Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance Boxed Set (10 Book Bundle) (2 page)

Shit.

“Fuck,” I said out loud, breaking the silence. “That was my fault.”

It wasn't. It was the kid's fault. The breakable pieces had been packed in well-insulated boxes for a
reason,
but it was too late. I'd been really fucking poor once. I wasn't gong to let him take the fall.

He looked at me with eyes full of gratitude, but I had to look away.
How the hell am
I
going to pay for this?
I thought. I mean, I had a good job. But I also had gobs of debt. Anton's accountant helped me consolidate it, but I'm still kind of cruising along, unable to save much. I expense everything I can, but frankly, this was not something any amount of expensed meals could save up for.

I scrambled to my feet and pointed at the culprit. “You,” I said, “sweep this up.
Carefully.
I want you to have every single piece of this vase in a bag by the end of the night. And I mean
every piece.”
He nodded, and I gingerly picked my phone up from the floor and studied it, making certain it was still in one piece.

Thank god. No cracks on the glass, and it flashed to life when I hit the button. Pulling up my catalog of art, I found the entry again. Seeing the beautiful vase, still whole and healthy on my phone, made me feel sick inside, but I pushed it down. I had to find the vase's owner, and fast. I glanced at the name.

Malcolm Ward.

All right,
I thought.
Sounds like an old guy.
I reached up and adjusted my little black dress so that my breasts—such as they were—pushed up over the top. Maybe I could knock a couple hundred dollars off my debt with some cleavage. Grabbing a passing stage jockey, I gave him fierce, whispered instructions and then swiftly strode out of the backstage area and to the lounge. Behind me I heard the emcee pause in his monologue, and then say: “Malcolm Ward, please meet Mrs. Waters' personal assistant, Ms. MacElroy, in the Edison Lounge.” A chorus of whistles and whoops went up from the drunken crowd and I rolled my eyes as I exited.

The lounge was dim and mostly abandoned, the gaudy zebra stripes of the booths shining white and ghostly in the dark. I moved to one of them and sat down, crossing my legs at the ankle and sitting up straight so my breasts would thrust out. I had to look like the quintessential Personal Assistant, the one who would Do Anything to Make Her Employer Happy. I wanted Mr. Ward to think I was lovely and pliable, even though I'm anything but, on both accounts. Getting a thousand dollars or two knocked off my debt was worth it, though. What's a little exploitation among unequals?

In an attempt to look nonchalant, I turned my phone on and casually swiped through my catalog. There were twenty-five pieces in all—well, twenty four, now—and each of them was slated to bring a decent price in. If we were lucky we'd end up with at least fifty thousand dollars for the charity, and I had to be content with that. That I was going to have to turn the heat off in my apartment for the next three years was simply the natural consequence of my own partial fuck up.

I sighed, watching the beautiful pieces of art pass me by, slipping up the screen, and I wished I was out of debt. And better paid. I'd have given quite a few pesos for some of these pieces...

A clearing throat had me looking up. For a moment, I was blinded by the flash of my screen still scored across my vision. Then it cleared, and I found myself staring at my blond Batman.

He towered over me, staring down at me with his weird, mischievous smile plastered on his face. He was scoping me out. I hate feeling like meat.

“May I help you?” I asked him icily.

“Miss MacElroy?” he said. “I am Malcolm Ward. You... wanted to see me?”

Even his voice was full of suggestion. Here was a man who liked to get what he wanted, and I was almost glad his pretty vase was smashed.

I stood up so he wouldn't be towering over me any longer, but that was a miscalculation, because he was very, very tall. He still towered over me. But I'm not a shrinking violet.
Project,
I thought.
Don't let this jackass think he can walk all over you.

I looked him directly in the eye and ignored the little shiver that ran up my spine at the contact. “I am sorry to inform you, Mr. Ward, but your donated lot has met with an... incident.”

He quirked a brow. “An incident, Miss MacElroy?”

“Yes,” I said. “Specifically, an incidental floor. It has met with an incidental floor. I apologize, but it did not survive the meeting. I, of course, take full responsibility for this. Please tell me how much I owe you so we can work out a payment plan.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying the vase was destroyed?” he said at last.

No use beating around the bush about it. “Yes,” I said. “It has been destroyed. Like I said, I take full responsibility. If you would like to sit down, we can work out a plan to resolve this debt, and then we can go on our way.”

He didn't respond immediately. Instead he tilted his head and studied me. Again I felt the cool appraisal of his gaze, slipping over my face, lingering on my lips, traveling down to my cleavage—my damn cleavage! why did I think it was a good idea to show it off, again?—and then further down. Where his gaze touched me, I grew hot, then cold. His frank assessment gave me the willies, as if he were deciding just which part of my body he should...
do something to
first. I was only forty percent curious as to what that
something
was. The other sixty percent of me was telling me to run very fast in another direction.

And I was in this guy's debt.

I sure do know how to pick 'em.

Out in the ballroom, the emcee was announcing the third lot. The third lot, already! I needed to rush backstage to assess the rest of the lots and make sure everything was in place. Annoyance flared in me.

“Stop ogling me and let's get this done with,” I snapped. “I have a lot of work to do.” See? I'm terrible at public relations.

Mr. Ward raised his brows again. “Very well, Miss MacElroy. I will be quick. The vase, while beautiful, held little importance to me, and its monetary value has most likely been recouped already by my vast investments, so the money is, for lack of a better word, immaterial to me.”

Was he letting me off the hook? Oh my god, I wasn't going to have to pay him thousands of dollars? I couldn't stifle the relieved smile that broke across my face and I opened my mouth to thank him, but he held up a hand.

“The chief value of the vase was in what it would have fetched for the charity tonight,” he continued. “Where I had placed a piece on the auction block to be auctioned off, there is now... nothing. Something must replace it.”

I blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?” I said. “Do you have something else you can auction off?”

That quirky smile returned. He looked quite devilish when he smiled. “I believe,” he said, “that since you are in my debt, that I may now auction
you
off.”

I blinked at him. He smiled back.

“What?”
The word erupted from deep in my chest and I barely recognized it as my own voice. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He held up a long, beautifully tapered finger. The sort of finger useful for sculpting, or shading, or...
other
things. “Let me be clear. You
owe
me. Therefore
I—”
he pointed to himself, “—own
you.”

My blood boiled. “I don't think it works that way any more. Slavery was banned.”

He shrugged. “In name,” he said. “Now, lot six is up. I believe my lot is listed as number eight?”

I froze and listened. Yup, sure enough, the bronze mirror was going, going, and soon to be gone. I'd taken responsibility for the vase and now I was going to pay for it.

“Are you sure you don't want to just put yourself up there?” I said, trying to keep the pleading from my voice. “I mean, no one will argue that you don't own yourself. And besides, who would buy
me?
I'm not exactly high society material.” This much was true—I didn't even try to hide my tattoos and piercings, even though plenty of people turned their noses up at them. But even more I wanted to know:
what would anyone buy me
for?

“If you don't want to go up on the auction block, then I will simply have to set the price of the vase at one million dollars.”

I paled. “No one would uphold that amount,” I said.

“But who can afford the lawyer to argue that?” he asked me.

Ruthless.
Not one of the old money set, and not one of the inbred country clubbers. A self-made man, just like Anton. Anton, who still gave me the shivers, though Felicia had softened his approach to other people somewhat. And this man, Malcolm Ward, had me in a bind. A drunken cheer went up from the crowd as someone won the mirror. Rich folks get randy at too much champagne and money changing hands.

“Lot Seven...” the emcee began. I knew that lot seven was pretty worthless. I wondered who would pay money for it. And after that...

“Fine!” I said. “I'll go up there. But no one gets to buy me for weird sex stuff!”

“Of course not,” he said. “That would be illegal.”

And with that, he gave me a bow and a smile, and turned around and walked out of the lounge.

“Anyone? Anyone?” the emcee was saying.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, turned my heels, and ran back to the backstage area. The lackey who'd dropped the vase stood by its empty spot, looking agonized and awkward. I ran up to him and quickly told him the change in plans before ordering him onstage. What the hell, right? He'd already ruined my night and possibly more. Might as well make him do something useful.

He scurried back out onstage and whispered furiously to the emcee as lot seven—unwanted, it seemed—was taken away, numberless. Nervously I smoothed my skirt and hoped I didn't look too much like something the cat dragged in. The stress of this job was seriously getting to me. I deserved a vodka and vodka with a shot of vodka on the side after I was done being sold.

I had no idea why anyone would want to buy a person, but people sold at auctions were usually sold for dates. I had no desire to date any of these people. Although if a woman bought me I'd probably go lez for the night just out of gratitude for whisking me out from under the noses of the leering elite. Rich guys were the worst for that sort of thing. Guys period, actually.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, the previous lot eight, listed in your programs, has met with its demise. That exquisite china vase, dating from the seventeenth century, sadly went to the great foyer table in the sky a few moments ago.” He laughed at his terrible joke. “But we have a replacement lot, just as exquisite.”

In the shadows of the side stage I rolled my eyes so hard I think I saw my brain.

“May I present to you the replacement lot eight, Mrs. Felicia Waters' personal assistant, Miss Sadie MacElroy! Let's give her a big round of applause!”

I knew my cheeks were flaming, but I plastered the biggest smile on my face that I could. It was this, or paying an unscrupulous business guy way too much money for no reason at all. I hated everyone in that moment, but you never would have known it as I strode out onto the stage, my head held high and my shoulders thrown back, showing off my still fluffed-up tits for the world to see. I mean, they're not B cups or whatever, but like my mom's boyfriend always said,
More than a mouthful is too much.
God, he'd been creepy.

The spotlights blinded me as I stopped by the emcee and turned, tossing my hair over my shoulder, then cocking a hip and putting my hand on it. I hoped looked sufficiently saucy and fiery to deter the older crusty guys from bidding for me.

The applause died down. “Very good,” the emcee said. “I believe this lot is a date with Miss MacElroy. A meal of your choosing, or some other activity, negotiated between you and this ravishing woman.”

Ravishing? More like ravaged.

“Let us open the bidding at a thousand dollars!”

A thousand fucking dollars?
I tried not to let my shock show on my face, but then again the pieces selling here were worth two thousand minimum.

“I have a thousand. Good, do I have two—I have two thousand. Who wants—three thousand. Four thousand. Five! Five thousand...”

The blood drained from my head. I forced myself not to squint against the bright lights, seeking out who was bidding on me. It wouldn't have worked anyway. I could see nothing, blinded and dazzled and being auctioned off like an object. My smile hurt my face.

“Six thousand. Wonderful. Seven. Eight. Eight thousand. Do I see nine? Nine thousand? Nine thousand! And how about ten? Ten? Ten? All right. Going once. Going twice. Sold, for nine thousand dollars!”

Nine thousand,
I thought numbly. That was almost two months salary.
Nine thousand dollars.

Who the fuck has that kind of money?
I thought.
Who the fucking fuck has nine thousand dollars to throw away on a date with a downtown tramp?

“Congratulations, Mr. Malcolm Ward, for purchasing your own property,” the emcee said. The room erupted in laughter as the emcee turned to me and handed me the number of my buyer. Malcolm Ward. Stunned, I waved at the crowd and then walked off stage, my legs shaking.