“Yeah. You’ve got a sister. Why hasn’t she helped you out?”
“I’d like to know too.” I stomp out of the anteroom in search of my sister, ignoring some of the handlers’ not so polite requests to not leave because the show is starting soon.
The crowd at the auction is sizeable, and I can’t find my sister. She’s shorter than most, but Ben’s a big guy. I scan the top of the crowd for his dark head.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” a voice somewhere near my chest says.
I take a step back and look down at a pair of irritated, but gorgeous, light green eyes—a shade so unusual that it tickles the back of my memory bank. I’ve seen these before, but I can’t recall where. Not on her. I’d have remembered. Not only would I have remembered, but I would have had them in my bedroom, staring at my naked body with lust and eagerness. Pink silk cups a perfect set of tits, frames a delicate waist, and falls to the floor. “Sorry,” I murmur huskily.
She’s fucking beautiful—fairy tale beautiful in her ball gown and golden hair spilling down her back. Around her neck is an expensive bauble, champagne pink diamonds and tourmalines set in platinum. She either has money or comes from money, which makes her perfect for my plan. I don’t need my sister. I have my savior right here.
I take her small hand in mine. “Cinderella, right?”
“Is it that obvious?” She brushes a hand down the front of the skirt. “I mean, I don’t look ridiculous, right? This is the nicest thing I’ve ever worn.” Then she winces. “Wait, pretend like you didn’t hear that.”
Maybe she didn’t come from money but that necklace is expensive, and I swear I’ve seen her eyes before so she must be related to someone I know. I’ll have to ask my sister. She’s got the memory of an elephant.
“My lips are sealed. So are you here with someone?” Like a male someone?
“Yes, my grandmother. She’s right over—wait, I can’t see her.” Cinderella peers around me, trying to locate someone. Her searching gaze reminds me of my own purpose. A gong sounds, indicating that the auction is about to start. Damn. I don’t know where my sister is, but...if I had to have someone buy me at this damn place it’s this woman. I reach into my pocket and grab my black card.
“Here.” I press it into her hand.
“What’s this?” She gives up looking for her grandma for a moment to stare down at the titanium card.
“It’s my credit card. I’m going up there”—I jerk my thumb toward the stage—“in about thirty minutes, and they’re going to auction me off. Buy me.”
“What? No. I don’t—I’m not here for that.” She tries to give me the card back, but I dance out of her way.
“Cinderella, if you don’t buy me, I’m going to turn into a pumpkin. Don't let that be on your conscience.” I keep moving toward the anteroom, allowing the crowd to separate us.
“That’s not how the fairy tale goes. I’m the one that turns into a pumpkin.” She jabs a thumb at her chest—her smoking hot, silk-covered chest.
“It’s the carriage, babe.”
“What?”
“It’s the carriage. The carriage turns into a pumpkin,” I yell over the heads of the attendees. Some look in my direction. I give them a wink and disappear back into the anteroom.
Petersburg is slumped into the corner. Scarlett stains his dark, aristocratic cheekbones. His bow tie is askew, and a flask is gripped tight in his fist. My man is drunk as hell. I saunter over and pull him into a sitting position.
“What are you so happy about?” he grumbles.
“I got my auction bid worked out.”
“Bully for you.” He drunkenly pushes my hand away, but in his inebriated state, he misses. I have to catch him before he topples over onto his face.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “Thought you had your deal with your sister every year.”
“She’s gone.”
“What?” I tighten his bow tie.
“She’s gone. She texted me that she had a flat and Triple A won’t be able to come for forty-five minutes.” He lifts fear-filled eyes to me. “What if one of them win me?”
“Which one?”
“Any of them. Man, I am a nice boy and not cut out for these barracudas. I’ve heard Ben’s stories. We all have. Don’t let them have me, Gant,” Petersburg pleads.
“He needs to save himself,” Jay Kohn yells from across the room. “I heard the Biederman twins are going to bid a hundred on him tonight.”
The guys erupt in a chorus of howls and hoots. Petersburg’s expression grows sympathetic.
Apprehension snakes up my spine. “Who are the Biederman twins?”
“The artsy ones.”
“Yikes.” I grimace. “Well, I’ve got it worked out. A hundred? I can cover that.”
“It’s a hundred thousand, not a hundred dollars,” Petersburg informs me.