Page 31 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

“I’ll probably leave that part out,” he said. “But come with me and you can tell him whatever you want. If you don’t like what he has to say, I’ll bring you right back. No questions asked. You have my word on that.”

I hesitated, chewing my bottom lip. I hated Roman Kelly. At first, he’d been sort of charming and fun but he turned out to be arrogant and entirely too pleased with himself. The man was like a perfect chocolate chip cookie but then you take a bite and it’s raisins. Tragic.

But the mention of an “offer” gnawed at me, especially in my current, less-than-stable state. If there was a job on the table, I wanted it.

“Fine,” I snapped. “Give me a minute. You could have called first.”

I threw on a sweater and my comfiest pair of sneakers—no way was I dressing up for this—and headed down to the car. The driver held the door open for me like I was Roman.

“That’s not necessary,” I said.

“Manners are always necessary,” he replied with a polite smile. “And I’m going to stand here until you get in.”

I didn’t want to be mean to him. He did nothing wrong. He was only doing what his boss asked him to do. “Right, fine. Let’s not keep Roman waiting. God forbid.”

His smile was more real this time and he quickly smothered it. I hopped in and leaned my head back against the seat. This offer better involve a way to pay my rent. Knowing my luck, he wanted me to work off the hundred grand for the bid. He would probably have me scrubbing floors or cleaning his precious shoes.

Of course I had seen the video making the rounds online. And I was not surprised in the least. That was the Roman Kelly I had the misfortune of meeting.

“So where are we going?” I asked. We were stuck on the highway, and I was impatient.

“We’re about ten minutes away,” he said.

He sounded unfazed by my frustration. That wasn’t a surprise. He worked for Roman who was always grumpy. At least from what I had witnessed. I watched the changing scenery out the window. We were off the highway and moving into the suburbs.

Suburbs.

No.

These were mansions. This was the Pacific Palisades area. I knew of it because one of my many temp jobs had been working for a caterer. I had been a server at some swanky house party. Soon, the driver pulled up to a gate and used a clicker to open it.

The estate was ridiculous.

As we drove up the palm-lined driveway, I gawked at the sprawling property. It had everything—pools, ponds, perfectly trimmed hedges and a fountain. The house itself looked more like a luxury hotel than a home.

The white two-story house was huge. There were columns lining the front entrance. Large windows with sheer curtains blurred the view but I could see the soft glow of lights from the many rooms. Perfectly manicured gardens surrounded the property.

As we stopped in front of the grand entrance, the driver exited and opened my door. “We’re here, Ms. Foster.”

I stepped out, taking in the magnificence of the place. No wonder Roman Kelly strutted around like he owned the world—he practically did, or at least this little corner of it.

The driver escorted me as far as the front door, where an attendant greeted me with a smile and offered me slippers in exchange for my shoes. Slippers. Was I going to be given a housecoat as well? Was he putting me to bed?

I followed her through grand hallways and cavernous rooms until we reached a solarium at the back of the house. It was humid but cozy, the kind of space designed to make you feel like you were lounging in a tropical paradise without ever leaving LA. Lush green plants filled the room. Vines and flowers spilled over the edges of large pots, adding bursts of color.

I had never been to a tropical rainforest, but I had a feeling this would be how it smelled. The air was humid and heavy with the scents of moist earth, damp leaves, and floral blooms. It was sweet and musky. I had never seen anything like it.

I was about to sit in one of the chairs at a bistro-style table when I noticed a gardener in the corner, awkwardly pretending he wasn’t there. He left in a hurry when a woman wheeled in a tray of liqueurs, set it up neatly, and disappeared without a word.

I was alone. The only thing missing was the sound of tropical birds or crickets. Anything. It was just silence.

Then he walked in.

Roman looked infuriatingly relaxed, his slacks hanging perfectly on his hips, his Henley rolled up to reveal strong, corded forearms. I hated that I noticed, but it was impossible not to. I thought about the picture Carla had shown me. The one with the abs. I had a feeling it was very accurate. He moved to the tray of liquor, fixing two drinks without saying a word.

“Glad you came,” he said, handing me a glass.

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” I muttered and took a sip. It was good. Annoyingly good. “I was afraid you would fire your poor driver if he didn’t do your bidding.”