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Peltier’s AuctionHouse is so fancy, I almost feel underdressed. I’m not, of course. And even if I was, I don’t care. I need the mojo this dress brings, because the people around me scream old money. I’m going to need all the luck I can get.
I take another sip of my champagne, a bubbly elixir of the gods the likes of which I’ve never tasted, and stare at the painting displayed on an easel in front of me. I tilt my head this way and that, but I can’t make heads or tails of it. It’s a senseless barrage of color. Black and white and various shades of red, yellow, and blue, it looks like the man dipped a giant brush into paint and flung it toward the canvas to splatter it all willy-nilly.
This is art?
I shrug and barely suppress the urge to roll my eyes. I don’t get it, but obviously, Mr. Hatfield does. He’s willing to pay an obscene amount of money for this painting. Shit, I could recreate something similar for fifty bucks and sell it to him for a hundred.
Turning my back on the painting, I observe the room. It’s large and filled with padded chairs, their sculpted backs inlaid with what looks like real gold. A few of them are occupied, but most of the patrons attending are milling around, studying the items that will be auctioned off soon.
A man in a slick three-piece suit captures my attention, and I study him over the rim of my champagne glass. He’s speaking with an older man wearing a tuxedo, a top hat, and a monocle. I can’t even make this shit up. I’m half-tempted to walk over and ask him if he has any get-out-of-jail-free cards for me in the Community Chest.
The man in the suit looks my way as if he senses my attention, and I inhale quickly as his dark gaze seems to look right through me. God, he’s gorgeous. Thick black hair brushed back from his forehead in shiny waves, those piercing eyes, and a decent amount of scruff that doesn’t quite camouflage his strong, angular jawline. Broad shoulders that taper down to a narrow waist. Long legs. Shiny, expensive-looking loafers.
I take it all in with a quick glance before looking back up at his face. He’s still looking in my direction, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t see me. I slowly drift off to the side and am proven right. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the painting.
Mypainting. Well, technically, it’ll be Mr. Hatfield’s, but still.
I have a sudden urge to spread myself before it, hiding the paint-splattered canvas from view. I don’t know who this guy is—probably some rich dick’s lawyer, or something—but he’s not getting this painting. Mr. Hatfield is one of the richest men in Nevada, much less Las Vegas, and I know for a fact that this painting isn’t worth the thirty million he approved for me to spend.
It can’t be, right? No way.
I’ll end up with the winning bid, and Mr. Hatfield will give me a nice bonus for my efforts. I can’t lose.
I know I can’t.
Because I’m wearing the dress.