands to the wrists in the strands, twisting his fingers, clutching…

  Alex blinked, fracturing the image like a shattered window.

  The hell?

  He clenched his jaw and delib
erately called up the memory of how he’d first encountered her, the conversation he’d overheard.

  The unfamiliar—hell, unprecedented—reaction she’d stirred in him, coupled with her earlier blasé observation that one deep pocket was the same as the next, incited an anger that didn’t make sense. Hell, she wasn’t sinking her greedy, manicured claws into him, so what did it matter?

  Although… In spite of what she claimed, he couldn’t imagine any man with a pair would be okay with the Backstreet Boys serenading him for his first wedding dance. That was just…wrong.

  Shoving down his aversion to Morgan Lett, he nodded to the blonde. “Alexander Bishop. It’s nice to formally meet you, Ms. Lett,” he said, corralling the thoughts nipping at his brain like one of those annoying toy dogs.

  She arched a delicate eyebrow. “Really? ‘Ms. Lett’? After you’ve insinuated I’m a gold digger, and I called you a prick, we shouldn’t be standing on formality, Alex.” She smiled, and he checked the sudden urge to form the sign of the cross even though he wasn’t Catholic. “Especially since I just spent seventeen-thousand dollars on you.” Leaning in close, she whispered, “I own you.”

  I own you. A curl of heat coiled in his chest, meandered down his gut, and headed toward his cock before he could extinguish it with a frigid blast of What the hell?

  “It’s Alexander,” he countered in a voice usually reserved for incompetent employees and his father. Only those closest to him used the abbreviated version of his name. And he definitely didn’t count this woman among that, admittedly, very small group.

  Stiffening, he forced himself to remain still and not shift backward. Her scent teased him. Warm, sensual, surprisingly earthy. Sandalwood, vanilla, and a sultry musk that reminded him of soft, perspiration-dampened skin. He mentally reared from the uncharacteristically fanciful thought.

  “And I’m sure the Blake Literary Foundation appreciates your generous donation, Ms. Lett,” he said, stressing the formal title.