A Millionaire at Midnight (Bachelor Auction) Page 6

  “Nice and classy, sweetie,” their mother drawled, lifting a perfectly arched eyebrow.

  Merri shrugged, flipping her long, dark blonde hair over her shoulder with a grin. “I’m just sayin’. Is he single?” she asked. “He looked kind of cozy with Chelsea Benson.”

  Chelsea Benson. Morgan knew her. Nice, which was saying something for the circles they traveled in. Beautiful. Very proper. And she must’ve been the “possible” Alexander and Kim had discussed in his office that first day. Yes, Morgan had shamelessly eavesdropped on their conversation. But in her defense, she’d meant to shut the door completely behind her but hadn’t, and their voices had carried. And if Morgan had scooted her chair closer to the door to listen, well… She was only human. Nosey as hell, but still human.

  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.

  Alexander’s statement echoed in her thoughts. From the gist of his discussion with Kim, she’d surmised he needed a woman to marry him, or he would no longer head up his family business. If her assumption was correct, then someone had really screwed him over.

  Maybe she should’ve confided in him about Gerald’s stipulation in his will. Apparently, he understood about overbearing, interfering fathers.

  But any sympathy she might’ve momentarily had for him evaporated at his flat-out refusal to consider her in his inane arrangement. Not that she would ever—ever—have agreed to voluntarily spend time with him, much less become fake engaged to him, but hell, he could do worst.

  She was a catch, damn it.

  That is, if she wanted to be caught. Which she didn’t.

  Aw hell. The man wasn’t even here, and he had her arguing with herself.

  “I don’t know if he’s single or not,” she said, answering Merri’s question. His “need a fiancée” situation hovered on the tip of her tongue, but at the last second, she kept her mouth shut. Merri, God love her, was a notorious gossip, and Morgan doubted even her mother could contain juicy news like that from spilling during one of her teas.

  And, for some inexplicable reason, she didn’t want to subject Alexander to their wagging tongues and speculation.

  “Speaking of being single…” Their mother laid aside the laptop on the table next to her chair, and Morgan’s belly executed a flip that would’ve won Simone Biles another gold medal. Those words alone were enough to send Morgan running for the door, but they didn’t contain the usual exasperation. Though her mother’s expression remained composed, the hint of sadness in the tone set Morgan on edge. What now?

  Placing the DVD on the shelf, she turned to fully face the older woman.

  “Uh-oh,” Merri murmured, setting her half-full glass on the table and crossing her long legs under her. “What’s wrong?”

  What appeared to be regret flickered across their mother’s face, and Morgan’s stomach tightened even further.

  “I received an invitation in the mail today,” Katherine said, voice soft, her gaze focused on Morgan. “It’s to Cynthia and Troy’s engagement party next month.”

  Pain burst in her chest, stealing her breath and leaving behind a hot, burning red poker in its place. She’d known this was coming; it’d only been a month since Troy’s defection, but she’d assumed one day he and Cynthia would announce their intent to marry. But so soon? So…fucking soon? Had she been that easy to get over? Had he ever loved her in the first place?

  No. He hadn’t. He loved Cynthia.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. The whispers, gossip, innuendoes… They’d just started to dissipate, but now… Now she would be on the end of more catty remarks, more hushed murmurings that abruptly stopped when she neared. More pitying glances.

  I can’t. The yell ricocheted off the walls of her head, mixing with the hurt that still scored her.

  “I can’t,” she repeated, her voice raspy from the scream she’d held back.

  “You can, and you will,” her mother stated, steel running through the order. She stood and strode across the room. Delicate but strong arms and the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 enveloped Morgan. “You’re stronger than this, honey,” she said against Morgan’s hair.

  No, she wasn’t. One more blow, and she’d break.

  “That bitch,” Merri hissed, jumping up from the couch. “I still can’t believe Cynthia went behind your back like that. And Troy? I never liked him anyway. Anyone who uses that much gel on his hair is questionable.”

  The snicker caught Morgan by surprise. Leave it to Merri to drag laughter out of her when all she wanted to do was curl up and hide. Sighing, she stepped out of her mother’s embrace.

  “Merri, language,” Katherine scolded.

  “Sorry, Mom,” she said, sounding decidedly unapologetic. “But what she did was unforgiveable. I still say you and Morgan should’ve let me put dem paws on her.”

  Morgan rolled her eyes. “You model in one rap music video, and suddenly you’re Gangsta Boo.”

  “Hey.” Merri jabbed a finger in her direction. “I’m trying to support you here. I swear,” she grumbled, flopping back down on the couch. “Haters gon’ hate.”

  A bark of laughter escaped Morgan, and damn if it didn’t feel good. The pain still pulsed in her heart, but the sharp edge of it dulled with her mother and sister’s love.

  “Are you going?” Merri asked their mother, picking up her wine again.

  Katherine glanced at Morgan, a frown creasing her brow. “I think I should since Gerald isn’t…there. But…”

  Her struggle between hurting her and supporting her husband’s daughter in his absence was evident, and the selfish part of Morgan wanted to stomp her foot and demand her mother not go and celebrate the engagement of the woman and man who had betrayed her. But for once, the selfless side of her reared its dusty head. She couldn’t force her mother to choose. Gerald had adored his only daughter, and with him gone, Katherine would represent the only parent Cynthia had left.

  And the truth was… She didn’t hate Cynthia. Oh, Morgan had called her stepsister all kinds of bitches and hos after she’d discovered her and Troy together. But as much as she wanted to despise Cynthia, she couldn’t. Other women would’ve said to hell with it and slept with Troy, but Cynthia hadn’t because she wasn’t that kind of person. She was…nice; she always had been from the time Gerald and Katherine had introduced them as teens. Not too nice to fall in love with her stepsister’s fiancé, but her kindness and sense of honor had kept her from going that extra step of screwing Troy while he was still engaged to Morgan.

  Was Morgan thankful? Hell no; she wasn’t that hypocritical or saintly. But still…

  Running her fingers through her hair, she dragged the strands away from her face. “No, Mom. You should go. I’ll be okay.”

  “To hell with that,” Merri snarled. “I’m not. They can take that party and shove—”

  The peal of her cell phone interrupted her sister’s tirade about bodily orifices.

  “Hold that thought.” With a chuckle, she crossed to the sofa and retrieved her phone out of her purse. One glance at the screen, and all her amusement evaporated like water under a blazing, desert sun. Her thumb hovered above the answer bar, her heart beating a ponderous rhythm in her throat. Swallowing, she finally swiped the screen and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello, Cynthia.”

  Her mother and sister whipped around to face her. Merri’s shock quickly gave away to anger, and she stalked across the room, her arm stretched out, palm facing up. But Morgan shook her head, tightening her grip on the cell in case Merri tried to snatch it from her. She didn’t put it past her.

  “Hi, Morgan.” Cynthia’s sweet, cultured voice resonated over the line. A pause, and then, “How are you?” she asked softly.

  Seriously? Well, I just received news of your engagement party, so I’m not that well, fuck you very much. The snarky comeback skated on her tongue, but instead she said, “Fine. I hear congratulations are in order. Mom
just told me about your engagement.”

  “Yes, I-I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.” Silence vibrated over their connection. Damn if she would lie to make Cynthia feel better. She hadn’t wanted to hear from her. Still didn’t. “I mailed you an invitation, but I understand if you…” Her voice trailed off, and Morgan inhaled, battling the need to deliver platitudes to assuage her stepsister’s guilt. Only two years separated them, Cynthia being the oldest, but at one time, they’d been friends, if not as close as Morgan and Merri. That’s why the betrayal dug so deep. She’d never have expected it of Cynthia. “Anyway, thank you for speaking with me.”

  “Sure,” she said, eager to end this awkward conversation. Also, what the hell could Cynthia want? It must be important to brave reaching out to her. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not good, Morgan.” Another of those sighs that sounded like it carried the weight of the universe. “The board met yesterday afternoon, and… And they have voted and decided to sell the building that Phoenix House is in.”

  Shock pummeled her, driving the air from her lungs. Scrabbling for the arm of the couch, she gripped it, and sank down onto its cushions, her legs losing their ability to hold her up. Horror mingled with the astonishment. Horror and grief. “No,” she rasped. “They can’t. Gerald promised…” She sucked in a breath, willing the roar in her ears to ease. “Gerald promised it to me in his will.”

  “They had the legal department dissect the will, and there was a codicil in the document that the lawyer neglected to tell you or me about at the reading. If the company is in financial stress, the building is part of a list of assets that can be sold or liquidated for infusion of cash. This clause supersedes what he willed you. And, the business is in trouble. It has been for the last six months. So the board decided to sell the building. I’m so sorry.”

  The board decided to sell the building. The board decided to sell the building.

  It crashed and rebounded against her skull, growing louder until she missed the first part of Cynthia’s continued explanation.

  “…argued that it was Dad’s wishes. But they outvoted me. I failed you. But I did convince them to let you have the right to put in an offer. I know it isn’t much,” she murmured.

  “How much?” The shock ebbed, and the fear and utter sense of loss flooded her. Threatened to drown her. “What are they asking?”

  “It’s a prime location in West Roxbury, Morgan. The highest offer we’ve received is 1.5 million. None of the others have come in that high, so you would have to meet or top that.”

  “I don’t—” She bit off the rest of her sentence. But they both knew the rest of it without it being voiced. She didn’t have that kind of money. Yes, she had the inheritance her father had left her—it’d been hers earlier in the year when she’d turned twenty-five. But his will had also stipulated she receive it in monthly installments, meted out by a conservator. She wouldn’t receive full control over the bulk of it until she turned twenty-eight. One thing she knew about the conservatorship—it wouldn’t allow her to spend money she didn’t yet fully possess on a mortgage.

  She’d failed. Failed Phoenix House. Failed all those women who depended on their services. Failed the staff, who had moved into the building on Morgan’s word that they would always have a roof over their heads. But now, Gerald’s board would evict the nonprofit, not caring that thousands of people depended on their services, their support.

  What could she…

  The seed of an idea took root. Even as logic rejected the thought. Could she… It was a longshot. Like Kanye-and-Taylor-Swift-had-a-better-chance-of-brokering-a-truce longshot. But no matter how small a chance, it existed. And she had to take it.

  “How long do I have?” she asked, jumping to her feet and snatching up her purse. She raced from the room and heard her mother and sister’s footsteps behind her. But she didn’t have time to explain. If she was going to do this, she had to move now. Before the opportunity passed.

  Before she lost her nerve.

  “A week,” Cynthia replied. “Morgan, I really am sorry—”

  “Yeah, I know. I am, too. So make sure you hold them to that week. I have to go. Bye.”

  She jerked her coat from the hall closet and yanked it on, stuffing the cell phone in the pocket.

  “Morgan, what’s going on? What did Cynthia want?” her mother demanded.

  “I can’t talk right now. But I’ll explain later. Promise.”

  She cut through the living room, into the kitchen, and out the side door that led into the garage.

  “Where are you going?” Merri called after her.

  Pulling open her car door, she slid into the driver seat and slammed the door shut.

  Where was she going?

  To make a deal with the devil.

  Chapter Five

  Alexander flipped the next page of The Fever Code, the second prequel in The Maze Runner series. He’d read every book in the series, and the story of the Gladers, the maze, and the shadowy organization WICKED was addictive. This is what a perfect Saturday night entailed: kicked back in the study, feet up, a great book, and a beer. He lifted his Corona, but before he could take a sip, the doorbell echoed through the house.

  Scowling, he lowered the beer. Who the hell could that be? Kim’s husband Matt was in town for a couple of days, so they would be—well, he didn’t want to imagine what the hell they were doing, but that didn’t leave anyone else who’d be leaning on his damn doorbell at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. Setting the hardcover and beer on the table, he rose from the couch and strode through the adjacent library and out into the long hallway that ran the length of the home he rented. He’d purposefully selected a home in Weston instead of a condo in downtown Boston or a section of the city closer to the office. Privacy, quiet, space—he required them. Needed them.

  Growing up in the city that never slept had been claustrophobic. That sounded ridiculous considering the luxury townhome he’d lived in as a child had been bigger than most people’s houses. But that townhome hadn’t been a haven. Manhattan had been a hub of activity like an ant hill filled with workers forever scurrying from one place to the next. And his home had been a reflection of the city. His father had seemed to hate being alone, detested quiet. Women, guests, business associates… Their town house had always hosted someone. And more often than not, when Alex couldn’t escape to his room into a book or to his grandfather’s, his father forced him to join. And by join, Alex would find the nearest wall to hold up and brood. His aloofness had annoyed Malcolm; he’d believed Alex segregated himself on purpose to embarrass him.

  That couldn’t have been further from the truth. He hated crowds, hated having to make awkward small talk, despised fake people who pretended to be interested in you when they couldn’t care less.

  But while socializing and networking was unavoidable, his space wasn’t. He always rented a home whenever he had an extended stay in a city outside of New York. Maybe because of the quiet and peace.

  Maybe because his home had never been one.

  Either way, the fact remained no one should be showing up at his. He reached the front door and peeked out one of the windows bracketing either side.

  What the fuck?

  Shock winging through him, he glanced out the glass again. But the beer didn’t have him imagining things. Morgan stood on his doorstep. Shifting back from the window, he jerked the door open.

  And stared.

  Even shivering in the cold November night, her golden hair bundled on top of her hair in a messy knot, she sent his senses on high alert. For the last two weeks, his eyesight had never been as sharp as when she was near. He caught every detail about her: the birth mark that dotted her right cheekbone; the almost invisible, sickle-shaped scar that nicked her collarbone, the small butterfly tattoo on the inside of her left ankle.

  His nose detected her sultry vanilla and sandalwood fragrance even when she wasn’t in his of
fice. His ears picked up her slightly husky, 800-sex-operator voice like a homing pigeon. His…

  Senses, hell. She made his cock hard.

  He clenched his jaw. Just went to show, that no matter how much he prided himself on not being slave to his emotions and baser instincts, he was no better than other men. He could dislike a woman and still want to push her up against the nearest flat surface, close his mouth over her mouth, and swallow the screams of pleasure he dragged from her.

  Danger. The woman was a walking, snark-wielding danger sign. And if he possessed any of the reason he claimed to own, he would tell her whatever she wanted could wait until Monday and to go home.

  Instead, he stepped back, silently inviting her into his sanctuary. And all because she gave another shiver in the cold.

  “Thank you,” she said, moving into the foyer. He didn’t immediately reply, but shut the door and, crossing his arms, watched her survey the cavernous area. The chandelier, marble floor, large fireplace, and curving staircase were impressive, but she came from wealth. This show of luxury wouldn’t be anything new to her. Yet, when she nodded and turned to face him, pleasure lit her blue eyes. “Beautiful place.”

  “I like it.” He narrowed his eyes on her. “Still, I’m sure the décor didn’t bring you all the way out here on a Saturday night, uninvited.”

  She didn’t even blush or appear properly chagrined. But, he’d yet to see Morgan Lett blush about anything. Maybe she wasn’t capable.

  “How did you know where I live?” he asked, a kernel of unease skittering over his skin. As unpredictable as she could be, he doubted even she would drive the thirty minutes from Boston for kicks and giggles. Well, he was almost certain she wouldn’t do something as outlandish as that…

  “I’m your assistant,” she reminded him with a flick of her fingers. “I know your address, phone number, social security number, and shoe size. And just let me say…” She wriggled her eyebrows up and down.

  Resisting the urge to cup his hands over his dick, he snapped, “What are you doing here?”