Suddenly His

No. No, it doesn’t make any sense. For the last six months, I’ve learned everything about Maisy Whitaker, down to her favorite food—Thai noodles—to the kinds of audiobooks she checks out of the library—historical romance, with the occasional self-help title thrown in. She avoids male attention like the fucking plague and every once in a while splurges on a romantic comedy at the theater. Alone. With gummy bears.

She does not attend sex parties at the house of a crime boss.

“Get her the fuck out of there.”

Kirk blows out a breath and I can hear the background noise, the male voices and shifting of furniture. “It’s not going to be that simple. She’s causing a stir.”

I sprint into my adjoining bedroom and throw the phone down on the bed, leaving it on speakerphone. “Of course she is.” I throw open my closet, blindly pulling out the first suit my hand lands on. “Jesus, you have to bid on her. Tell Winston Creed you’re bidding on my behalf. He’ll allow the bidding to be done over the phone.”

“There’s a matter of the membership fee, sir—”

“Pay it. And do not let anyone outbid you. I don’t care how high it goes. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The line goes silent and I set a land speed record getting dressed, sliding my feet into loafers and booking it out the front door of my estate. My home is only a mile from Creed’s, so it won’t take me long to get there. I’ve averted this crisis. That’s what I tell myself, but my palms remain clammy on the wheel of my Bentley, my carotid artery beating in Morse code.

Is that my breath rasping in and out?

This is very inconvenient.

I was just going to watch Maisy, make sure she’s safe, help make life easier for her. In return, she wasn’t supposed to scare me like this. Or do anything out of the ordinary.

Christ. In a few minutes, I’m going to be in the same room with her for the first time.

I’m definitely not nervous about that.

What do I have to be nervous about?

I’m a goddamn billionaire. I’m young, in great shape.

And I’m a completely unlikeable asshole.

She’s going to hate you.

I swallow the lump in my throat and stomp down on the gas, trying to banish images of old men breathing on her beautiful skin. If one of them has already touched her, I’m going to breathe fucking fire, so help me God. But I don’t think Winston Creed will allow it, once he knows I’m interested. Like recognizes like, and although he’s a dangerous man, I have enough money to be dangerous, too. He really doesn’t want to piss me off. And “pissed off” is an understatement of what I’ll be if someone else were to win Maisy.

How did she get herself into this?

Haven’t I been paying her mother enough to clean my house?

My phone beeps and I take my eyes off the road long enough to see that Kirk has texted me the security code for Creed’s gate. A moment later, my tires squeal to a stop in front of it and I hammer in the numbers with my finger, barely restraining myself from hitting the gas and plowing my Bugatti right through the gate.

Finally, it opens and I burn rubber, reaching the circular driveway in a matter of seconds. Whereas my estate is modern, this perverted motherfucker is all about old world charm, a throwback to the mob’s glory days, and it curls my lip in disgust. I wouldn’t give a second thought to his design choices if he wasn’t using the extravagance to hide the manipulation of girls who can’t turn down the extra money. Girls like Maisy.

Although…I can’t quite believe she’d come here willingly.

It just doesn’t fit. And I like it even less knowing that she might have been coerced.

With a growl, I try the handle on the front door and find it locked, so I’m forced to knock, molars grinding. I’m impatient. To pay whatever I have to pay and get Maisy out of here, even though I have no clue how I’m going to explain my obvious determination to win her when we’ve never met. Or how I’m going to explain my aggressive bidding on an eighteen-year-old girl when I’ve never been to one of these pervert parties in my life, nor would I.

Some old fucker answers the door and I breeze past him, pasting a huge smile on my face as I enter the living room—which is actually more the size of a ballroom, with antique furniture scattered in intimate clusters. Not to mention lots of flat surfaces where the winner can collect on his bid afterward while everyone watches.

Not with Maisy. Not even over my dead body.

I untuck a cigar from my suit jacket and light it, waiting for the bidding to pause and everyone to give me their attention. “So this is where all the dirty old men have been hiding,” I drawl, blowing a smoke ring into the air. “I’m already bored. Did I win yet?”