Chapter Two

I immediately reach for the glass of champagne that’s been poured for me in my “dressing room.”

I’ve been scrubbed and buffed and polished to within an inch of my life, and under the silk robe I’m wearing, my breasts are ridiculously plumped up and spilling over the scalloped edges of my white-lace and sparkly-silver demi bra, with a dainty, deceptively innocent baby blue satin ribbon poised in the valley of the rounded inner swells. A matching thong, white thigh-high stockings and stunning, skyscraping white pumps, bejeweled with Swarovski crystals and mini ostrich feathers, complete the ensemble.

I have no idea how many billionaires (or close-to-being billionaires) I’ll be prancing in front of, but given this is the eighth annual auction, I venture to guess it’s a successful enough event to garner global interest.

Unfortunately for me, I’ve no real way to prepare myself for the evening ahead. I don’t have a clue as to what sort of kink sheiks, prodigal sons, heirs to empires or angsty rags-to-riches tycoons are into. All I can do is pretend I’m into it all, too.

This, of course, sparks a tickle along my clit. I won’t lie, the mere notion of the “unknown,” and the potential for some seriously hot sex makes my insides sizzle. I could use a night with a magnificently built stranger ravaging me from head to toe, devoting a significantly wicked amount of time to the erogenous zones in between.

Though… With my luck of late, I’ll likely end up being bought by a ninety-year-old who simply wants me to read a salacious bedtime story to him.

Actually, that is precisely what I should be wishing for, right? Talk about easy money.

But, I don’t know… There’s the lure of erotic, deviant, highly guilty pleasures that taunt me.

Problem is, I’m not exactly interested in just anyone having their way with me. When you’ve met the ultimate in masculinity and power, a man with the lushest dark hair and the most sinful brown eyes, who commands attention without saying a word… You pretty much give up on real lust and longing. Jameson Richards is all that and more.

He won’t be here tonight, though. I destroyed the invite two seconds after I'd read it and realized I’d crossed a very specific professional line by opening his personal mail. Without the exquisitely designed card that contained a one-time entry code assigned only to him, he’ll neither know the locale of this secluded soiree, nor will he have verified access.

I latch onto the positive—I won’t have to worry about him being in the audience.

I sip some more and try to relax.

Micah, my devoted “attendant” sweeps in now, in all his glowing mocha essence and refinery. He snatches the bottle of champagne that he conspiratorially informed me earlier is worth six-grand a pop, and refills my glass.

Then he waves a manicured hand in my general direction, and says, “You are going to be marvelous. A breath of fresh air. And I’m not just claiming sheer victory because I’ve created a masterpiece with your hair and makeup. Hands down, my darling, you are a Christmas vision to behold.”

I smile, albeit shakily, my nerves being mere livewires that are too sensitive and prickly for me to find an ounce of calm within me.

Micah playfully comments, “Drink up, buttercup,” as though this is just any other night in my “flashy-glam life.”

Little does he know, my real life is the farthest thing from flashy, and it's certainly not glamorous. I literally work around the clock and have zero social life.

Neither here nor there.

The only thing that should be in my purview at present, is this auction.

Because things are about to get wild...

I suck down my champagne and then Micah gives me two minutes to pee. He primps me some more before directing me to a door in my designated room. He presses the lever and opens it, revealing a glittery holiday scene that is beautiful and elegant. Fantastically serene.

It features a snow-tipped tree with silver and white ornaments that shimmer under the delicate lighting and is accented with blue ribbons and bows that match the one on my bra. Gifts are under the tree, wrapped in lovely paper to fit the color scheme.

There are silver-fox fur rugs on the floor, an electric fireplace built into the wall adjacent to the tree and, in the center of it all, a plush white settee with another fur draped over one corner, while the opposite corner is filled with satiny silver pillows.

“It’s spectacular,” I tell him.

He says, “Think of this as a department store window in Herald Square or on Fifth Avenue. Obviously, all the other displays are going to be sensational. What you do with yours to make it stand out—to make you stand out—is up to you, darling.” He winks, then he disappears.

My fairy godmother has left me with a golden nugget.

Along a baseboard that can’t be seen by the “audience,” there’s a clock that’s showing me I have exactly five seconds to come up with some genius moves to compete with the other women who will also be on display in this first round.

This is where I have to pull out all the stops.

The five seconds basically vaporize, and my curtain rises. I get a glimpse of a well-appointed, richly paneled ballroom with lavish sofas and chairs, and a wide array of dining tables.

Then the dim up-lighting fills my “window,” and I’m the scenery.