The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction) (3 page)

“Though bachelor number ten has offices on both sides of the Atlantic, he claims Boston as his hometown
. A man of culture, he enjoys a night at the opera as much as an evening in the local pub. His favorite musicians include Luciano Pavarotti, The Dubliners, and U2, and in his estimation, no movie tops
The Godfather
. The woman who eventually wins his heart will possess interests as varied as his own, will be adventurous, and well-traveled.”

Well, that left Khloe out. Most of her life revolved around her job, her idea of adventure was online gaming, and she’d been to Dublin, Ireland exactly once. And the less said about that trip, the better.

“The fortunate woman to win him for her date will spend two days and a night in glamorous New York City where she will enjoy romantic dinners for two at five-star restaurants, a Broadway play, a concert, museums, and a personal appointment at Harry Winston’s Fifth Avenue location.” A wave of low voices rose and ebbed at the mention of the famous New York jeweler. Peek-a-boo’s smile widened as if she could sense the money this date would rake in. “We’ll open the bidding at five thousand.”

Morgan’s arm shot up, paddle in hand. As did another woman. And another. And another. Five minutes later, her friend was fully embroiled in a bidding war that didn’t exhibit any signs of slowing. A bead of sweat moseyed down her spine. Morgan’s full mouth firmed into a straight line, and her light brown eyebrows arrowed into a vee over glinting eyes. Khloe had witnessed this particular look before when someone crossed her friend at work. She’d labeled it Morgan’s “back off, bitch” expression, and woe to anyone who got in her way.

“Twelve thousand,” Peek-a-boo crowed. “Twelve. Do I have thirteen?”

Morgan lifted her arm. “Thirteen.”

“Morgan,” Khloe gasped. “You can’t.” She grabbed the other woman’s arm, but Morgan shook off her hold. “That’s too much—”

“You’re not going home empty-handed. Forget it. Fifteen,” she called out, tipping her paddle.

“Fifteen thousand,” the emcee cooed. And before she could raise the amount, another hand shot up. “Sixteen.”

Khloe’s stomach bottomed as the amount continued to increase. Oh God. Was Morgan serious? Jesus, that much money could buy her a car. Hell
two
cars. She swallowed. An image of Bennett wavered in front of her eyes, then faded. The idea of him seeing her as someone other than the dowdy, shy programmer on the third floor had been a dream—a beautiful dream. But she had to let it go. Her existence as it stood flashed in front of her like a dreary montage. Her quiet apartment. Dinner for one. Her empty, cold bed. The loneliness. Then visions of what she
could
have replaced the bleak tableau. A warm home full of laughter. Noisy dinners with kids. A man warming her back as he cuddled behind her in bed. Love. Damn, it hurt. But still…no way she could—or allow Morgan to—plunk down so much money on a pipe dream.

“Morgan—”

“Twenty-thousand dollars,” her friend stated, jumping the current bid by two thousand.

Peek-a-book blinked but quickly recovered her
Toddlers & Tiaras
pageant smile. “Twenty thousand. My goodness, the highest bid of the evening. Do I have twenty-one?” Murmurs undulated in the room, but no further numbers were yelled out. “Twenty going once. Two. Sold to number 82 for twenty-thousand dollars. Congratulations!”

A dull roar filled her ears. She’d done it.
Holy shit, Morgan had done it
. As if from a distance she caught Peek-a-boo’s closing comments.
Oh my God. I’m not going to Hawaii, and my friend is twenty grand lighter, but… Oh my God. She. Did. It
.

Morgan turned to her, satisfaction etched on her face. “Now that’s how you win a bachelor,” she stated. The only thing missing was a fist pump.

Bemused, Khloe couldn’t respond. Frozen in her seat, she stared at the stage as the other bachelors filed back out. Instantly, she sought out number ten—her date. He’d slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks, and her gaze slid over his wide chest and slim hips, emphasized by a thin black belt. Heat flooded her face and stretched down her neck beneath the high collar of her gown. She resisted the urge to ease a finger beneath the suddenly constricting material and tug it away, granting her more air.

With a body like that, what would his face look like? Would his bone structure be bold and prominent? Or would it be angular and elegant? And his eyes. She inched forward in her chair. Those she desired to glimpse the most. Would they be soft, gentle, to counterbalance the almost overwhelming maleness? Or would that gaze be as flinty as the rest of him?

The breath snagged in her throat. She needed to know.

“Now, what you’ve all been waiting for…” A drum roll vibrated on the air as the lights in the room brightened. “Bachelors, please remove your masks!”

She didn’t pay the other men on the platform the slightest bit of attention. Every sense, every nerve was pinned on the lean, male animal slowly lifting the disguise to reveal himself. Without intending to, she shifted closer to the edge of her seat…

He pulled the mask free.

Holy Mary, Mother of God
.

The breath expelled from her lungs on a loud
whoosh
of air. A horde of black and gold dots swarmed her vision. She swayed and grabbed the table just in time to prevent a faceplant to the floor.

She couldn’t see his sharp gaze from her seat, but she didn’t have to.

Blue. His eyes were a vibrant blue that rivaled the brightest summer sky.

She knew that face.

And the man.

The last time she’d seen him had been three years ago. When she’d fallen asleep beside him on tangled sheets after he’d made love to her for hours. No. Not made love. Screwed. Because a man who made love to a woman didn’t usher her out of his house the next morning with an indecent—and humiliating—amount of speed, and then never call or speak to her again after taking her virginity.

She’d just allowed her friend to pay twenty-thousand dollars for a man she hated with a passion.

Well shit
.

Chapter Two

God was a woman, Niall Hunter decided.

Had to be.

When a man wanted payback, he just beat the shit out of the man who wronged him, had a beer with him afterward, and then they went on their merry way.

Women, on the other hand, let a man think everything was all hunky-dory and allowed time to pass, and all the while they stewed and plotted. Then, when a man least expected it, she kicked him in the nuts, bringing him to his knees.

Five feet in front of Niall sat Khloe Richardson, God’s blow to the balls.

Jesus H. Christ
. What was she doing in a place like this? The ballroom filled with rich, more-money-than-sense eejits wasn’t exactly her crowd. The fact that he was one of those eejits didn’t escape him either.

He ground his teeth together, narrowing his eyes at the younger sister of his best friend. It didn’t matter that Michael had died three years ago, she was—and always would be—the sibling to the finest man he’d ever known. The one woman who remained beyond his reach, untouchable. Except for the one night when he’d been drowning in alcohol and grief and had spent hours in her arms and inside her body.

The night he would go to hell for.

Damn it. Familiar guilt and anger roiled in his gut as if he’d downed shot after shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. He’d known this—returning to Boston from Dublin, Ireland, after a three-year absence, participating in this meat market for vain, bored socialites—had been a bad idea. When his publicist had arrived in his office with the invitation in hand, his “hell no” had been immediate and adamant. Standing on a stage, masked and trussed up like a five-course meal only to end up arm-candy for some spoiled and avaricious rich woman? Fuck no. Been there, done that, had the divorce decree, lighter wallet, and lump of coal in his chest to prove it.

Besides, as CEO and owner of Duir Music, the foremost leading record label in Ireland, he rarely had time to eat, much less spend several days abroad. But his publicist had been aware of Niall’s hot buttons to push: his mother had been a loyal member of the Rhodonite Society when alive; earlier in the year, the group had honored her with a dinner, and he hadn’t attended; and the proceeds of the auction would benefit literacy, a cause Michael, as an almost educator, had been passionate about.

After a lot of grumbling, he’d relented.

He should’ve followed his instincts and kept his ass on the other side of the ocean.

Khloe slowly rose from her chair, her wide gaze fixed on him. Damn, she was beautiful. He scanned her from the dark brown strands he knew from personal experience were soft and thick to the tips of her shoes and back up to the gorgeous, green eyes that haunted his dreams.

Even in the ugliest dress he’d ever seen, she outshone every woman in the room.

The…
thing
… might have had a collar as high as a nun’s habit, and the dark material skimming her body had all the shape and appeal of a potato sack, but he remembered the body underneath in startling, vivid detail. Three years hadn’t dimmed his memories—not when he fucking thought about her naked and writhing underneath him with a regularity that bordered on obsession. Breasts large enough to fill his palms, a tiny waist that accentuated the sensual flare of her hips. Hips he’d gripped as he’d dragged her up and down on his cock as her toned, lightly muscled thighs quivered with the exertion her virgin’s body hadn’t been used to. Well, hadn’t been used to before that night.

A bead of sweat rolled down his spine as every pint of blood in his body seemed to flow south and congregate in his cock. Somewhere there was a woodshed with his name on it for the lessons he’d taught her that night. As much as he’d been drinking, he shouldn’t have been able to move, much less fuck. But he’d taken her like a man possessed. Over and over. On her back. Her stomach. Her side. On his back. And he recalled each and every moment as if the sheer heat of those hours had burned away memories that should’ve been fogged by alcohol.

Maybe that was part of his punishment for laying a hand on Michael’s much-loved baby sister. Damned to never forget the most explosive, mind-blowing sex of his life…and doomed never to repeat it because of his friend’s last request before his death.

Yeah, God was definitely a woman.

Only a female could be that fucking diabolical.

“Ladies, please step to the front of the stage and meet your bachelors.” The evening’s hostess with a slit in her dress almost as high as her other slit summoned the winning bidders to the front of the ballroom. He gritted his teeth, the reason for his being at the gala rematerializing with the force of a sledgehammer. Right. Arm candy. Cattle for the slaughter. Hell, he silently growled, he wouldn’t be surprised if the woman who won him inspected his teeth or fondled his dick to discover if she’d bought worthy goods.

Following the other nine men off the platform, he once more sought out Khloe. But she no longer stood beside the table he’d spotted her at earlier. He frowned, again wondering why she was attending the society fundraiser. The newly graduated twenty-two-year-old he remembered from three years ago had favored quieter, much less populated venues. Like get-togethers with friends at coffee shops. As a matter-of-fact, the only parties she’d attended had been those boring-as-hell gatherings of her parents. Michael, six years his sister’s senior, could often beg off attending, but Khloe hadn’t attained that measure of independence then. When they could manage, he and Michael would try to help her escape, but those times had been few and far between.

Carter and Rosalind Richardson had already failed to keep their only son away from Niall’s corruptive, indolent, hedonistic—their words, not his—influence, and they’d refused to take chances with their daughter.

Had Khloe finally managed to unearth herself from under their overprotective, stifling wings? He grimaced as an image of that awful dress flashed in front of his eyes. At twenty-five, she might not live with them any longer, but their sway seemed to be as strong as ever.

Not that it mattered, he concluded, emerging from the back of the stage area and into the ballroom. None of it—Khloe’s presence here, her questionable fashion sense, parents’ control or lack of it. It’d been three years since he’d climbed out of his bed while she slept, hair a thick, mahogany tangle over his pillows, her beautiful body curled into a ball like a sleeping kitten, soft, adorable snores escaping her parted lips. Three years since he’d sent her away, racked by guilt over fucking his best friend’s sister while he’d been drunk and she’d been vulnerable. Three years since he’d seen her, touched her, talked to her.

Once he had this ridiculous date over with and out of the way, it would be more years. That night had been an aberration. He’d betrayed Michael’s friendship and memory by taking advantage of the one person his friend had loved and valued above all others. And from the way his gut clenched and his cock throbbed, if he remained in Boston longer then was necessary, he might commit that treason again.

“Bachelor number ten,” a sultry voice murmured. And cooled the need pulsing inside him as effectively as an abrupt dousing of freezing water. He lowered his head and met the gleaming appreciation in a direct, bright blue stare. The woman’s polished, flawless beauty reminded him of a perfectly cut and brilliant diamond—and left him as cold as one. Diamonds were exquisite but possessed all the warmth of a witch’s titty. His ex-wife, Veronica, had shared the same cutting loveliness. “So nice to meet you.” She extended a slim hand toward him almost as if she expected him to kiss the back of it. “Morgan Lett. And you are?”

“Niall Hunter.” He accepted her hand, pumped it once then released it. “I’m assuming I have you to thank for the twenty thousand bid?”

“The one and only,” she replied.

“Well, thank you. A donation that size should really help the foundation.”

She waved off his gratitude with a flicker of a bejeweled hand. “Of course. It was nothing.” From the size of the ruby weighing down her ring finger, the hefty price probably was
nothing
to her—and didn’t even dent the trust fund she undoubtedly owned. “Is that an Irish accent I detect?” She smiled, and a picture of a female lion licking her chops leaped in his head. “I love accents,” she purred.

“That’s fortunate, since you’ll hear a lot of it during the time we spend in New York. Speaking of…” He glanced down at his watch. 9:30. It wasn’t too late in the evening, but he had a return flight to Dublin leaving at 7:30 in the morning. It would be nice if he could make it back to his hotel room at a decent hour and get some sleep. “We should set when you’d like to—”

“Yes, about that. I won’t be going on the date with you. I placed the bid for a friend. She will take my place instead.”

His eyebrow jacked up. A twenty-grand favor? That must be some friend. “Okay.” He shrugged a shoulder. One woman was as good as another. That had damn sure been his motto for the last year since his divorce. “Where is she? I’d like to make arrangements with her before I leave for the evening.”

“Oh, she’s right…” She glanced over her shoulder. As did Niall. Nothing but air occupied the space behind Morgan. A scowl darkened her lovely features. “She
was
right here. Where could she have gone? I’ll be back in a moment.”

Morgan didn’t wait for his assent but pivoted and quickly disappeared in the throngs of people. He sighed, sliding his hands in his pants pockets. Whoever this mysterious “friend” was, she had about ten minutes before he left. He’d crossed an ocean and several time zones to be at this auction, and in the matter of days, he’d have to repeat the process. A glass of something stronger than the frou-frou champagne being served here and sleep topped his list of priorities.

Even as he imagined finally returning to the hotel and solitude, he scanned the crowded room for a particular face of delicate lines; a full, wide, sinful mouth; and stubborn chin. Seeking Khloe out. Another bad idea. But damned if he couldn’t stop searching. And not just because her beauty drew him like southern heat lured birds fleeing winter’s cold. In a room full of strangers, she was a familiar beacon. A reminder of the thirteen years he’d lived in Boston with his best friend. Of the love, warmth, and friendship he’d found with the Richardson siblings. To Michael and Khloe, Niall hadn’t been the son of one of the most powerful, influential, and wealthiest men in Ireland. They hadn’t cared about his exclusive Boston address, his mother’s lineage, or his family’s money. They’d cared for
him
. Imperfect, sometimes brusque, often rebellious Niall Hunter.

He hadn’t known that kind of unconditional acceptance since Michael’s death and those dark, sweaty, passionate hours with Khloe. In the quicksilver moment when he’d first spied Khloe, he’d felt like he’d finally come home.

But that instance had evaporated, and now so had she. Not that he could blame her. She’d been a virgin—a fucking
virgin
at twenty-two in this day and age—and he’d rejected then abandoned her without a word as if he’d picked her up on a street corner. She didn’t know he’d been protecting her from himself as well as honoring a promise to her brother, still… She had good reason to despise the sight of his face.

Another peek at his watch revealed five minutes had elapsed since Morgan had gone in search of her friend and his date.
Five more minutes
, he promised himself.
Then I’m out of…

There.

Heat surged through him, spread across his chest, and bottomed out his gut. A wee thing, he’d almost missed her. But she hovered by the room’s entrance talking to—

Holy shit. Morgan.

Dread tripped and stumbled down his spine.
No way. No way in hell
. But as Morgan grabbed Khloe’s arm and dragged her in his direction, he couldn’t deny what his mind roared had to be a mistake.

Khloe was Morgan’s “friend.”

He remained frozen in place, unable to move as the two women neared. One wearing a determined expression, the other a scowl hot enough to raze the building down to its foundation. Within moments, they stopped in front of him, and he stared down into eyes as green as the hills Ireland was famous for.

“Here she is,” Morgan gritted out, baring her teeth in a ferocious smile. “Niall Hunter, I’d like you to meet—”

“Hello, Khloe,” he murmured.

“Niall,” she muttered in return, her frown remaining.

His palms itched to draw her into his arms and hug her close. But the fire snapping in her gaze warned him not to try unless he liked writhing on the floor with his balls rammed to the back of his throat.

“Oh.” Morgan glanced from her friend to him. “You two know one another.”

“Yes,” Khloe said. Paused. “Unfortunately.”

The verbal jab stung. He inhaled, braced himself against the throb of it.

“Her brother, Michael, was my best friend.”

She tipped her chin up. “Morgan, I appreciate your help tonight. And I really hate that you’ve wasted twenty-thousand dollars. Because I’d rather have a Brazilian than go on a date with him. And you.” Her eyes narrowed on him, and the fury there scorched him. “You can go to hell.”

She whirled around and stalked away without a backward glance.

“Wow. A Brazilian?” Morgan whistled. “Whatever you did, you must’ve really fucked up.”

And wasn’t
that
the understatement of the decade?

But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—change a thing about it. Because breaking a promise wasn’t an option.