by Sarah Piper
“Saving the best for last,” she whispered hopefully, turning to exit the smallest bedroom.
But she couldn’t. Towering in the doorway, a huge beast of a man blocked her path.
It wasn’t the security guard, but a guest she’d spotted at the bar earlier. Now, he was grinning at Charley like she was a prized piece of art he’d won.
“Oh, hi!” she said brightly, pressing a hand to her chest to keep her heart from bursting out. “I didn’t see you.”
Tall and imposing, with dark, malicious eyes that matched his expensive charcoal-gray suit, he folded his arms over his chest and grinned. “Lost, little one?”
“No, I… I’m looking for—”
“Yes,” the man said, taking a few steps toward her. “Do tell me what you’re looking for, here in the private bedrooms of our hosts.”
The icy tone in his voice sent chills down her spine. Beyond the fact that he’d busted her, there was something off about the guy.
The word unnatural popped into her head. He was too still, even when he moved. Too calm.
And now he had her cornered.
“Tampons,” Charley blurted out, forcing an embarrassed giggle as she reached inside her purse and gripped Beyoncé, her trusty taser. “I was looking for tampons. Don’t suppose you’ve got any?”
The man didn’t flinch, and he sure wasn’t buying her ditzy female act, either. He took another step forward, forcing her back into the bedroom. The chill in his eyes shifted to solid ice, a look of deadly determination Charley knew all too well.
Shit. She really, really didn’t want to tase the guy. Tasing meant causing a scene. It meant people asking questions and calling the cops. It meant getting noticed.
But she wasn’t about to let this guy fuck with her, either.
“Back off, asshole,” she warned, her Jersey-girl soul breaking through the refined exterior as she pointed Beyoncé at his crotch. “Or I’ll send you home with a stutter and a smoking dick.”
He grinned and raised his hands in surrender, and for a second Charley thought it was done. But then he lunged for her, knocking her purse and weapon to the ground, crushing her upper arms in a bruising grip.
Without hesitation, she slammed her knee into his exposed crotch.
But he didn’t go down. Didn’t even grunt. Just kept grinning at her, his teeth long and sharp and…
Are those fangs?
Charley didn’t waste time second-guessing. She threw herself forward, the unexpected move buying her a momentary reprieve from his clutches, but then he was right back in her face again, hauling her against the brick wall of his chest as he kicked the door shut behind them.
The door didn’t slam, though.
Someone caught it.
“Is everything all right in here?” A smooth, deep-voiced English accent wrapped around her like a hot bath, and when the man it belonged to stepped inside, Charley gasped.
It was him. Her fantasy man from the lobby.
Perfect timing, hot stuff.
He took one look at the scene—giant asshole manhandling her like a rag doll, her belongings scattered on the floor—and his body went rigid.
“Renault Duchanes,” he said, his tone so dark, Charley’s skin erupted in goosebumps.
But that was all it took. One word, one look, and the asshole released her.
“You two are… acquainted?” The creep—Duchanes—stepped away from Charley like she was radioactive.
Ignoring the question, her man turned to her and held out his arm. “They’re almost ready to start the bidding, love. Shall we?”
Love? God, the sweet seduction in his voice made her ache.
She took the offered arm, surprised at how firm his forearm muscle was, thick and taut beneath a soft wool suit jacket.
Duchanes narrowed his eyes, but Charley wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of calling them out. Flashing a smug smile, she said to her man, “You were right, honey. These auctions do bring out the douchebags.”
“I warned you.” He winked at her, but when he turned back to the other guy, it felt like someone sucked all the air out of the room.
Tension simmered between them. Clearly, they knew each other. Clearly, they weren’t friends. They seemed to be having an entire conversation with nothing more than dirty looks and threatening scowls.
Finally, Duchanes backed off, exiting the room with grunt of annoyance.
Charley blew out a breath, her heart rate slowing back to normal.
“Are you hurt?” the man asked, crouching down to pick up her things.
“I’ll survive. That asshole a friend of yours?”
“He won’t bother you again.”
“Better fucking not.” She reached out to collect her purse and the taser, the slightest brush of his fingertips sending a zing of pleasure up her arm. “Prick was this close to getting fifty thousand volts up the ass.”
She kept the taser in hand, just in case.
The man chuckled and shook his head, and Charley snapped her mouth shut, stashing the Jersey girl back inside. She was supposed to be a wealthy art collector, and art collectors didn’t go around tasing random creeps at auctions or cursing like scrappy bitches in front of polite company.
Shit, shit, shit.
Tonight was not going according to plan.
“Thanks for the save,” she said, searching for a way to break free of his heated gaze. “I should… check my messages. My boss is… messaging me.”
Smooth, Charley. Real smooth.
Cringing, she traded her weapon for the phone, turning it back on vibrate. A dozen notifications flooded in from Rudy, but there was a text from her sister too—no note, just a picture of a huge cucumber strategically positioned between two shriveled avocados.
“Your boss sends you pictures of erotic vegetable art?” the man asked, a hint of playfulness in his tone.
Damn. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close.
“That one’s from my sister,” she said.
His eyes sparkled with mischief and intrigue, a combination that was quickly unraveling her. “Which begs the question… Your sister sends you pictures of erotic vegetable art?”
“It’s… kind of a thing with us. Last night I sent her one with two bananas with whipped cream on the tips, and…” Charley caught herself and shook her head, dropping the phone back into her purse. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Maybe I’m easy to talk to.”
You’re easy to look at, that’s for sure…
He held her gaze another beat, his smile making her heart sputter, then placed his hand on the small of her back. “Follow me.”
I follow no man, Charley thought. The words were poised on the tip of her tongue, but instead of voicing them, she inexplicably gave in to the light pressure of his touch, heading back out into the hallway and wondering why the hell his presence made her so damn lightheaded.
Chapter Three
The walk from the bedroom was a blur, but when the fog finally cleared from her head, Charley found herself seated at the bar, furiously studying a cocktail napkin while her mystery man ordered drinks.
Shock. That’s all it was. And now that the last of it was fading, it was time to escort herself right on out of there. One drink was usually her on-the-clock max, and she wasn’t a big fan of accepting gifts from strangers, either—they always wanted something in return.
But she also sensed he wasn’t the kind of guy who took no for an answer.
Not a stellar quality in a man, but in certain situations? It drove her wild.
This was one of those situations.
Besides, she was feeling rebellious now. Rudy had her working auctions and charity events nearly every night this month, each one demanding a new identity—private collector, curator, estate lawyer, art student. The whole arrangement was giving her whiplash. And that wasn’t even accounting for the rich assholes she ran into on the regular. Granted, they hadn’t all tried to corner her in a bedroom like Duchanes, b
ut you never knew. Sometimes, words and threats could do just as much damage as hands and teeth.
A shiver rolled through her body as she remembered the ice in that awful man’s eyes, the bruising grip of his fingers. She didn’t see him among the guests now, but he had to be around somewhere. Charley was good with gut feelings, and right now, she could feel the asshole’s eyes on her, crawling over her skin.
As if he could sense her nerves, her man shifted his barstool closer, their arms brushing as he settled in.
His presence calmed her, even as it riled her up inside. As he spoke with the bartender, she stared at his lush mouth, imagining what it would feel like running over her lips, down her neck, down to her—
“You seem to be having quite a think,” he mused, turning to look at her full on.
Fucking hell, he was gorgeous. Something about his eyes… Golden-brown, threaded with rich undertones she could’ve sworn kept changing color. And that mouth…
Charley cleared her throat, blinking away the images of his red-hot kisses. “Maybe I was. Thinking about things, I mean.”
He leaned in close, warm breath stirring the fine hairs on her neck. “Wicked things, I hope.”
Damn him. She held back a shiver. That deep, liquid voice and sexy accent were enough to drive any woman wild, but his gorgeous honey-brown eyes, tousled black hair, and the confident, masculine way he carried himself sealed the deal. Even sitting down, he projected the kind of energy that could command a room.
Or a bedroom…
Charley’s thighs clenched in a weak attempt to staunch her throbbing desire.
“Wicked thoughts,” she replied, “are the only ones that make these events bearable.”
He laughed, loosening his tie and releasing a button at the top of his white dress shirt. His smile was dazzling—equally rakish and warm, the kind of smile that warned of dangerous, delicious things to come. “So it isn’t the pleasant company?”
“Tonight? Not so much.”
He didn’t respond, just pinned her with his fiery gaze until the arrival of their drinks broke the heated connection.
She had no idea how he’d guessed her favorite drink, but he passed her the Sapphire and tonic, raising his scotch in a toast. “To better company.”
“Mine or yours?” she teased.
“That, love, remains to be seen.”
They clinked glasses and drank, their eyes locked in an unspoken dare.
Here’s a man who can dish it out and take it too. Yum.
A dim warning rang in Charley’s head, but she shut it down. She was a professional, God dammit. She didn’t need warnings. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the prize. Right now, flirting with the hot stranger who’d come to her rescue was just part of the persona. And what harm could it do? It was just a drink and a few laughs. She deserved to indulge in a little fun with a smart, sexy guy.
Rudy would never know about it.
Rudy. The thought of him soured the sweet bite of gin on her tongue, and she let out a soft sigh, knowing she’d have to respond to his messages before he came looking for her.
Owned. That’s how she felt. A familiar rage burned beneath her skin, but again, she thought of her sister. Of the life she wanted to build for them both. A legitimate job, a cute little house, maybe an art collection of their own, no strings attached.
It was her “someday” vision, and Charley held onto it like a lifeline.
But the only way to get to someday was to go through now. So after some harmless flirting, she’d sit in on the auction, make a few fake bids, then slip away to finish the job she’d started in the bedrooms.
“I never did catch your name.” The man held out his hand for a proper introduction. “I’m—”
“Don’t tell me. You’ll ruin my fantasy about a torrid affair with a mysterious stranger.”
“Torrid affair?” He cleared his throat, further loosening his tie. “Our relationship is progressing rather urgently.”
Charley tapped her temple. “Wicked thoughts, remember?”
“How many of these auctions have you been to?”
“Enough to know how to thoroughly entertain myself.”
And enough to know not to give out her name, fake or otherwise. Her carefully chosen identity served two purposes—getting in the door and making fake bids on the art. Nowhere on the list was making new friends.
Even extremely sexy British friends with the kind of body built for pinning her down on the bed and a mouth she’d already imagined melting between her thighs.
“So you’re a regular,” he said, eyeing her up. “Let’s see. A curator, collector, or just another member of the idle rich?”
Charley laughed. “Depends on your definition of collector.”
“How so?”
Charley gestured behind them, where the beautiful elite sipped champagne and laughed agreeably at one another’s polite conversation. Serious collectors occasionally attended, but private auctions were more often populated by eccentric billionaires who treated rare art acquisition like hunting safaris, and bored socialites looking to one-up the neighbors.
As a girl hanging on her father’s arm, Charley had attended these same events, watching in awe as he worked the room. Not much had changed since then.
“Out of the dozens of people here,” she said, “how many know anything about the pieces they’re bidding on?”
“Perhaps they just know what they want when they see it.” He held her gaze, those eyes entrancing her as he inched closer. Heat radiated between them where their thighs touched. “Some things are quite pleasurable in their own right, aren’t they.”
He wasn’t asking her. He was telling her.
A thrill shot through her veins.
Charley looked away, unable to take the intensity building between them. She didn’t know if she was imagining it, or if the alcohol had lowered her guard, or if her fantasies were finally overtaking the last bit of logical resistance in her head, but everything about this man—his words, his sultry voice, the way he’d come to her aid in the bedroom—was making her embarrassingly, undeniably wet.
She shifted on the barstool, still not meeting his eyes. “Just because something looks pretty doesn’t mean it’s art.”
“What is art, if not beauty? Art stirs our deepest passions, regardless of its origins. Is knowledge of its history a prerequisite to our pleasure?”
“Of course not, but that definition is too broad. Bordain’s Garden of the Divine is art, but then, so are the flowers that inspired it. Is a building art? A sunset? A child’s painting?”
“The curve of a lover’s mouth?” he asked.
She sipped her drink, eyes fixed on the glass. “Depends on the lover, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed, it does.”
Charley finally met his gaze, electricity crackling between them. A lock of her hair slipped from its knot, falling over her cheek, and he reached up to brush it aside. Despite their flirting, the gesture felt shockingly intimate, sending a hot rush of desire between her thighs.
She’d never had such a strong, visceral reaction to a man before, and the idea left her both terrified and excited.
“We’re talking about what makes a serious collector,” she continued, forcing herself to stay in character. Besides, this was the easy part. Charley adored art. If she’d been born to a different family, a different life, she might’ve been a real collector, or an art history professor, or any one of the roles she played for Rudy. It was the one bright spot her career afforded—a chance to indulge in her true passion.
Maybe that made her a fraud, but it was the truth.
“Collectors know the history because they care enough to find out.” Charley turned to face him fully, her bare knees brushing against his thigh. “How much more pleasurable is a painting when you know what inspired it? When you know what kind of struggles or pain served as the artist’s muse?”
“Pain as a muse?” He lifted his eyebrows. “And here I thought you were the rainbows-a
nd-sunshine type.”
Charley touched his knee, her manicured fingertips resting lightly against the cool fabric of his suit pants. “Precisely what happens when you judge without knowing what lies beneath.”
She kept her hand there, unable—or maybe just unwilling—to remove it. It was a dangerous tease, and one she couldn’t indulge in for long.
But damn, it was fun.
“To pain, then.” He touched his glass to hers again. “And beauty.”
“And the wisdom to know the difference,” she added confidently.
He frowned in mock disappointment.
“Too far?” she asked.
“Sorry, love. Now you sound like a motivational speaker. A bad one, at that.”
Charley laughed, relishing in his warm gaze, in the way he called her “love.” By the time he signaled the bartender for another round, she was feeling so good, so carefree, she almost forgot she was on the clock.
Almost.
Chapter Four
Dorian had come to the Salvatore to acquire one new possession—the Hans Whitfield painting.
Now, he wanted a second.
Needed it, actually. The siren call of her scent stirred him to a frenzy that muted all else—his father’s death, the unfortunate incident in the alley with Chernikov’s demons, the convergence of his estranged brothers on his home.
Not to mention Renault fucking Duchanes, doubtlessly angling for a way to parlay his father’s death into a power grab. The bastard had been trying to break into the Redthorne family for a century; Dorian guessed he’d shown up here tonight hoping for a meeting.
How and why he’d tangled with the woman, Dorian could only guess. But that was over now. Dorian was the new king, and he’d all but claimed her; further harassment from Duchanes could only be treated as an act of aggression, responded to in kind.
That was a war not even a bloodthirsty, power-hungry vamp like Duchanes would bring upon his house.
So for now, Dorian set aside the politics of his father’s demise and focused his attention on his fiery, auburn-haired beauty, determined to end the evening on a better note than how it’d begun.