The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction) (5 page)

“No problem.” He shifted forward and selected a K-cup.
Bold Breakfast Blend
. Of course. There was nothing weak about him. Not even his choice of coffee flavors. “So,” he said, above the hum and percolating of the machine. “How was your weekend?”

She resisted the urge to glance behind her to check and see if he was addressing Morgan. But the bright, intelligent gaze focused on her as well as Morgan’s not-so-subtle poke in the rib informed her his question had been directed toward her.
Oh shit. Okay. Breathe. And answer, damn it!

“F-fine,” she replied with another shaky smile and only minimal stuttering. “And yours?”

“Wonderful. I started off the holiday season with a performance of
The Nutcracker
at the Boston Ballet.” He arched a dark blond eyebrow. “Speaking of the holidays, you are attending the gala this weekend, right? Morgan?”

“Oh, I plan on going. What about you, Khloe?” her traitorous friend purred. Bitch.

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as if suddenly coated in peanut butter.
No. God, no
. She couldn’t show up dateless to the biggest event of the year to repeat her wallflower act from the previous year. Not to watch Bennett hold court with a beautiful woman on his arm while she sat at an empty table once again, wishing she could be the woman he bestowed admiring glances and intimate smiles on. Going to the gala would be the epitome of masochism…

“Of course,” she blurted.

“Great.” He treated her to another flash of his heart-melting smile, sending her heart from a trot into a full-out gallop. “I look forward to seeing you there. Have a great day, ladies.”

She murmured a response, staring after his broad shoulders until he disappeared down the hall.

“Smooth,” Morgan drawled beside her.

“Oh, shut up.” Khloe slapped a palm to her forehead. “What the hell did I just do?” she whispered.
Lied to your boss about attending the company gala to which you have no date
, her mind supplied helpfully.

Groaning, she grumbled a good-bye to Morgan and retraced her steps to her office, closing the door behind her. She set her coffee on her desk and plopped down in her chair.
Don’t pass out. Don’t panic.

The mantra did little to ease the yoga-like bends and twists contracting her stomach.

Bennett. She had to remember all she had to gain—love, family, security. With Bennett. For that, she would go to this gala. So what she didn’t have a date? She was an independent, strong woman. Morgan’s idea of buying a man had been crazy anyway. It was past time for Khloe to snatch off her big-girl drawers and drag on a seductive, confident woman’s thong.

Fortune favors the bold.

The only thing to fear is fear itself.

Love is a battlefield.

Oh shit. Now she was quoting Latin proverbs, FDR, and Pat Benatar.

She was so screwed.

Chapter Four

Mondays sucked shit.

Niall threw open his front door and strode into the reception hall of his home. Usually arriving at his house in the suburb of Dalkey after a long day in his Dublin office eased him. The beauty of the private gardens surrounding the steel and brick welcomed him like a mother’s open embrace. The house, with its spacious, airy rooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, and minimalist décor that he’d actually had hands-on input, was his oasis in an often hectic, always demanding world. When he closed that front door, he shut the shit out.

Not today.

Hell, over three-thousand miles hadn’t dimmed the memories from Friday night. A day packed with marketing meetings, contract disputes, and distribution negotiations hadn’t distracted him. Why shouldn’t Khloe follow him into the peace and quiet of his home?

He dropped his briefcase in the entrance to the sitting room, pausing long enough to peel off his suit jacket and toss it over the back of a chair. Jerking his tie loose, he continued down the inner hall, past the dining area, and into the family room. Aside from his bedroom, this was his favorite area in the house. The low couches, large chairs, and limestone fireplace decorated the large room, but it was the selection of instruments that reflected the heart of him. His bodhràns sat in the corner, the collection of Irish drums requiring more space than the flutes and pipes. But in front of the fireplace stood his most cherished possession. His fiddle. Even with his mind in a whirling, restless shit storm, just glimpsing the instrument protected in its case arrowed a small measure of pleasure into his chest.

Exhaling hard, he unlocked the large glass door and stepped out onto the balcony that wrapped around one half of the house. The stunning view of the sloped Dalkey rooftops, Dun Laoghaire Harbour, Dublin Bay, and the village of Howth stole his breath as it always did. He inhaled, allowing the beauty to infiltrate the chaos brewing in his head and chest.

A corner of his mouth lifted as memories drifted over him like the light mist beginning to fall. He’d returned to Ireland from the States after his mother died five years ago, since it had been her yearning for her homeland that had brought them to Boston in the first place. And Michael had volunteered to come with him. His friend’s joy and wonder in the country had been fun to watch, deepening Niall’s own appreciation. It was almost as if Michael had been the one finally coming home after a long absence. Having Michael by his side as he’d slowly taken the reins of Duir Music from his father had been invaluable. He’d been a quiet strength, an unshakable support that had never wavered even when Niall’s confidence and resolve had.

And he’d repaid that loyalty by not being there the night Michael had needed him most.

Pivoting sharply on his heel, he reentered the house. The claws of grief and anger that had blunted in the three years since Michael’s death sharpened and scored his emotional skin. The pain and emptiness of loss and guilt welled up like a bubbling geyser, pressed in on him, and he turned to his comfort, his joy, his peace.

His fiddle.

Striding to the case, he removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves. Carefully, he removed the fiddle from the case and settled on the stool with it before the fireplace. The dark wood gleamed, its gorgeous shape reminiscent of a curvaceous woman. Using the electric tuner, he quickly tuned and adjusted the fiddle and rosined his bow. Then, he stood, tucked the tail beneath his chin, rested the body on his left shoulder, and positioned his fingers on the strings. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes, released the breath…and played.

Just let the music carry him to a place that was his and his alone. The melody built walls around him like a castle turret, where no one could penetrate or intrude. This belonged to him, and he didn’t allow anyone to listen or impede on this time. Only Michael had been privy to this most personal side of him…and Khloe.

Sighing, the tension eased out of him as the last note vibrated and died on the air. He replaced the fiddle in its case and set it once again in its place of honor. Straightening, he moved toward the entrance, jerked at the sudden vibration against his thigh. Frowning, he removed the cell from his pocket, his scowl deepening at the unfamiliar number appearing on the screen. Wait. A 617 area code. Boston. Not Khloe’s phone number though—unless she’d changed it. His grip nearly threatened to crack the phone in half. He swiped a thumb across the call bar and held the cell to his ear.

“Hello.”

“Niall Hunter?”

Relief and disappointment crowded into his chest, vying for dominance. Not Khloe. But he didn’t recognize the feminine voice on the other end either.

“Yes. Who is this?” Irritation sharpened his voice, but damn if he could contain it. He should be happy Khloe wasn’t on the other end. Nothing could come of her reaching out to him. Didn’t stop the regret from sinking low in his gut, though.

“Morgan Lett. We met at the bachelor auction Friday night. The one who bought and paid for you lock, stock, and barrel?”

Yes, the blonde. Khloe’s friend. The friend who’d laid down twenty-thousand dollars so Khloe could have a date. Right. Her.

She laughed, and though the sound was light and pretty, it nonetheless reminded him of an evil cackle. As his mother used to say about him when he was up to no good: “That one has been twice-cursed by Adam’s slip-up.” This woman—this Morgan—definitely sounded like she suffered from a double dose of original sin.

“I know I’m the last person you expected to call,” she said.

“Especially since I don’t remember giving you my number,” he interjected dryly.

“I know, right?” she continued, either oblivious to sarcasm or just didn’t care. He would bet on the latter. “Let me tell you, I had to do some serious browbeating with that Rhodonite committee to get your personal information.” A pause. “By the way, I might have mentioned you were trying to skip out on the date you promised, so don’t be surprised if you receive a call from them.”

The woman was crazy. The fucking bullocks on her. “I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Lett—”

She snorted, cutting him off. “It’s Morgan. And whenever someone starts a conversation with ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ it lets the other person know they’re about to be just that. So I’ll make this quick, Niall.”

“Please call me Niall.”

Another of those cackles that had the hair raising on the back of his neck. He didn’t need “the Sight” to be afraid of what that wicked chuckle foreshadowed.

“I like you, Niall. Even though you screwed my girl—figuratively and literally, apparently—I still like you—”

“What the fuck—” he snapped.

“And I need your help,” she continued. “Well, Khloe needs your help.”

And that fast, the “You’re bloody joking me” evaporated off his tongue. He strode over to the glass door and once again stepped out onto his balcony, the phone still pressed to his ear.

“Hello?” Morgan said.

“I’m still here,” he murmured. “What’s wrong with Khloe?”

“Something only you can fix.”

Niall sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, Morgan, I’m sure you’re a very nice woman and a good friend to Khloe. But please don’t take offense when I ask have you been drinking?”

A heavy, wistful sigh drifted over the line. “No. It’s only 1:30 in the afternoon here. But anyhoo, Khloe’s in a really tight spot”—he slapped down another inappropriate image that would consign him to the bowels of hell—“and needs you.”

Khloe needing him. His body reacted as if a hand stroked down his chest and wrapped a fist around his cock. Damn, that wasn’t good.

“I’m pretty sure I am the last person Khloe would ask for help,” he stated, voice flat.

“Oh I completely agree,” Morgan said. “Which is why I’m asking because she’s too stubborn to do it. See, there’s a man who Khloe is in love with. Unfortunately, he doesn’t see her in that way, so she needs another man to jerk his head out of his ass and realize how adorable and perfect Khloe is.”

Shock threaded through him. “Let me get this straight. You want me to help make another man jealous,” he said bluntly.

“No,” Morgan corrected, stretching the word out as if speaking to a five year old. “I want you to help show this guy that other men—successful, handsome men—find Khloe attractive. And of course, desirable. Because let’s be honest. The girl has the fashion sense of Maria from
The Sound of Music
, but her body is hot.”

Don’t you even fucking think on how hot her body is
, he ordered himself.

“Is he blind as well as an idiot?” he snapped. He curled his fingers into a fist, the skin pulling so tight over his knuckles, he wouldn’t have been surprised if it split. “You want to use me in order to make a man who apparently doesn’t have the sense God gave a gnat open his eyes and see her as a woman.”

“Now you’re following me. Gold star for you, Niall,” she crowed. “But our Khloe loves the guy, so what are we going to do?” He could hear the shrug in her voice. “That’s where you come in. That date you owe me? I bought it for Khloe, and I intend for her to have it whether she wants it or not. This Friday I need you to escort her to our company’s gala and sweep her off her feet.”

She loved him. Khloe loved this guy. And Niall was supposed to play the fool to help this eejit notice her.

He ground his teeth together until a dull ache protested along his jaw. Everything in him roared a bitter “Hell no.” One woman had already used him for his wealth, social status, and career. After his ex-wife had nearly walked away with half his family’s music empire, he’d vowed never again. But now here was, being asked to hit repeat. Maybe not for the same end result: Veronica had coveted his name and money, and Khloe longed after a man. But neither wanted him, but what he could bring them. And that it was Khloe doing the using only soured on his tongue like milk two days past the expiration date.

It shouldn’t sting. He shouldn’t care. Hell, this might be a small way to ease the hurt from three years ago.

Yet…

Khloe needs a man who will love her with everything they are, who will devote and commit himself to her and provide the home and family she craves…You’re the only one I trust with her happiness.

Hell no. Michael had asked that of Niall, but this Bennett possessed the IQ of a wooden post if he couldn’t recognize the beauty right in front of him. And even if Khloe loved him, desired him, he wasn’t getting involved. He’d stayed out of her life for three years with good cause. Staying away from her had been his way of honoring Michael’s request, and playing matchmaker wasn’t a good enough reason to walk back in. Not when he would bring pain and hurt with him.

“Niall? Are you still there?” Morgan persisted.

“Yes,” he bit out. “And my answer is no.”

“What?” she shrieked. “Why? You owe her.”

“Yes, I do,” Niall agreed, tone hard, implacable. Final. “Which is why my answer is no. Good-bye, Morgan.”

He hung up before she could argue and reentered his house. He strode toward his fiddle and picked it up again, seeking the measure of peace he’d obtained before answering the phone.

Despite what Morgan thought, Khloe’s happiness didn’t include him.