The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

“No, her paintings are in my homes. They are personal to me.”

I smile as I watch him. He’s not intense like I first thought; he’s deep.

A man in a suit comes out with a roll-out little table thingy. “We are about to begin the auction for Harriet Boucher,” he calls.

The people in the room all turn and make their way over to where we stand. The crowd gathers in a semicircle around the painting.

Tristan puts his hand on the small of my back and smiles as he watches.

A woman comes and stands opposite us in the crowd. She’s honey blonde and innocent looking. She has a ballerina look about her. Perfect posture and innately feminine.

Elliot’s and her eyes meet across the crowd, and they stare at each other. I smile as I watch them; I can feel the electricity as it bounces between them.

Elliot leans into Tristan. “Black dress, red lips. Who the fuck is she?” he whispers.

“Never seen her before,” Tristan whispers back.

Elliot turns to Christopher and whispers the same thing to him.

Christopher looks over at her and frowns. “No idea.”

I smile as I listen to them. Tristan moves behind me and puts his arm around my waist as he pulls me close. He kisses my temple. “Do you want another drink?” he whispers.

“No, thanks.” I smile. I’m too busy watching Elliot and this girl mentally fuck each other across the room.

The auctioneer begins. “The second auction for tonight is the painting Serendipity by Harriet Boucher.”

I look at the painting. It’s an abstract in greens and blues, and it almost looks like rays of light shining down from heaven. It really is magical. I can see why Elliot loves it.

“Do we have an opening bid?” the auctioneer asks.

“Two hundred thousand,” Elliot says calmly.

My eyes widen . . . what the fuck?

“Two fifty,” an older man replies.

Elliot glares at his competition. “Three fifty,” he fires back.

Holy shit . . . this is a real art auction, the kind you see on cable.

“Three seventy,” a woman calls.

Elliot rolls his eyes—another bidder. Tristan’s eyes dance with delight as he looks on.

Christopher leans in and whispers something to Elliot. He nods once, as if understanding. “Half a million,” Elliot announces.

The room falls silent.

The older man narrows his eyes. “Seven fifty.”

Elliot clenches his jaw in anger.

Tristan begins to chuckle. “It’s on,” he whispers.

“One million dollars,” Elliot fires back.

“One point one,” the man fires back.