Page 3 of Dirty Rival

“You got your woman and it only cost you twenty-six thousand dollars,” I say.

“All to help the children,” he says, heading down the stage to claim his woman.

“And finally, our last man of the night,” the announcer says. “Reid Maxwell.” She runs down my stats. “Thirty-eight, six-foot-two, and two hundred pounds of pure hotness.”

I need another whiskey, and to throttle my sister, I think, as the woman adds, “A corporate attorney known as a killer in and out of the courtroom. Do we have a five-thousand-dollar bid?”

“Right here,” a woman proclaims, stepping directly in front of me, and holy hell, she’s stunning. I soak her in, her knee-length emerald green dress hugging every one of her perfect, slender curves, while her ample cleavage offers me one of her many distractions.

“Ten thousand!” someone shouts.

The woman in emerald steps closer and her eyes hold mine. “Twenty,” she says, speaking to me, not the announcer.

“Twenty-five,” someone else says.

“Fifty,” my little temptress retorts, and she is a temptress up to no good. I see it in her eyes. She wants me to see it, dares me to do something about it.

“Do we have a bid for fifty-five?” the announcer calls out.

There is a silent moment or two, or it could be ten. I don’t know. I’m too focused on this woman still standing directly in front of me, contemplating how many ways I can fuck her to figure her out, when I hear, “Sold to the woman in green for fifty thousand dollars, and the highest bid of the night.”

I don’t move, and neither does my new date. I have this sense I know her. She’s familiar and yet, she is not. This isn’t a simple auction and a donation to charity. This is a game of some sorts, and she’s confident enough in her ability to win to bid fifty thousand dollars.

She’s wrong.

I’ll win, but I’ll make sure she enjoys every second.

Chapter two

Reid

I’m still stuck on the stage, listening to the auctioneer, Evelyn I believe she said was her name, ramble off donation data, among various other topics that no one wants to hear when they are laden with drinks, food, and fun. I watch my new date step to the sidelines and accept a glass of champagne from a waiter, resting her elbow on a standing table. She sips from the beverage, her eyes on me as mine are on her, and even with me up here and her down there, the edge of mystery and sexual tension between us is palpable.

Finally, Evelyn declares it is “time to fill the dance floor” and soft piano music begins to play. Ready to let this little game with my emerald princess take flight, those primal, hunter urges that ignite me both in work and play crank up to full force, and I turn to exit the stage, only to have Evelyn call out, “Mr. Maxwell!”

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stop and face her. “Yes, Evelyn?”

“Stay, please. We’re going to have all the bachelors and their dates in several photos.” She motions to my new date to join us.

My date shakes her head, declining decisively. I like this woman already. Evelyn grimaces and looks at me. “Can you please go convince her to join us?”

“The lady paid fifty thousand dollars,” I say. “Do we really want to make her uncomfortable enough to decline to do so on another occasion?”

Evelyn’s lips clamp shut for all of two seconds. “Point well taken, but please ask her again, Mr. Maxwell. Obviously, you have some sort of influence with her.”

Indeed, I do, I think, and I want to know what and why. “What’s her name?”

“I have no idea. You can ask her while we take photos.”

“I think she’s made her point. No pictures.” I don’t wait for Evelyn’s reply. I head toward the end of the stage and waste no time walking down the stairs.

I approach my emerald princess where she stands, stepping close enough to smell her rose-scented perfume, and confirm she’s stunning up close and personal while her eyes match her emerald dress perfectly. Eyes filled with challenge as she says, “We can either call this date over,” she downs her champagne and sets it on the table, a droplet of the liquid pearling on her pink painted lips, that begs to be licked away, “or,” she says, “we can go to my room. Choose now.”

“Is that really a question?”

“I thought you might be afraid to go to a stranger’s room,” she replies.

“We both know you didn’t think I was afraid to go to your room, but it certainly makes for amusing verbal fodder.”