Enamoured (The Enslaved Duet 2)

“Now, the pièce de résistance,” the emcee laughed and abandoned his podium to approach me with his microphone. “I know this isn’t protocol, but I just had to ask you…” His black-lined brown eyes were wide with sincerity. “Do you wake up looking like this?”

I laughed with the audience and looked down at the man before me coquettishly. “Very few people know the answer to that, bello.”

“Well!” He turned to the audience, the ultimate showman, and swept his arm toward me. “Maybe this Italian goddess will give up her secrets for a price? Let’s start the bidding at two thousand dollars.”

Immediately, Mason’s paddle was up, but so too were seven others. I watched in delight and horror as the price continued to rise and rise. My eyes sought out my admirers, but the harsh stage lights made it difficult, and finally, I stopped straining to see. The bidding reached thirty-four thousand dollars before Mason’s last competitor gave in.

“Going once, going twice,” the emcee sang into his microphone.

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

A gasp went up amid the attendees, and chatter broke out as everyone searched for the calm voice offering to buy me for such an exorbitant price. They didn’t have to look far. Alexander Davenport, Earl of Thornton, leaned against the bar to the left of the stage, lazily presenting his paddle.

Our gazes snagged and locked together again. I found myself in his gaze, lurking in his metallic grey eyes like a vision of the person I truly was; strong, beautiful, and graceful as I knelt at his feet with my head tipped down, eyes blazing with inner fire from between the dark curtains of my hair. My legs wobbled as I battled the urge to go to him. I didn’t know what I would do if I gave into the impulse, if I would sink to my knees like a sandcastle collapsing into waves or if I would punch him in the throat for thinking he could usurp my life again. It was a dichotomous sensation I hadn’t experienced since I’d last seen my husband three years ago.

“Fifty-one thousand dollars,” Mason returned, his voice coarse with shocked anger.

There was almost no way he would let someone else win me in the auction even though he was oddly reticent about paying for me. He had been approached about auctioning me off for a date night fundraiser before, but always adamantly refused despite my consent. It was only because of the charity’s connection to his first love that we were participating tonight. Mason was also deeply protective, and the idea of a stranger paying such an exorbitant price to take me on a date would raise all his red flags.

Unfortunately, he didn’t know that the man in question was technically and legally bound to me in holy matrimony.

“Give up, Mr. Matlock.” Alexander’s crisp British voice carried perfectly over the large ballroom, though he didn’t seem to shout. “She’s mine. Fifty-five thousand dollars.”

Alexander, on the other hand, had proven before that he had no problem paying for me. It seemed the husband I hadn’t seen in years had come back to claim me.

My heart wedged itself in my throat and throbbed like something cancerous.

“Going once, going twice…” Everyone was wondering about us; the supermodel on the stage and the gorgeous Brit they didn’t know but desperately wished to meet. I didn’t care. For better or for worse, I was thrilled when the master of ceremonies announced, “Sold to the suave British man for fifty-five thousand dollars.”

Everyone erupted in applause, but I remained rooted to the spot as he slowly began his way toward me, his gait coiled and powerful as he stalked to the edge of the stage and offered his hand.

“Topolina,” he said quietly, just for me. “Come to me.”

A whimper worked at the back of my throat, and inexplicably, I wanted to cry. I never thought I would hear his cold voice cut the simple word topolina into something like a diamond for me ever again.

There was no room in my head for logic and questions. I was filled to the brim with static shock, and my brain was misfiring.

The only thing I could focus on was the stern form of his beautiful face, and the look in his eyes that clearly stated mine.

On wobbly legs, I carefully made my way to the stairs and took his offered palm. A current of chemistry electrified my fingers as he clutched them, but I beamed at the photographer who raced up to catch our expressions.

“And now the lucky ladies and gentlemen who successfully bid on one of our volunteers will take the floor for their hard-earned dance,” the emcee crooned as the podium was moved and a piano accompanied by a string quartet began the soft strains of “Primavera.”

As we were already on the dance floor, Alexander wasted no time in pressing me into his arms. Even though we had only danced together once, years ago at Grammar House in London’s Mayfair square, we moved like ballerinas tangled together in a music box, inevitably in sync. The strong scent of him engulfed me, transporting me to the cool misted cedar forest behind Pearl Hall. I breathed it in deeply, surprised by how much I still loved the smell despite the painful memories it evoked.