The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction)

by Naima Simone

  This was it. Mission accomplished. Morgan had asked him to accompany Khloe to this party so the man she was in love with would notice her. And Bennett had. The future of marriage, family, and the so-called American Dream were within her grasp.

  Now he could return to Dublin, comforted that he hadn’t failed Michael or Khloe.

  The relief that should’ve cascaded through him like a refreshing rain was absent.

  Instead, the realization left him as dry and barren as a desert.

  Clenching his jaw, he approached the couple.

  “…would love if you could come.” Bennett glanced up from Khloe as Niall pressed a hand to her hip. His gaze flickered down to the possessive gesture, his mouth tightening at the corners before he gave Niall a congenial smile. “Niall. I was just inviting Khloe to a dinner party I’m hosting next week. Of course, the invite extends to you as well.” Like hell it did.

  Morgan clapped her hands once, her eyes glinting with delight and a shite load of mischief. “Oh how fortuitous that Niall mentioned to me earlier that he planned to stay stateside a few days longer.” She grinned. “Isn’t that a happy coincidence?”

  Son of a bitch. The woman was trouble. And crazy.

  “Yes,” Khloe murmured. “Happy.” She turned to him, and he would’ve had to been Helen Keller not to see the hope in her eyes or hear the question in her voice. Tonight had been a victory for her. This invitation like the proverbial Golden Ticket. And she needed him to seal the deal.

  Well played, Morgan. Well feckin’ played.

  “Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you like.”

  Chapter Seven

  “For the love of God, please stop,” Khloe snarled, slapping at the alarm clock on her bedside table. But after three whacks, the damn thing still chimed. Groaning, she jackknifed out of the blankets, glaring at the combination clock/radio. Three things became clear.

  One. It was 6:45 in the morning. On a Saturday.

  Two. Her phone was the stubbornly ringing culprit, not the alarm.

  Three. The person calling her at this hour had a death wish. Like, a Charles Bronson-sized death wish.

  She snatched the phone off the dresser and glanced down at the screen. “Are you kidding me?” she growled, swiping her thumb across the answer bar. “Are you kidding me?” she repeated, this time for benefit of the caller on the other end.

  “Come open the door, babe.” That Irish brogue first thing in the ungodly AM should not have been sexy. Especially when it was issuing commands. Too bad her heart hadn’t received the memo. The damn thing pounded as if she’d just finished a marathon, not woken up from a sound sleep. But relentless, hot dreams about the irritating Irishman on the other end of the phone could have something to do with that, too. Shit. She couldn’t escape Niall even in sleep.

  “Niall, do you have any idea what time it is?” she snapped, tossing the covers back and rose from the bed. She tugged on her robe and wrenched the sash tight imagining his neck beneath her fingers.

  “I’m guessing this is a rhetorical question, but yes, I do know the time. Now come let me in. It’s cold as a witch’s tit…and I have coffee.”

  Coffee. The bastard. He knew how to manipulate her like that fiddle he used to play.

  Her feet hurried along the floor, carried her down the stairs and to the front door in record time. She unlocked the door and opened it, hand outstretched.

  It was so unfair, she groused as Niall pressed a cardboard cup into her hand and entered her apartment looking refreshed and as gorgeous as always in black V-neck sweater, pants, and jacket in some rich material that cost more than her entire wardrobe. While she, in her old robe, pajamas, and sporting a spectacular case of bed-head, looked like who-did-it-and-why. Damn him.

  And damn her gaze for zeroing in on his mouth as he sipped from his own cup. The same mouth that had kissed her senseless the night before, leaving her confused, angry, and with wet panties. The same mouth that had inspired dreams of tangled limbs, sweaty bodies, twisted sheets, and hungry moans. The same mouth that she could still feel the phantom press of against her lips.

  Jerking her attention away from the positively indecent way he drank coffee, she stared down at the plastic lid. “So what brings you by at the ass crack of dawn? Besides coffee delivery, I mean.”

  He studied her over the rim of his cup. “Not a morning person, are we? Hmm, I never knew that.”

  Right, because you ushered me out of your house so fast the morning after. But she didn’t voice the scathing reply. To do so would only serve to let him believe she still cared about how he’d rejected her after what she’d once considered the most exciting, beautiful night of her life. Especially since she’d been one more booty call on a long list of booty.

  And she didn’t care.

  Much.

  Denial, thy name is Khloe Susannah Richardson.

  Niall arched a dark eyebrow at her silence. “I need you to go get dressed. Courtesy of Morgan, we have an appointment at 7:30.”

  She froze, her cup halfway to her mouth. “What are you talking about? Appointment for what?”

  “Hair and make-up.”

  “Hair and ma—” she sputtered, then calmly set her coffee on the mantel behind her. Punching him would require both fists. “I repeat, what are you talking about?”

  He crossed his arms, his gaze never wavering. “You have an appointment to get your hair cut and styled and your make-up done.”

  Heat bubbled up from a well inside her, streaming up her chest and pouring into her face. Mortification and hurt pulsed like a fresh wound. She closed her eyes, refusing to allow him to see the pain his words had inflicted. Rationally, she acknowledged he didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t pretty enough, skinny enough…worthy enough. And from his mention of Morgan, her best friend was again behind his unexpected appearance. But the awkward little girl and plain teenager curled in on herself, attempting to disappear.

  “What are you thinking?” Niall slowly lowered his arms, stepped—no, stalked—forward until the knuckles of the hand wrapped around the coffee cup grazed her chest. “And don’t tell me nothing. That’s bullshit.” When she didn’t answer but scrutinized the fine, black thread along his V-neck as if it contained the answers to the Holy Trinity, he lightly but firmly grasped her chin and lifted her face. “Answer me.”

  “I appreciate what you did for me last night with the dress and the makeover. It was…amazing,” she began haltingly. “But I’m not that woman. She was—”

  “You,” he ground out. His grip on her tightened, and he tilted her head higher so she couldn’t avoid his narrowed stare. “She was—is—you. Confident. Elegant. Sexy as hell. I wouldn’t give a fuck if you wanted to wear damn couch covers…if they made you happy. But you’re not happy; you’re not satisfied or content. I saw your face last night, love. You glowed.” His hooded gaze swept over her, caressing her forehead, lingering on her lips before returning to her eyes. “You’re hiding. Behind the hair, the clothes, the mousiness. It’s almost as if you don’t want people to look at you. To see you.” He shook his head. “It’s too late for that. And I refuse to let you retreat back into that quiet, lonely, so-called safe corner.”

  Jesus. How did he detect so much? He’d been back in her life for one week, and had peeled back the layers, peered beneath, and uncovered what she hadn’t consciously admitted even to herself. She was scared of being noticed; in fact, she’d been born with a hatred of being the center of attention. Or worse. Being ignored.

  He understood this about her. And yet, he’d delivered the worst rejection of anyone in her life. He’d been her friend, her confidante, the first man she’d loved, and he’d made her feel unwanted, unworthy. Then he’d abandoned her without a word for three years. So far, he hadn’t offered an explanation or an apology.

  Which meant he considered their night together a mistake, and one he didn’t intend on sticking around long enough to rectify, nor did he intend to perform damage control on the remnants of the friend
ship they could have.

  Fine.

  Because Niall was right about another thing as well.

  She was tired of retreating, of hiding. Of being afraid.

  Jerking her chin free from his hold, she shifted backward, placing much-needed space between them. Space where every inhale didn’t carry the scent of fresh, Irish rain and wind. Space where his delicious heat didn’t reach out to her in seductive promise.

  “I’ll go get dressed,” she murmured.

  She turned and marched up the staircase without a backward glance at the silent, devastatingly handsome man in her foyer.

  “Are you ready to see yourself?”

  Khloe grinned at her hairstylist, the surprisingly ordinary Scott. After the, uh, experience of Laurence and crew the night before, she’d been expecting someone a little more, well, outrageous when she’d arrived at the Back Bay upscale beauty salon. But while Scott, with his gelled brown spikes, black turtleneck, and slacks, was less of a shock factor, he’d been just as attentive from the moment she and Niall had walked into the sleek, empty shop. Empty because Niall had commandeered the salon for the morning. Scott and his team had pampered her—hair, manicure, make-up…mimosas. But the drinks and catering-to couldn’t prevent the tripping and clenching in her belly or the twisting of her fingers underneath the black stylist cape.

  “Okay,” he drawled, reaching behind her to snap the covering free. “Here you are.” She lowered her lashes as he spun her chair around and settled his hands on the balls of her shoulders. “Take a look,” he whispered.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes…

  The woman staring back at her from the mirror was the same from last night, but softer. Dreamier. Thick, flowing chocolate waves framed her face and fell over her shoulders, grazing the swells of her breasts. The many layers lightened the heaviness but still added volume and a carefree sexiness that seemed to fit the beautiful—yes, beautiful—woman in the reflection. The make-up artist had altered ordinary green eyes into kohl-lined, full-lashed, mysterious emerald pools. High cheekbones, glowing skin, highly-glossed mouth completed the transformation from plain to pretty damn stunning.

  A shaft of fear pierced the awe.

  This confident, sexy woman wasn’t her. And as soon as she opened her mouth, everyone would nod knowingly and utter that underneath the silk purse trappings still existed the sow’s ear. She was a fraud, an imposter…still forgettable.

  Stop it! No more hiding, no more disappearing. No. More. Fear.

  Inhaling, she met Scott’s expectant gaze in the mirror.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I do believe what you’ve just accomplished with me falls somewhere between resurrection and water-into-wine.”

  He laughed, tunneling his fingers through her hair, drawing the strands forward before combing them back away from her face. Miraculously, the waves tumbled right back into place. Her hair had never “tumbled” before.

  “Beautiful. The extra-long length didn’t do anything for you. It literally dragged you down and pulled out the natural curl in your hair. This is fun, flirty, and fabulous.”

  Fun, flirty, and fabulous. Three adjectives that had never been applied to her hair—or her. If she were truthful, she didn’t feel like the F trifecta yet, but damn it, she could try. She could embody it.

  “Are you ready to show your man your new look?”

  “He’s not—”

  But Scott had already sailed off, and her objection trailed off. Besides, what did she say? Niall wasn’t her “man”, but what was he? How did she explain their relationship? Oh he’s the man I crushed on for years, who took my virginity before dropping me like the clap, and is now back to help me hook the man I’m in love with? Umm…no.

  “I think you’re going to be very pleased, Mr. Hunter,” Scott gushed several moments later as he reentered the back area of the salon. She rose from the chair and turned, an unsettling feeling of déjà vu rolling over her.

  Like last night she stood, frozen, as Niall jerked to a halt just inside the doorway. And like last night he drank her in, and she alternately drowned then burned in the hot blue depths. Her breath snagged in her throat as if his hand trailed over her hair, cheeks, mouth, and neck instead of his gaze. A flame flickered, danced in her gut, sank lower until she pulsed between her legs with a sweet ache she’d only ever known with him. What he could do with just one look… She fisted the hem of her bulky, knit sweater, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip.

  He zeroed in on her lips, and in an instant, the sense of been-there-done-that became reality. Again, the erotic fire leached from his eyes, leaving her staring into a frigid landscape of hard ice. He could’ve been carved from stone—the harsh slash of his cheekbones, the granite edge of his jaw, the uncompromising, almost cruel slant of his mouth.

  She shivered.

  “I already knew you were beautiful,” he finally said, the frost in his expression coating his words. “Now maybe,” he paused, a muscle flexing along his jaw, “everyone else will know it.”

  Everyone else. Bennett. He meant Bennett. Disquiet gutted to life inside her. Yes, before the gala Bennett hadn’t paid much attention to her other than the occasional breakroom conversation. Did that bother her? Damn right, an insidious, tiny voice hissed in the back of her mind. But why would he have, a louder, more realistic voice piped up. From her appearance to her quiet, I-don’t-want-to-rock-the-boat manner, she’d been unobtrusive, unassuming, understated, and a few other un’s. As harsh as it sounded, people were judged on their appearances, assumptions about their personalities based on how they presented themselves. And in her tight buns, bare minimum of make-up, and loose-fitting suits, she might as well as have proclaimed her mousiness at the quarterly board meetings.

  Still, he never bothered to look beneath and find out who you were.

  Oh shut up.

  Great. Niall had finally succeeded in cracking her. She stood in a salon arguing with herself—and losing.

  “I’ll meet you out front.” With a nod and subdued thank you to Scott, Niall disappeared from the room.

  Fifteen minutes later, bearing bags filled with hair products and make-up, she climbed into the back of the chauffeured town car Niall had picked her up in several hours earlier.

  “Nu Couture,” he stated to the driver before ducking into the car behind her. She gaped at him.

  “We’re headed to Nu Couture?” Excitement battled with trepidation. The exclusive Beacon Hill boutique catered to women like Morgan: gorgeous, stylish, wealthy, and skinny. Even if she could afford to shop there, the store probably didn’t carry anything above a size two.

  “Yes.” Niall scowled. “And don’t even think about arguing with me. Fair warning, baby. I’m in the mood for a fight, and I wouldn’t play fair or nice.”

  Her lips popped closed. The dark threat sent shouldn’t have sent a curl of arousal twisting in her belly. Oh but it did.

  “I wasn’t going to argue—”

  “Yes, you were,” he snapped. “Your mouth is open, isn’t it? Why the hell you’re so agreeable and quiet with everyone but me is a mystery. We’re going to this store, and you’re going to replace every shapeless, ill-fitting, dreary piece of clothing in your wardrobe with clothes that actually fit and have color, goddammit. Unless you’re going to say ‘thank you’ or something inconceivable along those lines, then don’t say shit,” he rumbled, the “shit” sounding like “shite.”

  She blinked. Stared. Blinked again. Wow. Had she really been that much of a bitch? She must have if she’d brought out the heavy brogue. Audio reels rolled through her head from the night when he’d called in Laurence and this morning when he’d shown up at her house. Moments later, she sighed.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, earning a flash of surprise in his narrowed gaze. Then, because the question had been weighing on her since the night he’d shown up at her apartment, she asked, “Why are you doing this?”

  “Fuck,” he growled, shaking his head before glaring out th
e side window.

  She cleared her throat, hating the tremble in her voice. “Well, I know that’s not the reason.” His head jerked back around, pinning her with an inscrutable look that had her swallowing hard and her stomach plummeting toward her feet. Dangerous. Yeah, dangerous covered his unsettling, impenetrable regard. “For three years, I don’t hear a word from you. Not a phone call, an email, a damn smoke signal. But suddenly you’re here like you used to be before Michael—” she stumbled, drew in a breath, “before Michael died. You’re funding a makeover, buying me new clothes.” She held up her hands, palms up. “Why, Niall?” When he didn’t reply, just continued to study her with the same hooded, ominous air, she exhaled, imbuing the loud release of air with all the exasperation and frustration brewing in her like a witch’s cauldron. “What is it? Guilt? Belated birthday gift? Because of Michael? Pity?”

  The truth struck her with the force of a flailing sucker punch.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked through numb lips. “This is about Michael and some misplaced obligation you feel toward him and his awkward, plain little sister.” Pain radiated from her chest like a high-powered beacon. He hadn’t returned for her. Never for her. “To hell with that,” she ground out through clenched teeth, her hands balled tight on her lap. “I don’t need your pity. Don’t want it—”

  “Of course I promised Michael I would be there for you,” he gritted out. “I don’t need you to tell me I’ve screwed that up. But my being here now is not about obligation or pity. So get that out of your head.”

  “Then what is it?” she demanded. When he remained quiet, his blue gaze burning into her, she thumped her fist against the seat, and snapped, “You don’t have anything to say because I’m right. Damn it, Niall, I—”