And in that moment, he knew with utter certainty—despite his vows, despite his responsibilities, despiteeverything—tonight could only end in one of two ways.
He was going to fuck her.
Or he was going to feed on her.
“…Desolate Rains by Hans Whitfield.”
The announcement cut into his carnal thoughts, bringing the auction room back into sharp focus. His painting was up for bid—a moment he’d been working on for years. He couldn’t turn his back on it now—not even for her.
The woman glanced up at him, her eyes dark with unfulfilled need. But she quickly blinked it away, forcing a smile and wishing him luck on the bidding.
Clinging to the last vestiges of his control, he returned her smile and whispered a quick retort. “I don’t need luck, gorgeous. I’ve got money.”
Sliding the bid card from his suit jacket, he quickly scanned the room, assessing the competition. A handful of people leaned forward in their chairs, but to Dorian it looked more like curiosity than commitment.
He hoped that wasn’t the case. He needed the adrenaline rush of a good fight to take his mind off the throbbing ache below his belt.
“We’ll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars,” the auctioneer said. It was an insulting opener for such a priceless piece, and several bid cards floated lazily into the air. He waited until the bidding reached $50,000 before making his first move.
“Fifty-five,” he said calmly. He was prepared to go as high as a million, but from the looks of things, it wouldn’t get close to that.
“Sixty,” Duchanes said, turning to offer a smug smile.
Irritation burned in his chest, but Dorian nodded politely, holding off on raising the asshole’s bid. Another woman went to $70,000, volleying with a few others until it reached $100,000.
Dorian raised it by ten.
“Do we have one twenty?” the auctioneer asked. “One twenty for Hans Whitfield’sDesolate Rains, Series Two?”
For a moment it seemed no one else had any interest. Disappointment settled into Dorian’s stomach—the painting had to be worth more than a paltry $110,000.
“One ten, going once,” the auctioneer said. “Going twice—”
“One fifty,” Duchanes said.
Before Dorian could respond, another bidder jumped in at one seventy-five.
The woman.
He glared at her, unable to hide his surprise.
She raised her eyebrows, offering Dorian her best innocent-looking smile, the kind that was clearly anything but. “I couldn’t let him get away with that.”
Heat raced through Dorian’s veins. “You’re after my painting, love?”
“I’m after a lot of things. Care to raise the stakes?”
“One seventy-five,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have one eighty?”
“Two hundred,” Dorian said.
His woman squared her shoulders. “Two fifty.”
“Two seventy-five,” Dorian said.
“Three.”
So she likes to play hardball too.
