As He Bids

by Olivia Rigal

  Contents

  Title page

  Thanks

  Legal matter

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Review

  As They Please

  Iron Tornadoes

  Lyv's family

  Iron Tornadoes

  About the author

  AS THEY PLEASE

  1

  AS HE BIDS

  by

  Olivia Rigal

  Special thanks to :

  For the cover work

  for which I tortured

  Willsin Rowe

  & Clarissa Wild

  For the cool support and the blurb

  Christa Wick

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  © 2014 Lady O Publishing LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced to transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

  contact / Lady O Publishing dot com

  www.ladyopublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or person, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I wait in the lobby area for the receptionist to get settled in. She's a very pretty woman in her thirties, wearing a dress that looks as though it's been painted on her. Perched on towering heels, she looks at us from high up. Her hair and makeup are impeccable. How does she manage to look so polished at nine in the morning?

  Looking at my skirt and flat shoes, I feel rumpled. Next to me are two guys who are about my age, and they didn't bother to dress up even a bit. The three of us are caricatures of art students. They look around us with their mouths open, like fish out of water while I wear what I hope is a calm and composed look.

  There's one thing we should be sharing: huge smiles on our faces. Out of hundreds of résumés, ours managed to land us an internship with Goldsmith and Evans Auctioneers.

  Two months at Goldsmith and Evans! Just thinking about it makes me giddy. Of course, there are more prestigious international auction houses in Manhattan, but this is the one I wanted. This is where Bruce Nelson works, and he has been my obsession for longer than I care to admit.

  Bruce started working here as an intern when he was preparing his PhD, and now he runs the painting department. He's been acclaimed as one of the best experts in his field... the field I picked for my master's thesis.

  Inside me, there's a little girl jumping up and down with glee. I'm going to be working in the same auction house as Bruce Nelson for the next two months. The idea enchants and terrifies me at the same time.

  To speak, or think, of the devil... Bruce Nelson enters the lobby.

  Somehow, my inner girl vanishes in a puff of smoke. In her stead is a sultry woman who can't stop staring at him. He waves at the receptionist as he passes, on his way to the elevator, and gives her a killer smile.

  Jealousy invades me. I want him to smile at me like that. I drink him in with my eyes until the elevator doors close behind him.

  The distinctive ping of the Apple computer resonates through the lobby, redirecting my attention to the receptionist. A little twitch of her mouth lets me know that she's noticed my staring. She must see this happen a lot--crazy girls fawning over one of her bosses. Steve Goldsmith and James Evans, the two named partners of the auction house, are also kind of cute.

  While her computer boots up, the receptionist calls out to us. "You're the summer interns, right?"

  "Yes, ma'am," the three of us answer in unison as we gather closer to her reception stand.

  "Don't 'ma'am' me." She laughs. "If you do, you'll make me feel ancient, and that won't do. Call me Tabitha or Tab, okay?"

  The three of us nod like a row of Japanese lucky cats.

  "Good, now that this major point is settled, let me see where I am to dispatch you guys." She searches the papers on her desk. She picks up four sheets, and I see those are our résumés. Through the paper, notes written with a red felt pen are visible.

  "William?"

  One of my companions stands to attention, and she looks at him. "You're in the antiquities department."

  William does a fist pump. "Yes!"

  With a benevolent smile on her face, she gives him directions to where he's to meet his new boss. She drops his résumé on her desk and looks at the next page. "Now, you must be Kenneth, and you are..." She raises her eyes from the paper and gives him a quizzical look. "The dolls and toys department."

  A big smile spreads across his face. I look sideways at him and wonder if he favors antique porcelain dolls or lead soldier figurines... unless it's miniature trains or old-fashioned automatons. He has the smile of the boy let loose in a toy store. I can't help but smile, as well, while I wonder how cool that department actually is. They probably won't let him play with the toys.

  "You'll have to wait for Jimmy here," Tab says to Kenneth. "He'll be coming any minute to pick you up to go out at a consignor's place to look at a private collection."

  Kenneth nods and stands next to me. Isn't he nosy?

  Tab is holding one résumé in each hand. She silently reads the two names and looks up at me, and I know for a fact what's going to happen, so I just go ahead and introduce myself.

  "I'm Hannah Cohen," I say.

  She blurts out, "Are you sure?"

  "Pretty much," I answer with a light tone. "That's what my parents have been calling me for as long as I remember."

  Kenneth chuckles, and after a short hesitation, Tab decides to smile at my usual retort.

  "Of course. I'm sorry," Tab says. "It's just that..." She shrugs because it wouldn't be politically correct to say that she expected a paler skin color to go with the name. I'm used to people doing a double take when they have to match my name and my face.

  How did a milk-chocolate-colored gal get such a white-sounding name? This is the question they never ask, but I can read it in their eyes. The answer is simple--I'm the product of the improbable marriage of a Haitian woman and a very fair-skinned European man.

  I've spent the first twenty years of my life, sitting on a fence, processing the fact that none of my grandparents acknowledge my existence. For two decades, I defined myself by what I was not. I'm not black, and I'm not white. I'm not Catholic, and I'm not Jewish. I'm not Haitian, and I'm not German...

  And then while in college, I decided to give a try at defining myself by what I am. I'm an American. I'm the product of true love. My religion is art, and my place is right here because it's a fabulous place to worship.

  Tab clears her throat to hide her embarrassment, and she says, "Now, Hannah, you're going to be working with Bruce Nelson. His assistant left, and he's yet to hire a replacement. This means that you'll be spread out over several departments since he supervises old masters and..."

  Tab's voice fades out as my heart rate accelerates, sounding like a crazy jungle drum in my ears. I'm hyperventilating. Oh My God, I'm goin
g to work with Bruce Nelson, that is, if I manage to start breathing normally. Otherwise, I'm going to faint and crack my skull on the marble floor of the reception area.

  "Hannah, are you all right?" she asks. "I know that Bruce looks daunting, but he's actually a pleasant man to work with."

  "Don't you dare tell her that, Tab. Bruce rather likes his mean reputation--it keeps everyone on their toes," says a deep male voice behind me. It's Steve Goldsmith. He's not as spectacular as Bruce Nelson, but he's still a great looking man.

  "Come on, Hannah. Let me show you your office." Without waiting for me, he turns away toward the elevators and snaps at me, "Come on, young lady. I'm sure you have a very busy schedule today."

  Kenneth, who's standing next to me, puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a nudge, mouthing, "Go, go, go."

  As I start in the direction of the elevators, Tab calls out to Steve Goldsmith, "The fourth intern is a no-show."

  I just have time to slide into the elevator before the doors close behind me, and Steve answers, "Her loss."

  He doesn't seem to notice that the elevator was already on its way up when he answered Tab. He no longer seems aware of my presence, either. His eyes remain focused on his phone.

  When the doors open on the third floor, he signals for me to follow him. We walk down a hallway to a door with no name on it.

  Steve knocks on the door then opens it without waiting for an answer. "Morning, Bruce. Your intern is here."

  Bruce doesn't look up from whatever he's looking at on his desk. "Yep, I know. I saw her downstairs with the others. Tab should be giving them a tour of the place before they get started."

  Steve smiles, and I decide that I need to save Bruce from the potential embarrassment of saying something he wouldn't want me to hear, so I diplomatically clear my throat to announce my presence.

  Bruce looks up at me. His sharp blue gaze settles on my face, and for a second I have the feeling he can read my mind, but then I give myself a mental slap. I'm being silly. There is no such thing as a mind reader. He's not smiling, but somehow his expression shows that he's happy to see me.

  He gets up and comes to me. I take a deep breath and fight the impulse I have to lower my head as he approaches. I look up at him as he says, "Oh, no tour, I guess. Come on in, Hannah. Welcome. Your desk is there." He points, and my eyes follow the direction of his hand, to another desk, the same size as his, on the opposite side of the large room. Then my gaze returns to his face.

  He's just as incredibly good looking as I remember him being. Now that I'm closer, I notice a few crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes, but they suit him. They make him look more mature than he did when I attended his lectures in college.

  He doesn't offer his hand to shake but touches my shoulder with the tip of his fingers to nudge me in the direction of my desk. The contact sends shivers down my spine.

  That's when I realize I've made a terrible mistake. I should never have applied for an internship here. I can't be working with Bruce Nelson--the man takes my breath away every single time I look at him. How will I ever be able to concentrate?

  CHAPTER TWO

  I was right. Concentration is a bitch. The man is a powerhouse, and I need to concentrate to keep up with him. By that, I mean concentrating on what he's saying, not on how fabulous he smells, how magnetic his presence is, or on how fascinating his lips are. At times, I try to listen, but my eyes get drawn to his mouth, and I just can't hear the words anymore. I imagine what this sinful mouth would feel like on my own and then on other parts of my body and my physical reaction is immediate.

  It's hard because I seldom have a minute to myself. Bruce likes his assistant to be in the same room with him. He carries out all his phone conversations on speakerphone, and I'm supposed to eavesdrop and, if necessary, take notes.

  Whenever he wants privacy, he takes his cell phone and leaves the office. That happens every day at five sharp.

  Every so often, he answers his cell at his desk and gives monosyllabic answers with a different voice that goes straight to my gut. It's this deep bass rumble that resonates through me and makes me feel all fuzzy. I can't explain it, but this tone calls out to me, as if he's drawing me in even closer.

  But the fact of the matter is that everything about the man turns me upside down. From the moment he steps in the room, I'm in a state that is nothing less than total arousal.

  Yesterday, when we were working on a draft agreement, he stood so close to me that I could feel his body heat. I thought I was going to melt, and when he put his hand on my shoulder to lean over to look at the image of a painting on my screen, I thought the shape of his fingers was going to be seared into my skin.

  Thinking about it brings this idiotic smile to my face, and for an instant, I forget that I'm late.

  I didn't hear the alarm, and I missed my train. The next one was running behind schedule, and of course I forgot my phone as I rushed out. It's charging by the fridge, and I didn't stop by the kitchen. The few phone booths left are out of order, so I can't even call to warn that I'm running late, and I'm too shy to bum a call from one of my fellow passengers since it's not a life-or-death emergency.

  Tab stops me as I rush through the reception area of Goldsmith and Evans. "Hannah, he's gone already," she says.

  No! I'm crestfallen. Today was a big day; Bruce was meeting a very famous collector who needs assistance deciding what to sell since he wants to "refresh his inventory" and take a gamble on new artists.

  I just missed a chance in a million to have a look at one of the most amazing private art collections in the city. Though it's annoying, it's not what upsets me most. I know my being late will disappoint Bruce, and the last thing I want to disappoint him. I so crave his approval; it's ridiculous.

  His smiles and frowns govern my mood. I'm on a hell of a roller coaster ride. In less than thirty seconds, I can fall from elation to despair and climb back up to euphoria.

  "Before he ran out, he told me he's left a list of things for you to do while he's away," Tab tells me.

  "Thank you, Tabitha." Waiting for the elevator, I watch her as I catch my breath.

  Her head is tilted to the side as if she's hesitating to say something, and then she calls out, "Let me get you a cup of coffee. Whatever he's left you to do can wait another two minutes now."

  I follow her into the large kitchen that's right behind her booth. It's a restaurant-size kitchen with all the equipment to cater the large parties the auction house throws on the opening nights of the major exhibitions.

  She leaves the door open so she can keep an eye on the lobby while she pours me a cup of coffee. "How was your first week?" she asks with what looks like genuine interest.

  "Exhausting," I say. "I didn't see the days fly by. The man is incredible. I don't think he ever sleeps. And you were right--he's very pleasant to work with. Demanding but courteous and fair."

  "Would you consider staying on after the internship?" she asks, looking past me as she speaks to make sure no one is waiting for her in the lobby.

  Her question takes me by surprise because I had never thought of that possibility. To avoid answering her right away, I sip the coffee--and it's amazing!

  "Oh, my God, did you make this? It's incredible. It's like I died and went to coffee heaven."

  "It's the basic fuel Steven Goldsmith runs on," she tells me, "and he's not the kind to have me make one pot for the boss and one pot for the staff, so I get to drink this every day. Cool, right?"

  She doesn't repeat her question, but now that she's planted the seed, I'm certain my imagination is going to run with it.

  Tab opens a closet, takes out two little pouches of butter cookies, and gives them to me. "I'm assuming you didn't get breakfast," she says. "That should tide you over till lunch."

  Seeming to notice the way I look at the cookies, she puts a hand on my shoulder and demonstrates she can read my mind properly. "You're voluptuous. This is the way you were built to be. Don't fight it. The best me
n like women with real shapes." She winks and adds, "I know Bruce does!"

  Before I have a chance to ask her how she happens to know that, she rushes out to her desk as people walk in. I drop the cookies in my purse, refill my cup with the heavenly coffee, and get to my office, which is actually Bruce's office.

  There's a list of things to do on my desk, nothing complicated: I need to follow up on shipments of sold goods, schedule a few appointments, and do some research on a sculpture in terra-cotta that came in the mail this morning.

  I stare at the picture. It's the bust of a black woman, and it's very intriguing because it conjures up something in my memory. But I just can't remember what. The visible part of her costume is obviously eighteenth century, and her headdress makes me think of the traditional ones the women still wear in the French Antilles. I prop her on the corner of my desk by the telephone and get about my business, throwing glances at her every time I answer the phone.

  The morning is short, and I make up for my late arrival by skipping lunch. I dunk each of the butter cookies in what's left of my coffee, and by the time six comes around, I'm a bundle of nerves. But I'm all done.

  I pick up the picture and look at the woman again.

  "Where do I know you from? Who do you remind me of?" I ask her. And somehow, she answers me. I get a light bulb moment.

  A few years ago, there was an exhibition that gathered sculptures of "exotic" subjects. That was the term the curator had come up with to convey to the public that the portraits were not Caucasians.

  I close my eyes and visualize one aisle of the exhibition, where I know I will find my answer. In my mind's eyes, two lovely polished plaster busts by Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux are side by side. They were called Le Chinois and Captive. This is not it. I keep the film of my memory running in my head. Next to them was a fancy affair in bronze and marble by Charles Cordier, called La Juive d'Alger, and then--yes, that's it--I see this young black man's Portrait de Paul in terra-cotta by Jean-Baptiste Pigalle. That's who she reminds me of. It's a Pigalle sculpture!