Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(5)

That quirky smile returned. He looked quite devilish when he smiled. “I believe,” he said, “that since you are in my debt, that I may now auction you off.”

I blinked at him. He smiled back.

“What?” The word erupted from deep in my chest and I barely recognized it as my own voice. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He held up a long, beautifully tapered finger. The sort of finger useful for sculpting, or shading, or... other things. “Let me be clear. You owe me. Therefore I—” he pointed to himself, “—own you.”

My blood boiled. “I don't think it works that way any more. Slavery was banned.”

He shrugged. “In name,” he said. “Now, lot six is up. I believe my lot is listed as number eight?”

I froze and listened. Yup, sure enough, the bronze mirror was going, going, and soon to be gone. I'd taken responsibility for the vase and now I was going to pay for it.

“Are you sure you don't want to just put yourself up there?” I said, trying to keep the pleading from my voice. “I mean, no one will argue that you don't own yourself. And besides, who would buy me? I'm not exactly high society material.” This much was true—I didn't even try to hide my tattoos and piercings, even though plenty of people turned their noses up at them. But even more I wanted to know: what would anyone buy me for?

“If you don't want to go up on the auction block, then I will simply have to set the price of the vase at one million dollars.”

I paled. “No one would uphold that amount,” I said.

“But who can afford the lawyer to argue that?” he asked me.

Ruthless. Not one of the old money set, and not one of the inbred country clubbers. A self-made man, just like Anton. Anton, who still gave me the shivers, though Felicia had softened his approach to other people somewhat. And this man, Malcolm Ward, had me in a bind. A drunken cheer went up from the crowd as someone won the mirror. Rich folks get randy at too much champagne and money changing hands.

“Lot Seven...” the emcee began. I knew that lot seven was pretty worthless. I wondered who would pay money for it. And after that...

“Fine!” I said. “I'll go up there. But no one gets to buy me for weird sex stuff!”

“Of course not,” he said. “That would be illegal.”

And with that, he gave me a bow and a smile, and turned around and walked out of the lounge.

“Anyone? Anyone?” the emcee was saying.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, turned my heels, and ran back to the backstage area. The lackey who'd dropped the vase stood by its empty spot, looking agonized and awkward. I ran up to him and quickly told him the change in plans before ordering him onstage. What the hell, right? He'd already ruined my night and possibly more. Might as well make him do something useful.

He scurried back out onstage and whispered furiously to the emcee as lot seven—unwanted, it seemed—was taken away, numberless. Nervously I smoothed my skirt and hoped I didn't look too much like something the cat dragged in. The stress of this job was seriously getting to me. I deserved a vodka and vodka with a shot of vodka on the side after I was done being sold.

I had no idea why anyone would want to buy a person, but people sold at auctions were usually sold for dates. I had no desire to date any of these people. Although if a woman bought me I'd probably go lez for the night just out of gratitude for whisking me out from under the noses of the leering elite. Rich guys were the worst for that sort of thing. Guys period, actually.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, the previous lot eight, listed in your programs, has met with its demise. That exquisite china vase, dating from the seventeenth century, sadly went to the great foyer table in the sky a few moments ago.” He laughed at his terrible joke. “But we have a replacement lot, just as exquisite.”

In the shadows of the side stage I rolled my eyes so hard I think I saw my brain.

“May I present to you the replacement lot eight, Mrs. Felicia Waters' personal assistant, Miss Sadie MacElroy! Let's give her a big round of applause!”

I knew my cheeks were flaming, but I plastered the biggest smile on my face that I could. It was this, or paying an unscrupulous business guy way too much money for no reason at all. I hated everyone in that moment, but you never would have known it as I strode out onto the stage, my head held high and my shoulders thrown back, showing off my still fluffed-up tits for the world to see. I mean, they're not B cups or whatever, but like my mom's boyfriend always said, More than a mouthful is too much. God, he'd been creepy.

The spotlights blinded me as I stopped by the emcee and turned, tossing my hair over my shoulder, then cocking a hip and putting my hand on it. I hoped looked sufficiently saucy and fiery to deter the older crusty guys from bidding for me.