The Bachelor's Promise (Bachelor Auction) (17 page)

“Because,” she said, placing her paintbrush on the tarp and shifting back. Arousal darkened her gaze as she tugged her T-shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor. Lust punched the breath from his chest, immediate need replacing amusement. She stepped forward onto the tarp and tipped her head back, her raven hair tumbling over her shoulders and bare breasts. “Since the night I saw you at the auction, I’ve wanted to fuck a man in a tux.”

That was one need he was more than willing to satisfy.

Chapter Fourteen

Talk about making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

For what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes, Noelle paused in front of the cheval mirror in her bedroom. And for the tenth time, she couldn’t believe the reflection staring back was her. The woman there shared her face—sort of. The carefully applied eye shadow, blush, lipstick, and foundation, courtesy of the makeup artist Aiden had hired, had changed Noelle into a sultrier, more mysterious version of herself. As had the hairstylist who’d fashioned an intricate updo of curls, twists, and braids.

Then there was the dress.

A gorgeous creation that toed the line of sexy and elegant. She smoothed a hand down the black, silk skirt that draped from low on her hips to the floor. The high-necked top, a lace concoction, molded to her torso as if she’d been sewn into it. And the back. She exhaled as she turned to the side, her belly somersaulting. The back was nonexistent. Instead of hiding her tattoos, black, lovely lace edged them like a frame bordered a picture.

The dress was the most exquisite thing to ever touch her body.

And Aiden had chosen and bought it for her.

After all the intimacies they’d shared since Thursday night, him personally dressing her ranked among the highest.

A kernel of unease took root in her stomach. He’d spent money on her. And not chump change. The dress, the makeup artist, the hairstylist—the kernel sprouted roots at the thought of the cost. Other than her father and brother, she’d never allowed any man to buy her anything. Not even lunch or dinner. Because favors or gifts became obligations and debts owed. They always expected something in return.

But Aiden had already received what the others would’ve expected. So, why had he gone to all this trouble? For her?

Because he doesn’t want to be embarrassed
, a sly voice whispered against her skull. She tried to shake the thought, but like a pit bull, the taunt sank its teeth into her brain and held on. The truth tended to do that. From the clothes he’d seen her wear to work for the last three weeks, Aiden probably knew she didn’t have something appropriate or lovely enough to wear to Sydney’s dinner party. Lucas’s wife had called earlier in the week and invited her to their get-together Saturday night. Not wanting to be rude or offend Sydney when she’d been so nice to Noelle the first and only time they’d met, Noelle had accepted with every intention of bowing out later. She didn’t belong in Lucas and Sydney’s—and Aiden’s—world. She didn’t know how to navigate it or, if not fit in, at least not stick out like a sore thumb. If Jocelyn was an indication of the people who would be attending this party, Aiden would want Noelle to be presentable and not an embarrassing reflection on him. That hurt like hell, but it made sense.

Sighing, she exited the closet and crossed the room to sit on the bed. The box containing the silver-and-black shoes that matched the dress rested on the sheets. She sat and slipped on the shoes, unable to corral her thoughts or gaze from traveling to the unmade covers. Since Thursday night, she hadn’t slept in this bed alone. Aiden had exhausted her with his fierce, passionate lovemaking, then lulled her to sleep with the furnace-like heat of his body curled around hers. They didn’t speak of it in the light of day—

Wait
. Her mind backtracked, skidding to a halt on the phrase “lovemaking.” They didn’t make love; they screwed like rabbits. If she’d so casually let that term slip—a term that intimated a caring, devoted, emotional as well as physical connection that didn’t exist between them—then she was fucked. Royally.

Aiden didn’t want more from her than a fuck buddy. He’d made that abundantly clear the night he’d shown up at the gallery.

You deserve more than I’m offering. But I want you. For one night. Two. Three.

He’d been nothing but honest with her, and she’d agreed because they had “temporary” stamped on them in big, bold, black letters. Their living arrangement. Their friendship. Their sexual relationship—it all had a ticking clock attached. And the moment she started believing they could be more to each other… Well, she couldn’t. She’d worked too hard, come too far, to end up dependent on a man so far beyond her reach he might as well live on Uranus. Or whatever planet was still a planet. Since she was old enough to understand how relationships worked she’d vowed she would never be one of those girls who waited on the scraps of attention a man doled out in order to validate her worth and happiness. Too easily—much too easily—she could see herself allowing Aiden to become her joy. Her heart.

And he would take both, walk away, and leave her with nothing but a dark, gaping hole in her chest.

Straightening her shoulders, she inhaled a breath and picked up the ridiculously tiny purse that had been nestled in the shoebox. Resolve strengthened, rose-tinted glasses firmly removed, she left the relative safety of the bedroom and headed down the stairs. As she stepped off the bottom step, Aiden’s voice drifted to her. The living room. She moved in that direction, but her steps slowed as she neared the entrance.

“Yes, I received the report,” Aiden said, his back to her. She couldn’t help but admire the impeccable cut of the black suit jacket and pants. Some men were born to wear formal clothing, and he was one of them. “Thank you for your quick attention to the matter.”

The phone. He was speaking to someone on his cell. She started to edge away, grant him privacy, but then, maybe sensing her, he turned, and his emerald gaze settled on her.

“No, no, thank you. I won’t need your services any longer.” A pause while his steady, hooded scrutiny scanned her from her styled hair to the hem of her dress. “Yes, I’m sure. Thank you again, and if you’ll email that invoice to me, I’ll take care of the bill.”

He lowered the phone from his ear, his stare holding her prisoner. The self-consciousness that had swamped her upstairs returned full force. She lifted a hand to her hair and touched a twisted strand before forcing her arm down.

Clutching her purse in front of her, she restlessly fidgeted. And waited for him to say something. Anything.

“I’m ready,” she announced and then inwardly cringed at the inane statement. Hell, she stood there dressed. Of course she was ready.

“Not quite,” he finally murmured, crossing the room toward her.

He once again snagged her attention, distracting her from the nerves doing the Macarena in her belly. His long-legged, sensual gait sent a delicious swirl of heat coiling through her, pooling between her legs. Everything the man did reminded her of sex. His voice, his gaze, his walk. He was a living, breathing orgasm billboard. He paused in front of her, and she couldn’t help but inhale his earthy scent. That same scent permeated her sheets, her bed.

Reaching up, he removed the earrings that dangled from her lobes. They were the only things she wore that belonged to her. Embarrassment crawled over her, firing her skin. “I know it’s only costume jewelry, but I thought it went okay—”

“Shh.” He pocketed her earrings and dipped a hand in his suit jacket. “They were fine. I just want you to wear these tonight.” He opened his hand, and a small, velvet box perched on his palm. He nodded. “Open it.”

With slightly trembling fingers, she did as he requested. And a deluge of emotion flooded her. Awe. Joy. Sadness. Anxiety. They coalesced inside her chest, pressing so hard against her sternum she could barely draw a breath.

Of course, she recognized the pair of diamond earrings fashioned in the shape of rosebuds. Caroline’s. They’d been his mother’s. And once they’d been Caroline’s mother’s, an heirloom passed down from mother to daughter. The same earrings her father had stolen and pawned after Caroline’s death.

“I-I can’t,” she whispered, voice shaking. She reached out but stopped short of actually touching the small pieces of jewelry. “Aiden, I can’t.”

She started to shift backward. From him. From the jewelry that reminded her of the only mother she’d ever known. From her own overwhelming desire to wear them.

“You can, and you will,” Aiden said, his tone gentle but brooking no argument. He caught her wrist and drew her forward. “Hold this.” Maybe he didn’t trust her to comply, because he worked open her hand and placed the box on her palm. He carefully plucked one earring from the case and, with ease, put one earring in, and then the other. Stepping back, he studied her, his gaze inscrutable. “Beautiful,” he murmured. Touching one lobe, he swept a caress over the jewelry and her skin. “Perfect.”

“Aiden,” she objected, her fingers curling around the box. “This isn’t right. They’re your mother’s and should go to whoever—”

“Mother to daughter,” he interrupted. Something flickered across his face, there and gone too quickly for her to decipher. “That’s how it’s always been. And she considered you hers. This has nothing to do with you and me. Just as she would’ve left you the money in the will, I believe she would’ve given you these as well. So, they’re yours.”

Tears that she fought against with every ounce of her will clogged her throat, momentarily strangling her. Reverently, she brushed both earrings with fingers that hadn’t stopped trembling since he’d removed the box from his pocket.

“You think she really would’ve given them to me herself?” she asked, voice thick.

Expression solemn, he slipped his hands into his pockets. “I know she would have.”

“Thank you,” she rasped. “I… Thank you.”

He didn’t reply, except to lightly grasp her elbow and turn her toward the foyer. “We should leave now, or we’ll be late.”

Noelle’s idea of a dinner party resembled a small gathering of family and friends around a long dining-room table with conversation and laughter. Maybe soft music playing in the background. Not that she’d ever been to one; her father’s idea of a dinner party would’ve been a card game around a kitchen table. Still, she could imagine.

But her imagination had been light years away from Sydney Oliver’s “dinner party.” Instead of being at her and Lucas’s home, Noelle and about thirty other guests stood in the spacious ballroom of an exclusive country club with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The tables were exquisitely set with fine tablecloths, cutlery that sparkled, and tall vases of blooming lilacs. Elegant, refined, and obviously wealthy. Those three words could describe everything from the venue to the decorations to the guests.

And Noelle was none of those things. Her dress could compete with any of the others, but the similarities ended there. They were the high-society, cliquish Boston elite, and she was…not.

Damn, what the hell had she been thinking coming here? And with Aiden? If she had a dollar for every cutting look she’d received from the women in attendance, Noelle could buy her gallery outright. Then there were the whispers and not-so-subtle once-overs. None of them snubbed her, but she attributed that more to Aiden’s presence than manners. However, not all of the women had treated her like an oddity in Lincoln Park Zoo. Sydney had been as warm and welcoming as Noelle remembered. And then there were the two older women Sydney had introduced as Yolanda and Melinda Evans, sisters who ran a youth center in the Brighton area. When Sydney had informed them Noelle was an artist, they immediately asked her if she would be willing to teach a couple of classes at the center. There’d been nothing shy about the no-nonsense, straightforward women, and Noelle had happily agreed to visit the center.

But those three had been an anomaly. The women stared, and the men leered. Maybe not as obviously as the men she’d known, but they were just better at hiding it.

“Noelle, are you doing okay?” Sydney arrived, breaking into Noelle’s morose mental lambasting with a smile and a glass of wine. “Here.” She pressed the delicate flute into Noelle’s hand with a wry chuckle. “You look like you need this. Wine is the one drawback to being pregnant.”

Noelle glanced down at the baby bump under Sydney’s gorgeous, purple, empire-waist dress. “I’ll drink for you then,” she said, gratefully accepting the glass.

“Gee, thanks,” Sydney drawled, smiling. “So…how long did it take Yolanda and Melinda to hit you up to teach at the center?”

Noelle laughed. “About twenty seconds after you introduced us. They didn’t bother beating around the bush.”

“I didn’t think they would,” Sydney said, shaking her head, grinning. A blind man couldn’t mistake her love for the two women. “When I mentioned you last week, they started plotting to corner you tonight. Don’t feel obligated, Noelle. I know you’re starting graduate school in another month or so, and with your job…”

“No, it’s fine,” Noelle assured her. “I would be glad to help. Really.” Teaching at the center would provide her with experience for the program she planned to implement in her gallery one day. “Besides,” she said with a snort, “I seriously doubt they would’ve taken no for an answer.”

“You would be right about that,” Sydney agreed. “I—” Someone called her name, and she glanced in that direction, pasting a cool smile on her lips. Since Noelle had been on the receiving end of Sydney’s amused grin, she could tell the difference between the real thing and her hostess smile. “You know, this started out as a small, intimate get-together for friends.”

Noelle arched an eyebrow, surprised. “They aren’t all your friends?”

“The Evans sisters and a few others—they’re real friends. The others? Acquaintances or friends of friends who invited themselves. Next time I plan a dinner, I’m swearing every person to secrecy under threat of bamboo shoots under their nails.” Noelle snickered, and Sydney’s true smile returned. “Thank you for coming, Noelle. I know from personal experience being in a roomful of people you don’t really know is difficult. Don’t let them steal your joy, though.” With a small squeeze to Noelle’s free hand, Sydney left.

Don’t let them steal your joy
.

Forty-five minutes later, Noelle clung to the advice as if it were a life raft in the middle of a turbulent sea. Dinner had been torture. Aiden had conversed with Lucas and the other two men at their table—business associates, as far as she could tell—and while Sydney had drawn her into conversation, the women joining them had deliberately ignored her. Usually, she didn’t give a damn whether people judged her or not, but tonight it hurt. Like a bitch. Tonight had drilled home the knowledge that she didn’t belong in this circle, this world into which Aiden seamlessly fit.