He has these sparkling gray eyes. They stare right through you with a force you can actually feel moving across the surface of your skin. His breathtaking facial structure is without a doubt the result of a painstaking exercise in geometry by Mother Nature. He has a perfect sprinkling of silver strands in his lustrous, dark hair. And don’t get me started on those wide shoulders and that tall, lean physique…
Total spank material.
I’ve been attracted to him ever since my body started having ideas about what to do with a person of the opposite sex. Maybe even before then. Over the years, my “interest” in him morphed into a full-blown crush.
But he’s totally off-limits, of course. He’s 22 years older than I am, my father’s best friend. They grew up together, served in the military together. And though I could totally overlook the age gap, I’m sure he wouldn’t be willing to. Yes, he’s handsome, confident, obscenely rich and he can have any woman he wants. But he’s also a good man. Even if I threw myself naked at his feet, he’d turn me away on the principle. Out of loyalty to my family. Besides, he views me as his best friend’s little girl. He always has.
And why am I thinking about him right now anyway?
I write it off as a coping mechanism I’m using so that I don’t have to face my immediate reality. Yeah, maybe if I can keep my thoughts on something else, I’ll get through this night without having a complete mental breakdown.
"Everybody, in line." Madame Gwendolyn’s throaty voice sweeps over the room, intruding into my thoughts. My eyes go to where she stands near the exit to the stage. “The auction is about to begin.”
Moving slowly to the line-up, I push my fantasy aside and face my cold, hard truth. In just a few minutes, I’ll be some stranger’s property. My stupid wish bracelet catches a screw on one of the clothing racks, the band snaps and beads scatter across the floor. My cheeks heat as Madame Gwendolyn eyes me sharply. She barks at one of her assistants to clean up the mess before one of us slips and falls.
Nobody buys damaged merchandise, right? Especially not at full price.
I feel even more naked without the bracelet. It was my security blanket. But I try not to fret over it too much. It was useless anyway.
Nothing can save me now.
Chapter 2
Raphael
The strong, woody scent of cedar fills my lungs as the heavy doors glide open and I step into the shadowy, carpeted foyer. I glide my drivers' license out of my wallet and ready to identify myself as I approach the impeccably-dressed clerk standing at the dark counter. But before I can open my mouth, the man addresses me by name.
"Good evening, Mr. Silver. Welcome to Club Audace."
He reaches for the coat draped over my arm and hands it off to an eager-looking attendant standing to his left. The clerk quickly ushers me down a long, narrow hall flanked by ornate lion statutes and gold-framed artwork lining the walls. Replicas of Renaissance murals and crown molding made of pure gold adorn the high, dome-shaped ceilings. Despite all the over-the-top furnishings, the place is still morbid as fuck.
Uneasiness prickles my skin. Mausoleum-chic was never my style.
I grip tight to the handle of my briefcase and loosen the knot of my tie, silently reminding myself of why I'm here. Just get him to sign this brokerage contract and you can get the hell out of this place.
Several times, I toyed with the idea of not coming here tonight. I don't need the money. I have better ways to spend my Friday night than sitting in a gilded sex dungeon with a bunch of socially-inept, insecure Wall Street idiots as they spill precum into their starch-pressed boxer-briefs and battle over extortionately-priced prostitutes.
But I do need the high, the dopamine rush of watching some clueless chump – er, client – signing his name on the dotted line and agreeing to pay my handsome commissions and service fees.
That’s why I submitted to the extensive background checks and medical exams necessary to join this club. That’s why I signed the waivers and confidentiality forms required to even step through the front door.
If this deal goes through, it could be worth tens of millions of dollars.
At the end of the corridor, I'm greeted by a well-polished woman in a skin-tight backless dress. She looks like she's made of wax with her impeccably-painted face and her gleaming blonde chignon.
"Good evening, Mr. Silver. Welcome to Club Audace." She hands me a crystal tumbler of a deep amber liquid. I don’t ask questions – I just empty the drink down my throat in one eager movement. I barely cringe as the scotch makes a smooth, fiery journey down my chest.
I thrust the glass back her way. "I'm gonna need another one."
"Of course, sir," she says in a docile voice and then scampers away for my refill.
I'm not comfortable with any of this. I’m not the type of man who frequents these types of establishments. There are some risks I just don’t take.
But Winthorp Lewiston, this new moneybags potential client of mine, insists that sex auctions are the new gentlemen’s clubs. Personally, I find it distracting to negotiate a multimillion-dollar commodities trade venture when the guy next to me is getting sucked off by a half-naked woman on a diamond-studded leash. But I’m old-fashioned like that.
I don’t even know where the hell I am. I know that I'm somewhere on the Upper East Side of Manhattan but I'm not sure of the address. They sent a driver to pick me up from my office and chauffeur me to the ultra secret location of Club Audace.
That should have been my deal breaker. I have my own driver. He's been with me for years and I'd trust him with my life. Plus, my mother always told me not to get into cars with strangers. Good thing I'm a goddamned marine. I spent seven years in the service before returning to civilian life and building myself a commodities trading empire. Don't let the tailored suit fool you. I can kick some ass, if need be.
A tall woman in foot-high heels and a burlesque outfit pops up out of no-fucking-where and begins dance-walking beside me. She speaks in a fake French accent. “Good evening, Mr. Silver. I’m Aurélie, your personal attendant for the evening.” She gives me a seductive gaze, batting her glittery eyelashes at me.
What the…?
These people are going overboard. I get it. They’re pampering me, catering to my every whim because as far as they're concerned, I will be spending a minimum of one hundred thousand dollars tonight. But I have no intention of buying a submissive. I don't pay for sex. Why would I when some of the world's most beautiful women gladly drop to their knees in front of me unprompted?
Every now and then, I indulge. A one-night-stand here and there just to handle my body’s pesky little urges. We’ve all got them. The difference is, I don’t let them blur my judgment. I don’t let women become a distraction. My risk tolerance is far too low to invest in love again.
I have my laser-sharp focus aimed at one goal – expanding the global reach of Silver Metal Brokers.
I’ve tried my hand at relationships. Too much volatility for my liking. I’m the kind of investor who needs to be able to forecast how my investments will behave. But with love, you put your heart in and hope for the best.
The last time I did that – with my ex-wife – it ended in legal proceedings citing ‘irreconcilable differences’ as the grounds for our divorce. Ultimately, it was in neither of our interests to admit that our marriage ended because my wife was having an ‘emotional affair’ with her therapist. Why she needed a therapist in the first place is a mystery to me. I gave that woman everything she could possibly want.
Anyway, I sympathize with Lewiston. I understand why he has to pay for play. His premature male pattern baldness, his protruding gut and his wet bath towel body odor don't exactly scream 'play boy'. His money is the only thing he has going for him.
I’m led to the secluded booth where he awaits me. “Silver…” he says with a wide grin as I sink onto the tufted velvet bench across from him. The booths are high and dimly-lit for privacy and angled in such a way that its occupants can’t
be easily identified by the other patrons. I’m thankful for that because this isn’t the type of place I’d want to be seen.
I speak past the tight smile on my lips. “Lewiston.” I force a curt nod and shake his hand.
Aurélie positions herself in my line of vision and begins to shake her body. It’s a strange mix of rumba and tap dance. A scantily-clad woman is putting down similar moves in front of Lewiston. (I assume that she’s his ‘personal attendant’ for the evening). It appears that this fiasco is choreographed. The dance may be very offbeat but I’ve got to applaud these women for pulling it off in six-inch heels.
In an instant, the server is slipping my refill onto the table in front of me. I toss it back immediately. I waste no time setting my briefcase on the gleaming, polished table and pulling out the contract.
Lewiston is still grinning. “Isn’t this the life, man? Look at all these beautiful women.” I glance around quickly, pretending to appreciate the sad-looking females milling around the place. None of them look genuinely thrilled to be here and if Lewiston’s head wasn’t shoved so far up his own ass, he’d probably realize it too.
He yanks his dancer into his lap and slides his fingers down the front of her panties. She grins as his hand begins to work between her legs. Throwing her head back, she makes exaggerated sex noises.
I can already tell that her fake orgasm is going to be earth-shattering.
Eye roll.
He chuckles at my reaction. “What are you, some pussy-ass feminist? Don’t get your Spanx in a wad –” he leans forward and nips at her shoulder “– these whores love it. They’re exhibitionists.” He speaks to the woman. “You love it, don’t you, Angelique?”
If she secretly wishes she could slap the row of porcelain dental veneers out of his gums, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she nods, donning a forced smile. “Yes, sir,” she purrs.
A true professional. Remarkable.
“And most of these girls need the money, anyway.” He speaks as if the woman isn’t sitting right there within earshot. “Lots of them are in some kind of trouble. They need a Big Daddy like me with deep pockets to help them out. In the grand scheme of things, getting finger-fucked in this room full of people probably isn’t such a big deal for my chérie over here.”
I’ve never been so repulsed in my life. I need to get some fresh air. Oxygen that isn’t poisoned by the foul stench of sex and lust and body odor.
I shove the contract across the table to him. Maybe I can get this thing signed before the auction starts and get out of here before my brain catches a venereal disease.
I nearly hurl when he pulls his sticky hand out of the woman’s underwear and waves it dismissively in my direction. “Oh put that away,” he says flippantly as the music changes, growing loud and dramatic, “the real fun is about to begin!”
The auctioneer’s voice thunders through the room, announcing that the first woman is about to hit the auction block. My attention cuts to the young woman stepping onto the stage at the front of the room in a sparkly crotchless one-piece.
I blink twice, unable to believe my eyes.
Chapter 3
Evangeline
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
I suck in a deep breath and pull my shoulders back, taking an instant to center myself before stepping out onto the stage. I’ve done tons of risqué fashion shows before. I posed on the cover of Visage Magazine in nothing but a wet shirt. I’m a professional.
I can do this.
Sure, some strange man is about to lease my body for a predetermined length of time but he’ll never own me. He’ll never get to know me, to control my thoughts, to kill my dreams. In 30 days I’ll be out of this situation. And I’ll be free.
Madame Gwendolyn’s irritated whisper hits me in the pit of my stomach. “Ms. Brooks! Go!” She coaxes me forward.
The curtains slide open and I take a wobbly step onto the stage. My head goes light. I can’t see a thing. I stand under the hot, bright lights in my shimmering gold bodysuit and I might as well be bare naked. I’ve never been an insecure person. I’ve always been comfortable in my skin. Until now.
I feel like I’m inside of an aquarium, struggling to think and breathe. Bobbing with the movement of the water.
I register the auctioneer’s voice but I’m too out-of-sorts to compute what he’s saying. I think the bidding has begun.
Every sound is garbled and echoic. I stare out into the crowd, trying to make out the faces. I can’t. The buyers are hidden, the shadows veiling the men’s identities in vulgar contrast to the spotlights exposing every last facet of my body. Every curve, every freckle, every shivering inch of my flesh.
The shadows offer them anonymity while the spotlight robs me of every last shred of human dignity.
Thirty days. Thirty days, I repeat silently running my thumb over the place where my wish bracelet used to sit, searching for something to ground me.
Suddenly a woman’s voice breaks through the fog in my mind. “Sixty-five thousand!”
Huh?
I’d assumed that the bidders would all be men. I guess it was sexist of me to assume that rich women don’t have unique preferences of their own. My heart beats faster now.
I hear another voice. A shaky, weak voice. “Seventy thousand!” Fuck – he sounds old. Really old.
Oh god! Oh god! Oh god!
“Seventy-five thousand.” The eastern European accent causes my palms to go sweaty. Images of life in Moscow – furry ushankas, hopak dancing and those clunky wooden Russian shoes – flash before my mind. What have I gotten myself into? Standing under the hot glare of the spotlight, I feel tears forming in the corners of my eyes.
The price is rising fast. Listening to these people bid over me is surreal. Nobody asks for my input, nobody asks for my opinion. I’m just another commodity that these rich fuckers get to compete over, just another off-the-books asset in their portfolios.
A deep, confident whiskey tone bursts through the fog of my thoughts. “One hundred thousand.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention and my body keens subtly toward the sound. I’m not sure why…
My eyes scan the blackness, desperately searching for him, begging him to be the one. Because I haven’t seen him but hearing his voice is enough to make me feel like maybe, just maybe, he might be the answer to my silent prayers.
But the bidding war continues. I hear the amusement in the auctioneer’s tone. The geriatric bidder is starting to get aggressive and the woman is now willing to pay $300000 to have me. The Russian won’t back down, either. Tempers are beginning to flare and it’s a pissing contest amongst them. My blood roars through my ears. Whoever I end up going home with tonight will have a raging temper and an ego to match.
The loud, sudden crash of a table being overturned is followed by the shattering of glass. "One million, goddammit!" the whiskey voice roars.
A stunning silence blankets the room and I hold my breath until the auctioneer stammers, "Uh...one...one million. Going once...” No one says a thing. “…going twice...” Dead silence. I feel faint. “Sold to bidder seventeen for one million dollars."
My heavy lids drop shut as I take a shallow breath into my mouth. Someone bought me. Someone actually bought me.
I hear angry footsteps approaching the podium where I stand. Alarmed, I look up, taking a step backward out of self-preservation. A tall, wide-shouldered man in an impeccable tan suit bursts out of the shadows. My jaw drops open as recognition washes over me. His strong fingers wrap around my wrist and he gives me a firm tug.
I’m looking into the stormy gray eyes of Raphael Silver, my father’s best friend.
“Come on, Eva,” he grits out. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 4
Raphael
My dick got hard signing the check. What the hell does that say about me?
Yep, I just signed a check and I am now the proud owner of...my best friend's daughter. Oh fuck.
Call it an impulse buy.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Lean operations and efficiency have always been my guiding principles. It's what made Silver Metal Brokers an industry leader. It's what made me a billionaire. But I just spent a million dollars for some pussy. That's not exactly a tax write-off.
And the worst part is, I am going to have to explain it to Brooks. I'm going to have to tell him that I purchased his daughter to make sure that none of those creeps at the auction did. I just hope to god that he believes me.
I look over at her, sitting there with my suit coat draped over that sparkly, crotchless bodysuit. What on earth was she thinking? Eva has always been a mischievous one. On several occasions her parents have called me in to talk to her about her poor decisions and their effects on the trajectory of her life. But this? This is just above and beyond irresponsible. Inexcusable.
Dirty Silver (The Dirty Suburbs Book 7) Page 2