go.” Annie put her hands flat on the table to push her chair back. “This isn’t going to work.”
“Come on, what’s money for if not to blow? We both know this last guy’s the one you’ve had your eye on all night.”
Had she really been that obvious? Maybe only to Tara, who had been the first friend she’d made when she’d moved to Chicago five years ago. Then again, her family had always told her that she should never play poker because she wore her emotions the way rich women wore their jewelry: blatantly.
“Have you noticed how much emptier the room is?” Tara leaned close, trying to convince her as much with her calm tone as with her words. “Half the women in the place got up and left after that last guy went, the international businessman.”
Annie had noticed, though she didn’t understand it. “Still can’t quite figure out why though,” she mumbled.
Ten minutes ago, when Bachelor Number Nineteen had gone for an unbelievable sum—twenty-five thousand dollars—the crowd had begun to rapidly disperse. As if some of the bejeweled, fur-wearing women had come only for that one man. Entire groups of women had flounced out, thinning the room considerably and emptying a dozen tables near the front.
The brown-eyed bachelor had been good-looking. But, in Annie’s opinion, he couldn’t hold a candle to the last man of the night. “I bet the high price scared everyone away because it means this next guy’s going to go for fifty thousand.”
“I don’t think so.” Tara leaned even closer. “The Junior League set is gone. Look who’s left…Just rowdy blue-collar chicks like us.”
Annie cast a quick look around, noting the laughter and easy, laid-back atmosphere in the room. And she began to wonder if Tara was right. These looked more like two-for-one happy hour girls instead of the Dom Perignon types who’d been involved in the bidding frenzy for Bachelor Number Nineteen.
Tara tapped the tip of a red-painted nail on the face of the sexy bachelor. “You can win him, Annie. And you deserve to.”
Maybe….
“Look at his picture,” Tara snapped. “Talk about saving the best for last. Go for it or I’ll never speak to you again!”
On some days, that would probably be a blessing, but Annie was too caught up in the moment to think about it.
As the auctioneer began reading the last bachelor’s bio, the remaining women quieted. Annie’s pulse, which had accelerated throughout the evening as she pretended interest in some of the other men—even halfheartedly bidding on a few of them—picked up its pace. Her blood began a steady gallop through her veins, her quick, shallow breaths leaving her a little light-headed.
“You can go higher than twenty-five hundred. You know you can squeeze out a few more bucks,” Tara whispered.
“You’re pretty quick to empty my bank account,” she muttered. How much do I have in savings?
“Raid the penny jar in the playroom. The kids won’t miss one more alphabet puzzle. They hate those stupid educational toys, anyway.”
“Shh!”
Willing the announcer to hurry up, she watched for a movement behind the black curtain, half wanting to flee to avoid disappointment, but wanting even more to catch a firsthand glimpse of that man in the flesh. Just to find out if he could possibly be real.
“I’ll share my PB and J’s every day next month if you end up on the verge of starvation.” Grinning impishly, Tara added, “But hopefully you’ll be so satisfied by your purchase that you won’t be hungry at all.”
Annie shook her head, denying that possibility to both of them. “This is a business arrangement. A weekend to get my family off my back, without them ever finding out about…”
“Blake the Snake.”
Exactly.
“There’s nothing personal about it. I’ve learned my lesson about hooking up with handsome, sweet-talking men. You’re looking at a woman in complete control of her libido.”
She meant it. Every word. She was confident, strong, secure, and certain she could handle just about anything.
But then the curtain opened and a black-haired god stepped out. Even from here, Annie could see the glint of something wicked and suggestive in his expression. The photo hadn’t conveyed the broadness of his shoulders, the leanness of that tall male body. He was wrapped in a black tux that looked as if it had been sewn around him, it fit so perfectly.
She told herself to be calm. Rational. To proceed cautiously. A low initial bid, don’t tip your hand.
Then he flashed the audience a sexy, knowing smile, making those blue eyes glimmer under the spotlights. The sultry curve of his eminently kissable lips promised throaty whispers and complete seduction to every woman in the room. Especially Annie.
And suddenly her libido took control of her entire body and she sprang to her feet, an exuberant stranger’s voice emerging from her vocal cords.
“Five thousand dollars!”
ONE BID. He’d been “purchased” after only a single shouted bid that had emerged from the mouth of a blonde standing at the back of the ballroom.
Sean Murphy hadn’t been the most expensive man of the evening—the bloke before him, a rescue worker named Jake, he believed, had claimed that distinction. But he felt fairly certain nobody else had earned a five thousand dollar offer before the auctioneer had even opened the floor for bidding.
That had been the only silver lining of this ridiculous night. That and the fact that he’d at least not “sold” for less than a few of the wankers who had gone earlier in the evening.
“Thank you again, Mr. Murphy, for agreeing to help us out tonight. We’ve raised a very large sum of money. There are a lot of kids in shelters throughout Chicago who will have a much merrier Christmas this winter.”
Sean nodded at the woman who ran the charity benefiting from tonight’s event. She was a frazzled-looking, but pretty, dark-haired woman called Noelle something or other. She’d been trying to keep things professional, courteous and polite, mostly preventing the melee he’d envisioned, given the activities scheduled for this evening. “It was my pleasure.”
Sold before a crowd of women. The realization that he’d gone through with it—and his name and photograph had probably been circulated because of it—was enough to make him sigh, knowing the response he was bound to get from his father. The old man always surfed the major newspaper Web sites, watching the financial markets from his home in Ireland. So if this showed up in the social pages, Sean was in for another round of “You’re a disgrace, come home, bow down, be forgiven and do exactly what I want you to do,” messages and e-mails.
“Who is it I have to thank for getting you to agree to participate?” Noelle asked.
Hmm. He wondered what the woman would say if she knew he’d been asked to participate by one of the rich, bored Chicago wives he occasionally visited when he was stateside. Now just a friend, she’d been his very first “client,” who Sean had met six years ago in Singapore. Her husband had
