“The auction starts soon, if you’d like to eat first,” the intern said. For the first time, I knew the words were actually his.
“What’s your name, kid? You work for him?” I jerked my chin toward Elliott’s table.
“Tanner. Just helping with the event.”
I flashed my first genuine smile all night. “Okay, Tanner, take me to the salmon. I’ll need protein if I’m going to strangle thatman and bury his body somewhere in Los Angeles where they’ll never find him.”
Tanner stared at me like he wasn't sure if he should call the LAPD.
“No need to worry, Tanner. I’m only half-joking. I’d let them find part of his body, so the family would have closure. I’m notthatevil.”
He huffed out a laugh and took a small step back. Since the auction was already underway, I asked Tanner to take me somewhere private to inhale my food. He led me to a small side room off the stage, and when he set down a plate of salmon on risotto and a brownie crowned with ice cream, I almost cried.
The salmon practically dissolved on my tongue. A moan escaped me before I could stop it. Damn it—Satan was right. It was the best salmon I’d had in ages.
By the time they called me to the auction block, my plates were spotless. I wiped my mouth, checked with Tanner for stray crumbs, and walked out onto the stage.
The announcer beamed, his voice booming: “Our final auction of the evening—a wish granted by tonight’s guest speaker, Vanessa Miranda!”
I almost choked on my own spit. A wish? This had to be the most half-baked idea in history.
“We’ll start the bidding at five thousand dollars,” he said.
I tapped his shoulder. “Excuse me?—”
“Five thousand!” someone shouted from what sounded like the back of the room. The voice was familiar, but before I could dwell on it, the announcer cut back in.
“Do I hear fifty-five hundred?”
I tried again, but he ignored me. The lights were blinding; I couldn't even see the lunatics bidding on this nonsense. And then—through the noise—came a voice I recognized in my marrow.
“Fifteen thousand.”
The room froze. The last bid hadn’t been anywhere near that. My mouth fell open as the announcer slammed his gavel and the ballroom erupted in cheers.
Of course. Elliott James walked onstage, a feline grin plastered across his insufferable face.
“Mr. James, what will your one wish be?” the announcer asked.
Elliott glanced at me, then leaned into the microphone. “The next thirty days with Miss Miranda. That’s all I want.”
The crowd exploded, chanting, “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
Hell. Actual hell. He guided me offstage while the crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed like they were watching some grand love story instead of a prelude to homicide. A slow song began, and Elliott pulled me flush against him. My head barely reached his shoulder; I could feel his chin brushing the top of my hair.
Flashes burst from cameras. I could already see tomorrow’s headlines. When the cheers finally faded, I tried to step back, but he held me tighter.
“I know you’re picturing my untimely demise,” he murmured, “but whatever you’re about to say, save it for the drive home. No need to cause a scene. Especially when your speech earned us more money than we’ve ever raised.”
“Are you sure it was my speech,” I shot back, “and not the fifteen grand you just spent to coerce me into this nightmare? This feels like a true-crime version ofPretty Woman. Except in mine, Vivian murders Edward in his sleep.”
I slipped my arms inside his jacket and trailed my hands up and down his back. He stiffened instantly. His breath was hot against my ear. I slid my hands carefully down his sides, then up again—until I reached his armpit. I grabbed a fistful of skin through his shirt and twisted. Hard.
He barely flinched. Instead, he caught my fist and pressed it against his chest. “If I didn’t know you, you’d be terrifying, you little psychopath.”
“You don’t know me.” I yanked, but he just tightened his grip. “You don’t know me,” I repeated through gritted teeth.
“Try me,” he growled. He finally loosened enough for me to meet his eyes. “You’re the most infuriatingly stubborn person I know.”
