Slow Hands

Mr. Polished European guy laughed softly at the very thought of that even being a possibility for him. Jake, however, immediately understood the stockbroker’s worries.

Geez. He’d thought being bid on would be a humiliation. But not being bid on? “Get me out of here.”

“Too late,” said a perky voice belonging to the young woman who was stage-managing tonight’s events. She glanced at the blond pretty boy. “You’re on. They’re reading the introduction right now.” Then she pointed the tip of her pencil at Jake. “And you’re right behind him, Nineteen.”

Nineteen. That’s how they’d addressed him from the moment he’d checked in at the event desk and had been whisked to a private dressing room with all the other saps whose bosses, friends, siblings, mothers or coworkers had talked them into doing this.

Jake glanced through the slit in the drapes again, whispering, “Nineteen.”

He could easily envision nineteen things he’d say to the brunette when they met. Nineteen ways to bring about that meeting. The nineteen minutes it would take to run out from behind the curtain, grab her hand and drag her to his place. The number of times he wanted to make love to her and the number of positions he wanted to do it.

“Nineteen? Hello?”

Jake jerked his attention back toward the stage manager who was watching him with an expectant—yet slightly exasperated—look. He’d obviously been visualizing for several minutes. “The guy before you is done.”

“What’d he go for?” Jake couldn’t help asking.

“Thirty-five.”

Thirty-five. Oh, God, thirty-five bucks? He’d whip out his checkbook and pay ten times that if he could get out of this. Then he’d go straight out and introduce himself to the brunette in blue.

“Thirty-five hundred,” the woman added, obviously reading his expression.

“Holy shit.”

He could barely scrape up one times that amount, and if he had ten times it in his checking account, he sure as hell wouldn’t be living in a one-bedroom apartment over a flower shop in Hyde Park.

“They’re reading your bio right now, so we need to move quickly,” Miss Pencil Tapper said, actually reaching out to grasp his arm. She must know he wanted to bolt. He doubted he was the first to feel that way tonight.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered, not even listening to the announcer, whose voice was droning through the hotel sound system. He let go of the black drape curtain, regret making his fingers glide against it for a moment longer than necessary. Then he was being pushed onto the stage, blinded by a spotlight, deafened by the roar of a hundred tipsy women.

This must be what those Chippendales dudes felt like. The thought of doing this dressed in leather cowboy chaps and nothing else was enough to make his stomach heave.

“Who’s going to start the bidding?”

“Five hundred!” someone yelled.

Okay. It was a start. Five hundred…that was a worthy donation. That’d buy a lot of Christmas presents for needy kids. Like, you know, a hundred games of Go Fish or whatever that crap sold for now. But, man, it sounded pathetic considering the pretty boy stockbroker went for seven times that much.

“Six.”

“Seven!”

The numbers started flying at a dizzying speed, and Jake couldn’t keep up with them for a while. Not until a loud, determined female voice cut through the catcalls to shout, “Five thousand dollars!”

Everyone fell silent for an infinitesimal moment. Jake included. He didn’t know what the highest bachelor had sold for, but at least he wasn’t going to be rock bottom.

“We have a bid of five thousand dollars for this excellent cause,” the auctioneer preened. “And I imagine our handsome bachelor will be worth every penny of it.”

Ahh, the joy of being pimped by a fat guy with sweaty jowls and a smarmy smile.

The searing heat of the spotlight suddenly left his face. Jake watched as the large, golden circle washed over the crowd, turning to illuminate the woman who’d ignored auction protocol by upping the ante so dramatically.

Jake held his breath, something in his brain telling him it had been her. The brunette. The one he couldn’t stop thinking about had heard his mental 911 call.

The spotlight finally came to rest on the top of a very blond head.

Shit.

The middle-aged woman trying to look ten years younger sat at one of the exclusive, reserved tables up front, with a few other equally jaded-looking upper crusters. She smiled, well pleased with herself for having silenced the entire room.

But the complacent silence didn’t last for long. Because suddenly, as if they all had one voice, her three companions jumped into the fray.

“Fifty-one hundred.”

“Fifty-two.”

“Fifty-five.”

It went on for at least a minute, until Jake’s head was spinning. These crazy rich females were willing to lay out what amounted to a down payment on a house to go to dinner and a ball game with him? Insane.

It’s for a good cause. True, but damned if he wasn’t getting tired of hearing that refrain in his head.

The figure had hit eight thousand, the blonde and her three friends laughing as they tossed it higher and higher like a volley-ball being lobbed over a net. Jake had hated volleyball ever since he’d been an oversize, clumsy fourth grader who always got picked last for the team in gym. And he especially hated being the ball.

Though the bidding women were laughing, their amusement held a hint of malice and their smiles were tight. They might have started this as a game, but now their competitive spirits were rising.

He didn’t know how long it might have gone on, if he’d continued to be nibbled at in one-hundred dollar bites. Suddenly the whole room froze again. Because another voice—from the other side of the ballroom—shouted, silencing the three bidding crows.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Jake visualized it, asked the Fates to be kind, then followed the spotlight.

And for once, he realized, his loopy kid sister was right. He’d asked, and the universe had answered. Because the winning bidder was his beautiful brunette.

2

“HOW SHOULD THE CHECK be made out?”

Her pen perched above her open checkbook, Maddy lifted an expectant brow, having finally reached the front of the checkout line for tonight’s auction. It was her bad luck that her bachelor had been second to last in the event. If he’d been one of the earlier “prizes,” she would have been able to pay the fee and escape early, without running the risk that she’d actually have to face her legally purchased slab of beefcake.

That was the last thing she wanted. She’d done what she’d set out to do—what Tabitha had guilted her into doing. She’d stopped her stepmother from hooking up with another man, at least for tonight. And, at least, with that particular man.

Judging by the look on her stepmother’s face, she’d had absolutely no idea any of her husband’s family members had been in the audience. When she’d seen Maddy from across the crowded room, Deborah Turner had paled, her eyes had widened in shocked guilt, and she’d rushed out, her nasty, troublemaking best friend Bitsy close behind her.

Too bad Maddy hadn’t been outbid at that point. She could have saved herself twenty-five thousand dollars. Because, while she hadn’t dated in a while, she most certainly was not desperate enough to actually take advantage of the “prize” she’d just won. If he’d been a regular bachelor? Perhaps. But knowing he was a gigolo who prostituted himself? Never.

It’s for a good cause, she reminded herself, knowing her family’s charitable foundation, which she managed, always supported the worthy children’s program anyway.

“I am in a bit of a hurry,” she prodded, offering the harriedlooking woman running the payment desk a smile to take any sting from her words. “This really is a wonderful program and I’m so glad to be able to support it,” she added, meaning it. “But I do have another engagement.”

That wasn’t exactly untrue. She did have a standing engagement with her remote control and the latest disc from her Grey’s Anatomy Season 2 DVD set. Better that than sticking around and actually having to converse with a man who accepted money from bored, lonely, rich women.

“You won bachelor number…”

“Nineteen,” Maddy supplied, not likely to forget him anytime soon. Oh, she might have no respect for the man, especially because her stepmother had wanted to cheat with him. But he was so damned gorgeous. Even his photograph in the auction program hadn’t prepared her to see him in the flesh.

She’d been expecting some kind of skinny, pasty, girlie kind of man like the character in American Gigolo. She had not imagined anything like those shoulders, which were about the width of a small bus, or the bulked-up chest straining against the fabric of his tux. Nor the thick dark hair, cut short enough to tempt a woman to do some finger tangling while not drawing one bit of attention away from the slashing brows, the prominent cheekbones, the stubborn chin.

He was all man. Nothing like what she’d expected. Although, she had to admit, her ideas had been based on movie references and her own interactions with weaker-willed men who used women. Don’t even go there, a voice in her head reminded her.

“You can make the check out to Give A Kid A Christmas,” the attractive, dark-haired woman behind the counter said. She offered Maddy a grateful smile. “And thank you so much. Yours was the most generous donation of the night.”

“I’m sure it’ll be put to good use.”

“Absolutely,” the woman said. She gestured toward the nearest door. “By the way, we’ve set up a private reception down the hall, for our winning bidders and our bachelors to meet. You know, to break the ice before any private, um…meetings.”

Assignations was more like it.

Addressing the check, Maddy merely smiled politely, not replying. Then, giving the woman her payment and taking a tax receipt in return, she deliberately swung around and walked in the opposite direction.

She’d done her job. Now she needed to get out of here. She’d come in late—having been tipped off by Tabitha that her target would be auctioned off second to last. She hadn’t seen anyone she knew, other than her stepmother and the woman’s friends. Hopefully, she could escape without any further public exposure of her foray into the flesh trade.

She almost made it. She was mere feet from the closest ballroom exit when she was stopped by a movable wall disguised as a tuxedo shirt.

Her heart leaped in her chest, thudding in excitement, even as she mentally cursed the bad luck. Because Number Nineteen had tracked her down.

“Hello,” the wall murmured. “I’m Jake Wallace.”

Maddy growled a little, annoyed at herself for feeling an immediate tingle at the warmth emanating off the solid man now blocking her path. And for leaning forward the tiniest bit and breathing a bit deeper to catch a better whiff of his warm, spicy scent.

“I know we’re supposed to be meeting in the reception room,” he added, “but I’d rather head to the hotel bar, too, if that’s where you were going. I don’t think I could stand another hour with that crowd.”

Funny that he already knew, somehow, that Maddy was not of “that crowd.” Oh, she fit in financially, and she had the family connections and pedigree to mix with the best of Chicago society. But she didn’t like them, didn’t feel comfortable with them, preferring to listen to Tabitha’s cutting first-person reports rather than experience the flighty world of the rich-and-shameless personally. Her social interactions usually centered around business—fund-raisers, executive dinners. Certainly not hot-body auctions.

“That is where you were going, right? You weren’t trying to ditch me.” It wasn’t a question and his tone held a hint of laughter. She didn’t think his amusement was caused by conceit, but rather the incongruity of a woman paying twenty-five thousand dollars to spend an evening with a man and then walking out the door without ever meeting him.

It was kind of crazy.

“I, uh…the ladies’ room,” she mumbled, hating herself for letting the inane excuse cross her lips the very moment she uttered it. Ladies’ room indeed. Deborah, her socially impeccable—if potentially adulterous—stepmother, would be flaring her nostrils in mortification. If she wasn’t cowering somewhere, wondering if Maddy was going to rat her out for trying to buy her way into this man’s arms.

He cleared his throat. “It’s that way.”

His arm moved, the hand gesturing back the way Maddy had just come. That hand was darkly tanned, strong, with neat blunt fingernails and not a hint of kept-man elegance. They looked like a worker’s hands. And suddenly several parts of Maddy’s body went a little spastic at the thought of being worked by them.

Not being the tallest woman in the world, Maddy had been able to keep her attention squarely focused straight ahead, as if minutely interested in the design of the buttons on his shirt. Since she’d been sucked in by his hands, though, she figured she might as well muster up the courage to confront the rest of him.

She could do it. She was woman. Hear her roar.

All she could manage as she lifted her gaze, however, was a helpless whimper.

The chest was, as she already knew, huge and strong. The throat tanned, the neck corded with muscle. His strong jaw jutted in classic male determination. His face was freshly shaved, she’d imagined, for tonight’s event, but already displayed a hint of swarthiness that would provide the tiniest frisson of roughness if their cheeks met.

They won’t.

Even if she acknowledged how physically attractive he was, she still would never again take up with a man who couldn’t keep his pants zipped. She’d been down that road before.

Still…he was handsome. His thick hair was cut short, and had looked lighter when he was up on stage, being paraded around like a prime bit of horseflesh for sale. Now, up close, she realized it was a dark brown, but shot with hints of gold here and there that said he likely spent a lot of time outside. Probably sailing around in yachts owned by rich women, hitting the clubs in Monaco or cruising the Mediterranean. Doing the types of things people in her social circle took for granted, too.

None of which interested her.

Except, maybe, lounging under the sun on a clear blue sea. She might not like the ennui and shallowness that often came with extreme wealth, but she wasn’t stupid. She enjoyed an occasional luxury as much as the next silver spoon girl. And a summer day spent sailing on her father’s thirty-three-foot cutter was one of her few genuine indulgences.

“Why don’t you let me escort you?” he added, finally breaking the silence.

“I’m afraid I was just leaving,” she admitted, knowing she needed to end this now, before he offered to lead her to the closest ladies’ room. Maybe even escort her inside…and do her in the lavish vestibule.

Oh, God, what a fantasy.

She cleared her throat. “It’s a work night.”

Finally allowing herself to meet his gaze directly, all remaining words dried up in Maddy’s mouth. Because those eyes, which she hadn’t been able to see clearly from the audience, were a dark, warm brown, so friendly and approachable, open and engaging that it was impossible to imagine this man was anything but an all-American boy-next-door. Albeit the handsomest one she’d ever met.

There was merriment in those eyes, and warmth and friendliness. Not jaded awareness, not arrogance. Just…niceness. And pure laid-back sex appeal.

That didn’t fit what she knew about the man. Not one bit.

“Work?” he asked, sounding as though he’d never heard the word.

Well, maybe he hadn’t. Maddy lifted her chin, ignoring those eyes, that half smile on his sensual mouth, and forced herself to remember who this brown-eyed, kind-looking hottie really was.

A man for sale.

“Yes. Work,” she snapped. “I came here to support a charity. I’ve done it, and now I’m leaving.”

He put a hand out, touching her elbow lightly, though not trying to restrain her. But all the same, the touch was binding, rooting her where she stood.

“Look, I have the feeling we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot somehow. I’d really like to go sit down somewhere, not as part of our ‘date’ but just so I can thank you for bidding on me.” He shook his head, smiled slightly and rubbed a hand across his strong jaw, the slide of his fingers rasping the tiniest bit across his very faint five-o’clock shadow. “You saved me from being the cheapest guy of the night.”

“As if that was going to happen.”

“You never know. That stockbroker guy was offering a weekend getaway upstate.”

“What were you offering?” she asked, only out of curiosity. Not out of genuine interest. Definitely not.

Shrugging, he admitted, “A home game at Wrigley Field followed by wings and beer at a pub.”

Maddy’s eyebrows went up.

“You didn’t know that when you shelled out twenty-five thousand bucks?”

She shook her head, muttering, “I don’t think it would have mattered.”

Not one bit. Because neither Bitsy Wellington, or Maddy’s stepmother would ever have let that ball game evening happen. The date would have begun and ended tonight, right in one of the thousand lavish hotel rooms above their heads. Despite being much older than this man, Deborah had the money, the looks and the charm to make sure she got exactly what she wanted. Whether Jake Wallace had really intended a “normal” date with the winner or not.

To Maddy, though, a Major League ball game sounded wonderful. She’d never been to a professional game, relying on ESPN and pay-per-view channels to satisfy her innate—if secret, given its less-than-spoiled-little-rich-girl image—love of sports. Especially sports that took place on a diamond and involved a bat and a ball.

So borrow Dad’s box seats. Because you aren’t going with Mr. Expensive.

“You see why I was expecting the worst. I mean, if somebody had gotten me for twenty bucks, my sisters would never have let me hear the end of it.”

She couldn’t prevent a trill of amused laughter from escaping her lips at the very thought of this man getting out of here for such a paltry amount. He probably charged that much per minute.

He watched her laugh, those soft, dreamy eyes resting on her lips, his own curling up at the edges in response. “You’ve got dimples.”

She clamped her lips tight, silently ordering her cheeks to flatten out.

“They’re beautiful.”

“They’re stupid.”

“Adorable.”

“Made for a five-year-old’s face or a baby’s bottom.”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. A beautiful woman’s.”

Maddy quivered at that. Though she knew the man was probably schooled at such come-ons, and made a practice of making every woman feel beautiful and desirable, she couldn’t help the warm flow of pleasure surging through her veins. Because he made her believe it.

His lips quirked. “Uh, by that I meant a beautiful woman’s face, of course.”

Remembering the second part of her comment, she inwardly groaned, mortified at having given the man such an easy opening.

“You really are stunning,” he murmured, not handing her a line, not at all sleazy. Just confident of what he said. “A dark and vibrant flame next to all those icy princesses.”

Maddy swallowed. It wasn’t possible that he knew her—and her reputation—was it? No. He couldn’t. He was using his wiles, his tricks of the trade, telling her what he thought she wanted to hear, like any good professional. Because far from being the vibrant “flame,” she was known as the coldest businesswoman in Chicago.

Did he really see her so differently?

“You looked entirely alive from up on that stage…the only woman who did.”

Okay, boy-next-door or not, the man was good at getting around a woman’s defenses with that sexy-smooth delivery. Too good. Especially since she knew there was no way she could have him. Just the thought of what might have happened between him and her stepmother had she not prevented it was enough to make her stomach turn.

Besides, never again would she be with someone who had sex with more partners in a month than she’d had in her lifetime. Been there, done that. Her ex simply had not gotten paid for it. He hadn’t needed to. He’d quite enjoyed giving it away for free to any woman who’d spread her legs.

Well…she had to give this Jake some credit. At least he was honest and open about what he was.

That, however, was as much as she was willing to concede. “I have to go.”

“Oh, come on,” he urged, “please don’t. You’ve got to at least let me buy you a beer for saving me from utter humiliation in front of that bloodthirsty crowd.”

“And from your sisters.”

“Who are absolutely merciless.”

His tone said he didn’t care, that there was a genuine fondness between him and his siblings. Well, Maddy understood that. Though she might have little to nothing in common with Tabby, that didn’t mean she didn’t love her. She understood the concept of loving someone even if you didn’t completely understand them. If not, she’d never have survived this many years in her own family.

“I have one of those.”

“Sisters?”

She nodded. “And she’s also pretty merciless. Especially about getting her own way.”

“I somehow suspect you can hold your own.”

“Ditto.”

“I always found that hanging their bras out their bedroom windows was an effective deterrent to future harassment.”

Maddy couldn’t help chuckling again, unable to keep a smile off her face, dimple exposure or not. “I don’t know that Tabitha’s ever owned one,” she replied, thinking of her sister’s willowy, graceful figure. Tabby was Gwyneth Paltrow slender all the way. While Maddy was more on the Catherine Zeta Jones side.

He glanced down, probably not even aware he was doing it. The glance was quick, not offensive, probably almost reflex considering the need to check out a woman’s breasts seemed inbred into male genes.

His gaze rose to her face, but not so quickly that she didn’t see the way his jaw flexed and his eyes narrowed, shining with dark intensity and appreciation, all traces of that easygoing good humor disappearing.

Hers disappeared, as well. Not to be replaced by anger…but by pure physical awareness. The roam of his stare over her body affected her just as thoroughly as a real touch from anyone else would have.

Sometimes, she didn’t mind so much being the more curvaceous of the Turner sisters. Tabitha had the runway model shape and maintained it by eating as much as a three-day-old sparrow. Maddy, meanwhile, bordered on voluptuous, from her more than ample breasts to her small waist and downright generous hips, and fought every potato chip and cheesecake urge to keep it that way.

Her body might play hell with her wardrobe, ruling out any cute little backless sundress or strapless gowns, which Tabby had by the roomful. But right now, at this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care. And it was all because of the heat in this sexy man’s eyes and the almost audible quality of his next, slowly indrawn breath.

That was lust she saw there. Pure and undisguised, unhidden by social demands or proper breeding that insisted it wasn’t polite to visibly covet a woman.

He was coveting. She was being coveted. They were both caught in the tension of it.

Though her mind knew better, her body couldn’t help responding. Beneath the silky dress, her skin puckered, tiny goose bumps rising on the deep V of her cleavage, her nipples tightening to jut against the lace of her bra. Her pulse fluttered in her throat, and the breaths she managed to inhale were shallow. Each was filled with the warmth of him and the dark, masculine scent of his body, which had edged to within inches of her own.