to her. She wasn’t even smiling. But she was staring. A cool look that had him wanting to shake the reserve from her. He was seized with the desire to make her move. To make her sway, make her want, and above all he wanted to wipe that icy look of condescension from her face. She was judging. He was not a man to be judged. Not by her. Not in the negative way she so obviously was.
Blake liked his coffee strong and dark, a little bitter. He was looking right at a very tempting espresso. For, despite the lack of smile, despite the patent disapproval, there was fire in her eyes.
Double espresso.
The blonde beside her was grinning widely—at her rather than at him. She didn’t seem to notice, she was too busy giving him that scornful look. For a long moment he stood as still as she sat. His jaw clenched, fists curled, and a wash of begrudging desire ran through him—desire to prove her wrong, to prove a point.
It became imperative not just to raise some money here, but some serious money. If he was going to sell himself, it would be for the highest price. At that he realized he’d better get back to the parading bit. For charity, he told himself, gritting his teeth and flashing a genuine tortured look.
He forced himself to relax, to smile at the harpy at the table on the other side, who had enough volume to drown out a crowd at a football match all by herself.
The experience from photographic shoots and catwalk struts came flooding back, his muscles remembering the way to move. With ease he prowled the length of the stage and back, pausing to deliver the ‘look’ now and then. He felt strangely energised, as if he were the one hunting out the prey, not the other way round. And he knew who his target would be this evening.
There was good-looking and there was ridiculous. The ripple of excitement through the audience had been obvious. Every eyebrow in the room had risen as that piece of perfection had so coolly moved out of the wings and onto centre stage with long, fluid strides and an insolent, daring look in his eyes. Edgy, angry man personified. And every woman in the room wanted to absorb his energy and take that dare head-on. Irresistible.
Cally wasn’t unaffected. She sat, desperately keeping a grip on every one of her muscles, barely hearing the gushing sales talk of the MC so bowled over was she by him.
‘Remember, ladies, he’ll be your slave. Act on your every whim. Say the word and he’ll deliver.’
Cally already knew he’d deliver. In that one moment when her gaze had locked with his he’d awakened a ferocious longing deep inside her. But then, she’d always had poor taste in men.
One woman at the table next to theirs shrieked so loudly Cally wondered for a second if the candle had somehow set the tablecloth on fire. But it was just him setting the entire bar alight. Hell, if he kept this up most of the women would be sliding off their seats. Cally knew she would if she hadn’t crossed her legs over and clamped her inner thighs together, trying to deny the instant physical reaction in her body that had occurred simply from seeing him, for what, less than a minute? He was way too handsome. And he knew it. Totally knew it. Of course he’d deliver. He’d have the track record to prove it—the experience of two lifetimes probably.
Cally knew all too well that beautiful men had it too easy with beautiful women. Any woman. All women. And when men had it too easy, they played fast and loose and without care. Given how gorgeous this guy was, she had no doubt he’d be one hell of a jerk. But that didn’t stop her body wanting to slither to the floor in a moist heap and scream ‘take me’.
He’d turned towards the banshee at the table next to hers. His jaw clamped, eyes narrowed in cool appraisal. Then he deliberately let a slow smile spread across his features. Not a natural smile, not a genuine one. But one that emphasised his sensual lips and chiselled jaw and signalled the promise—carnal desire, sensual knowledge. He was playing it up for all he was worth, totally aware of his value and determined to leverage it.
Sexual awareness brewed with irritation in Cally. It was so typical that she should find a guy like this attractive. Brimming with sexuality and confidence, he’d be as promiscuous as she was celibate. Annoyance with herself—and him—made her temperature spike.
And then, of all the cheesy moves, he winked at the blonde banshee.
Cally let out a loud ‘ugh’ in disgust.
At that moment his gaze landed on her. His subtle smile disappeared, his jaw clamped, showing off to perfection his high cheekbones and strength. And the look of anger was genuine. He’d heard her. He’d seen her. And he was definitely unimpressed.
His gaze became a glare. Defiant, she glared right back. But then, in that infinitesimal pause, something flashed between them, something that pierced through their respective veneers. Cally saw through to a man who was simply doing someone a favour. And for one second she was sorry. She was not rude. His glare softened. What he had read in her, she didn’t know. But she knew she felt damn uncomfortable.
Then he looked away, the MC kept advertising, and the strutting started again. Cally immediately told herself she had nothing to feel bad about. He was a first class performer, playing up to the ladies, standing in a way that emphasised his length and breadth. In order to even qualify as a bachelor for auction he had to have money, status. This guy had it all. And she hated him for it.
The auctioneer started the bidding. Cally was vaguely aware of the first bid, the auctioneer’s fast-talking confidence. But mostly she was aware of the man on stage as he paced the length of it. And time and time again his glance collided with hers. He’d smile into the distance at some woman. Flash his brows at another. But when he intercepted her gaze, the smile was gone and there was nothing but challenge.
She could feel her body’s response beneath her boring black dress. It must be some kind of basic instinct—that the female, when confronted with a tall, dark, ferocious-looking stranger, was overcome with the urge to know him in the most intimate way. It was as if her nether regions screamed ‘fill me, give me your child’—the primal need for women to be attracted to the strongest, the fittest, the foreign. Genes like his were essential for the survival of the species and every female in the room knew it. Bitterness filled Cally as she registered his blatant virility. She couldn’t have children. Not without a lot of help. And yet, she was still drawn to him, as if her body refused to believe its barren fate.
With just a look, a stance, he made woman want to lie and let him do as he pleased. And he’d please. That, more than anything, was the promise in his eyes.
Cally tried not to believe it. She wanted to look away. She really did. But it was impossible.
She was aware of movement beside her. At that she managed to turn and see Mel put up her hand, flutter her fingers.
‘What are you doing?’ Cally asked.
The blonde at the table alongside waved her arm wildly. So did two others across the room.
‘Summoning the waiter.’
‘Are you crazy? The auctioneer thinks you’re bidding!’
‘Oh.’ Mel giggled. ‘You got me.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Cally tried to whisper while jealousy knotted in her tummy. So Mel thought he was hot too. And Mel was about to get married.
They were well into the thousands now—going up in blocks of five hundred. The auctioneer knew she was onto a winner.
Mel smiled serenely
