champion pole-vaulter . . . how about that, gentlemen? What am I bid, please, for a dance

with the delightful Mariah?”

Mariah glares at the MC and someone yells, very loudly, “Three thousand dollars!” It’s

a masked man with blond hair and beard.

There is one counter-bid, but Mariah sells for four thousand dollars.

Christian is watching me like a hawk. Brawler Trevelyan-Grey—who would have

known?

“How long ago?” I ask Mia.

She glances at me, nonplussed.

“How long ago was Christian brawling?”

“Early teens. Drove my parents crazy, coming home with cut lips and black eyes. He

was expelled from two schools. He inflicted some serious damage on his opponents.”

I gape at her.

“Hasn’t he told you?” She sighs. “He got quite a bad rep among my friends. He was

really persona non gratafor a few years. But it stopped when he was about fifteen or six-

teen.” She shrugs.

Holy fuck.Another piece of the jigsaw falls into place.

“So, what am I bid for the gorgeous Jill?”

“Four thousand dollars,” a deep voice calls from the left side. Jill squeals in delight.

I stop paying attention to the auction. So Christian was in that kind of trouble at school,

fighting. I wonder why. I stare at him. Lily is watching us closely.

“And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana.”

Oh shit, that’s me.I glance nervously at Mia, and she shoos me center stage. Fortu-

nately, I don’t fall over, but stand embarrassed as hell on display for everyone. When I look

at Christian, he’s smirking at me. The bastard.

“Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks fluent Mandarin, and is keen on

yoga . . . well, gentlemen—” Before he can even finish his sentence Christian interrupts

him, glaring at the MC through his mask.

“Ten thousand dollars.” I hear Lily’s gasp of disbelief behind me.

Oh fuck.

“Fifteen.”

What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed man standing to the left of the

stage. I blink at Fifty. Shit, what will he make of this? But he’s scratching his chin and

giving the stranger an ironic smile. It’s obvious Christian knows him. The stranger nods

politely at Christian.

“Well, gentlemen! We have high rollers in the house this evening.” The MC’s excite-

ment emanates through his harlequin mask as he turns to beam at Christian. This is a great

show, but it’s at my expense. I want to wail.

“Twenty,” counters Christian quietly.

The babble of the crowd has died. Everyone is staring at me, Christian, and Mr. Mys-

terious by the stage.

“Twenty-five,” the stranger says.

Could this be any more embarrassing?

Christian stares at him impassively, but he’s amused. All eyes are on Christian. What’s

he going to do? My heart is in my mouth. I feel sick.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” he says his voice ringing clear and loud through the

marquee.

“What the fuck?” Lily hisses audibly behind me, and a general gasp of dismay and

amusement ripples through the crowd. The stranger holds his hands up in defeat, laughing,

and Christian smirks at him. From the corner of my eye, I can see Mia bouncing up and

down with glee. My subconscious is gazing at Christian, utterly gobsmacked.

“One-hundred thousand dollars for the lovely Ana! Going once . . . going twice . . .”

The MC stares at the stranger who shakes his head with mock regret and bows chivalrously.

“Sold!” the MC cries out triumphantly.

In a deafening round of applause and cheering, Christian steps forward to take my hand

and help me from the stage. He gazes at me with an amused grin as I make my way down,

kisses the back of my hand then tucks it into the crook of his arm, and leads me toward the

marquee’s exit.

“Who was that?” I ask.

He gazes down at me. “Someone you can meet later. Right now, I want to show you

something. We have about thirty minutes until the First Dance Auction finishes. Then we

have to be back on the dance floor so that I can enjoy that dance I’ve paid for.”

“A very expensive dance,” I mutter disapprovingly.

“I’m sure it’ll be worth every single cent.” He smiles down at me wickedly. Oh, he has

a glorious smile, and the ache is back, blossoming in my body.

We’re out on the lawn. I thought we would be heading to the boathouse, but disappoint-

ingly we seem to be heading for the dance floor where the big band is now setting up. There

are at least twenty musicians, and a few guests are milling about, furtively smoking—but

since most of the action is back in the marquee, we don’t attract too much attention.

Christian leads me to the rear of the house and opens a French window leading into

a large comfortable sitting room that I’ve not seen before. He walks through the deserted

hall toward the sweeping staircase with its elegant, polished wooden balustrade. Taking my

hand from the crook of his arm, he leads me up to the second floor and up another flight of

stairs to the third. Opening a white door, he ushers me into one of the bedrooms.

“This was my room,” he says quietly, standing by the door and locking it behind him.

It’s large, stark, and sparsely furnished. The walls are white as is the furniture; a spa-

cious double bed, a desk and chair, shelves crammed with books and lined with various

trophies for kickboxing by the look of them. The walls are hung with movie posters: The

Matrix, Fight Club, The Truman Show, and two framed posters featuring kick boxers. One

is named Guiseppe DeNatale—I’ve never heard of him.

But what catches my eye is the white pin board above the desk, studded with a myriad

of photographs, Mariners pennants, and ticket stubs. It’s a slice of young Christian. My

eyes come back to the magnificent, beautiful man now standing in the center of the room.

He looks at me darkly, brooding and sexy.

“I’ve never brought a girl in here,” he murmurs.

“Never?” I whisper.

He shakes his head.

I swallow convulsively, and the ache that has been bothering me for the last couple of

hours is roaring now, raw and wanting. Seeing him standing there on the royal blue carpet

in that mask . . . it’s beyond erotic. I want him. Now. Any way I can get him. I have to resist

launching myself at him and ripping his clothes off. He waltzes over to me slowly.

“We don’t have long, Anastasia, and the way I’m feeling right this moment, we won’t

need long. Turn round. Let me get you out of that dress.”

I turn and stare at the door, grateful that he’s locked it. Bending down he whispers

softly in my ear, “Keep the mask on.”

I groan as my body clenches in response. He’s not even touched me yet.

He grasps the top of my dress, his fingers sliding against my skin, and the touch re-

verberates through my body. In one swift move, he opens the zipper. Holding my dress,

he helps me to step out of it, then turns and drapes it artfully over the back of a chair. Re-

moving his jacket, he places it over my dress. He pauses, and stares at me for a moment,

drinking me in. I’m in the basque and matching panties, and I revel in his sensuous gaze.

“You know, Anastasia,” he says softly as he stalks toward me, undoing his bow tie so

it hangs from either side of his neck, then undoing the top three buttons of his shirt. “I was

so mad when you bought my auction lot. All manner of ideas ran through my head. I had to

remind myself that punishment is off the menu. But then you volunteered.” He gazes down

at me through his mask. “Why did you do that?” he whispers.

“Volunteer? I don’t know. Frustration . . . too much alcohol . . . worthy cause,” I mutter