Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
I took a step closer, then another one, until I was close enough to the podium I swore I smelled that flower fragrance.
The auctioneer started giving her details, pieces of information I had been yearning to know, now all of it given to me on a silver platter. She was young, her twenty-five years over a decade younger than me. And she loved to read, something I wanted to experience with her. Hell, just let me sit in the same room with her and gaze at her as she devoured her favorite novel.
The first bid was cast, then another, several men interested in her, which pissed me the fuck off.
No one would have her but me. I’d make sure of that.
And then a thousand dollars was thrown down, and I looked at the man who rattled off the current highest bid.
Antonio Francouix.
My lip curled in distaste. He was a wine connoisseur, collected countless bottles of the shit and served it to the elite in his private restaurant in Milan. Fuck him if he thought to collect something else, and I knew that’s what he’d do with Beatrix. I had no doubt he sensed her innocence, the same way I did.
If this fucker thought he was winning Beatrix, he was in for a lot of fucking disappointment.
I made a counterbid, and then he spouted off a higher amount as I glowered. The interest in his eyes for my woman was pretty damn clear. And it infuriated me.
And yes, Beatrix was mine whether she knew it or not.
I did another counterbid. I wanted to look at Beatrix, stare at her, even though I knew she couldn’t see me, but I focused on Antonio instead. I wanted the fucker to know who he’d lose to.
And when he did glance my way, I saw the smug look on his face falter as our gazes locked. Antonio was rich, but he wasn’t richer than me. My pockets went fucking deep, and I’d pay any amount to have Beatrix.
But he held steady with that damn expression as he said another bid. While staring him right in the eye, I said, “Ten thousand dollars.” It wasn’t nearly as high as I’d go. But I wanted Antonio to understand money was no object when it came to me getting what I wanted.
Beatrix.
I was prepared to pay twenty, fifty, hell, one million fucking dollars for her.
But Antonio wasn’t stupid. He could have outbid me again, making me go even higher, but he didn’t. He lost the fucking smirk, took a step back, and surrendered.
Good, because I had no issues playing dirty in the game of winning Beatrix’s heart.
Chapter Eight
Logan
One week later: The date
I’d booked out an entire Italian restaurant for ourselves, something I’d never done, something I would’ve never thought of doing before. But I wanted to impress Beatrix, even if the core part of me knew she probably didn’t give a shit about money being flashed around.
But it wasn’t just to impress her, to see the surprise and wonder on her face, but because I wanted her all to myself. And taking her back to my place to cook her a meal so we’d have that intimate experience might have been something too fast for her.
We’d been here for the last hour, and in that time, I hadn’t been able to take my gaze off her. Hell, the way she’d eaten her spaghetti, one noodle at a time, how she’d slowly sucked it between her teeth, had my cock so fucking hard I should have been ashamed.
I watched her as the minutes went by and she drink one, then two, then three glasses of wine. I could tell the alcohol was starting to get to her by the way her voice became more animated, her blush deepening. She was nervous. She was so damn nervous, and I hated that. I didn’t want her to feel anxious around me, but now that she was on her fourth glass on Pinot, her easiness coming more naturally, her cheeks flushing even more from the alcohol, I felt myself falling deeper into her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her cheeks still that pretty shade of pink, her lips red and slightly glossy from the sip of wine she’d just taken. “I keep talking, going on and on.” She glanced up at me shyly from underneath her dark lashes. “The wine is getting to me. You’re probably sick of hearing me talk.” She laughed softly, and that sound had my heart racing.
“Never,” I said instantly. I picked up my own glass of bourbon, the same one I had for the past hour, and took a sip. I’d been nursing it, seeing as I’d be driving home, and although I didn’t care much for the flavor of alcohol, it did warm me. It gave me something to focus on. Because if I didn’t focus on the square-cut glass in my hand, or the way the flavors from the alcohol laced my tongue, or the way it slightly burned as it moved smoothly down my throat, I’d keep thinking about kissing Beatrix.