Which is why I decide not to bother. I’ve done a fair bit of schmoozing already. If Hudson wanted more from me, he could have been more specific when he asked. Besides, he needs to learn to deal with disappointment, and who better to teach him but me.
Grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, I head to the area where the silent auction has been situated. I peruse the items up for bid, quickly bypassing the most popular draws—a houseboat, a vineyard in France, a private island off of Malta—and settle on the gaudiest piece of art I’ve ever set my eyes on. Complete with a five-inch thick ostentatious gold frame, the six-foot square canvas is covered with abstract red-hued phallic brush strokes. It’s bold and brusque. It makes me angry just to look at it.
It’s perfect.
I pull a Montblanc fountain pen from my breast pocket and find the next blank line on the auction sheet. Tripling the last amount offered, I fill in my own bid. Then, with a gleeful smirk, I sign Hudson’s name and his office phone number before tucking the pen back in my jacket.
There. I’ll pose for a picture at the door on my way out for good measure, but otherwise my work here is done. And without causing any trouble. Consider it a baby gift, Hudson.
Downing the too-sweet champagne, I turn to search for a place to set my empty glass before making my trek back across the museum floor.
That’s when I see her.
My breath is knocked from my chest the second my gaze slams into her. I swear there’s a spotlight on her. Cliché, isn’t it? But I pull my eyes up toward the ceiling to see if there’s a fixture directed at her and am surprised when I find none. Because she literally shines.
Frozen to my spot, I ignore the people pressing past me coming to and from the auction tables, drinking in every detail I can of the beauty across the room. Her long shapely legs, her lusciously curved hips, her pouty mouth drawn into a tight line. She’s wearing a lace shift dress—my sister owns a boutique, I know these terms—simple in shape, but the pattern is elegant, making her look classier than many of the older women here in their skin-tight bling-bling gowns. She’s on the tall side, but not too tall. With her modest heels, she’s just the right height to kiss. Just the right height to devour without having to bend. Just the right height to be able to look in her eyes as my hand presses gently at her throat.
Jesus, did I just fantasize about choking a woman? What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m the first to admit I’m a pig, but I’ve never had those kinds of kinky thoughts. I’ve never not been a gentleman. Never wanted to not be nice like I want to not be nice looking at her. She’s just so…captivating.
I’m not the only one who notices. She’s surrounded by a flock of men who are not very good at hiding their eagerness to see what’s beneath her dress, and I can’t say that I blame them. She’s that alluring. That hypnotizing.
She’s not even the kind of girl I’m attracted to. Too thin, too brunette. Too young—she can’t be more than twenty-five. But there’s something about her. Something that separates her from the crowd. Something in her gestures as she patiently tolerates her would-be suitors. Something about her posture, which is polished, but aloof. Something about her entire being that keeps my eyes pinned to her like a lion’s pinned to his prey.
I should leave. I know this. It’s not my M.O. to stalk. I prefer to be the one reeled in—again, part of the model I’ve successfully honed. But I’m stuck, glued to the spot, staring at this intriguing creature with graceful movements and delicate features.
And then there’s a clearing in her swarm of admirers, and I’m suddenly not stuck, but moving toward her, drawn as if on the descent of a zip-line. She hasn’t noticed me, and I take advantage of that, circling around her so that I can approach her from behind. It gives me a chance to check her hand, when I’m near enough, for signs of a ring. A ring is a deal-breaker for me. I don’t do infidelity, never have. Once, I came close. Or rather, the situation felt close to cheating, and it was terrible. I won’t do that again.
But that was five long years ago now and not only has that lesson been learned, it also seems to be unnecessary tonight. The slinky brunette that has lured me across the room is ring-less. I’m assuming she’s also date-less, or if not, she should be, because no way in hell would any decent man leave his girlfriend alone around the predators here. Predators like me.
It briefly occurs to me that I’ve never once thought of myself as a predator, and that maybe these ideas in my head are a sign that I need to get the fuck out of Dodge.
But I can’t. For reasons I can’t explain. Reasons that are primal and base and as out of my control as breathing.
As well as being ring-less, she’s also drink-less, and so, as a waiter passes, I drop off my empty flute, and retrieve two fresh glasses.
When my prey turns casually in my direction, I’m ready.
I hold out a glass in her direction. “Champagne?”
Her grey eyes spark when they catch mine, sending a jolt straight to my dick. I’d know that look anywhere—she likes what she sees, and thank god, because now that I’ve seen her close up, I’m absolutely certain that I have to have her. Have to possess her. Have to do unspeakably dirty things to every inch of her body.
Tighten those reins, boy. Get ahold of yourself.
I almost do, but then she narrows her stare and twists her lip. It’s the lip that does me in.
“How do I know you didn’t put anything in it?” she asks, and JesusfuckingChrist, she’s got an English accent. I’m instantly hard.