The Bachelor Auction (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 1) (2 page)

A
dmit it. This is one of the best ideas he’s had in years. The sheer publicity alone is priceless.” Bentley tossed back his third drink of the night and slapped Brock on the back then showed him his phone. “Hey look, you’re trending.”

“I will literally break your phone in half with my bare hands if you show me one more tweet with my name and ‘auction’ in the same sentence.” Brock barely managed a polite nod in his grandfather’s direction as he greeted people filling the large downtown nightclub for the annual Wellington party.

He tossed back a gulp of whiskey, watching as his grandfather winced in pain after a particular hearty handshake from a journalist chomping to get in on the story of the century. Brock grimaced. The press had gone wild when they’d caught wind of the auction.

CNN.

The World News.

The
New York Times
.

God, every damn newspaper in the universe thought the auction was the most newsworthy thing they’d ever heard of.

One of the country’s richest bachelors was allowing women to bid on him.

And allowing his grandfather to pick a winner from the bidders.

A winner that Brock would date—and even potentially marry. That was the worst part about the press: give them a crumb and they’d make a feast.

Brock sure as hell hadn’t agreed to marry anyone.

One of the newspapers had hinted at a future Mrs. Brock Wellington.

And they’d taken it and ran.

Date a stranger? He could do it. For the good of the company. For the press. And most importantly, for his family’s reputation.

His grandfather had informed him that the Board didn’t trust his brothers to do anything right—hell, he agreed with that assessment—but Grandfather had also let it slip that they were starting to doubt Brock’s ability to be a team player.

Because he wasn’t a team player.

He kept to himself.

He made them hundreds of millions.

And they still weren’t happy.

He stared into his empty glass.

“Do it for me and for your reputation in the company.” Grandfather had slapped him on the back. “You’re a stick in the mud. Hell, have you ever even been to any of the company baseball games?”

No, because he hated baseball.

“Fine,” he’d whispered while his hands shook, with rage, with the need to hit something that would break.

The only silver lining was that the money that would be raised was going toward cancer research—one of his passions—so there was that, at least.

It was stupidity at its finest, but Brock had agreed to do it. Maybe because he was just as insane as his grandfather. Or, even worse, maybe because he was convinced he would never find love, nor cared to.

Because what his brothers said was true.

He
was
getting older.

And he’d yet to find a woman who wanted him for who he truly was.

Then again, did he even know himself anymore?

He’d allowed his protective love for his grandfather decide how he would live his life, his future, his everything.

With a groan, he stole Bentley’s drink straight from his hand and downed the entire thing.

“Cold feet?” Bentley teased.

“Go to hell,” Brock fired back.

Bentley, as if sensing how pissed off Brock really was, quickly grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and shoved it into Brock’s waiting hand. “Look on the bright side. Grandfather said if you married the girl he picked he’d give you the ranch as a wedding present, so there’s that.”

The ranch.

Their home.

Their safe haven after their parents had died, where their grandfather had pushed aside his own grief to give them the best life possible. Shit, he was screwed.

“Hell.” Bentley let out a low whistle. “I’d even sleep with
her
for the ranch.”

“Who?” Brock was too busy chugging champagne to notice anything except the constant beat of the techno music and bright red and white lights flashing around them. He really was getting old.

“Her.” Bentley glanced at Brock’s empty glass and handed him another from a passing waiter. “Her lipstick’s purple.”

“How…exciting.” Brock actually flinched when the woman waved his way. “She looks like she should be poking her head out of a limousine screaming, ‘What up, bitches?’”

“Oh God, I’d sell my soul to hear you say that exact same phrase in a high-pitched voice while you rip at your shirt. Please, it’s just what this party needs.”

Brock’s lips twitched into an amused smile as he let out a bark of laughter. “What? And steal her moment?” He nodded at the woman, who had just started convulsing on the dance floor with a friend. “I think I’ll let her have the spotlight.”

Bentley grinned. “Imagine how they dance when they’re drunk.”

“Are you under the impression they’re sober?”

“Either way. Bad choices.”

“Oh, shit!” Brock choked on his third drink. “They just saw Grandfather.”

Brock prayed to God that his grandfather wouldn’t send the girls his way. Time slowed as Grandfather turned, made a face, and dismissed them.

Both Brock and Bentley exhaled loudly.

“Drink,” Bentley encouraged. “Maybe the caterpillars will turn into butterflies. Whiskey encourages these things.”

“I’m only taking this drink.” He gripped it between his hands. How many had he just downed, anyway? Four? Five? “Because I see no other option. And believe me, I’ve done nothing but try to think of a way out of this.”

Bentley crossed his arms. “What about no?”

“No.” Brock shook his head vehemently.

“You have no problem saying it to me or Brant on a daily basis, yet the minute Grandfather turns his furry eyebrows in your direction you turn into this…robot.”

Brock stiffened. “Robot? Hardly.” He’d been called worse. But that was beside the point.

His brothers didn’t get it; they didn’t understand the power behind a simple word, and how it was Brock’s fault that their parents were dead in the first place.

Because the first time he’d said that word had been after an argument with his father.

No,
he’d said.
No. No. No.

The next day both of his parents were dead.

His hands shook with the memory, as if re-living it all over again.

“All right, then. So you said yes because you want to settle down? With a woman of Grandfather’s choosing?” Bentley chuckled. “The last woman he sent your way had the longest fingernails I’d ever seen.” He shuddered. “I had at least three nightmares, all of them including her nails impaling my…well, let’s just say I woke up in a cold sweat.”

Brock shrugged, and his stomach warmed as the whiskey finally began to take effect. “She wasn’t so bad.”

“Her name was Pearl.”

Brock shifted uncomfortably on his feet while Bentley gave him a pointed stare. “Just march up to him and say ‘thanks for the concern, but I nominate Brant as tribute.’”

Smirking, Brock glanced across the room just in time to see Brant press some random woman against the wall and kiss down her neck. “He seems occupied.”

“When is he
not
occupied? Though the night is a bit young for him to start his sexual prowl.”

“True.”

The music got louder, seeming to rise along with Brock’s discomfort. “Maybe, one more drink, and then…”

Bentley tried to hand him yet another drink, this time, champagne. Brock refused it. “And then, you and grandfather talk.”

“Yes.” Brock frowned. “I mean no.”

“Grow a pair of balls, brother. Your choice is either man up…” He pointed to the two girls dancing with mindless abandon on the floor. The girl in the black dress bent over, giving them a hellish view of her thong. Both Brock and Bentley shuddered and looked away. “Or it’s possible that the vision before you could be your future.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he lied.

“Good man.” Bentley sighed. “Now that my single good deed of the year is done, I’m off to find the first woman to catch my eye, one who possesses all her teeth and is of sound mind. I’m not picky; I just need sex.”

“Shocking that you get so much ass with that attitude.”

“That hurts.” Bentley tapped his chest. “Right here.” And then he smirked. “But not as much as right here.” He grabbed his crotch with a jerk, then laughed and walked off.

Watching Bentley strut across the room like a rooster, Brock tightened his hold on his glass. Both of his brothers were free.

While he lived in a prison of his own making. With gold bars. And a mirror where his grandfather stared back at him.

He returned his attention to his grandfather and the group of people who had crowded around him. His vision was starting to blur, but only because of the lights. He could easily hold more alcohol than most.

Then, in a sudden flurry of screaming, a woman was pushed onto the dance floor right into the two crazy women with even crazier lipstick.

A catfight broke out as one of the women ripped at the newcomer’s dress almost hard enough to pull the entire thing off and leave her flashing half the club. The girl pressed her hands to her chest while the woman standing on her other side tugged at the girl’s hair.

The hell?

How drunk were they?

He started toward the dance floor to pull them apart when suddenly the crowd parted.

The girl glanced up at him with wide eyes.

He stopped walking.

Breathing.

It wasn’t her face…her lips… It wasn’t the way her body looked poured into her tight black dress.

No, it was her eyes.

As if she was begging for someone to save her.

Protectiveness slammed into him and he shoved his body through the remaining people watching the scene, and picked the girl up into his arms.

J
ane was pressed so tightly against the wall she would have sworn her body was starting to blend into the wallpaper. Most people didn’t give her a second glance. Then again, she wouldn’t give herself a second glance either.

Women with fake boobs and injected lips mocked her while rich men in three-piece suits completely ignored her.

She self-consciously tugged at hem of the short black dress. In a last ditch effort to modernize the dress, or at least add a bit of spice, she’d grabbed her mother’s long pearls, wrapped them around her neck twice and called it good.

But the minute they’d arrived at the party she’d wanted to disappear. Her sisters were already semi-drunk, thanks to the vodka they’d had in the car. Against Jane’s protests they’d taken shots while she drove. And then she’d paid for parking only to hear them whine that she had parked too far away.

They’d been here for twenty minutes and already she wanted to leave, or at least sit down, but most of the available space was taken by couples talking, eating…kissing.

She was surrounded by the beautiful and rich.

The only reason her sisters had even been invited was because they were complete and total social climbers, and had managed to gain an invitation from a friend who was an heiress to some french fry company.

A waiter passed by with champagne.

She grabbed a glass and downed the entire thing. The alcohol didn’t help her nerves, but at least the bubbles semi-calmed her stomach.

Her sweaty feet slid in her too-big red pumps as she pressed harder against the wall to alleviate the ache in her toes.

The music shifted to a loud techno song as the lights went from red to a bright white, and with a gasp she covered her eyes and then blinked a few times to clear her line of vision.

The jumbled sweaty bodies moved aside as the music changed to a slow song. There was just enough of a break for her to see across the room.

“Oh.” It was all she could utter, really the only word she was capable of as her breathing picked up. Without thinking, she grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter, suddenly awkward. What was she supposed to do with her hands?

Thick wavy auburn hair fell in disarray over his forehead. It was lush, shiny, perfect. Were guys born with hair like that? Or was his somehow chemically engineered? His full lips pressed together in a secret smile as the equally handsome man next to him said something, then erupted in laughter.

The first man stiffened, then shook his head. His broad shoulders seemed to grow tight as a drum. A slight tic in his jaw was the only clue that he was irritated or maybe outright angry.

And then his shoulders slumped as he was handed another drink and then another.

Nervous. He must be nervous. But what could a man like that possibly have to be nervous about?

He easily towered over most of the men in attendance. Suddenly his posture changed, then he smiled.

Jane felt her mouth drop open in shock.

Dazzling.

He was…like a duke or a lord or a prince from a storybook. Clearly, she read too many romance novels, but his entire presence demanded attention; screamed authority, importance, and sex. Lots and lots of sex.

Yes, his virility was a tangible thing, as if she could reach out and grasp it with her fingertips.

“What are you doing?” Esmeralda yelled in her right ear, interrupting her blatant sexual fantasy about a complete stranger. Great. That’s what her life had come to. And sadly? It was the most fun she’d had all night.

Jane turned to Esmeralda, prayed for patience, and answered. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“You’re so boring.” Esmeralda rolled her eyes. “No wonder you got dumped.”

Another fun fact? Esmeralda was mean when she was drunk.

The reminder of the breakup burned like acid.

It had been a year ago, not that it mattered. It still hurt that the last guy she’d dated had told her that although she was cute, she wasn’t really doing it for him anymore.

Right. Doing it.

Maybe that was because she hadn’t done anything for him or
with
him, and he found that lacking. But they’d only dated for a few weeks. Did normal girls do that? Put out after a few weeks? Apparently.

She wasn’t normal.

But if that was normal, maybe she was better off being strange.

“Jane, are you even listening to me?” Esmeralda whined. “Essence needs you to dance next to her for a bit. I’m tired and tipsy. I want to sit. Plus your dress blends in enough that it won’t take attention away from her.”

No way. What? What had she just said?

Jane wrapped her arms around her middle. “I’m sorry, what?”

Without warning, Esmeralda grabbed Jane’s hand and jerked her toward the dance floor, causing Jane to lose her footing and crash directly into Esmeralda’s back. Then, with a ricochet like effect, she slammed back into Essence.

Jane opened her mouth to shout out an apology, but Esmeralda was already too drunk to listen to reason. With determination in her eyes, she reached for the pearls at Jane’s neck but grabbed the fabric of the dress instead.

Her poorly sewn dress ripped instantly, causing the fabric to slink past her strapless bra. A diagonal slit split up her thigh almost all the way to her hip. In an effort to cover herself, she took a step and tripped, thanks to her clunky shoes.

And then she fell to the floor.

Hard.

Her sisters watched in horror—but neither of them offered a hand. They were probably kicking themselves for forcing her to come. Esmeralda leaned over but missed Jane’s shoulder by a mile, grabbing her hair and giving it a tug, which only made Jane wince harder.

Both sisters were completely tanked.

And she was less than two minutes away from being trampled by the other sweaty bodies around her.

She glanced up.

And into the eyes of the man she’d just been lusting after.

Oh God, the humiliation was complete.

That one glance told her he’d seen it all. She swallowed back the thickness building in her throat. Of course the only time he’d notice her would be when she’d ripped her dress and nearly took out a few guests on her way down to the dance floor.

The crowd gathered around her.

And the sexy man disappeared—probably off in search of a girl with perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect clothes.

She
really
should have stayed home.

Tears filled her eyes as a heel pressed into her right hand. With a jerk she tugged her hand free, struggling to get up to stand on her wobbly feet, when suddenly she was pulled to a standing position and then swept up in strong arms.

Jane’s eyes were still so blurry from unshed tears she couldn’t make out the man’s face as he carried her out of the crowd.

He smelled like heaven.

She fought the insane urge to press her face against his chest and just…close her eyes.

Because he felt safe.

Pathetic, when a stranger’s arms provided more safety than her own family. And yet he felt…right.

In a world where things for the past ten years had felt so wrong.

He felt right.

Maybe she’d had too much champagne.

“Are you all right?” he whispered in a deep voice with a hint of a southern drawl. He’d brought her into a private room where the music wasn’t quite so deafening.

He set her on one of the black leather couches and kicked the door shut with his foot, muffling the music on the other side.

Blinking, Jane glanced up and gawked, like a starry-eyed teenager. He was the same man she’d seen earlier, the one she’d been captivated by. “Yes.”

“Yes?” He looked confused. His amazing eyebrows drew together, and a small line creased the center of his forehead. Even the line was gorgeous, just as gorgeous as the rest of him.

His thickly muscled body screamed power. Her hands slid down the front of his chest. Even his shirt was smooth. She didn’t realize she’d been basically petting him until his muscles tensed beneath her palm. Oh crap.

“I mean, yes, I’m fine.” She tried to stand then fell back down; her stupid heel was broken. “Or I was fine, until I got trampled.”

The line in his forehead deepened. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Jane shook her head then pressed her hand to her chest and gasped out, “My pearls!”

“Wait here.” He held out his hands. “I’ll get the necklace, I’m sure it’s where you fell and—”

“No.” Jane slumped, defeated. “They broke off when my sis—” She corrected herself, not wanting to claim the crazies in the other room. “They broke apart when I fell.”

The man sighed loudly and ran his fingers through his perfect hair. “I’ll talk to the club manager and see if anyone turns them in.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to give him all the many reasons why they were irreplaceable, but instead she settled with, “That’s really not necessary. It’s not your fault I was a victim of the techno craze.”

His upper lip curled. “I hate techno.”

“Me too.”

“Is there something I can do? Anything? You promise you aren’t hurt?”

“Careful or you’re going to have me believe you got me trampled on purpose in order to trap me in a private room,” she joked as a smile tugged at her lips.

“Had I known you were willing, I wouldn’t have had to go to such extremes to orchestrate it.”

He appeared stunned by his own answer.

Her breath hitched. Was he flirting with her?

His crystal blue eyes twinkled with amusement.

“So…” Her voice was hoarse, like an old woman’s.
Great
. “I should probably get back to the party.” Why did she need to go back again? All the reasons seemed to disappear as he maneuvered around the couch and popped a bottle of champagne that had been chilling in a nearby crystal bucket.

“Why don’t you and I have a drink first?” He peered around the table. “I’ll need to send for some shoes. It’s the least I can do.” His gaze heated. “Shoes are appropriate to purchase for a stranger. A dress, I’m afraid…” The corners of his mouth tilted into a sultry smile as his eyes slowly raked over the scraps of fabric barely covering her breasts. “Not so much.”

Did people do that these days? Just send for shoes? Who was this guy? “Really, it’s not necessary. I’ll just stick to the shadows so I don’t scare anyone with my limp and I’ll be okay.” She sounded more confident than she felt, and her lower lip trembled a bit. Next time she was going to hold her ground, stay home, read a book, and be plain boring Jane. This wasn’t her scene. Not by a long shot.

He leaned in close, so close she could smell his aftershave again. “A woman like you doesn’t belong in the shadows.”

Uncomfortable, she tried to make light of the situation again. “Wow, a hero and good with words. I bet you’re just a regular handful, aren’t you?”

“Me?” He laughed as if the thought was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “No, that would be my twin brothers. They’re the handfuls. I’m…” He seemed to think about it. “Just Brock.”

“Well, Just Brock…” Jane held out her hand. “I’m Just Jane.”

His hand completely engulfed hers as their palms pressed against one another. He was so warm. And big.

Huge.

Huge hands. That meant something, right?

Crap, she was still shaking his hand, and he was grinning at her as if it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to him. And he was looking at her. At her eyes, not at the fact that she was half-naked on a couch, with a broken shoe.

With a jerk, she pulled her hand back and nervously reached to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“So, Brock.” Jane looked down at his shoes. That was safe. Shoes. Nothing sexy about a man’s feet, right? Except his were inside shoes that she ventured probably cost more than she’d ever see in a lifetime. “About those shoes.”

“Shoes.” He repeated the word and then quickly stood. “Right, just wait here.”

“But, you don’t even know my size!”

His eyes heated as he eyed her up and down. “Would it be too cheesy if I said perfect?”

“Perfect?” she repeated like an idiot. “I don’t think I understand.”

“The perfect size.” His half-lidded gaze was causing her stomach to do flip-flops while she tried to keep a calm demeanor.

With a smile he knelt down and touched her foot.

Touched it.

And then gazed up at her and said, “Eight? Am I close?”

“Eight.” She nearly stuttered. “Eight and a half.”

With a nod, he stood and disappeared, giving her the breathing room she absolutely needed, only to re-appear a few seconds later.

Without shoes.

She frowned; then again, what had she expected? That he’d bang some plastic Barbie over the head with his cell phone, steal her shoes, and then toss them to Jane?

Brock studied her. “Your shoes should be here within the next fifteen minutes. I just sent my degenerate brother across the street. Saks is still open. The night is young.”

Saks?

Shoes from
Saks
?

She’d never owned anything from Saks. Ever. But she knew the store; didn’t every woman? Still, the most expensive thing she’d ever owned had been the pearls.

“That’s really…” She waved her hand in the air and stood. “Not necessary…you can tell him that—”

Brock reached for her hand and lightly tugged her back. “Sit. It
is
necessary. And although I typically wait until the third date to buy a woman gifts, I think your nearly getting trampled allows me to break that rule.”

Still tense, Jane nodded and took a shaky look around the small, private room.

“To new shoes?” Brock grabbed his drink and lifted it in the air toward her.

She lifted her glass and clinked it against his then took a small sip. The champagne was pink and sweet, with a tart aftertaste. “It’s good.”

“You sound surprised.” Brock’s lips lifted in a smile.

She scrunched up her nose. “I’m not much of a drinker, and I typically don’t like drinks that are the same color as my underwear.”

The minute the words were out of her mouth, she froze, barely managing to suppress the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. She wanted someone to run her over with a car.