The Midsummer Auction

by Pia Tremayne

  “Perhaps you are right,” he conceded. “Very well. I will start the ball rolling. Tell me, Nicola, what do you enjoy doing when you’re not…er…otherwise engaged. For instance, do you like books? Do you enjoy reading?”

  “When I have time,” she replied cautiously.

  “What kind of books do you enjoy?”

  “Science fiction. Fantasy.” Where the hell was he going with this?

  His eyes locked on hers. “You enjoy fantasy? Why, exactly?”

  “Because there are no boundaries. Anything is possible. The story doesn’t have to be constrained by reality.”

  “But isn’t reading someone else’s fantasy a built-in constraint in itself? At the very least it confines the reader to the limits of the writer’s imagination. The reader can only go as far as the writer’s imagination takes him.”

  “Not really. You can go beyond another person’s fantasy. If you let your imagination take it beyond the writer’s limits you can fashion a fantasy of your own that might be even more exciting.”

  “I see. Like a sequel to a film, I suppose, except the spin-off in your head was derived from someone else’s idea, and that may well impose some restraints on what use you can make of it. Tell me, have you ever written a fantasy that is completely yours?”

  “Written my own fantasy?”

  “Yes,” he replied impatiently. “Surely you must fantasize. Everyone does.”

  “I do. But my fantasies are in my head. They’re complete stories, but I don’t think I would ever write them down.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” She stopped, embarrassed.

  “Because what?” he prompted.

  She shook her head, blushing furiously now.

  “What do you think will happen if you write them down?”

  “Nothing, because I would never show them to anyone.”

  “Because you’re ashamed of them?”

  “No, I’m not. I wouldn’t show them to anyone because they’re too personal.”

  “You said you keep them in your head, like a book of short stories. That must mean that when an idea for a fantasy occurs to you, you have to develop scenarios, dialogue. How does it all come together in your mind?”

  “Well, sometimes when I’m lying in bed at night things just pop into my head, and depending on what it is, it could be the inspiration for a whole new fantasy. Once my mind is taken with an idea the scenarios just naturally follow, one after the other, and before I know it, I’m drawn into the story and I have to follow it to its conclusion.”

  “Are you always one of the characters in your fantasies.”

  “I’m always the heroine, and things start happening to me.”

  “Is there a hero? Somebody who has to save you from the things that are happening to you.”

  “There’s always a hero, but not the kind that saves you, the way you mean. My heroes…do things to me, things I need them to do.”

  When he heard her answer, something inside him flickered in recognition, and his cock stirred as though it had been warned to sit up and pay attention. He had to know more. “What kinds of things do you need them to do? Things that…turn you on?”

  She had relaxed a little as they chatted, but on hearing that question, she found her tension evaporating almost completely. Now she knew exactly where this was going, all this preamble about reading and writing and fantasies! If that was what he wanted—to hear her talk about her sexual fantasies—she could handle being Scheherazade. Waiting for the right man to come along to rid her of her virginity she had indulged in her fantasies, in bed, at night, alone, and they had certainly turned her on.

  “Yes,” she replied, her eyes fixed on him.

  He divined she was trying to read his thoughts and held her gaze, his eyes revealing nothing.

  “I don’t write out my fantasies, but maybe some time, if you feel like it, I can relate them,” she offered tentatively.

  It tore at him, hearing her say that. She had to know as surely as he did that relating her sexual fantasies to him—because intuition told him her fantasies were all sexual—was a precursor to sex. Knowing her background, where she came from, never in a million years would he ever have conceived of Nicola Edgerton becoming the sort of woman who would enter into casual sexual liaisons with men she barely knew.

  But why was he surprised? An aura of sophistication and privilege surrounded the Midsummer Auction, but once the veil was torn away, the bald economic truth was inescapable. Nice women were renting themselves out for money. And Nicola was one of them. Never mind the fact that he should be the last person to judge her. He had bought her, hadn’t he? Intended to use her for his own purposes, which meant he was no better than she or any of the women who auctioned themselves off. All the same, he felt weighed down by an unreasonable disappointment in her and a kind of regret.

  Never mind all that. Stick to the plan. “I feel like it now,” he responded curtly, heeding his inner voice. “No time like the present. Go into the bedroom and make yourself comfortable. A bed is more conducive to fantasy than a couch, don’t you agree?”

  Tension mushroomed in her stomach at the implications of what he had just said. Get with the program, Nicola. “Did you want me to take my clothes off?” she asked, apprehensive.

  “Why don’t I let you decide if the fantasy warrants it.” His voice was cool, detached.

  “Fine.”

  She walked into the bedroom, her heart beating so loudly he must surely hear it. This was the moment of reckoning. How could she have been so foolish as to imagine, even for a second, that he had paid all that money for her just to waste a whole evening getting to know her as a person? He probably had all the friends he needed and wasn’t looking for more. There wasn’t the slightest doubt now about how this night was going to end.

  Chapter Six

  He didn’t immediately follow her. He stayed where he was, gripping the edge of the desk to keep himself in place and taking a few moments to collect himself. He was so conflicted it was insane. When she had walked through the door a few minutes ago the blood had rushed to his head at the sight of her—an enticing, entrancing vision in white, perfect from the crown of her head to her silver-shod feet. The video had evidenced her beauty, but seeing her for real—the captivating tentative smile, the lithe arms and legs, the flawless tawny skin that was the legacy of her dual heritage, and, most of all, the seductiveness of eyes the color of jade—was a whole different experience.

  Even now, he still felt on edge, as though he hadn’t quite regained his equilibrium after being jolted into intense awareness at his first glimpse of her. The elusive scent of her that had invaded his nostrils when he leaned past her to close the door had nearly done him in. It was akin to a sniper attack on his senses—here one minute and gone the next with devastating effect. His body wouldn’t let him forget any of it. It was putting him on notice that it had waited forever for just this moment and wouldn’t be getting back to normal any time soon.

  But despite his emotional reaction to her, his mind was stubbornly refusing to let go of its intention to deal with her once and for all. That had been formed from the minute he first saw her video. It kept insisting that it couldn’t allow this to go on, that he had to deal with it, deal with her now or it would ensure he never again knew a moment’s peace.

  Chapter Seven

  She had left the door to the bedroom open. Taking a deep breath, he headed in and stopped short just inside the door. One of the bedside lamps was switched on. She had removed her sandals and was seated in the bed, leaning up against the headboard. One knee was drawn up, the other leg extended. Her long dark hair tumbled around her face and cascaded past her bare shoulders. The skirt of her dress had settled about her like snowdrifts. In the half-light she looked like a painting, Woman in Snow. There was an armchair next to the night table. Bemused, unable to take his eyes off her, he walked in and just about fell into it.

  “Shall I start my fantasy?” Her words cam
e out barely above a whisper.

  “Please do.”

  “It’s one of my favorites,” she told him.

  “What is it about?”

  “It’s about…a beautiful stranger who…who does things to me,” she said haltingly.

  “Things that excite you?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Tell it to me. All of it. Don’t leave anything out.” Anticipation knotted his groin as she shifted slightly and resettled herself against the headboard.

  “It is Black Friday,” she began, “the busiest shopping day of the year. People have come to London from all over the world to shop, and Harrods is so crowded it is almost impossible to move.

  Her voice had taken on a dreamy quality and he saw that her eyes were closed. Unconsciously, he leaned in, observing her intently as she continued.

  “The crush of bodies has made it exceedingly warm in the store and even though I knew it would be so and have dressed accordingly, I am already perspiring.”

  “What are you wearing?” He kept his voice to a murmur so as not to destroy the sensual fairytale atmosphere.

  “I am wearing a sleeveless V-neck white silk blouse, a brown leather mini-skirt, and matching fashion boots.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. I don’t wear underwear with skirts.”

  He felt his cock stir again and willed it to behave as his brain worked overtime on that image.

  “I am in the food hall and people are pressed up against me on all sides, conversing with each other as they inch closer to the counter. The hall is jammed with people, hundreds of people, and the sound of their voices is a dull roar. Suddenly a hand slips around my waist, holding me tightly as another hand slides between my thighs and begins to stroke my sex. I freeze in shock and for a second remain paralyzed with disbelief. I try turning around to confront my assailant but movement is impossible. Just as I open my mouth to scream I hear a whisper in my ear. ‘Don’t. I am not going to hurt you.’ It is a man’s voice, the timbre so compelling that despite my fear and shock, I am captivated and abort my intention to make a scene.

  “I turn my head at an angle, just enough to allow me to see his face and it is the most beautiful face I have ever looked into, sinful and innocent at one and the same time. It is like looking into the face of Lucifer, the fallen angel of light, or his son.

  “He is a young man, around my age, with eyes the color of cinnamon blended with agate that has been crushed into dust. His nose is classically perfect, the nostrils unflared. His mouth is made for laughter, or kissing, and my eyes linger on it. His dark brown hair curls loosely past his ears and his skin looks as though the Mediterranean sun has warmed it. I am tempted to caress his face, just to experience the feel of it under my fingers.

  “He brings his face closer to mine until his lips brush the corner of my mouth. Their touch is light, superficially innocent but conveying so much sensuality my mouth waters as though I am about to consume a delicious meal. His fingers probe my sex as he clasps me still more tightly against him. I am now wet and he plays in my wetness, sliding the back of his thumb between my sex and circling it inside my slit, around and around. With each slick pass he presses the knuckle of his thumb down on my nub, which makes me want to come. He easily inserts two fingers in my drenched sex and begins to finger fuck me while his thumb continues pressing my nub, pushing it against his fingers as they move in and out of my sex.

  “Each time they intersect, he seizes my nub between his fingers and thumb, twisting and squeezing it. Their dual manipulation of my clit is a pain so indescribably sweet I have to clench my teeth so as not to bear down and moan. I can feel my climax building powerfully in my groin, and I know it cannot be stopped. My heart is pounding.”

  “What of the people around you? Are you not worried they will perceive what is happening?” Anthony asked softly.

  “We are virtually hemmed in on all sides. Only our heads, with his chin resting on my shoulder, are plainly visible. No one can detect that his hand is under my skirt. My mind has already rationalized that anyone who observes us will likely dismiss us as two young people so in love we cannot keep our hands off each other.

  “‘My tongue is jealous,’ he whispers against my mouth. ‘Come with me.’

  “I nod, completely forgetting that I had come to the food hall to purchase something for dinner. Food is the last thing on my mind.

  “He takes my hand. His fingers are still wet with my fluids. Somehow, he begins forging his way through the dense crowd of people and they part, letting us through. Keeping my hand firmly in his he makes his way through the store to the front entrance and out into the street. At the curb is a long gleaming black limousine with tinted windows. A man appears suddenly, opens the door of the limo, and pats me down so swiftly it is over before I am fully aware of it happening. We get in, and the man places a package on the seat next to us, closes the door, and takes the front seat on the passenger side. Seconds later we are pulling away from the curb. The privacy barrier shuts soundlessly, and I am alone in the back of the limo with a beautiful stranger who has just fucked me in Harrods with his fingers.

  “Immediately, he shucks off his jacket and before I can say or do anything, he reaches over, rips away my skirt, and tears open my blouse. I am now naked, except for my boots. Pressing me onto my back on the soft leather seat, he seizes both my arms and pushes them above my head. He keeps one arm over them to hold me still as his mouth sears mine and our tongues entwine. He massages my breast with his other hand, squeezing the soft flesh and pinching my nipple. It is painful, but I do not want him to stop because the sensation makes my mouth water and my groin spasm with envy.

  “His mouth leaves mine and he slips lower, freeing my arms as he devours my other breast, his teeth scraping and biting my nipple with a frenzied kind of tenderness. The feel of his mouth at my breast zigzags down to my vagina, making it throb with expectation. He reaches down to his fly and instinctively, my arms wrap themselves around him as of its own accord, my body arches, and his erection jams against my sex and begins to slide hot and slick between the folds. It makes me salivate for what I know is coming.”

  “Is he inside you?” Anthony demanded. He managed to keep his voice low and steady, aware that his jealousy of a fantasy man was ridiculous.

  “No, not yet. What we are sharing, what we are feeling is so deliciously erotic, we both want it to last.”

  “Go on with the fantasy,” he grated, still envious.

  “We move against each other, faster and faster as fluid streams out of me and seeps slickly between my thighs. He is gasping now, and I cannot wait another minute to feel his hot, hard cock penetrating me, filling me. I reach down to take his erection in my hand and guide it into my slit, and suddenly, he is still.

  “‘No,’ I moan. ‘Don’t stop. Not now.’

  “‘We must,’ he responds, and I see frustration in his face.

  “‘Why?’ My question is a drawn-out wail.

  “‘We’re here,’ he says regretfully. And I become aware that the limo is no longer moving.

  “‘Here where?’ I ask, sitting up.

  “‘Where I live. Put your clothes on. We have to go inside.’ He does up his fly and shrugs on his jacket. Hastily I retrieve my clothes from the floor of the limo and put them back on. Seconds later, the door of the limo opens, and as we step out I realize we are in an underground garage.

  “‘What is this place?’ I ask.

  “‘I will tell you once we are inside,’ he replies.

  “‘Tell me your name, then.’

  “He eyes me thoughtfully, as though turning something over in his mind. ‘My name is Nikolai. And yours?’

  “‘Nicola,’ I say.

  “He smiles fleetingly. Reaching into the backseat he picks up the package. ‘Come, Nicola,’ he says and takes my hand.

  “The chauffeur and the other attendant have moved off and are standing a respectful distance away. Apart from one other ident
ical limo, there are no other vehicles in the garage. We follow the men as they begin walking toward what appears to be a solid cement wall. As we approach, a section of it slides open, and I see that it is an elevator.

  “The elevator whisks us up three floors. We walk down the corridor, one man in front of us, the other behind. We walk past several doors to the last one nearest the stairs. Nikolai takes a key card out of his pocket and opens the door. We go in. Nikolai turns back to the men who are still in the corridor.

  “‘One a.m.,’ he says. They nod, and Nikolai shuts the door.

  “We are in a large room with very little furniture. A king-size bed on the carpeted floor, no head- or footboard, a square, highly polished wooden table with two chairs, a comfortable-looking armchair with an ottoman, and several books scattered nearby on the floor. Directly inside the entrance is a closet without doors containing only a few items of clothing, and next to it is the bathroom. I turn to look at Nikolai and find him regarding me strangely.

  “‘Who are you?’ I ask quietly.

  “He takes my hand. ‘Come. Sit with me and I will tell you what you need to know.’

  We sit on the bed, backs to the wall, and he relates his story.

  “‘My father is the king of a small Mediterranean country,’ he begins. ‘I am his only legitimate son and heir to the throne. For many reasons, my country is of great importance to the United States and relations between our two nations are cordial. But my father has enemies who resent his friendship with the US president, and there have been attempts to assassinate him. Recently, his enemies turned their attention to me, and although I did not wish to leave my country, my father insisted that I go abroad for my safety while his enemies are dealt with once and for all. Apart from my father, only my bodyguards know where I am, and they are totally responsible for my safety. They guard me twenty-four hours a day and see to my needs. They are fanatically loyal to my father and would willingly fall on their swords should any ill befall me on their watch. I have received word from my father that his enemies, their supporters, and their family members have been eliminated one way or another and it is now safe for me to return. I leave tonight. It has been three long weeks, and I am looking forward to returning to my country and the comforts of my home.’