A Millionaire at Midnight (Bachelor Auction) Read online

  Morgan shook her head. “I’ve already been fired once this morning. I probably need to go before Mr. Bishop calls security to pack up my desk.” A snort echoed from behind her, but she continued out of the office, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Only then did she lean against the jamb, her head pressed to the wood and eyes closed, dragging much needed air into her tortured lungs. Air that had seemed in short supply around her new boss.

  Get it together, she ordered herself, pushing off the wall.

  Either she learned how to breathe around Alexander Bishop, or she would need to add inhalers to her office supplies list. Pens, copier paper, binder clips, and Albuterol pumps.

  She’d better get used to the vitality and energy that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of any room he was in. Two weeks—that’s all he’d allotted her to prove he needed her as much as that stick up his ass.

  Challenge accepted.

  …

  “You really fired her?” Kim demanded.

  Alexander tore his stare from the office door his executive assistant had disappeared behind and focused it on his sister.

  He snorted. “She’s still here, isn’t she?” he asked, lowering back to his chair.

  “I can’t believe you actually want to get rid of her,” she said, shaking her head as she crossed the room.

  “You can’t? Really? You can’t think of one reason why?”

  Kim waved her hand as if shoving aside his objection. “So you two got off on the wrong and awkward foot? Edward couldn’t stop singing her praises.”

  “And you don’t think that has anything to do with him having a young, beautiful woman at his beck and call all day?” he drawled.

  “You’re such a cynic. Another reason for me to go scorched earth on Helena,” Kim muttered.

  He didn’t respond; it wouldn’t do him any good. It’d been two years since his divorce, and Kim still resented his ex-wife for trying to put him through the ringer during their proceedings. But the truth? She’d only been the latest in a list of women who’d taught him that beauty could hide a hardened, deceitful, greedy heart. His mother had been the first teacher and claimed the number-one spot on that list.

  And why the hell was he thinking of either of those women? Next subject.

  “So what happened?” his sister pressed. “Since she didn’t seem upset, I’m guessing you changed your mind? Although,” she added, drumming her fingernails against the file on her lap, “I’ve never known you to do that.”

  “She blackmailed me,” he confessed. “Told me she would go to Human Resources and spread gossip about her—and I quote—‘unjust, smells-like-sexual-harassment firing.’”

  Kim’s lips parted, her eyes widening. Then, she threw back her head and cackles erupted from her, sounding like a hyena in mid-death throes. He rolled his eyes, waiting for her hilarity to pass.

  While she wheezed and wiped at her eyes, he let his thoughts drift to Morgan Lett. The same Morgan Lett that he’d had every intention of sending packing when he’d arrived that morning. The file his in-house private investigator had pulled together on her since Friday night had been thorough. Her father’s death. Her mother’s two marriages and the recent death of her stepfather. The charities she sponsored. Her education hadn’t been a surprise, but the field of concentration had been. A woman with her degrees could demand a higher position in any company, and yet she’d spent the last few months as Edward Patterson’s secretary. Or a better question…

  Why was she working at all? David Lett, her biological father, had provided what her stepfather hadn’t—a fortune left to Morgan. Enough to also provide for her younger sister, who wouldn’t come into her inheritance until she reached twenty-five as well.

  Alex had labeled her a gold digger. And while, in his experience, he’d never known a woman who’d ever turned down money, something didn’t fit in his initial impression of her. When he’d fired her, why hadn’t she told him to take his job and shove it up his ass? Instead, she’d fought for the position, blackmailing him to keep it. It just didn’t fit with the gold-digger persona. Or with a woman who had enough money to live in a mansion and file her nails for the rest of her life.

  The woman was an enigma. Like a book that refused to give up its secrets until the last few pages, she confused him.

  He didn’t like enigmas. Detested confusion. They belonged in fiction, but not his professional or personal life.

  And yet, she sat outside his office, reviewing the agenda for his upcoming board meeting.

  “As funny as that is,” Kim rasped, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue she snatched out of the box left behind by Edward on the desk. “It still doesn’t answer my question. Normally, her threats wouldn’t have meant shit to you. So what happened?”

  She was right. Usually, he wouldn’t care whether or not employees gossiped about him, or that he seemed like a cold-hearted bastard. He never stayed at a company long enough that their impressions mattered. Buy the business, strengthen it, sell it for a higher profit. That was his MO, and it didn’t leave much room for concerns about his reputation.

  He shrugged. “I don’t have a replacement right now, and she knows how this office is run since she’s been with Edward for several months.”

  And she’d been sexually harassed.

  And he’d hurt her feelings.

  An image of her shuttered expression when he’d mentioned her ex-fiancé and stepsister snapped in front of his face like a flag caught in a brisk breeze. A shuttered expression that hadn’t been quick enough to hide the flash of pain in those sky-blue eyes.

  He was a self-admitted asshole, but in that moment, knowing he’d caused those clouds to darken her gaze, regret had raked him like nails on a chalkboard. Discordant. Unnerving.

  Didn’t that sum up how Morgan always left him? Uncomfortable. Unsettled.

  And yet, on impulse, he’d granted her the two weeks. Another thing that left him discomfited. He didn’t do anything on impulse. Impulse implied lack of forethought, of control. Both were imperative, cornerstones of the life he’d built. Of the person he’d become.

  “Well, I like her,” Kim declared. “She’s the first person who hasn’t stumbled over or ignored the fact that we’re related. Or made me feel like I’m one of Thomas Jefferson’s by-blows,” she drawled. “I’m glad you gave her another chance.”

  Underneath the flippant tone, he caught Kim’s hurt. She put on a good show—just like all Bishops did—about their father not acknowledging her as his daughter. During those occasions where he couldn’t avoid her, Malcolm Bishop treated Kim as if she were just another employee instead of his flesh and blood. His father cheating on his mother—that hadn’t surprised Alex in the least. But fathering another child and hiding it all those years? That had shocked the hell out of him. Malcolm Bishop might’ve been self-absorbed, distant, and a person who cared more about his dick than spending time with his son, but an absentee father? A bastard who would ignore his own child for years except for the cutting of a monthly check? Alex wouldn’t have believed that of him if he hadn’t been witness to the rejection that still continued today. The rejection that continued to wound Kim even though she would never admit it.

  Alex nodded toward the manila folder his sister clutched on her lap. “Who’d you come up with?”

  Kim rose from the chair and rounded his desk, placing the file down in front of him. “Three possibles,” she said, perching on the edge of his desk. “And for the record, I’d just like to add that my job is promoting the company’s and your image, not this,” she said with a flick of her hand at the file. “It smacks too much of mail-order bride for me. Or pimping.”

  “I know you don’t agree, but what other choice do I have, superfly?” As if the folder contained a rattlesnake, he cautiously opened it. Actually, he wasn’t far off the mark, he mused, studying the photo of the brunette paper-clipped to a typed report. If he didn’t correctly handle choosing a woman to be his fake fiancée, it
would come back to strike him right in the ass. “Either I find a fiancée, or I lose the company. And I’ll be damned if Dad hands over Bishop Enterprises to one of his lackeys just to spite me.”

  Resentment flared in his chest. He hated the necessity of this charade. Hated being forced into a union that he’d tried and failed at before. Marriage. Two people promising to love and commit to one another until death. Or until the novelty wore off, and one decided to pack up their shit and leave. That was the one guarantee in marriage, in relationships…in life. People—women—left.

  And now, in order to claim his birthright, Alex had to enter into the sham again, or at least the prelude to it. But it would be on his terms. His father might be waving the prize over his head, but nothing in the terms said Alex had to play fair. Malcolm wanted an engagement and future daughter-in-law? Alex would give him one—nothing in the agreement addressed the amount of the time required to walk her down the aisle.

  Quickly, he scanned the gathered information on the three women who Kim had found as potential candidates. A celebutante, a socialite famous for being rich and connected, a business woman out of New York, and another, less-known socialite, but just as rich as her counterpart.

  “Not her.” He returned his attention to the brief dossiers on the women and tapped the picture of the brunette celubutante. “She apparently needs attention more than her next breath or Gucci purse, and I don’t have the time or the patience to babysit someone. She’ll bail or start talking the moment something comes up and steals the focus away from her. And not her.” He moved to the report on the businesswoman. “I know her reputation, and while I admire the barracuda mentality in the board room, I don’t really look forward to having to negotiate my soul away in order to get her to agree to this. Her.” He picked up the picture of the socialite, peered at it. The photo of her, apparently taken at some kind of formal function, given her gown and jewelry, revealed a lovely blonde with green eyes and a slim figure. “She’s a possibility. Can you arrange a meeting?”

  “Sure. I think she’s attending the new French restaurant opening on Boylston Street Thursday night. I’ll get you an invite. Hmm…” Kim plucked the blonde’s photograph and the accompanying thin sheaf of papers from his hand and, tilting her head, studied the image. “She kind of reminds me of Morgan. Don’t you think?”

  “No.” Yes. He’d immediately noticed the surface resemblance. Blonde. Slender. Beautiful. But the woman in the photo’s eyes weren’t a crystal blue, nor did they glint with a hint of wickedness…usually right before something bizarre popped out of a sinfully curved mouth. Another difference. The blonde in the photo’s lips were perfect—not too big or too small, shaped into a perfect, polite smile. Unlike the woman’s outside his office, whose mouth was a tad too wide and entirely too lush. One inspired teas and socials, and the other hot, illicit fumblings in the coatroom.

  He couldn’t imagine being so hungry and hard for the cool, unruffled socialite that he pulled her from a gala into a dark room filled with furs and overcoats and pushed her to her knees in front of him. Couldn’t picture shoving aside every self-imposed rule about decorum and control just to take and corrupt her mouth. Couldn’t envision feeling primal satisfaction and pride in sending her back into the party with her lips swollen and tender from being used by him.

  Yes. He couldn’t see him doing any of that with the woman in the photo. Which made her perfect.

  “You know…” Kim trailed off, glanced toward the closed office door, tapping her bottom lip with a fingertip. “What about Morgan? Have you thought maybe she could—”

  “No,” he repeated. “Don’t forget to send me the information on the restaurant opening.” When her eyes narrowed, he added. “Please.”

  She snorted, rising. “You just make sure you show up. I don’t want to hear an excuse about an unexpected ‘business meeting,’” she drawled. “When we both know that’s just code for you holing up in that fortress you call a home with the latest book in your To Be Read pile. Unless there’s a bunch of Lamentors keeping you hostage, you better show.”

  “I’ll be there.” Pause. “And that’s Dementors not Lamentors,” he corrected, referring to the robed soulless guards of Azkaban prison in Harry Potter. He’d tried—and failed—several times over the years to convince her of the brilliance that comprised J. K. Rowling’s boy wizard. But his sister had, sadly, never converted.

  Muggle.

  “Your inner nerd is showing, Alex,” she shot over her shoulder before exiting his office.

  He shook his head and returned his attention to the photo of the woman who might end up being his Hail Mary. As of Thursday night, the cloud that had been hanging over his head for six months might start clearing. And the company that he’d sacrificed, protected, and loved would be his.

  Finally.

  Chapter Four

  “Next time, I pick the movie,” Merri grumbled, picking up the bottle of red wine off the coffee table. Her sister pinned Morgan with a look that clearly stated her opinion of Morgan’s choice. And in case Morgan had any doubts, she added, “That sucked.”

  Morgan extended her empty glass toward Merri. “When I sat through Get Rich or Die Tryin’ last month, did I complain?”

  “Yeah, bitch, you did,” Merri drawled, refilling Morgan’s glass and her own damn near to the rims. “And at least my movie was about overcoming adverse circumstances and following dreams against all odds. Yours is about…” She flicked a hand toward the mounted television screen in their mother’s den. “Hell, I still don’t know what it’s about.”

  “Divergent is about the search for identity, how the lust for power can corrupt, as well as the power of choice. If you bothered to read something besides Vogue and TMZ, you would know all this.” Merri, a twenty-one-year-old model when she wasn’t typing in data at a bank operations center, had two interests: fashion and celebrity gossip.

  “Is that right?” Merri scratched her head…with her middle finger.

  “Girls, please.” Their mother glanced up from her laptop, a wealth of long-suffering contained in the two words. “How old are you two?”

  “Twelve,” Morgan said.

  “Ten,” Merri chimed in.

  Their mom sighed, returning her attention back to the computer and whatever committee plan, invitation list, or social calendar she worked on. “I know this makes me a bad mother to say this, but drink more wine and put in another movie.”

  Chuckling, Morgan pushed herself off the couch and crossed the floor to the state-of-the-art entertainment system their mother owned but had no clue how to operate. Katherine only spent time in the room when Morgan and Merri came over for their monthly dinner-and-a-movie nights. Otherwise, most days she would be in her upstairs office or out, consumed with whatever philanthropic event demanded her attention. Since Gerald’s death, she’d become even more involved with her charities, as if as long as she kept busy, she wouldn’t grieve.

  Morgan and Merri had learned their defensive mechanisms from the best.

  Shaking her head, Morgan ejected the DVD of Divergent. She’d never admit it, but Merri had a point. The book had been better than the movie. Then again, when wasn’t it? Still, she snorted, it was much better than 50 Cent’s autobiography.

  Holding the DVD case, she studied the image on the front. The actor who played Four in the movie—Theo James?—reminded her of Alexander Bishop only with lighter hair. They both shared the same dark, slashing, imperious eyebrows—and yes, eyebrows could be imperious—the striking features, full mouth…even the haircut was identical.

  In the world of Divergent, Alexander would be an Erudite, a seeker of knowledge, intelligent, power hungry, and emotionless, while she would be Dauntless, brave, a fighter, fearless… Oh hell, who was she kidding? She’d be Factionless, not belonging to any of the groups. She could be selfish as hell, believed in a good lie when useful, thought peace was a pipe dream, sneezed and itched inside of libraries, and was scared as hell most of the time.


  Alexander knew himself, wore confidence like one of his three–thousand-dollar suits. Her? She deserved an Emmy for the role of Bored, Don’t-Fuck-With-Me Socialite she performed every day. A role that hid the truth: she questioned everything. Who she was. Where she was going. What the hell she was doing.

  Aaaand she could even turn a dystopian YA movie into a self-pitying session.

  Jesus, she was sick of her own self.

  “Honey, how’s the job going? I saw Edward Patterson at a dinner party last week, and he mentioned you. Is the new owner pleasant?” her mother asked. Good Lord, was the woman a mind reader? No sooner had Morgan pushed Alexander out of her head than her mother brought him up again.

  “He’s fine,” she said, suddenly reluctant to share too much about him with her mother and sister. Which was odd since she didn’t keep much from them. And there wasn’t much to tell anyway. It’d been two weeks since he’d taken over and tried to fire her. He was a demanding, exacting employer, but fair, she grudgingly admitted. Not just to her, but to all the employees. Even the personnel who’d been let go—mostly executives who had assisted in placing Lier Industries in their troubled, financial situation—had been released with dignity. He hadn’t ordered them ushered out by security with boxes under their arms. Instead, he’d allowed them to resign and to pack up their offices after hours to avoid the walk of shame.

  She’d been working her ass off to prove her value to him, putting in extra hours to help the transition roll as smoothly as possible. And since he hadn’t issued her walking papers yesterday when she’d left for the weekend, maybe the firing had been postponed.

  But with Alexander, one could never tell. The man’s emotions and thoughts were locked up tighter than RuPaul’s wig collection.

  “‘Fine’ being the key word here.” Merri sipped her wine, and Morgan couldn’t tell if her hum of pleasure could be attributed to the alcohol or Alexander. “I saw him at a restaurant opening last week. The man is sex on a stick double-dipped in hot damn.”