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Under the table, she gripped her hands together.
“This one is called Love at First Sight,” the emcee read from his card. “Gorgeous, isn’t it? So, who’s going to start the bidding?” he asked in his booming voice, his smile bright enough to scare the sun.
The irony of that particular rose being featured in this particular auction wasn’t lost on her, but she refused to look Dillon’s way to see if he was staring.
Watercolors. Not often anymore. Don’t have the time.
Had he really done this painting for her? And what did it mean exactly, other than it being the rose he knew she loved the most?
She rubbed her forehead. Cripes, she was going to have an aneurysm if she didn’t stop with the questions.
“Three hundred?” She glanced at Ruth as she bid three-fifty, and a sudden panic seized her. That was her painting. If someone had snatched it up at a flea market and slapped a hefty price tag on it, the joke would be on her but she didn’t care.
Alexa lifted her paddle. “Four hundred,” she called, shocked she sounded so calm. Her heart sped up while she waited for the auctioneer to acknowledge her winning bid, but before he could, another bid came from the table in front she’d steadfastly avoided looking at all night.
“Five hundred.” Dillon’s even tone made her sit up straighter. Why had he done the painting for her if he just wanted to snatch it back? Had their fight made him rescind the gesture? Or change his mind?
Whatever. She was getting that painting. It was hers, and suddenly it seemed vital she win it.
“Six,” she called back.
“Seven,” Dillon immediately countered, earning a growl from her that made her tablemates glance at her in dismay.
Fine, if he wanted to play that way, she was game. So what if he took baths in beaucoup bucks. She had credit cards. Okay, she had one credit card left. With a low limit. “Nine,” she yelled, louder than was necessary.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Dillon’s parents looking in her direction. And Cory, that jerk, was grinning.
“Two thousand,” Dillon shot back.
She tossed her purse on the table. Oh hell no. She was going to hang the painting above the prep table in her store and he was not taking it from her. With all the embarrassment and frustration—and yes, pain—Dillon had caused her, she wasn’t letting go that easily.
One thing he’d taught her—if nothing else—was to fight.
“Five thousand.” She slapped down her paddle when a wave of conversation rolled through the crowd.
“Ten thousand,” Dillon returned, rising.
Slowly he crossed the room and it took everything inside her not to wilt against her chair. He’d loosened his bow tie, shrugged off the jacket. With his strong jaw, his sexy glower, and the stubbled growth of beard, she was practically toast. Add in his untucked white dress shirt open at the neck to reveal his sun-warmed skin—skin she’d kissed and licked and bitten—and yeah, she was so done for.
The last of the fight drained out of her. She’d battled her ass off for that painting, for her store, because he’d been there. Pushing her. Showing her everything she could have if she didn’t give up.
God, he’d wanted her to fight all along.
When she descended back to reality and realized he was at her side, she opened her mouth. She intended to tell him to go to hell. What came out was a soft, croaked, “Why?” As if she were on the verge of tears.
Worse, as if they were already tracking down her cheeks. Again.
Now he would know how much she cared, if he didn’t already.
“Can we call the bidding at ten thousand?” the auctioneer asked, waiting for Alexa’s argument.
She gave none. She’d lost anyway, hadn’t she? The guy had more money than God apparently, so why waste everyone’s time on pissing matches?
“Sold to Mr. James for ten thousand dollars. The charity appreciates your generous donation—twice over in this case.”
“Princess?”
She braced at the nickname. Soft fingertips skimmed her jaw and she glanced up, hating that she was still crying. Two crying jags a year were usually her limit, and she’d hit more than that within the past twenty-four hours. Not good.
