by Ava Lore
His Acquisition
(The Billionaire's Muse #1)
Ava Lore
Copyright 2012 Ava Lore
Kindle Edition
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.
His Acquisition
(The Billionaire's Muse, #1)
Ava Lore
Part I
Chapter One
I hung back from the press of people, lingering at the edge of the crowd. The women were all dressed in onyx and ruby and sapphire and emerald dresses, brilliant birds of paradise, while the men stood with them, all black and white and staid and stolid as penguins. I scrutinized the assembled throng and pondered a very important question.
Which of these men is Batman?
I hadn't found him yet, because most of the people that attend these terrible 'charity' functions are old and boring because you have to be old and boring to be invited. No one with less than ten million dollars is allowed in, unless you're part of the support staff. Which would be me, I suppose. And usually if you have ten million dollars you are either old and boring or young and that particular sort of country club inbred that just screams I have a trust fund and have never done my own grocery shopping! Except Anton Waters, my employer, who is handsome, rich, sexy, self-made and young. Or I guess his wife and my best friend, Felicia, is my employer, but ever since they were married a second time they've been so joined at the hip they might as well be one person.
I sighed. Thinking about Felicia reminded me of how much I missed her. I knew her before she married Anton, which is how I landed a job as her personal assistant, though recently it had expanded to include other duties as well. To my deep despair, I seemed to have a talent for this type of thing. Otherwise I'd still be drinking watery piss beer and smoking some dank nugs on my Friday nights rather than organizing a dumb charity auction for a bunch of people whose shoes cost more than whatever they'd spend on 'charity' tonight.
God. If only.
I sighed again and grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing alcohol jockey. I downed it in two gulps, feeling the alcohol warm me all the way down to my toes, and resumed looking for Batman, my favorite mental pastime at these events.
I didn't really expect to find him, of course. I know he's got a secret identity.
I scanned the men. Too old. Too short. Too bald, although I guess Batman does wear a hood, so he could be bald under that outfit. But probably not. Too old. Too old. Too old again. Too thin. Too goofy. Wearing glasses. Wait, doesn't Batman wear glasses? No, that's Superman. Clark Kent. Whatever. Too blind, anyway. Batman would have laser surgery. Too old. Too inbred. Too old. Too...hot? Is that a thing? Wait a minute...
I pulled up short, my eyes widening. Not twenty feet away stood a tall, sinfully handsome man, dressed to the nines. His sandy hair swept back from his temples in slick, perfect waves, highlighting his fine cheekbones and rich brown eyes. His mouth was a perfect, delicious pout, and the hand that held his flute of champagne was elegant and poised. An artist's hand. And I should know. Before I landed this sweet gig I'd spent most of my waking hours buried in my art, and this guy was making me want to pick up a pencil and sketch him. Naked.
His deep brown eyes bored into mine. Despite myself I felt my cheeks stain with color under his scrutiny, and his perfect, pouty mouth slowly broke into a suggestive smile.
Batman is staring at me, I thought. What a creeper.
His eyes flicked up and down my body, as though appraising me. It wasn't a comfortable feeling and pissed me off, so I returned the favor. Narrowing my eyes, I took in his broad shoulders and barrel chest, his trim waist, his narrow hips and the muscled thighs barely poured into his tux pants. I pursed my lips and tried to assess him from a cold, artistic perspective.
It wasn't working.
My god, he was hot.
I flicked my gaze back to his, hoping he couldn't see the hammering pulse in my throat and quirked my mouth at him. A seen better to his casual objectification. And I had seen better. In my dreams.
He held my eyes for a long moment, then lifted his brows and this time his smile was knowing.
Oh, really?
A hand on my arm thankfully tore me away from his arresting gaze, because who knows what kind of subtle semaphore we might have started engaging in across the crowded ballroom? I turned with a flash of gratitude, only to have it die in my chest as I realized it was Arthur, Anton's personal assistant.
Great.
I like Arthur. I really do. I think he's smart and motivated and actually pretty kind to people in general even though he doesn't have to be. But I think he simultaneously wants to fuck me and wants to fuck with me. Seeing as how he had to claw his way up from the rank of lowly intern to be Anton's assistant and all I had to do was be Felicia's best friend to become her assistant, I think he resents the ease with which I landed my job. I can't tell him that I've been putting up with Felicia's willful stupidity in the realm of her own personal affairs for the entirety of our acquaintance and I didn't even get paid for it. Felicia would be lost without me. It's a position with many drawbacks. Such as now. Second-in-command on the personal assistant totem pole is like coming in second place in a shit-eating contest.
And I was about to have to shovel turds.
“What?” I said. It came out a little sharper than I meant it, but I knew that look on Arthur's face. He'd found a shit job for me to do and he couldn't wait to pass it along.
He flashed me a smile, all business and propriety. One of the many things about being a personal assistant that I am total balls at. I can keep Felicia in line and do damage control, and bark orders with the best of them, but everything else? Might as well hire a Golden Retriever to handle the crowds. It'd be better and more coherent.
Arthur's eyes glinted. “Mrs. Glasscock is on the floor of the ladies' room in a pool of her own vomit,” he said. “I'm going to go see if I can't locate Mr. Glasscock, but I need you to see if you can't get her on her feet and cleaned up.”
I groaned. Of course. And to be fair, this wasn't a job he could just do himself. The ladies room is an inviolate sanctuary. Only a lady—and I hardly qualify, but if someone checked I'd have the biological bits, I suppose—may enter. Tossing back my champagne, I looked around for a place to put it, and finally just set it down in a nearby potted plant. Someone would find it. “Fine,” I said. “I'll have her up and running in ten.”
“Great. And then I need you to go make one last check on the auction items, okay? Ta!” And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the melee of well-dressed assholes.
“Wait!” I cried. One last check? Seriously? We'd checked the auction items at least five times already. What the hell was I supposed to be checking for?
But he was already gone. Cursing, I slipped between the milling people, my sandy-haired Batman all but forgotten. I had a drunken society maven to attend to. And what could be more important than that?
*
Mrs. Glasscock took fifteen minutes to get up off the floor. I took great satisfaction in slapping her awake, knowing she wouldn't remember it. They were purely therapeutic slaps anyway. Therapeutic for me, I mean.
By the time I had mostly cleaned the
vomit from her hair and made her as presentable as possible, I was a mess. My cocktail dress stank of regurgitated champagne, and I was redfaced and sweaty from the exertion of holding her up and maneuvering her out of the ladies room and into the arms of her grateful husband. Unfortunately I didn't have any time to straighten up—the auction was about to begin, and I still had to do my one last check, whatever the hell that meant. I could only suppose it meant making sure none of the staff had contracted a case of sticky fingers, or that nothing had become broken in transport from Anton and Felicia's house.
I knew Felicia didn't like charity events, but I'd organized this one especially for her. It was an art auction among New York's upper crust, and not a boring silent auction, but one where people actually had to raise their little numbers and everything. The snobs probably thought it was very droll, and it's great fun to watch drunk rich people try to outbid each other, so of all the mandatory functions Felicia was obliged to throw at least twice a year this, I had decided, was the least painful. Plus, Felicia could probably buy some nice pieces she wouldn't otherwise have access to.
Me, I was just hoping for a fist fight to break out.
I checked myself one last time in the mirror, making certain I didn't look too much like a vomit splash-guard, then grabbed my dumb beaded clutch bag—the one with my phone in it, the portal to all my plans and people—and stalked out of the bathroom, hurrying toward the backstage. The Edison Ballroom is an old Depression-era hotel-turned-theater, and it's pretty much perfect for an auction. There's a bar and a lounge and it's dim and crowded so everyone can get all intimate with each other, whether they want to or not. The auction was about to begin, and I had to make certain everything was in place.
I arrived, out of breath, to inspect the pieces one last time. Two handsome young men who probably did bouncer work as their day jobs were lingering near the first lot, joking about some girl they both knew. Gross. I stomped up to them and waved their bow-tie-wearing asses out of the way before grabbing my phone from my purse.
The pieces had been donated by the audience, and it was essential that they be in the same condition they arrived in. After all, people were here to be seen, and also so everyone could know just how expensive their tastes in art ran. That the money went to Felicia's favorite charity, an inner-city arts program for disadvantaged kids, was probably irrelevant to these people.
It didn't matter. I just had to make sure it ran smoothly, and to that end I had photographed every piece before it left storage in Anton's basement art gallery. I pulled up the list and began going down the line.
Lot one, an Andy Warhol. Pristine condition, still pristine. Good. You never knew when someone was going to smoke a thousand cigars right under their modern masterpiece. Next!
Lot two, an Andre Masson paiting. Lot three, another one. Both fine. Lot four, a piece of facade from some Greek temple. Awesome. Let's just rip it all up. Lot five, a... really cool modern Aboriginal painting from Australia. Shit, I wish I was rich. Lot six, a bronze Chinese mirror. Lot seven, an ugly Edwardian brooch worth, like, nothing, haha, someone was doing spring cleaning. Lot eight, a white porcelain Chinese vase, Qing dynasty... and not here.
Why is it not here?
Out on the stage, the emcee, one of the inbred country-club set who fancied himself a comedian, tapped the mic. “I'd like to welcome you all to the First Annual Waters Charity Art Auction...”
Panic seized me. The auction was starting and we were missing lot eight, one of the more expensive pieces in the auction. Its spot was empty. Empty! It was a beautiful piece, too, exquisite and smooth and fine. For a long moment as the emcee started babbling, I stared at the picture of it on my phone, then at the spot on the table where it should have stood. Empty.
Phone: vase.
Table: empty.
Phone.
Vase.
Table.
Empty.
Oh, shit.
And that's when I somehow managed to fuck everything up.
Filled with ire, I took a step back, my voice already rising in my throat. “Where the fuck is that white vase?” I hollered at the top of my lungs as I pivoted smartly on the balls of my feet and set off to find out whose ear to chew. Instead of striding purposefully through the backstage area, my laser focus honed in on locating the missing vase, I collided violently with someone rushing in my direction.
I saw it all, in that perfect moment of stillness before disaster strikes. A young man, his eyes wide and horrified, reeling backwards. Our mutual momentum sent us both careening out of control, struggling to regain our balance. We both lost the battle.
And so did the white vase in his hands. Gently, gracefully, it rolled from his fingers and began its fateful descent toward the floor.
Horror speared me straight through the heart as I fought to regain my footing, knowing I had only a split second to launch myself forward and catch the falling vase, but it was a pipe dream from the beginning. Still stumbling backwards, my ass hit the edge of the table holding the to-be-auctioned art, sending a shock of pain up my back, and I tumbled forward to my hands and knees. My phone hit the floor the same time as the vase. My phone, swathed in rubber, survived the fall.
The vase didn't.
With a terrible sound, it shattered into a million pieces on the hard floor. Bits of white porcelain skittered across the wood, some spinning off under the assembled tables, others content to stay where they landed in the initial blast.
Silence descended upon the assembled throng of my fellow peons. The kid who had been carrying the vase stared at its broken corpse, his face going green.
I knew that vase was worth probably five thousand dollars, if not more. Perhaps ten to the right collector. There was no way this kid doing grunt work for the elite had anything like that kind of money. He was probably living paycheck to paycheck in a six-story walk up apartment with three other roommates. In fact, I knew he was. I could see it on his face. The utter, abject fear of someone already deep in debt just about to head further into it. I knew it because I'd been there.
Shit.
“Fuck,” I said out loud, breaking the silence. “That was my fault.”
It wasn't. It was the kid's fault. The breakable pieces had been packed in well-insulated boxes for a reason, but it was too late. I'd been really fucking poor once. I wasn't gong to let him take the fall.
He looked at me with eyes full of gratitude, but I had to look away. How the hell am I going to pay for this? I thought. I mean, I had a good job. But I also had gobs of debt. Anton's accountant helped me consolidate it, but I'm still kind of cruising along, unable to save much. I expense everything I can, but frankly, this was not something any amount of expensed meals could save up for.
I scrambled to my feet and pointed at the culprit. “You,” I said, “sweep this up. Carefully. I want you to have every single piece of this vase in a bag by the end of the night. And I mean every piece.” He nodded, and I gingerly picked my phone up from the floor and studied it, making certain it was still in one piece.
Thank god. No cracks on the glass, and it flashed to life when I hit the button. Pulling up my catalog of art, I found the entry again. Seeing the beautiful vase, still whole and healthy on my phone, made me feel sick inside, but I pushed it down. I had to find the vase's owner, and fast. I glanced at the name.
Malcolm Ward.
All right, I thought. Sounds like an old guy. I reached up and adjusted my little black dress so that my breasts—such as they were—pushed up over the top. Maybe I could knock a couple hundred dollars off my debt with some cleavage. Grabbing a passing stage jockey, I gave him fierce, whispered instructions and then swiftly strode out of the backstage area and to the lounge. Behind me I heard the emcee pause in his monologue, and then say: “Malcolm Ward, please meet Mrs. Waters' personal assistant, Ms. MacElroy, in the Edison Lounge.” A chorus of whistles and whoops went up from the drunken crowd and I rolled my eyes as I exited.
The lounge was dim and mostly
abandoned, the gaudy zebra stripes of the booths shining white and ghostly in the dark. I moved to one of them and sat down, crossing my legs at the ankle and sitting up straight so my breasts would thrust out. I had to look like the quintessential Personal Assistant, the one who would Do Anything to Make Her Employer Happy. I wanted Mr. Ward to think I was lovely and pliable, even though I'm anything but, on both accounts. Getting a thousand dollars or two knocked off my debt was worth it, though. What's a little exploitation among unequals?
In an attempt to look nonchalant, I turned my phone on and casually swiped through my catalog. There were twenty-five pieces in all—well, twenty four, now—and each of them was slated to bring a decent price in. If we were lucky we'd end up with at least fifty thousand dollars for the charity, and I had to be content with that. That I was going to have to turn the heat off in my apartment for the next three years was simply the natural consequence of my own partial fuck up.
I sighed, watching the beautiful pieces of art pass me by, slipping up the screen, and I wished I was out of debt. And better paid. I'd have given quite a few pesos for some of these pieces...
A clearing throat had me looking up. For a moment, I was blinded by the flash of my screen still scored across my vision. Then it cleared, and I found myself staring at my blond Batman.
He towered over me, staring down at me with his weird, mischievous smile plastered on his face. He was scoping me out. I hate feeling like meat.
“May I help you?” I asked him icily.
“Miss MacElroy?” he said. “I am Malcolm Ward. You... wanted to see me?”
Even his voice was full of suggestion. Here was a man who liked to get what he wanted, and I was almost glad his pretty vase was smashed.
I stood up so he wouldn't be towering over me any longer, but that was a miscalculation, because he was very, very tall. He still towered over me. But I'm not a shrinking violet. Project, I thought. Don't let this jackass think he can walk all over you.