The Bachelor Auction (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 1)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  Brock reached for her hand and lightly tugged her back. “Sit. It is necessary. And although I typically wait until the third date to buy a woman gifts, I think your nearly getting trampled allows me to break that rule.”

  Still tense, Jane nodded and took a shaky look around the small, private room.

  “To new shoes?” Brock grabbed his drink and lifted it in the air toward her.

  She lifted her glass and clinked it against his then took a small sip. The champagne was pink and sweet, with a tart aftertaste. “It’s good.”

  “You sound surprised.” Brock’s lips lifted in a smile.

  She scrunched up her nose. “I’m not much of a drinker, and I typically don’t like drinks that are the same color as my underwear.”

  The minute the words were out of her mouth, she froze, barely managing to suppress the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. She wanted someone to run her over with a car.

  With a choke, Brock nearly spit out the sip he’d just taken. Face flushed, he stared her down and then whispered, “You’re making me regret my decision to send out for boring black shoes.”

  “I didn’t…I mean, pink is fine.” Stop talking, stop talking. “Not all of my underwear is pink. I have black, too.”

  Brock’s lips parted with a greedy exhale, and he downed the rest of his drink. “Oh?”

  Hell in a handbasket.

  Why was she giving him a rundown of her lingerie drawer? As if he were a naughty Santa with a checklist in front of him, putting down little marks on the little boxes that read “red lacy thong”? Check. “Black boyshorts”? Double check.

  “I’m more of a boxer brief sort of guy,” he said smoothly, bringing her back to the present.

  “Huh?”

  “Too far?” He chuckled. “I figured if I knew the color of yours…I should at least show you mine.” He leaned forward.

  Had he said show?

  Just how drunk was he? Maybe that was the reason his eyes were zeroing in on her mouth. He blinked, and then seemed to sway a bit.

  Was he okay? And why was he still staring at her mouth? Did she have something on her face?

  Self-consciously, she pressed her fingertips to her lips only to have him suck in a breath and lift his right hand from his thigh as if wanting to touch the place where her fingers had just been.

  “Got the shoes!” a male voice yelled as Jane jerked away from Brock.

  What had just happened? And how had enough time passed for someone to find and buy her shoes? “Holy shit, you’re hot.”

  She recognized the man from before. He was about an inch shorter than Brock, but had the same perfect auburn hair. “I’m Bentley, and since this one’s about to get married, I feel like it’s only fair to let you know that out of the two of us, I’m the single, available one, who’s also—lucky for you—been given a higher rating in the sack.”

  Married?

  He was getting married?

  And hitting on her?

  Or was she hitting on him? After all, she was the one who’d mentioned underwear. Ugh, she wanted to crawl under the table and die.

  Chapter Five

  Bentley!” Brock barked and shook his head.

  “What?” Bentley shrugged then smoothly walked over to Jane and pulled out a box of black high-heeled pumps in a size eight and a half. “Your foot, milady?”

  Brock rolled his eyes. “Give it a rest, Bentley. She can put on her own damn shoes.”

  Bentley completely ignored him. “I love a woman’s foot.” He grabbed Jane’s broken shoe and tossed it to the side while his hands danced along the arch of her foot. His fingertips danced along her skin. Seduction by foot rub? That was new.

  “It’s sexy, the arch.” He leaned over her, his lips parting just enough to give her the impression he was thinking about kissing her. “The curve of a woman’s foot reminds me of her body…see? Sexy.” He slid the shoe on a very terrified looking Jane and stood. “Perfect fit.”

  Jane’s mouth opened then closed as a rosy flush crept over her face. “Th-thank you.”

  “I bought you my favorite brand.”

  Her eyebrows arched. How did he know about Manolo Blahnik? “Oh.” And then she nodded and said loudly, “Ohhhh! That makes sense!”

  Bentley’s eyes narrowed. “Me buying women’s shoes?”

  “You wearing them,” she explained. “That’s great. I mean, good for you. I’m sorry I’m so awkward at things like this, but it’s good you’re…you know…” She bobbed her head and sputtered. “Out and…comfortable with it.”

  “Out?” Bentley repeated. “I’m confused.”

  “Of the closet,” she said slowly then saw the scowl on Bentley’s face. “Or maybe you just like to dress like a woman?” She straightened her shoulders and tried again. “In either case, congratulations on your choice to wear women’s clothing!”

  Brock about died laughing as Bentley’s horrified expression went from stunned to genuine confusion.

  “You heard her.” Brock held his laughter in check. “Congratulations, brother. I’ll take care of the press release: Bachelor Playboy Bentley Wellington and his private women’s shoe collection.”

  Bentley let out a strangled laugh. “Yes, and while we’re at it why don’t we remind the press that the clock is ticking on that auction of yours? Hmm?”

  “Auction?” Jane asked.

  “Don’t.” Brock shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

  “But she probably already does.” Bentley pointed out. “Unless she doesn’t read the news…?”

  They both stared at her, waiting for an answer.

  “I, uh…” She ducked her head, blushing again. “I read books.”

  “How pure.” Bentley smiled and sat down next to her. “And just so we’re clear.” He leaned in as though he was going to kiss her. “My bat only swings one way…and I can assure you, every time I get thrown a pitch, I hit it out of the park.”

  “Incredible,” Brock muttered. “I’ve never seen you try so hard—especially with a woman clearly not interested in what you’re offering.” Brock gripped his brother by the shoulders, aimed him toward the door, and gave a hard shove. “Go.”

  Bentley cursed Brock the entire way.

  Brock turned back to apologize to Jane but she was already trying to sneak past him, both of her hands clutching her dress so it wouldn’t fall down.

  What the hell?

  Logic told him to let her go, but her eyes…damn those eyes, he wanted her to stay. “Enjoy the shoes.” He pushed his lips into what he hoped resembled a smile and took a step back. The right thing always won out with Brock. God, he hated himself sometimes. “Jane.”

  She turned quickly and he had to suppress a groan. Her legs went on for days in those shoes, damn it.

  “Thanks again.” She smiled self-consciously, but at least it was a real smile. “For the save.” She gave him another awkward smile as she pointed behind her. “Out there.”

  “Any time,” he murmured as she disappeared back into the crowded club.

  With a sigh, he fell back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling. The best part of his night so far had been spent with a woman who had no clue who he was.

  And he’d loved it.

  He glanced down at the floor. A small smile spread across his lips.

  Jane had left her old shoes.

  Curiosity had him picking up the worn shoes. The brand on the inside was worn away from use.

  What did he expect to find? Her name and address written inside?

  Every cell in his body was telling him he needed to see Jane again. To find out if the connection he’d felt with her was real.

  She’d made him laugh.

  And engage.

  He’d wanted to have an actual conversation that had nothing to do with his money, his brothers, the auction, or his grandfather.

  It had been nice.

  She had been nice.

  And now she was gone.

  Chapter Six
r />   Jane!”

  Jane pulled her pillow over her face, and for one brief moment wondered if it would be possible to suffocate herself. Not that she was suicidal, but Mondays with her sisters? They always made her violent.

  “Jane!” Esmeralda screamed at the top of her lungs. “It’s seven! I’m going to be late for work! I’m starving!”

  God forbid her sister pour her own coffee.

  Grumbling, Jane crawled out of bed, tossed on a ratty sweatshirt, and ran down the stairs just in time to get shoved against the wall as Essence moved breezily past her in a cloud of cloying perfume and cigarette smoke.

  Both of her sisters sat at the table expectantly, checking their phones.

  “Eggs okay?” Jane asked with fake cheer as she made her way over to the fridge.

  Neither of her sisters answered.

  Her parents had hated Mondays—and early on had established a family tradition by starting the week with a home-cooked breakfast. Jane had kept the tradition alive—long after she suspected that she was the only one who cared about the tradition.

  And then one Monday she’d poured them all cereal, thinking she was too tired to keep up the tradition no one else seemed to care about. Her sisters cried.

  It was horrible.

  Manipulative, yes.

  But also horrible.

  Everyone mourned in their own way; it didn’t matter that their dad had been gone a few years already, and their mother longer. It was still hard to be without them. Sometimes it was the only thing Jane thought she had in common with her sisters—their sadness over the loss of their parents.

  Sighing, she quickly made the eggs and fried some turkey bacon.

  “Finally,” Essence grumbled, swiping the bacon off the plate. Her bleached hair was pulled into a knot on top of her head. “Can you stop off at the dry cleaners and pick up my clothes?” She slid a receipt across the table.

  Jane had to resist the urge to slap her sister’s hand with the spatula.

  “You know…” Jane said as she pulled out a chair. It squeaked across the wood floor, causing both sisters’ heads to bob up. “I’ve been thinking, about the whole cooking and errands thing. Why don’t we take turns? I’m swamped with work.” Okay, that was a lie; she wasn’t exactly swamped. More like overwhelmed.

  Both girls were silent and then Essence reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  Jane’s heart clenched.

  “Yeah,” Esmeralda said. “It’s just, you’re so good at those things, and nobody taught us how to cook. We’d probably starve without you. Besides, you’re in that cleaning van all day zipping around town so it’s easier for you to run errands. We’re stuck in an office building all day.”

  “True,” Jane admitted, “but—”

  “Promise we’ll think about it.” Essence squeezed Jane’s hand one last time then pulled away. “But, Jane?”

  Oh no.

  Essence’s eyes filled with tears. “You cook just like Mom used to. And you’re so good at it.”

  The room fell into a tense silence.

  The silence made Jane’s heart ache with memories of laughter and food fights.

  No.

  At some point she had to have her own life, away from taking care of her sisters twenty-four seven.

  “Yes, but—”

  “So it’s settled.” Essence stood and clapped her hands. “You’ll keep helping us around the house! And cooking!” Her lower lip jutted out. “It makes us feel like a family again. Besides, it’s what you do for a job anyway. I mean, you own your own cleaning company. How is this different?”

  And there it was.

  The guilt.

  The other reason Jane stayed.

  She had sworn to her father that she’d keep the family together at all costs.

  “Family,” he had said between coughs, “is all we have in this world. I was never a rich man when it came to material possessions.” Another coughing fit had ensued as Jane tried to hold back the sting of tears. “But, my Jane, I’ve always had you.” His eyes were blurred with tears. “Your sisters don’t have your same heart, Jane, and they won’t deal with this like you will. I need you to keep them strong. You’re the youngest but you’ve always taken care of them. Don’t let the family fall apart.”

  He’d died the next day.

  Lung cancer.

  Cancer had stolen both of her parents.

  Jane stood and started clearing their plates while her sisters chattered endlessly about work.

  It was hard to believe that they were both successful lawyers. On the other hand, maybe that was why they were so good at arguing with her, wearing her down, making her feel small.

  The front door slammed and Jane looked up.

  Would it kill her sisters to say good-bye?

  With a sigh, she ate the leftover eggs in three bites, dumped the dishes into the sink, and ran back up the stairs to her room to put on her uniform.

  Torn jeans and a white T-shirt.

  She never deterred from it. She’d ruined way too many of her favorite shirts because of multiple bleach accidents.

  Humming, she opened the curtains to her small room and smiled. Today would be a good one. She wouldn’t let the rocky start ruin the rest of the day.

  After all, last night had started out terrible. But it had ended on a good note. She touched her lips. Brock hadn’t kissed her, but she could imagine what his kiss would feel like all the same. Brock was so out of her league it was laughable, but he’d treated her like an equal, something she wasn’t used to even in her own family.

  Pushing that depressing thought away she turned away from the window to grab her tennis shoes, only to stumble over a pair of heels that cost more than she made in a week.

  They were even prettier in the daylight.

  The soft leather glistened.

  A small smile formed as she picked up one of the shoes and examined it. These were the kind of shoes that made her feel like she could click the heels together and she’d end up with a different life.

  A life where her boyfriend didn’t dump her because she was too boring.

  A life where her sisters respected her.

  A life where she didn’t live with the constant nagging guilt of keeping the family together.

  A life where men like Brock asked women like her on a date.

  She slipped her right foot into the pump and stood on one leg, then slid her left foot in the remaining shoe.

  Immediately she was reminded of his smile, his hard muscled body as it pressed against hers.

  Jane clicked her heels together and whispered, “I wish…” Her eyes filled with tears. “I want…” She stumbled out of the shoes and stared down at her naked feet.

  “I just want more than this,” she finished, looking around the room she’d been forced into since both of her sisters had claimed the bigger rooms in the house.

  And then her gaze fell on her own reflection in the mirror.

  Straightening her shoulders she stared herself down. There were people worse off than she was. She was just being emotional.

  Tears blurred her vision—this reaction was so unlike her.

  Maybe it was the fact that right above the shoes was a pile of bills that she knew she’d have to pay. Bills that her sisters didn’t feel it was their responsibility to help out with.

  She kicked one of the heels and crossed her arms—actually, her reaction made perfect sense. Because for one fleeting moment she’d been something more than the Jane who cleaned office buildings and bailed her sisters out of shopping debt.

  She’d felt beautiful.

  Powerful.

  How pathetic, that all it took was a well-dressed man with a gorgeous smile and a pair of shoes, to completely disarm her.

  And make her want things that girls like her would never get.

  Those shoes were a catalyst.

  Those shoes were temptation.

  Those shoes were the devil.
r />   Chapter Seven

  Brock woke up with a pounding headache and a shoe in bed with him.

  A woman’s shoe.

  Someone grunted from across the room.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Pasting on a carefully blank expression, he looked around. Shit, had he slept with Cinderella?

  God, that smile.

  Those hips.

  Those legs.

  He squeezed the shoe tighter between his hands as lust hit him hard and fast; even with the hangover from hell, he could still see a clear picture of Jane in his head.

  “Uhhhhh.” The groaning was coming from the bathroom. Slowly, so as not to puke all over the pristine wood floor, he threw the white duvet off his legs and walked to the tune of a jackhammer between his temples…all the way to the bathroom.

  A foot poked out through the half-open door.

  Definitely not a size eight and a half.

  Nor feminine.

  He kicked at the limb to get the door fully open and the groan turned into cursing. Pushing at the door, he saw Bentley hugging the toilet like a new best friend.

  “Rough night?” Brock smirked like the complete bastard he was as Bentley lifted a middle finger in the air and kept it there. He’d tire out, eventually.

  Another grunt sounded from somewhere else in the large master bathroom.

  Brock stepped around the corner. Brant was sprawled in the bathtub, holding a fluffy white towel close to his chest.

  Where was a whistle when Brock needed one? Or a car alarm? Air horn? There had to be an app for that.

  Brant opened one eye, then two. “Sleeping Beauty awakes.” Shirtless, he stood up on wobbly legs, then stepped out of the claw-foot tub and scratched his naked stomach. “That was a rough one.”

  “The shots?” Brock guessed, making his way over to the sink to brush his teeth and find some aspirin.

  “The hookers,” Brant said quickly, causing Brock to inhale an unhealthy amount of toothpaste before nearly choking to death. “Kidding.”

  Brock choked even harder. “Fuck off.”

  “Seeing you lose your shit at seven a.m. is one of my favorite things.”