The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction) (6 page)

Chapter Five

Khloe smoothed her damp palms down her sides, the heavy black silk soaking up the light perspiration.

“Damn nerves,” she muttered. But she could be forgiven for the sudden attack of Oh-my-God-I’m-really-doing-this. After all, in just an hour, she would come face-to-face with Bennett. Her stomach executed a flip Gabby Douglas would’ve envied. Yes, Bennett’s reaction caused the somersault in her belly. Not the fact that she would be pitifully alone.

Patting the elegant but simple bun she’d twisted her hair into, she eyed her long, formal gown. The slight sweetheart neckline didn’t prop her breasts on display, but it didn’t make them appear as if she wore a binding cloth either. A good compromise. The length and empire-waist style effectively camouflaged the six-pack she
didn’t
have, wide hips, and thighs that could be attributed more to treks to the break room for coffee than walks in the park.

All in all, she didn’t look bad. Still, Bennett was accustomed to sexier, less-clothed supermodels with pert A-cups and thighs that could crack a walnut. Just like Niall was. Case in point, his ex-wife…

Scowling, she rubbed a hand over her chest. Over the last week, thoughts of Niall had cropped up out of nowhere. And whenever she thought of him loving a woman enough to marry, that uncomfortable, unreasonable blade of jealousy sliced deep and twisted.

Cut. It. Out
, she scolded herself. She glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside table. 6:10.
Focus on Bennett
. Forget Niall. In five minutes, she would head out. Inhaling, she returned her gaze to the cheval mirror and studied her reflection and tried to ignore the sudden wave of light-headedness.

Okay, it was normal to be nervous. Natural. She was stepping outside her box—

Holy shit, this was such a bad idea. She pressed a palm to her abdomen, steadying herself against the edge of her vanity with the other hand.
Why am I doing this? What am I thinking? Bennett isn’t suddenly going to take one look at my big ass and fall head-over-heels in love with it. The odds are more likely he’ll trip over it…

The purse on her bed jangled, Madonna’s “Human Nature
”
interrupting her headlong rush toward a full-blown panic attack. With a sigh, she grabbed the small bag and removed her phone. Her mother would have a couple of litters if she ever heard the ringtone Khloe had assigned her. So it was a bit passive-aggressive and childish. She owned it.

“Hi, Mom,” Khloe greeted.

“Khloe.” Rosalind Richardson’s smooth, precise tone reverberated in Khloe’s ear. “How are you?”

“Fine. And you? Dad?”

“We’re doing well.”

So cold and formal. It hadn’t always been this way. Her parents had never really done PDA, but their family had always been warm and affectionate, if a bit overprotective. Until Michael died. Something in her mother and father had shut down after her brother’s death. And three years later, their grief and bitterness hadn’t eased. Neither had the almost obsessive need to keep Khloe close—as if losing one child had instilled the fear of God in them about losing their remaining one. Khloe tolerated it because she understood where it originated from…but sometimes the burden of being the living child, of not disappointing them by leaving like Michael, was like an albatross.

“I’m calling to invite you to a small, impromptu dinner party your father and I are having tonight.”
Impromptu
meaning Rosalind had planned it last week as opposed to a month ago. Rosalind was just a tad bit on the anal side. “It will be us and a few friends. Dinner will be served at seven. Please be on time.”

Not
can you make it?
Or even
we’d like you to come
. Just an assumption she would attend because what else could she possibly have planned on Friday night? A part of her couldn’t blame her mother for presuming though. Hell, she was a people-pleaser. Especially when it came to her parents. Upsetting them…well, giving in was a helluva lot easier than facing their sad disapproval. She squeezed her eyes shut, and silently inhaled, attempting to calm the thud of her heart.
Get it together! You’re twenty-five not five, damn it
.

“I’m sorry, Mom, but I won’t be able to make it tonight.”

A deafening silence boomed in her ear.

“Excuse me?” Rosalind asked.

“I’m sorry,” Khloe repeated. “But I already have plans for the evening.”

“Really. What do these plans include?”

Closing her eyes, Khloe pinched the bridge of her nose and chose to ignore the skepticism in her mother’s tone. “My company is holding a holiday ball.”

“Oh.” Rosalind scoffed, and she could picture her mother flicking away Khloe’s explanation. “That’s trivial. Besides, I’ve already ordered dinner for ten. Professor Jensen is bringing his nephew, and—”

“No.”

Another dense, censorious silence weighed down the phone connection. Rosalind’s displeasure crackled like a live current, and Khloe gripped the phone tighter. An apology and agreement to attend the dinner hovered on her tongue, but with a force of will or desperation—probably both—Khloe swallowed it. If she gave in tonight, showed up at her parents’, and endured a torturous dinner beside another professor’s nephew, she would be surrendering the future she desired…hungered for. Tonight, she ceased being a spectator in her own life and became a participant. Tonight, she claimed that first step toward her dream of a loving partner, a family, and a future filled with affection, laughter, and acceptance.

“Khloe—”

The doorbell pealed, and she threw up a prayer to whatever patron saint of girls without backbones had been listening.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I have to go,” she interrupted once more, most likely earning herself a top three spot on her mother’s shit list. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Not waiting for her assent, Khloe ended the call and dropped the phone back in the purse.
On second thought
… Nibbling her lip, she removed the cell and tossed it on the bed, then exited the bedroom and headed for the short flight of stairs that led to the lower level of her Cambridge townhome. While she was thankful to whoever stood on the other side of the door, she didn’t have time to talk. The gala—and Bennett—awaited.

Huffing out a breath, she opened the door.

And lost her breath.

Oh. My. God.

Niall.

Shock punched the breath from her lungs. Her heart drummed away in her chest, the same pounding a dull roar in her ears as she numbly drank him in.

Dark hair waved away from his face, the thick strands brushed behind his ears and grazing the collar of his white shirt. He’d forgone the traditional tuxedo in favor of a black three-piece suit that graced his broad shoulders, wide chest, slim hips, and powerful thighs to perfection. A tie the identical shade of his piercing sky-blue eyes provided a spot of bright color aside from his shirt.

Somewhere in heaven, God was patting Himself on the back for this flawless creation.

Or maybe not. The angelic ancestor who’d passed along his genes to the man before her had probably taken a header from the sky with Lucifer.

“What are—”

“What the bleedin’ hell are you wearing?” he snapped, his dark brows slamming down. His gaze dragged down her body and back up, lighting on her hair. If possible the frown darkened even further.

“W-what,” she stammered, backpedaling as he shifted forward and into her small foyer. She patted her hair, then ran a hand down the front of her gown. Had she missed a few strands? Was there a wrinkle in the skirt? “What are you talking about? No, wait, forget about that. What are you doing here?”

He closed the door behind him with an ominous thud. “Taking you to your gala. But not in that dress. Where did you get it? Nunneries ‘R’ Us?” His mouth firmed into a hard line as he dipped his hand into his pants pocket and withdrew his cell. As he jabbed the screen several times and lifted the phone to his ear, his words still rang in hers.
Taking you to your gala.
What was happening here?

“Shara? This is Niall.” Impatience flickered across his face as the person on the other end greeted him with an exuberance Khloe heard from a couple feet away. “Yes, I’m in town, and I promise we’ll catch up, but I need a favor.” Pause. “Thank you. I need your stylist. And I need them here thirty minutes ago. I’m short on time.”

Khloe gasped. Hot embarrassment chased anger and both bloomed in her chest and soared to her cheeks. Okay, so she didn’t wear the expensive, couture dresses Morgan favored that showed off more skin than a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue. Not like the women Niall dated—and married—gorgeous women who were size 0, flawless, and sophisticated. He didn’t do normal in his world. And Khloe was normal…average. Men didn’t stop and gawk on the street when she strode by. They didn’t trip all over themselves to invite her out, to proudly display her on their arm. She wasn’t that kind of woman.

And if she sometimes yearned to be that woman, well…those moments were best relegated to the lonely hours on the couch with a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and her
Pretty Woman
DVD.

“Morgan is behind this, isn’t she?” she growled. Mortification razed a path through her. “Why couldn’t she just mind her business? Well, look, you can just go back home. I don’t need your pity date or your stylist and—”

He shot up a hand, and her diatribe skidded to a halt on the tip of her tongue.

“Dark brown hair, gorgeous green eyes. Size 8, maybe a 10. Curvaceous. A sexy woman.” Though the deep, matter-of-fact tone could’ve been discussing the Wall Street stock market report, the words slid beneath her skin, turned her blood into a syrupy river of heat. His hooded gaze lowered from her face, settled on her breasts. She sucked in a breath, her nipples pebbling beneath the heavy silk, abrading the lace of her bra. Suppressing the urge to cross her arms and conceal the evidence of her reaction to his visual caress, she tipped her chin up and leveled a glare on him that, if God was fair, would’ve had him six feet under… Forget that. She didn’t trust him. Twelve feet under. “A full C but firm,” he continued, voice losing a bit of that ice, growing a tad darker, his accent more pronounced. “Small waist and hips. True hourglass. Whoever you send, tell them I don’t want her shape hidden. She’s a beautiful woman; their job is to make sure it’s seen.” He slowly raised his intense scrutiny, meeting her eyes once again, and she raised a hand to her throat, circling her neck. As if in protection from the stare that burned as hot as the heart of a flame. “Hurry, yeah? If they make it here in twenty minutes, I’ll double their fee.” He rattled off her address then hung up.

A long, weighty silence descended between them. Pressure built in her lungs, and in the back of her mind, she could dimly hear her brain demanding she breathe. But with Niall only feet away from her, his tall, hard body strung tight like a sleek, dangerous predator preparing to pounce, and that steady regard unwavering, breathing wasn’t a priority.

A sexy woman… A beautiful woman…

Then, he blinked. Ice replaced heat. And she dragged air into her lungs as if starved.

“Niall,” she said, despising the breathless quality of her voice. And the slamming of her heart. And the dampness in her panties. Bastard.
He. Left. You
.
Abandoned you when you needed him most after taking your virginity and fucking you senseless. Have some pride!
The self-rebuke doused the desire pooling low in her belly. “I don’t know why you decided to show up here. But I don’t have time for,” she flicked a finger toward his phone, “whatever you have planned.
I
have gala to attend. Alone. By myself. As a matter-of-fact,” she glanced down at her thin, gold watch, “I’m leaving now.”

He didn’t reply…or move. “
We
will leave after the stylist arrives.” His lips twisted into a wry half-smile. “At the price I offered, they should be here shortly. Until then, you might want to go upstairs and get undressed so they can start as soon as they arrive.”

“I. Don’t. Need. A. Stylist,” she ground out between clenched teeth, enunciating as if speaking to a child…or an idiot.

He snorted.

Just that one, derisive sound, and every insecurity soared to the forefront, rocketing her temper into the kill zone. “And I don’t need you.”

His gaze went from
brr
to arctic in a blink.

“Yet, here I am. And my help is what you’re going to get. And afterward, we’re attending your damn ball to have a whale of a time.” The tone was cold enough to chip cubes off of, but the thickening of his accent and inclusion of “Irish-isms” waved a red, caution flag that Khloe had pricked his temper.

“I didn’t ask you to come here or be my date for tonight. And I damn sure didn’t ask you to try and change me to look like one of the
America’s Next Top Model
-types you’re used to. I’m sorry my ordinary Plain Jane appearance offends your sensibilities,” she snapped.

His full lips hardened into a furious flat line, the angles of his face appearing sharper as fury lit an unholy fire in his eyes, burning away the frost. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The quiet, low question might as well as have been bellowed and accompanied with shattering glass. Hell, she might’ve been less wary if he had. The soft tone was damn unnerving.

“Nothing,” she whispered, shifting backward. Her pulse accelerated as he claimed the step she’d surrendered.

“Oh it’s something,” he countered in the same menacing tone. “I understand perfectly that you don’t want me here. I’m also quite crystal clear you’d like for me to take my offer of help and shove it up my ass. But I have to honor my agreement for that damn auction, which includes doing something with the money that would’ve went toward the date. And it might as well be spent on you, since you’re the one hot to attract the attention of a ball-bag who doesn’t seem to know you exist.”
Ouch
. That stung. But then the truth often did. “I don’t give a fuck what you wear. I’ve seen you naked…”