Page 9 of Valentine’s Billionaire Auction

“Let’s call it a happy accident. Serendipity.”

“That sounds like something you’d need antibiotics for.”

I smiled. She had a sense of humor, even with the tension crackling off her. “Let me ask you this. Do you think I can’t afford to cover your bid?”

“You can afford to do a lot of things.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you should do them.”

“I promise it’s not a big deal. That kind of money is a drop in the bucket.”

Her lips thinned into a tight line, unimpressed. “It’s four years of salary for me.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, can you imagine?”

She stared at me, her gaze steady and unflinching. If she was trying to give me an x-ray with that gaze, she was doing a damn good job. I couldn’t figure out why she was pissed at me. I didn’t do anything.

And then it hit me.

She wasn’t joking.

I had insulted her. That explained the clothes, I thought, and the way she let people in that ballroom look right through her. She was truly that broke.

Damn. My net worth had probably gone up a few million while we were talking. What a world.

“Let’s go,” I said, jerking my head toward the end of the hallway. “We’re getting out of here.”

“I don’t go anywhere with strange men I don’t know,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

I laughed, the sound echoing in the empty corridor. “Feel free to read my wiki page. You know, some of those women out there intentionally bid on me. They willingly wanted to pay just to be alone with me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ever heard of some of the most infamous serial killers? Lots of women chose to spend time with them too.”

My mouth dropped open. “I’m sorry, are you calling me a serial killer?”

“No, but the same principle applies. People choose to do dangerous things all the time. It doesn’t mean I have to.”

“Every woman that has been alone with me has lived to tell the tale.”

“So far,” she said, arching a brow.

I stepped close enough that she had to look up to meet my eyes. “Are you always this stubborn with people who are trying to help you?”

Her jaw clenched, and her features pinched in anger, making her look like a puffed-up kitten trying to take on a lion. It was adorable.

She jabbed a finger at my chest. “I know men like you.”

“Do you?” I asked, amused.

“Well, erm, no, not really. Not in real life,” she stammered. “But I know what you’re made of.”

“Not in real life?” I repeated, smirking. “What else is there?”

“Don’t twist my words,” she said, exasperated.

“Maybe I should be afraid of being alone with you,” I said.

“No, I’m a writer,” she said breathlessly, her earlier fire extinguished in an instant. Her shoulders slumped, and she looked away. “Or I’m going to be one, one day. I was talking about books. That’s what there is besides real life.”

“Fine,” I said with a shrug. “Judge me however you want. I’m just trying to offer a simple solution to the problem.”