“Mine or yours?” she teased.
“That, love, remains to be seen.”
They clinked glasses and drank, their eyes locked in an unspoken dare.
Here’s a man who can dish it out and take it too. Yum.
A dim warning rang in Charley’s head, but she shut it down. She was a professional, God dammit. She didn’t need warnings. Her eyes werefirmlyfixed on the prize. Right now, flirting with the hot stranger who’d come to her rescue was just part of the persona. And what harm could it do? It was just a drink and a few laughs. She deserved to indulge in a little fun with a smart, sexy guy.
Rudy would never know about it.
Rudy. The thought of him soured the sweet bite of gin on her tongue, and she let out a soft sigh, knowing she’d have to respond to his messages before he came looking for her.
Owned. That’s how she felt. A familiar rage burned beneath her skin, but again, she thought of her sister. Of the life she wanted to build for them both. A legitimate job, a cute little house, maybe an art collection of their own, no strings attached.
It was her “someday” vision, and Charley held onto it like a lifeline.
But the only way to get tosomedaywas to go throughnow. So after some harmless flirting, she’d sit in on the auction, make a few fake bids, then slip away to finish the job she’d started in the bedrooms.
“I never did catch your name.” The man held out his hand for a proper introduction. “I’m—”
“Don’t tell me. You’ll ruin my fantasy about a torrid affair with a mysterious stranger.”
“Torrid affair?” He cleared his throat, further loosening his tie. “Our relationship is progressing rather urgently.”
Charley tapped her temple. “Wicked thoughts, remember?”
“How many of these auctions have you been to?”
“Enough to know how to thoroughly entertain myself.”
And enough to know not to give out her name, fake or otherwise. Her carefully chosen identity served two purposes—getting in the door and making fake bids on the art. Nowhere on the list was making new friends.
Even extremely sexy British friends with the kind of body built for pinning her down on the bed and a mouth she’d already imagined melting between her thighs.
“So you’re a regular,” he said, eyeing her up. “Let’s see. A curator, collector, or just another member of the idle rich?”
Charley laughed. “Depends on your definition of collector.”
“How so?”
Charley gestured behind them, where the beautiful elite sipped champagne and laughed agreeably at one another’s polite conversation. Serious collectors occasionally attended, but private auctions were more often populated by eccentric billionaires who treated rare art acquisition like hunting safaris, and bored socialites looking to one-up the neighbors.
As a girl hanging on her father’s arm, Charley had attended these same events, watching in awe as he worked the room. Not much had changed since then.
“Out of the dozens of people here,” she said, “how many know anything about the pieces they’re bidding on?”
“Perhaps they just know what they want when they see it.” He held her gaze, those eyes entrancing her as he inched closer. Heat radiated between them where their thighs touched. “Some things are quite pleasurable in their own right, aren’t they.”
He wasn’t asking her. He was telling her.
A thrill shot through her veins.
Charley looked away, unable to take the intensity building between them. She didn’t know if she was imagining it, or if the alcohol had lowered her guard, or if her fantasies were finally overtaking the last bit of logical resistance in her head, but everything about this man—his words, his sultry voice, the way he’d come to her aid in the bedroom—was making her embarrassingly, undeniably wet.
She shifted on the barstool, still not meeting his eyes. “Just because something looks pretty doesn’t mean it’s art.”
“Whatisart, if not beauty? Art stirs our deepest passions, regardless of its origins. Is knowledge of its history a prerequisite to our pleasure?”
