she whispered to herself. “Look at him.”
He’d been photographed in a tux, dark hair side-parted and neat, eyebrows dark slashes on a broad brow, nose nicely shaped. His jaw was strong, but his smile softened it.
Her pulse began to accelerate. She had to appeal to this man, who probably had every heiress in the country and several international ones clamoring for his attention. She couldn’t do it. She simply couldn’t do it. She would have to find her father and explain that this just wasn’t...
“Favorite Song,” the bio read, “‘All for Love,’ by Bryan Adams. Best Come-on—‘May I have this dance?’ Biggest Achievement—‘The smiles on children’s faces.’”
Okay, maybe she could do it. If this bio was true, they were made for each other. He sounded like everything she’d ever wanted—and maybe a few things she hadn’t thought of.
Twyla came to put a hand on her arm. “Are you all right?” she asked in concern. “Is the heat getting to you?” She looked at the page Meg was studying, then up into her eyes. “Or is it the man?”
Meg noticed that people, women particularly, were streaming toward an arena a small distance away. A stage had been set up and a long line of men was climbing onto it.
Twyla patted Meg on the back and offered her half a cup of lemonade. “Here. It’s getting a little warm, but the sugar might help. There you go. You don’t have to bid on him, you know, then you won’t have to deal with him.”
Meg didn’t bother to explain that she wanted to deal with him. She just didn’t know what to do if he didn’t want to deal with her. And she wasn’t talking about the Boradino plan.
She downed all the lemonade and felt the sugar kick in almost immediately. Get it together, Loria, she told herself as she handed back the cup. Amos Pike was a job, and she had to be in top form to carry it out. He might be her dream lover, but she could damn well bet she wasn’t his. She would just have to get over it.
After slipping the catalog into her purse, she smiled at Twyla. “Thank you,” she said. “I think you just saved me from heat prostration.”
Twyla squeezed her arm. “Good luck in the raffle—and with your bachelor.”
Meg strode toward the arena, putting on the persona of a rich and privileged woman out for a lark. This part she knew she could do. She’d been donning personalities to see how they fit since that day when she was twelve and would have given anything to be small and blonde with a budding bosom.
Women crowded the rows of bleachers that had been set up in front of the stage. Meg pushed her way to the front and found a spot between a leggy blonde in a leopard sheath and a middle-aged woman in shorts and high heels.
Not all of the bachelors were on the stage, but she immediately picked out Amos Pike. In the flesh he was even handsomer than in his photograph. He was wearing the tux in which he’d been photographed, except that the heat had forced him to remove the jacket. It was tucked beneath one arm, and in the other he held the eighteen-inch-long plush polar bear, also in a tux, that was the trademark of his toy company.
Pike had undone the tie and the top button of the shirt, and he looked ready for action.
* * *
AMOS WAS A LITTLE surprised to find himself getting into this. Not that it was any less grisly than he’d imagined. The rowdy mob of women was cheering, whistling and hooting with easily as much enthusiasm as he’d have expected from their male counterparts if the roles had been reversed.
Except the roles never would be reversed in quite this way, he realized with a private smile. If men ever lined up a group of women on a dais and bid on them for a weekend’s services of any kind, there would be a hue and cry among feminists from Boston to Los Angeles, and the men would be up on charges.
Relax, he told himself as he watched Rob Carter, now a doctor, be auctioned off for a considerable amount of money. Don’t lose your sense of humor. This is all in fun. And all for the ranch.
It seemed only a matter of minutes before Amos took his place near the auctioneer. He turned in the direction of a few screams from the audience and smiled. The screams swelled to one loud, high-pitched, suggestive wail, and the front row of women leaned closer to the stage.
The auctioneer introduced Amos and explained that he was a toy manufacturer, repeating most of the information already in the auction catalog.
“All right, ladies,” he began. “What am I bid for a man who obviously knows how to play?”
Another raucous cheer rose from the women, and Amos tossed the Pike’s Pickled Pepper Toy Company bear into their midst. Grasping arms flailed the air for it, and the hapless bear disappeared within a flurry of tanned limbs, colorful coiffures and bright cotton prints.
Bidding began.
Please, God, he prayed silently as he smiled at the crowd. Let me bring in at least as much as the bake-sale booth.
Numbers were shouted quickly from one side of the crowd to the other.
No, Amos thought. He must be hearing things.
“Five thousand dollars!”
The bid came loud and clear—and in a disturbingly familiar voice. He turned in the direction from which it had come and picked Jillian Chambers out of the crowd.
She waved at him and blew him a kiss.
He was careful not to let the contempt he felt for her show on his face. He turned to the other side of the audience from where spirited bidding had also come and hoped for a counterbid.
A leggy redhead stood up in the front row, holding the stuffed bear he’d thrown. Blue eyes met his across the small space that separated them. She looked serious and just a little scared.
But she shouted firmly, “Six thousand!”
Jillian upped the bid another five hundred. Even the guys behind him were applauding.
“Seven thousand!” the redhead said.
“Seven thousand dollars!” the auctioneer repeated, turning to point at Jillian. “She’s getting your man, little lady! Seven thousand dollars. Do I hear eight?”
Jillian obliged.
There was a long, pulsing silence. The cloudless sky seemed to close in on them, the sun beat down and heat waves rippled over the landscape.
Amos began to make plans to buy himself out of whatever it was Jillian had in mind.
Then the redhead came a little closer, the bear clutched in her arms, her eyes still riveted on his. He waited with everyone else, unable to guess what she would do.
That fear in her eyes was mystifying, but the determination—particularly when it seemed to be aimed directly at him—was a decided turn-on.
“Ten...thousand...dollars!” she said, still staring at him.
The crowd went wild. The auctioneer went wild. Out of the corner of his eye Amos saw Lindsay Duncan jump
