Chapter Four

How I arrived at the “auction house” earlier is precisely how I leave. Micah has blindfolded me and escorted me to what must be a service elevator, capable of descending directly to the underground parking garage without making a single stop along the way.

He helps me into the back of a spacious vehicle, and we’re whisked away. I have no idea in what part of Manhattan we’re in, what building we’ve just left—or where we’re headed.

There is a natural hesitancy running through my veins. All this secrecy and cloak-and-dagger mysteriousness tweaks my nerves. I grasp it’s necessary, though. I’m not supposed to be able to retell this story to anyone else, with any amount of detail. Not that I could do that, anyway, without having my ass sued off. I signed a non-disclosure agreement. What happens with the Kinky Kringles Christmas Auction stays within the institution of the Kinky Kringles Christmas Auction.

Perhaps that’s the other reason I’m on pins and needles. Kinky Kringles… What the hell sort of fetishes are these billionaires into? And why not just buy a prostitute to satisfy those dark desires?

Oh, wait. That’s basically what they’re doing.

Just under a more sophisticated guise and with the ability to view the goods before they’re purchased.

I’m officially a whore.

Well, no, not quite yet. Thus far, I’m only guilty of getting myself off in front of dozens of men.

I try not to think of that. I let my mind go blank. I don’t even bother counting the turns we make or at what intervals, short or long, since I’m unaware of our true starting point. But it’s not a great distance before the car slows and halts for a lengthier period of time than a red light.

Micah quietly, unobtrusively asks, “Are you ready?”

Ready for what? is the question of the evening. But it’s actually not mine to pose. I saw my monetary value flashing like a shiny beacon, and it’s a huge life-preserver for me.

So I nod, not saying a word.

I hear the back door open and he assists me once again. It’s a brief walk, with some steps involved, then I feel the air temperature change from frigid and damp, because it’s snowing outside, to warm and pine-scented when we’re inside. I detect a Christmas tree in the near vicinity. A real one.

Micah removes my blindfold and I’m instantly overwhelmed by the sight before me. Two grand, curving staircases lead to a second-level mezzanine. The atrium-style entryway boasts a gilt-edged, domed ceiling beyond the second story and also showcases a courtyard past the mammoth windows comprising the far wall. Every feature is a showstopper.

Also, there is, indeed, an enormous, potentially thirty-foot tree right in front of me, centered between the sweeping staircases and decorated with silver and gold lights and ornaments, a large star at the top. The entire décor is immaculate and polished, including the miles of black-and-sand-colored marble covering the floors and steps.

We’re greeted by a butler in black tails and gloves, who offers me a glass of champagne, which I’m in desperate need of. Only, I have to put extraordinary effort into keeping my hand from shaking so violently, for fear of sloshing the expensive bubbly over the sides. I take a couple quick sips to minimize this possibility.

“I shall show you to your suite,” the butler announces in his haughty tone.

This is where Micah abandons me. He kisses me on the cheek, whispers, “Good luck,” then disappears out the double doors that have a pair of attendants to open and close them.

My stomach does an odd flip over all this grandeur and pomp and circumstance. Though I’m certain this is nothing special. Guests are received in this manner every day at this mansion, is my guess.

Of course, my curiosity mounts as to whose mansion this is. From my business dealings with other assistants at work, as well as setting up meetings and composing strategic communications and general correspondence for Jameson Richards, I’d venture to say I’ll recognize this well-to-do person’s name. Unless, as I’ve wondered about, he’s from another country, only renting this space for the evening or for the week.

We ascend one of the gorgeously crafted staircases, cross the open mezzanine and travel the lengthy corridor toward the end of the wing. My heels make a soft, though distinct clicking sound that echoes around us. I’m dressed in nothing more than the lingerie and stockings, covered by a stylish trench coat that’s belted at my waist. I don’t even have my purse with me. All personal belongings are in Micah’s possession, for safekeeping until the morning. Perhaps there was once an incident of a woman attacking her Kringle with a ballpoint pen, or attempting to strangle him with the gold chain of her handbag. Or—more likely—she was snapping unauthorized photos as proof of just how kinky a Kringle can be.

These errant thoughts do nothing to settle my nerves. Christ, what have I gotten myself into?

Fortunately, the endless opulence is so astounding, it diverts my attention so I’m not obsessing over what is soon to be. All the accent tables and tall vases and paintings are beyond breathtaking. As are the extravagantly framed mirrors. The luxurious seating. I imagine this is a glimpse of what the Louvre looks like.

We reach the designated suite and enter, the butler informing me, “It will only be a few moments. Is there anything you require, miss?”

“No, not that I’m aware of, thank you.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I mean, it’s just sex, right? What could I need for that other than the equipment God has given me?

Though, I’m not sure that was what he was referring to.

Doesn’t matter. He leaves me and I sip some more as I inch farther into the well-appointed room, clearly the sitting area. A nice blaze is crackling in the fireplace and there are two sofas and several chairs and accompanying tables. A chess set. Christ. Why do eccentric people always have chess sets at the ready?

I stand at the oversized windows and gaze out at the snow falling on the city. The skyline sparkles, but I’m not familiar with any particular landmark within close proximity, so I surmise we’re in Tribeca, especially given that it’s one of the most expensive neighborhoods in New York. A trendy locale where the upper crust resides.

I’m not sure what to do. If I should take my coat off and “make myself comfortable.” Or if I should take everything off and go into the bedroom and put myself on display there.

I don’t know if this guy is going to be a talker or a doer.

Though, I have the niggling suspicion, based on the price he’s paid, that he’ll stretch my limited sexual comprehension.

Since the butler didn’t politely ask to take my coat, I figure he must know I’m wearing next to nothing. Thank God I don’t live in this area. I won’t be running into him at the market.

Do butlers even go to the market? Or do they have their own staff for that?

The more I fixate on the absurd, the more inane my internal queries become, so I’m grateful when the door behind me opens and I hear footsteps.

I’m gazing down at my glass, thinking I really could use the entire bottle to settle the anxiety roiling through me.

Breathe, Nik. Just breathe.

No go—because he speaks.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into?”