The Bachelor Auction (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 1)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “Speed makes me feel alive!” The driver of the Uber car Bentley had hired chuckled and then took a hard right followed by another hard left that had the tires screeching in protest. “Ah hah! I knew we were close.”

  They were in an abandoned parking lot.

  “To where you plan on murdering me?” Jane scooted next to the door just in case she had to actually make a run for it. Two hours after taking her measurements Bentley had insisted on sending a car for her. In his words, she needed to pick out a dress.

  But still.

  No Brock.

  And yet Bentley’s words bounced around in her head. Trust Brock. Which meant Brock was in on all of this, but she still didn’t even know what this was?

  At Bentley’s insistence, she purchased a ticket for the ball. His instructions were clear. “Your money is your own.”

  What does that even mean?

  Should she bid on Brock?

  Well, duh, of course; but thirty grand wasn’t going to win her anything!

  Nothing made sense.

  Doubt crept in the corners of her mind.

  And then the driver put the car in park and turned it off. “Parking lots are too out in the open, now a parking garage…” He tapped his chin and grinned. “I could commit a crime there, I suppose.”

  Jane made a mental note to stay out of every parking garage within the city limits.

  The van door slid open, a gorgeous Asian woman with bright red lipstick stepped out. “Right off the runway. But some may need adjustments.”

  Curiosity got the best of Jane, so she got out of the car and peered behind the girl. The back of the van was filled with at least twenty, maybe thirty, gorgeous ball gowns in every color of the rainbow and in every type of material she could imagine. Silk, satin, tulle.

  With a gasp, she covered her face. “Those are beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you think so, sweetheart.” Suddenly Bentley walked up, his swagger even more pronounced. “Pick one. Oh hell, pick two. Nothing’s too good for my date.”

  “Your what?” She tried to hide her disappointment, but it was impossible.

  Bentley wrapped a muscular arm around her and smiled harder. “Now, I want you to pick one that screams sexy. Brock’s favorite color is black—shocker, I know—but he gave me strict instructions for you to make sure it’s what you want, not what he wants, not what I want, not what anyone else wants but you.”

  Jane was still stuck on the fact that Brock had given his brother instructions. He had to care. He just had to. And in her heart she knew he did; she just didn’t understand why a simple text message or phone call would hurt anything. The media was still hounding her. Maybe he was afraid something would leak? Ugh; and now Bentley was escorting her, instead of Brock?

  “Brock knows you’re my date? And he’s okay with it?”

  Bentley rolled his eyes. “Women are so damn complicated.” He pointed to the dresses and then back at her. “Just because you’re arriving at the ball on my arm doesn’t mean you’re leaving on it. Make sense?”

  “No.” Jane shook her head. “Not at all. In fact none of this makes sense!”

  “Trust. Remember?” Bentley smiled. “Now hurry up. I have places to be, women to seduce.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I look like I belong in prison.” Brock complained. Brant nodded his head in agreement.

  “I’ll admit,” his brother said, “the stripes are a bit…bold.”

  “You think?” Brock pointed down at himself. “Do you have anything less…” He scowled as his gaze fell to the striped pants. “Loud?”

  Jean Paul, the man helping them, gasped aloud.

  Bentley and Brant cringed and moved closer to Brock while the personal shopper for Prada began pacing in front of them, a pinched expression between his eyebrows as he started cursing in French.

  “Should we tell him we understand him?” Bentley said out of the corner of his mouth. “Or just let him keep going?”

  “I hear you!” Jean Paul stopped pacing then glanced up, his eyes hopeful. “I do have one suit left. It’s perfect.”

  “Not to be a jackass, but you said that about the stripes,” Brock muttered, glancing back in the mirror and shuddering.

  “Here.” Jean Paul returned with a black garment bag. “Very new, very classic. A black and white three-piece tuxedo with a black tie. The shirt is a white silk. I’ll admit the coattails are a bit long but I think you’ll find the cut agreeable to your full figure.”

  “The hell,” Brock muttered. “Did he just call me fat?”

  “Good thing Jane loves all sizes,” Bentley said helpfully. “Plus more cushion for the pushin’…right?”

  “Please stop talking,” Brock pleaded while Jean Paul unzipped the garment bag and did a little ta da with his hands.

  “Dibs,” Bentley called.

  “Damn it!” Brant yelled.

  “Guys, I thought we were here for me? Also: born first, getting auctioned off, you lose.” He touched the smooth silk shirt. This, he could wear.

  A few hours later, he was back at his apartment, the garment bag hanging in his closet, the rooms silent.

  He’d told the twins he wanted time alone, and now he was lonely. Imagine that? Idiot.

  He was so damn tempted to just text Jane and let her in on his plan, but Jane deserved more than a text. He wanted to sweep her off her feet, surprise her, do it in front of the whole fucking world. And unfortunately her reaction had to be real—the plan depended on it. If it looked fabricated, people would accuse them of setting the whole thing up.

  He picked up his phone and swiped past her contact, even though it made his chest hurt just thinking about the pain he was putting her through by not calling—and hit his grandfather’s number.

  His grandfather answered on the second ring. “Son, you better be dead. I’m up to my earlobes with ball details. Everything has to be perfect as you know, and the media is in a frenzy over that kiss with the maid!”

  Shit.

  The media refused to let it go.

  Which led to questions about the ball being rigged—which in turn had driven Brock to ask the notorious woman he’d just spent the last hour talking to for help.

  Their plan had to look real.

  He knew it, for the sake of the company and for Jane.

  But that kiss.

  He wouldn’t take it back.

  He couldn’t.

  It was everything.

  His mouth burned with the memory.

  “Fruit of my loins!” Grandfather yelled, interrupting Brock’s daydream. One more day. Just one more day. “You’ve caused more drama than the twins together! Childbirth was never this difficult.”

  “Are you talking to me?” Brock asked. “And you didn’t actually birth the children, as far as I know…” He rolled his eyes.

  “Good thing, or I probably would have given up and walked out of that damn hospital. Your grandmother was such a saint, pushing out God knows what through her—”

  “All right, that’s enough bonding for tonight,” Brock said gruffly. “We need to talk about the ball.”

  Grandfather sighed. “It is what it is, that is unless you have something on your mind?”

  “Why?” Brock blurted before he could stop himself. “Why would you put the company before me? Before the twins?”

  Grandfather sighed. “I guess I would have to answer with a question. Why, Brock, do you always feel you need to put me before you?”

  Brock opened his mouth then shut it.

  “That’s what I thought.” Grandfather sighed. “I’ve seen the news about you and the maid and yet I haven’t heard from you. Why is that, I wonder?”

  “Because.” Brock cleared his throat. “I’ve found a way to have both.”

  “Both?” Grandfather’s voice sounded like he was frowning; his brows were probably furrowing in confusion like they always did when he was forced to solve a puzzle that didn’t magically solve itself.

  “
Yes.” Brock chuckled. “Both. My family. And my Jane.”

  “Your Jane, hmm?”

  Brock closed his eyes and continued. “I’m keeping my word, to both of you, in the only way I know how.”

  “Is that why you called?”

  “I called to tell you that if it goes badly…if my crazy plan doesn’t work out…I still choose her.” God, it hurt. Hurt like hell to say that.

  He sucked in a breath.

  Waited for his grandfather to die.

  Waited for the sky to fall.

  Waited for an earthquake.

  But all the old man did was sigh and say. “Well then. I guess that’s that.” The line went dead, leaving Brock to wonder if it was another omen for his future.

  Death.

  When all he wanted was a life.

  Life with Jane.

  Chapter Forty

  The press attention was getting worse.

  Well, what did she expect? The ball was tonight. Of course it was getting worse, with speculation about Jane being there even though she didn’t have the money to bid on Brock. There were also rumors that she was pregnant with his love child, amongst other things.

  It made her sick to her stomach.

  Bentley had said that he was going to stop by for some last minute details, but he was clearly running late. Her dress and shoes were upstairs waiting for her and she still had hours to kill before a team of highly trained professionals—Bentley’s words, not hers—would be at her house to do her makeup and hair.

  Maybe it was her nerves.

  Or the fact that her sisters still hadn’t contacted her. They’d said they were staying with a friend, but they’d never stayed away so long. Then again, she’d never made them angry enough to want to before.

  Were they still planning on going to the ball? Or at least trying? Because that was so not the place where she wanted to have a confrontation with them, not that she’d be able to help it in the first place if they wanted to start something.

  When had life become so stressful?

  Oh right, the minute she’d said yes to a crazy old man and fell in love with his even crazier grandson.

  With nothing to do but basically sit on her hands and try not to have a nervous breakdown, she slowly made her way upstairs to unpack from the ranch.

  Sadness had kept her from unzipping her suitcase for fear that her clothes and the smell of the ranch would remind her of Brock too much, and it was hard enough as it was to not think of him. He was everywhere—on the news, radio—you couldn’t walk down the street without hearing or seeing something about the auction.

  With shaking hands she pulled open the suitcase and a smile spread across her face.

  She brushed her hand against the plaid fabric at the top of the suitcase and her smile grew.

  Maybe all memories weren’t bad.

  Even if they were painful.

  And in all her stress and sadness—she’d forgotten something important—something that even if Brock rejected her and never saw her again—she wanted to do.

  She grabbed the present and ran down the stairs just as a knock sounded. Throwing the door open to a bored-looking Bentley, Jane grabbed a fistful of his shirt and jerked him into the house. “I want his address. Now.”

  “I don’t really think—”

  “Now!”

  “It’s six a.m.!” Bentley yawned. “Six! In the morning!”

  “I heard you the first time. Address! Please? It’s important!”

  “What’s that?” He pointed at the object in her hands.

  “Something for Brock.”

  Bentley’s eyes narrowed and then a mocking look crossed his face. “Wow, that’s…romantic?”

  “Shut up.”

  He smirked. “Fine, I’ll give you the address if you promise to be on your best behavior tonight.”

  She scowled.

  “No hitting on me, grabbing my ass, flirting, or falling in love. I’m well aware that these past two days have been the best of your life but—”

  “Yeah, I’m going to go ahead and stop you right there.”

  “Sometimes love can’t be helped, or explained.” He winked. “Okay, fine, you’re immune to my charm. Damn aggravating—not that I’d want to steal you out from underneath one of my favorite brothers—but like I said, some things can’t be helped and I’m competitive by nature.”

  “Are you done yet?”

  “No.” He smiled. “Okay, fine, be ready by six and remember to just….go with it.”

  “Go with what?”

  “It,” he said slowly. “Go with it.”

  “What exactly is ‘it’?”

  “You’ll see when it or she presents itself. Okay, now I’ve confused myself. Hand over that weird-looking shirt fluffy thing and I’ll make sure it gets to Brock. I’m not entirely sure I can trust you with that address yet; besides, it’s for the best.”

  Well, it wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but it would work. “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek.

  He touched the spot she’d kissed and shrugged. “See? You’re in love with me, can’t be helped.”

  “Go away, Bentley.”

  He tilted her chin toward him. “Give them hell tonight, Jane. And remember, trust him.”

  And with that he was gone.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Brock woke up to the piercing sound of a rooster. The cock was even invading his dreams now.

  Fantastic.

  “Wake up!” A pillow slammed across his face.

  Twice.

  On the third swing, he grabbed it and the person attached to it, shoving them off the bed and onto the floor.

  Brant let out a curse. “See if I ever make you coffee again.”

  “You made coffee? Do you even know how?”

  “It was touch and go for a few seconds before I finally just walked to Starbucks.” He shrugged. “But it’s basically the same thing.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Thank you.” Brant seemed genuinely touched by the insult.

  Brock rolled his eyes. “Someone better be dying and why the hell did I hear a rooster?”

  Brant held up his phone. “Farm animal app. I’m thinking of buying the company.”

  “Please don’t,” Brock grumbled as he got to his feet.

  They walked into the kitchen where Bentley was reading the paper.

  “Why are you guys always at my house?” Brock snatched a piece of fruit as Bentley slid him his coffee. “Seriously, are you that lonely?”

  “Yes,” Bentley said without looking up from the paper. “That’s why we bother you, because we’re lonely.” He smirked. “It’s more like…” After a long drawn-out sigh, he held out his hands. “We made the mistake of bringing some girls home and…” He flipped his hand into the air. “We may have swapped girls in the middle of the night.”

  “Oldest trick in the book,” Brant snorted.

  “Right,” Bentley agreed. “But somehow they found out and once we asked them to leave…all hell broke loose. One of them started smashing wine bottles on the floor then chucked one at my head.”

  Brant bit out a curse while Bentley kept on talking. “We finally got them to leave, but one of them came back and our doorman let her up, the bastard. She spray-painted WHORE in bright red graffiti across our doors.”

  Brock let out a low laugh. “Oh, that’s fantastic. So your apartments are shame prisons?”

  “Basically.” Bentley didn’t look apologetic. “So we’re going to hang with you until things die down. I mean, they’ll get over it; they always do.”

  Sighing, Brock took a long drink of coffee and set his cup back down on the table. “You guys can’t keep going on like this.”

  “Sure we can.” Brant finally set the paper down. “After all, my life goal includes dying of heart failure during sex.”

  “It’s good to have dreams.” Bentley burst out laughing.

  “Both of you are going to burn in hell.” Brock snorted.

>   “Hopefully Grandfather will have paved the way by then.” Bent smirked. “Now, are you ready for tonight?”

  Brock paused, his coffee in midair. “I think so; as ready as I’ll ever be. Grandfather doesn’t know what’s going on; he just knows I’m going to try and keep my word to him while still trying to be with Jane. God, I hope that Nadine holds up her end of the bargain.”

  “She will.” Brant came around the table and sat, propping his legs up on the chair across from him. “She’s obsessed with a good love story. Her poor grandsons are proof of that. The woman kidnapped a state senator in the name of love. This? This should be a walk in the park for her.”

  “Are you going to make a speech before all hell breaks loose? Or just lay it all out there?” Bentley asked.

  Brock rolled his eyes. “I have a plan. I’m sticking with it. The end goal is Jane. Anything beyond that? A fucking speech to make people happy? I’m over it. I want her and I’ve found a way to get her and to make sure that Grandfather’s happy. She needs to know I love her. That’s all that matters now.”

  The doorbell suddenly rang and Brock cursed as he stomped over to the door, jerking it open.

  “Delivery for Brock Wellington.” The messenger had a giant black box. “Just sign here.”

  Brock signed and brought the box into the house, closing the door behind him.

  He opened the box and saw…plaid.

  “What the hell is that?” Brant pointed.

  Frowning, Brock picked up the homemade plaid pillow and inhaled. It smelled exactly like his father. They were his old shirts.

  The ones from the ranch.

  A note was stuck between the pillows.

  I meant to give these to you at the ranch but I forgot.

  I couldn’t sleep one night and decided to make them into memory pillows. That way you always have your father with you. I thought it may help fight the ghosts but just in case that doesn’t work, I stuffed the dog in the bottom of the box. Rumor has it he’s a guard dog.

  Love,

  Plain Jane

  Fingers trembling, Brock dropped the note and took a step back. She’d done this. For him.

  She loved him.