Bidding on Brooks: The Winslow Brothers #1 (4 page)

***

Brooks had several personal rules about using Elite Escorts for his personal needs in addition to the non-disclosure agreement he’d had them sign before ever making a booking with them and the standard precautions he took to ensure safe sex. Mostly, these rules were to guarantee that any sort of relationship or emotional intimacy was avoided.

The first was that he never gave his real name to the girls and asked them to use a pseudonym, as well.

The second was that Elite was never to send him the same girl twice in a row.

And the third was that they never, ever met at Westerly.

Because Brooks spent so much time on the road, he didn’t have a bachelor pad in the city like his younger brothers. This meant that he asked most of his “dates” to meet him at the Sorenson Marina. Not only was the marina an hour away from Philly, where he was less likely to run into people he knew socially, but the Passport 47 Yacht he moored there boasted all the comforts of home, including a queen-sized bed and a bedside table stocked with condoms.

Pulling into the parking lot around seven-thirty Friday evening, he decided to track down Skye to reconfirm the plan for tomorrow night since it was thirty minutes until tonight’s date, Holly M., would arrive by taxi to meet him.

The little marina shop where Jack Sorenson worked had closed at seven, but Brooks knew from personal experience that Skye was probably still tinkering with an outboard motor or changing a starboard lightbulb before heading home for the night. She often left the mundane projects for the end of the day.

Walking out on dock eleven, he found her squatting on the wooden boards, staring at a raised propeller, one hand full of tangled line and the other holding a fish gutting knife. Unlike almost every other time that he’d seen her, this evening she had her cap off, and her white-blonde hair was escaping from a long, thick braid in wisps and strands, blowing lightly in the evening breeze. He was mesmerized by the light color of the soft strands in the dying sun, and his gaze slid without permission to the contrast offered by the graceful line of her neck. Her complexion was tan after a lifetime’s worth of heavy sun sailing, and the light-blonde tendrils of hair teased the warm-looking skin. Skimming his eyes still lower, his gaze paused at a tiny brown beauty mark at the base of her neck. Without warning, he felt his heart quicken. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, and his body began to tighten just as she whipped her head around.

“Brooks!”

He was grateful for the slight sunburn he’d gotten while playing tennis yesterday because it covered his blush as he snapped his eyes up from her neck to her face.

“Hey, Skye.”

“Don’t sneak up on me,” she said, turning back to her work. “It’s creepy.”

He cleared his throat, refusing to let his mind linger on the unexpected and unwelcome thoughts that had just been firing through his head, heating up his body.

“What are you up to?”

“Uh…” she muttered, gesturing to the obvious mess in her hands. “Fishing line got tangled all around this prop. Trying to get it out, but it’s good and stuck in all this seaweed. Give me a hand?”

“Sure,” he said, squatting down on the other side of the propeller and getting a better-than-usual look at her face with her omnipresent cap gone.

“Here,” she said, handing him a balled up wad of fishing line mixed with gobs of gooey seaweed. “Hold it tight so I can cut it out?”

He tugged on the ball of line to tighten it, pulling back strands as she snipped and staring at her face as she worked. Her features, which he hadn’t checked out at close range in quite a while, were elegant—a lovely contrast to the playful dusting of freckles over her nose. Damn. Skye Sorenson was the rare combination of cute
and
pretty, a look that Brooks had always been attracted to.

“Stop staring at me,” she said without looking up.

“How do you know I’m staring at you?”

She glanced up. “Well, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” He stared at her eyes now, which were huge and dark blue.

“So, cut it out,” she said softly, dropping his eyes. “It’s making me nervous.”

He sighed, raising his gaze over her shoulder to stare at the boats bobbing in a neat line behind her.

Yeah, Brooks
, he thought.
Cut it out. This is Skye Sorenson, your tomboy friend who’s doing you a big favor.
Graceful necks and kissable beauty marks have no place in this equation…not to mention, Pat probably wouldn’t appreciate you sizing up his girlfriend’s cute versus pretty ratio.

“You all set for tomorrow?” he asked crisply, intent on shifting his thoughts away from anything inappropriate and back to their business at hand.

“What’s tomorrow?”

His eyes darted back to her. “Skye, come on! You promis—” It took him a second to realize her shoulders were shaking from laughing. “Not nice.”

“Wow. You’re really in knots over this auction…no pun intended.” She flicked her twinkling eyes to his. “A promise is a promise. I’ll be there. But tell me this…how are you going to slip me the money when I win?”

With his free hand, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a credit card. “I got you a credit card.”

“You applied for a credit card in my name? How?”

“It wasn’t hard.”

“You had to steal my social security number to do that,” she said, concentrating on her work as she spoke. “Not sure how I feel about that, Brooks.”

“Not hard doesn’t equal illegal. It’s my account. I just had your name put on the card.”

“I see,” she said. Then, cutting the last of the line, she fell back on her bottom. “There! Phew!”

Brooks chuckled softly. Something he’d always liked about Skye was how hard she worked. He’d never seen a woman as good with her hands as Skye, as good at fixing things. Most of the women he knew socially were far more sophisticated and much higher maintenance. They wouldn’t be caught dead in overalls with seaweed stuck between their manicured fingers.

Skye reached down for the credit card with a slimy hand and looked at it before sliding it into the breast pocket of her overalls. Then she grabbed her cap from the dock beside her and mashed it on her head. She pulled the slack line from his fingers and stuffed it all into a garbage bag. “What’s my credit limit?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

Her face jerked up to look at his. Her pink lips parted is shock, and he silently cursed her hat because he didn’t have a good view of those dark blue eyes widening. “Are you crazy?”

Brooks shrugged. “I trust you.”

“You do? I don’t know if
I
trust me with that much money.”

“Well, I figure you have to get something to wear too. I was kidding when I said you could wear your normal duds,” he said dryly, gesturing to her overalls.

“Oh, really?” she asked sarcastically, looking at him, lips pursed in annoyance. “Because I’m a total moron and I thought this would be appropriate for a gala.”

“Did you already get something to wear?” he challenged.

She stared at him for an extra moment. “No.”

“I rest my case. Spend whatever you want. Maybe go to Saks Fifth Avenue in Bala Cynwyd. That’s where my sister goes.” He paused. “Do you have somewhere to stay on Saturday night?”

“I’ll drive home afterward. Sunday’s a busy day here,” she said, standing up, the garbage bag bumping against her leg. “Anything else?”

He grinned at her. She was always working, always moving. Did she ever take a break? When she did, what did she do? He didn’t know a ton about her life outside of sailing, and suddenly, he wanted to know.

“Why?” he asked, looking up at her from where he still squatted on the dock. “You have somewhere you need to be?”

“It’s almost sunset,” she said.

“And?”

“I like to watch it from dock five.”

“Every night?”

She nodded, leaning down to latch her toolbox and pick it up. While she was bent over, Brooks noticed the taxi pulling into the upper parking lot.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing up again to see an elegantly-dressed blonde woman exiting the cab, but surprised that he didn’t feel a hot jolt of anticipation for what was, hopefully, coming.

Skye followed his glance, turning to look at the cab, then rolling her eyes at him before walking away.

As Brooks made his way in the opposite direction, toward Holly M. in her sleek up-do, sexy black cocktail dress and high heels, he couldn’t help but look back at the solitary figure standing at the end of dock five, and just for a moment, he wished that he was standing there, too.

Skye pulled into a parking space at the Saks Fifth Avenue in Bala Cynwyd, a suburb of Philadelphia, at four o’clock on Saturday afternoon. For lack of a better plan, she would find a fancy dress and shoes, buy them on Brooks’ credit card and then hang out in a nearby Starbucks before getting dressed in the coffee shop bathroom and heading to the auction. Then? She planned to sit in a chair, bid on Brooks, win him, pay for him, get back in her car and go home, preferably stopping in the ladies’ room on the way out of the Ritz-Carlton to change back into her jeans, T-shirt, and flip flops.

Throwing her sunglasses back into their case, she grudgingly left the comfort of her car and headed into the department store, almost immediately feeling like a fish out of water. The salespeople mostly ignored her as she headed over to a store directory, but she couldn’t help noticing that most of the women shopping looked much older and more polished than Skye.

“God, what am I doing here?” she muttered, trailing a stained, stubby fingernail along the glossy sign detailing the myriad departments spread all over the store.

“Can I help?”

She jerked her head up at the sound of a male voice, turning to her left to find a man beside her dressed in a shiny gray suit with a light pink shirt, darker pink tie, and hair that looked like it was being held in place by a whole can of hairspray.
Was that eyeliner?

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Sure?” He leaned closer to her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like a frequent flier.”

“Huh?”

“Have you ever visited Saks before?”

“No,” she said, still trying to find the department called “Fancy Dresses.”

“Well, I practically live here. Minimally I can direct you to the right place.”

She looked at him again and sighed. “Okay, thanks. I need a fancy dress for a gala.”

He leaned back sharply, looking surprised. “
That
, I would not have guessed, honey. Follow me.”

Turning quickly he headed back through the rows of make-up and costume jewelry and Skye clip-clopped behind him trying to keep up, her flip flops making a racket along the elegant marble floors. Stopping in front of the elevators, he pressed the “Up” button.

“I’m Clay,” he said, grinning at her and holding out his hand.

“Skye,” she said, shaking it gratefully.

“The elements,” he said, raising one carefully-shaped eyebrow as he gestured for her to precede him onto the elevator. “Earth and sky. I knew I liked your energy.”

Unaware that she had a likeable energy, Skye grinned back at him, laughing softly. “Hey, I know you’re a guy…but do you think
you
could help me find something?”

“What’s our budget?” he asked shrewdly, giving her a once-over and pursing his lips.

Skye shrugged. “Whatever it takes.”

“My favorite words!” he said, his face animating. “Where are we headed? With whom? When? I need the deets, Skye.”

“Gala in Philadelphia at the Ritz-Carlton. With Brooks Winslow. Tonight.”

“Color me impressed,” he said, fanning his face as he held the elevator door open for her. “Brooks Winslow who was in the Olympics?”

Skye nodded.

“Girl, he’s hot! But for heaven’s sake. Tonight? What do you have against a little planning?”

“We have almost four hours!” said Skye, trailing after him again. “How much time do I need to buy a dress? I mean, I thought I’d kill some time in a coffee shop somewhere nearby before getting dressed, and—”

“Honey.” He stopped his brisk walk and turned to face her. “We are going to need
all four
of those four hours. No joke.” He took a cellphone from his pocket, dialed two numbers, and pressed it to his ear. “I need patented leather sling backs brought to Ladies Formal Wear.” Glancing at her feet, he grimaced as he continued, “Make that closed toe pumps. Eight and a half. But sexy. Patented leather clutch, too. And I need Monique and Darlene at the salon ready for an up-do and mani in”—he shot a quick look at the gold watch on his wrist—“seventy minutes.” Gesturing to her breasts, he covered the phone for a moment. “Thirty-four C? Or thirty-two?”

“Thirty-two C,” mumbled Skye, dumbstruck by Clay’s pace and efficiency.

“And a bustier. Comfortable. Thirty-two C. And medium Spanx…because
every
woman needs them. When? Now, now, now, darling.”

He pressed the End button on his phone and turned to Skye with a beaming smile. “Ready for some fun?”

***

Brooks pulled his phone out of his tux breast pocket, checking the time again, and then flicked his eyes to the entry of the Grand Ballroom with a frown. As far as he could tell, Skye still hadn’t shown up and it was eight-forty. The auction was set to begin in about twenty minutes.

For most of the evening, he’d hunkered down with his brothers for protection, but once or twice, over-eager bachelorettes had cornered him to share their commitment to winning the cruise to Charleston.

Felicity Atwell, who’d once dated Brooks’ good friend, Barrett English, had been especially enthusiastic, running a tapered finger along his cheek to caress his lips and share her plans with him.

“I don’t care what it costs,” she’d hummed into his ear, her uninvited tongue flicking out against his skin. “I’m winning you tonight. I’ve already cleared my calendar for next week and told my bank to authorize a quarter million. You and me, Brooks. I’m packing light, but I’ll be sure to bring my hottest string bikini.”

Preferring to be the aggressor in his dealings with women, Brooks backed away from Felicity, almost blurting out that a string bikini was one of the most inappropriate pieces of clothing to bring on a weeklong ocean voyage when he was distracted by Margaret Story, who sidled up beside him.

“Felicity,” she asked, adjusting her black-rimmed glasses. “Why don’t you go away and stop annoying people?”

Felicity looked momentarily affronted, then recovered quickly and gave Margaret a snarky look. “Flat-chested Margie. Nice dress…for a funeral.” Looking back at Brooks, Felicity ran a tongue over her glossy lips. “I’ll see you later, lover.”

As Felicity sauntered away, Brooks turned to his childhood neighbor. “I owe you.”

“Great. Let’s settle up. Tell me where Cam is.”

Cameron and Margaret lived in the same apartment building and they were presently sharing the same contractor who was renovating Cam’s master bathroom and Margaret’s kitchen. From what Brooks could gather, they were developing quite a rivalry over Geraldo’s services and attention.

“What’s he done now?”

“He signed for a shipment of kitchen tiles. And now they’re missing…which means Geraldo’s at a standstill until they can be found.”

“Let me guess…he’s working on Cam’s bathroom in the meantime.”

“Brooks, you’re a genius,” said Margaret sarcastically. “Is he here?”

“He’s around,” demurred Brooks, catching sight of Cameron’s broad smile as he slipped out the door behind Margaret.

“Tell him I’m looking for him, all right?”

“Oh, sure. Will do. Hey, Margaret…” he started. He had to figure out a back-up plan just in case Skye wasn’t coming, because he was fairly certain he wouldn’t survive a week trapped with Felicity Atwell. Maybe Margaret could bid on him?

“Huh?” she asked, turning around.

But the thing is? Lately Brooks had been sensing an undercurrent in Cameron’s voice when he mentioned his “contractor wars” with Margaret…like maybe he was enjoying it all a little too much. Like maybe it
mattered
. Like maybe
Margaret
mattered. And even though Brooks wouldn’t be asking Margaret to help him out as anything but a favor from a friend, it wasn’t worth it to rile Cam, or worse, to hurt him.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“I guess the auction’s about to begin,” she said sardonically. “Good luck.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Taking one last look at the entry to the ballroom, Brooks cursed softly and shook his head as he headed toward the stage where Jessica was rounding up the bachelors.
Even the best laid plans can go to hell
, he thought. And right now hell looked like a week with whiny, desperate Felicity Atwell.

***

After Clay helped her find a champagne-colored floor length dress, covered in matching crystals, he’d walked her over to the Salon & Spa where two ladies had worked on her hair and a third had given her a “terribly needed” manicure. When the technician had finished the manicure, she’d gone to work on Skye’s face, asking her to “close her lids,” “purse her lips,” and “pout” as she applied makeup.

At some point, Clay had returned with champagne-colored shiny shoes that weren’t absurdly high, a small champagne-colored purse that looked like a big wallet with a gold bow, and some undergarments. Finally, he’d returned one last time with gold and diamond hanging earrings (he’d whispered in her ear that they were called “chandeliers” and “good paste”) and an assortment of five perfumes to try. When Skye exited the changing room at the salon and looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself—nor, she suspected, did Clay, who clapped his hands and swiped at his eyes.

“Honey, you are
gorgeous
!” he exclaimed, shaking his head and trying not to cry. “A legit work of art.”

Skye had giggled, self-conscious, but pleased. Her hair was parted to the side, and they’d made a loose bun in the back with tendrils escaping that looked sweet and summery, not overdone, and her makeup was light and natural-looking. Staring into the mirror, Skye grinned at her reflection and had only one triumphant thought: Let Brooks Winslow tell me he doesn’t see me as a girl
now
.

Charging the $4200 afternoon on Brooks’ credit card with a single swipe, Skye had waved goodbye to her new friends, tucking Clay’s business card in her purse and promising to email him all about the gala.

The one thing Skye hadn’t counted on? Traffic. Lots of it.

So much, in fact, that the eight mile ride from Saks to the Ritz—which should have only taken fifteen minutes—had already added up to twenty-five. Flicking her glance to the clock on her dashboard, she cringed. It was after eight o’clock and if Skye didn’t figure out a way to get there faster, she was going to miss the nine o’clock auction and break her promise to Brooks.

Opting for backroads and shortcuts, Skye pulled in front of the Ritz at eight-fifty-five, exiting the car without the help of the valet and tossing her keys to him efficiently. Grateful that she had chosen the one and a half inch “kitten heels” in lieu of the three inch high heels Clay had originally tried to convince her to purchase, Skye picked up her skirt and ran into the lobby, stopping at the concierge to ask about the ICA event.

Five minutes later, at nine o’clock on the dot, she walked up to the check-in desk. A well-dressed woman gave Skye a surprised look. “You are?”

“Skye Sorenson. I’m late, but I’m on the list. Has the auction started?”

The woman chuckled softly and gave her a knowing smile. “Hoping to win a rich bachelor?”

“Something like that,” she said, clutching at her dress as she adjusted the punishing waistband of her uncomfortable Spanx.

“Well, they’ve only just started. Brooks Winslow is up for grabs!”

Skye’s face froze and she grabbed the auction paddle out of the woman’s hand without another word, racing into the ballroom.

“Two hundred thousand dollars! Going once! Going twice!”

Flustered beyond belief and scrambling to find her voice, Skye held her paddle high in the air and yelled from the back of the room, “Two hundred and ten!”

***

From where he stood beside Jessica at the podium, Brooks could just make out the paddle waving in the back of the room accompanied by Skye’s out-of-breath voice. His eyes fluttered closed in a brief moment of relief as he pictured her rushing to put a second coat of epoxy on a fiberglass patch before realizing she was running late, throwing on some cheap, wrinkled dress and rushing to the hotel. Well, he didn’t care why she was late, even if her dress was made from bedsheets or if there was epoxy still smeared all over her face and hands. All he cared about was that Felicity Atwell’s bid had just been beaten.

“Well, now,” purred Jessica, glancing at her older brother with a beaming smile. “This is about to get interesting, friends. We have a last-minute bidder! Now, let me remind you, ladies, my brother is a world class athlete…if you know what I mean. An Olympic medal winner. Do I hear two hundred and twenty?”

Brooks let his gaze pass over the audience, trying not to rest on Felicity, but groaning inwardly when she raised her paddle again.

“That’s two hundred and twenty,” said Jessica.

“Two-thirty,” yelled Skye clearly from the back of the room, her hand and paddle visible over the elegantly-dressed guests who stood behind the back row of chairs.

“Two hundred and thirty thousand dollars going once. Going twice—”