A dim warning rang in Charley's head, but she shut it down. She was a professional, God dammit. She did not need warnings. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the prize. Right now, flirting with the hot stranger who had come to her rescue was just part of the persona.
And what harm could it do? It was just a drink and a few laughs. She deserved to indulge in a little fun with a smart, sexy guy. Roby would never know about it.
Roby. The thought of him soured the sweet bite of gin on her tongue, and she let out a soft sigh, knowing she would have to respond to his messages before he came looking for her.
Owned. That is how she felt. A familiar rage burned beneath her skin, but again, she thought of her sister. Of the life she wanted to build for them both. A legitimate job, a cute little house, maybe an art collection of their own, no strings attached.
It was her "someday" vision, and Charley held onto it like a lifeline. But the only way to get to someday was to go through now. So, after some harmless flirting, she would sit in on the auction, make a few fake bids, then slip away to finish the job she had started in the bedrooms.
"I never did catch your name" The man held out his hand for a proper introduction. "I am…"
"Don't tell me. You will ruin my fantasy about a torrid affair with a mysterious stranger."
"Torrid affair?" He cleared his throat, further loosening his tie. "Our relationship is progressing rather quickly don't you think?"
Charley tapped her temple "Wicked thoughts, remember?"
"How many of these auctions have you been to?"
"Enough to know how to thoroughly entertain myself." And enough to know not to give out her name, fake or otherwise. Her carefully chosen identity served two purposes, getting in the door and making fake bids on the art. Nowhere on the list was making new friends.
Even extremely sexy British friends with the kind of body built for pinning her down on the bed and a mouth she had already imagined melting between her thighs.
"So, you are a regular," he said, eyeing her up. "Let's see. A curator, collector, or just another member of the idle rich?"
Charley laughed "Depends on your definition of collector."
"How so?" He sipped his drink though his eyes remained on her.
Charley gestured behind them, where the beautiful elite sipped champagne and laughed agreeably at one another's polite conversation.
Serious collectors occasionally attended, but private auctions were more often populated by eccentric billionaires who treated rare art acquisition like hunting safaris, and bored socialites looking to one – up the neighbors.
As a girl hanging on her father's arm, Charley had attended these same events, watching in awe as he worked the room. Not much had changed since then.
"Out of the dozens of people here," she said, "how many know anything about the pieces they are bidding on?"
"Perhaps they just know what they want when they see it." He held her gaze, those eyes entrancing her as he inched closer. Heat radiated between them where their thighs touched. "Some things are quite pleasurable in their own right, are they not."
He was not asking her. He was telling her. A thrill shot through her veins. Charley looked away, unable to take the intensity building between them.
She did not know if she was imagining it, or if the alcohol had lowered her guard, or if her fantasies were finally overtaking the last bit of logical resistance in her head, but everything about this man, his words, his sultry voice, the way he had come to her aid in the bedroom, was making her embarrassingly, undeniably wet.
She shifted on the barstool, still not meeting his eyes. "Just because something looks pretty doesn't mean it is art."
"What is art, if not beauty? Art stirs our deepest passions, regardless of its origins. Is knowledge of its history a prerequisite to our pleasure?"
"Of course not, but that definition is too broad. Bordain's Garden of the Divine is art, but then, so are the flowers that inspired it. Is building an art? A sunset? A child's painting?"
"The curve of a lover's mouth?" he asked.
She sipped her drink, eyes fixed on the glass "Depends on the lover, doesn't it?"
"Indeed, it does."
Charley finally met his gaze, electricity crackling between them. A lock of her hair slipped from its knot, falling over her cheek, and he reached up to brush it aside. Despite their flirting, the gesture felt shockingly intimate, sending a hot rush of desire between her thighs.
She had never had such a strong, visceral reaction to a man before, and the idea left her both terrified and excited. She cleared her throat "We are talking about what makes a serious collector," she continued, forcing herself to stay in character.
Besides, this was the easy part. Charley adored art. If she had been born to a different family, a different life, she might have been a real collector, or an art history professor, or any one of the roles she played for Roby.
It was the one bright spot her career afforded, a chance to indulge in her true passion. Maybe that made her a fraud, but it was the truth. "Collectors know the history because they care enough to find out."
Charley turned to face him fully, her bare knees brushing against his thigh. "How much more pleasurable is a painting when you know what inspired it? When you know what kind of struggles or pain served as the artist's muse?"
"Pain as a muse?" He lifted his eyebrows. "And here I thought you were all rainbows – and – sunshine type."
Charley touched his knee, her manicured fingertips resting lightly against the cool fabric of his suit pants. "Precisely what happens when you judge without knowing what lies beneath."
She kept her hand there, unable, or maybe just unwilling to remove it. It was a dangerous tease, and one she could not indulge in for long.
But damn, it was fun.
"To pain, then." He touched his glass to hers again "And beauty."
"And the wisdom to know the difference," she added confidently. He frowned in mock disappointment. "Too far?" she asked.
"Sorry, love. Now you sound like a motivational speaker and a really bad one, at that."
Charley laughed, relishing in his warm gaze, in the way he called her "love." By the time he signaled the bartender for another round, she was feeling so good, so carefree, she almost forgot she was on the clock.
Almost.
Dominic had come to the Silverblade to acquire one new possession, the Relinquishing Beauty painting.
Now, he wanted a second.
Needed it, actually. The siren call of her scent stirred him to a frenzy that muted all else, his father's death, the unfortunate incident in the alley with Chernikov's demons, the convergence of his estranged brothers on his home.
Not to mention Reuben fucking Ducane, doubtlessly angling for a way to parlay his father's death into a power grab. The bastard had been trying to break into the Wild family for a century, Dominic guessed he'd shown up here tonight hoping for a meeting.
How and why, he had tangled with the woman, Dominic could only guess. But that is over now. Dominic was the new king, and he had all but claimed her, further harassment from Ducane could only be treated as an act of aggression, responded to in kind.
That was a war, not even a bloodthirsty, power-hungry vamp like Ducane would bring upon his house.
So, for now, Dominic set aside the politics of his father's demise and focused his attention on his fiery, auburn-haired beauty, determined to end the evening on a better note than how it had begun.
The hosts called for everyone to take a seat in the main room, and Dominic held out his arm. With a soft smile, she reached for him, but then hesitated, a silent war waging in her eyes.
"It is all right, love," he teased. "I don't bite… not until the second date."
Whatever her reservations, they vanished in an instant. She flashed him a look so fierce and wanton, it left no doubt about their common interests.