Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
The crowd applauds, more for the unprecedented amount than for me. I ignore them all, keeping my eyes on her as she’s ushered off the stage. Relief washes over her features, but uncertainty quickly replaces it. She doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know if I’m any better than the alternatives.
I’ll show her I am. I’ll make myself worthy of her.
I move through the crowd, ignoring the congratulations and curious glances. In the holding area behind the stage, staff members process paperwork for the “dates” being auctioned. She stands alone by a high table, pen hovering over a document, hesitation in every line of her body.
“Mr. Ward,” a coordinator greets me. “Congratulations on your winning bid. If you’ll just sign here, your companion for the weekend will be all yours.”
I take the pen, feeling her eyes on me as I sign without reading. I know the terms—forty-eight hours, no obligation beyond companionship, all very civilized and proper on paper. What happens between consenting adults after the paperwork is signed is nobody’s business.
Only when I set the pen down do I turn to look at her properly. Up close, she’s even more beautiful … and more frightened. Those blue eyes are deeper than I realized, intelligent and wary. Her skin is flushed, whether from the stage lights or embarrassment, I can’t tell. It makes the freckles smattering across her nose and cheeks even more prominent.
“Ronan Ward,” I say, extending my hand.
She hesitates for a beat and places her small hand in mine. The simple contact sends a jolt down my spine. The world slides to a stop around us, and I’m fully aware of my blood rushing down south, making me harder with every second she stares at me.
It’s nothing more than a handshake, but my mind somehow registers it as foreplay.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I acting like a hormonal teen?
Her skin is cool but soft, and I can’t stop myself from lifting her hand to my mouth and brushing my lips across her knuckles. Even through the noise behind us, I hear her sharp intake of breath.
“Rayne Silva,” she says.
Am I imagining it or is her voice a little breathy?
“First time at one of these?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
She nods, withdrawing her hand too quickly. “Yes. First and last.”
Something about her tone catches my attention. Desperation, perhaps. The kind that drives people to do things they’d never otherwise consider.
Well, I’m no stranger to desperation myself.
“Not enjoying yourself?” I keep my voice neutral, but I’m studying every microexpression that crosses her face.
“Being auctioned off isn’t exactly on my bucket list.” A flash of spine beneath the vulnerability. Interesting. “So, no, Mr. Ward. Not really.”
“Ronan. Call me Ronan.” I step closer until our faces are just inches apart. She’s shorter than me, so the top of her head only reaches my chin—even when she’s in high heels. “And for the record, I don’t think it’s on anyone’s bucket list. I wouldn’t want anyone bidding on me, either.”
“So why did you? Bid on me, I mean?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I let my gaze drop to her mouth and have to physically restrain myself from claiming her in front of this crowd.. “Or rather, the three-hundred-thousand-dollar question.”
The coordinator clears her throat. “Everything’s in order, Mr. Ward. Ms. Silva is all yours until Monday morning.”
All mine. The words trigger something possessive I didn’t know existed in me. I’ve never wanted to own another person before. But this night has proven extraordinary. Nothing ever made me want to stake my claim so badly like this. Nothing that made me feel almost delirious with want within minutes of seeing someone.
“Do you have a coat? Anything you need to collect?” I ask Rayne.
She shakes her head and gestures to her small purse. “Just this.”
I nod to the coordinator, dismissing her with a look, before turning back to Rayne. “My car’s waiting outside.”
As we walk through the auction hall toward the exit, I’m acutely aware of the eyes following us. Men who lost the bidding. Women calculating what made this particular auction item worth three hundred thousand dollars. I place my hand on the small of Rayne’s back—a clear signal to everyone watching.
Touch her and you die.
She stiffens momentarily at my touch, but eventually relaxes, moving closer to my side as we navigate the crowd. Her instinct to trust me pleases something primitive in my brain.
Outside, the night air is cool and clean after the perfumed, champagne-heavy atmosphere of the auction hall. My car idles at the curb, Jackson, my driver, standing at attention beside it.
“Ms. Silva,” I say as Jackson opens the door, “after you.”
“Rayne. Please call me Rayne.”
She slides into the backseat, arranging her dress carefully. I follow, settling beside her but leaving space between us. The door closes with a solid thunk, sealing us in the quiet luxury of the car’s interior.