Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(3)

Lot two, an Andre Masson painting. 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.