The Bachelor's Promise (Bachelor Auction)

by Naima Simone

  She returned to the bed with the drawing pad he’d noticed her with several times. Curiosity to garner a peek into this other side of her propelled him up, and he sat, facing her. She set the pad on the covers, then snatched a piece of clothing that had been draped over the headboard. Quickly, she pulled a big T-shirt over her body, then settled cross-legged on the mattress. He didn’t remark on her need to cover up, but he didn’t need a PhD. in psychology to interpret the gesture as defensive. As if she needed to don armor before revealing this part of herself to him. Why? Did she think he would hurt her? Ridicule her? Better question: who had made her feel like protecting herself was necessary?

  While the questions tumbled through his head, she thumbed through the pad and, after several seconds, paused on a sheet. For a moment, she gripped the drawing pad between her hands, staring down at the sheet. Then, she inhaled and, flipping the pad, handed it to him.

  “I drew this for you. Well, it’s what I imagined for you,” she explained, voice soft, hesitant. “For a tattoo.”

  Aiden shifted his attention from her shuttered gaze and expression to the paper. He sucked in a sharp breath, stunned. Slowly, he accepted the pad, handling it as if it were the most delicate, precious artifact. Because to Noelle, it probably was.

  And he could understand why.

  Jesus Christ, the drawing was gorgeous.

  A lion stared back at him from the page. Stared. Because his gaze seemed alive, patient, intelligent. Watchful. His strength and beauty seemed to radiate from his face, muzzle, and mane, captivating him. She’d captured the fierceness of the beast, but also his cunning and majesty. Though in black and white, Aiden could clearly imagine the rich golds and browns and striations of black that would cover him like a regal mantle.

  The animal was gorgeous. And she’d drawn it with Aiden in mind.

  He returned his attention to Noelle, who silently studied him. Though her bright eyes and the firm line of her mouth revealed nothing of her thoughts, he didn’t miss the tension tightening her shoulders or the clenching of her fingers in her lap.

  “You drew this for me?” he murmured. “Why?”

  She shrugged a shoulder, shoving a lock of tangled hair behind her ear. “It reminded me of you. You’ve always reminded me of a lion,” she said, the clenching in her lap increasing though her voice remained steady. Almost unemotional. “When I was younger, this nature show would come on television after all the Saturday morning cartoons went off. Because nothing else was on, I watched it. From the first time I met you, you reminded me of the lion on that show. You very rarely raised your voice. You seemed in control, above the madness, but so mature and a protector. And beautiful.”

  Again, she’d struck him speechless.

  A protector. Beautiful. Was that really how the eleven-year-old girl had seen him? And the woman? The one he’d grown so close to, only to push her away? What about her?

  “I would put it right here.” She placed her palm over his right pec, smoothed her hand up his shoulder, distracting him from his thoughts. “Spread out his mane here.”

  He almost wanted to change his mind for her. See her work come to life on him. Part of him longed to wear her art on his skin…longed to be marked by her in this special way that so reflected her spirit, her passion.

  “This”—he traced the outline of the mane, careful not to touch or smudge the pencil—“belongs on a canvas or a wall, not me.”

  “Well, it was just an idea…” she murmured.

  She reached for the pad, but he lightly grasped her wrist before she could remove it from him. “No, sweetheart, don’t misunderstand me. I’m humbled that you saw this likeness in me. But something so powerful, so gorgeous, deserves a bigger canvas than me. It needs to be seen, not hidden under clothes.” He lifted her hand, placed a kiss to the center of her palm, wordlessly praising the hands that could create such images. “Why aren’t you exhibiting your work, Noelle? Your job is giving artists their own shows, but why haven’t you had one?”

  Silence filled the room, and he studied the crown of her bent head. When she lifted it and met his gaze, he caught the struggle in her eyes. As if, internally, she warred with confiding in him. That was okay. He would wait as long as it took…as long as she needed.

  “My dream is to open an art gallery that is for everyone, not just those with deep pockets. I do want to provide new artists a place to launch and build their careers, where they can make a living from their passion, but that’s not all. My dream is introduce people who wouldn’t ordinarily have access to the art that saved me. That provided an outlet to me while growing up, and even now.” Passion vibrated in her voice, energizing it. Her reserve melted under it. Damn, that kind of excitement and pleasure was contagious…and hot as hell. “The gallery would exhibit everything—paintings, sculptures, photography, woodwork, street art, even tattoos. Some of our most talented, gifted artists work in tattoo shops. Hell, for some kids, street art and tattoos are the only art they see. But I also want to start a program for inner-city youth to expose them to the different mediums early, give them a safe place to express themselves without ridicule or rejection.”

  “Did someone ridicule or reject you, Noelle?” he asked, careful to stifle the anger stirring inside him.

  “Some people,” she said slowly, seeming to be carefully choosing her words, “cannot give what they’ve never received. My father didn’t have parents like Caroline; my grandfather was a drunk, and my grandmother, what little I remember of her, was a shadow. Affirmation wasn’t big in his childhood home. And though he did the best he could with me, he didn’t understand my wanting to spend all my time drawing, or taking art classes, or going to college for it. And like a lot of people, what he didn’t understand, he didn’t approve of or like. Art school was”—she waved her hand as if conjuring the term she was looking for—“a haven. I felt safe there—safe enough that I didn’t have to pretend to be someone else. There, I didn’t have to worry about being approached by someone because my father owed them money or my brother had screwed their girlfriend and they figured turnabout was fair play. I was only judged on my art, not my last name. I haven’t felt that way since.”

  Pain, regret, shame pierced him. He heard what she hadn’t specifically said. He’d failed to make her feel safe, accepted. Valued. Hell, he was one of those who’d rejected her, persecuted her because she was a Rana. It amazed him that she’d allowed him to touch her at all. That she’d lowered just one of those steel walls of hers to be vulnerable with him. To trust him with her dreams, her goals. Give him a glimpse into her heart.

  “I think you can do both.” He turned the pad around. “The artist who can create this”—he tapped the page—“can nurture artists and inspire them as well as bring pleasure into other people’s lives. You can—and should—do both.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Will you show me more?”

  She contemplated him, then after several heartbeats, flipped to the next page in the pad. For the next few minutes, he perused her drawings, awed by the evidence of her talent. Beauty, at turns vivid, wild, and haunting, filled page after page. He turned to one of the few color drawings. It contained the outline of a man, but his body disappeared into the beige, brown, and black colors that depicted cracked and dry earth. On another page, also color, the outline of a man curled into the fetal position was almost obscured by a vivid painting of a stork in flight.

  “Those are some of the pictures I’ve been working on for Lo’s new body-paint show.”

  “They’re gorgeous.” He flicked to the next page, bearing the outline of a reclining person, whose body had been transformed into the gold, orange, red, and black plains of what he assumed was the Serengeti at sunset. “I’m glad you’re going to do the show. And if any of these will be the art you display, prepare to have people fighting to buy anything of yours.”

  A smile slowly spread over her face, like the sun breaking over the horizon at dawn. Jesus, his h
eart thudded. No new contract or acquisition of a company had ever filled him with the satisfaction and joy of seeing her light up.

  “Do you want to be my guinea pig?” she asked, her eyes bright with humor. Apparently, she didn’t believe he would agree. To what exactly, he didn’t know, but if it would keep that light in her gaze, he was game.

  “I’m all yours.” He spread his arms wide.

  “Really?” She laughed. “All right. Give me a few minutes.” She climbed off the bed and disappeared into the closet. Seconds later she emerged with the box she’d carried into the penthouse the day she’d moved in and a green plastic tarp. With efficient movements, she soon had the wide sheet spread on the floor and tubes of paint set on the table she’d scooted over from the sitting area. “Come on over,” she said with a jerk of her head.

  He rose from the bed and reached for his pants, but her mischievous grin gave him pause. “Oh, you’re not going to need those,” she drawled.

  “Hell,” he muttered. “What did I just agree to?”

  “Too late to back out now.” She chuckled. “Stand here in front of me, and I’ll do the rest.”

  This is a first. A wry smile curved his lips. Never had he ended up a body-paint model at the end of sex with a woman. But none of those women had been Noelle.

  For the next forty minutes he stood still, allowing her to coat, draw, and dab paint over his skin, her order not to peek preventing him from glancing down. By the time she stepped back, a gleam in her blue eyes and a grin on her face, curiosity consumed him.

  “Can I look now?” he demanded. When she nodded, he wasted no time surveying the work she’d created using his body as her canvas. Shock and delight rolled through him like a summer storm. “A tuxedo?” He loosed a loud bark of laughter, staring at the black jacket and pants, the white shirt with jeweled studs for buttons, and the dark bow tie. It “fit” him impeccably. “Why?”

  “Because,” she said, placing her paintbrush on the tarp and shifting back. Arousal darkened her gaze as she tugged her T-shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor. Lust punched the breath from his chest, immediate need replacing amusement. She stepped forward onto the tarp and tipped her head back, her raven hair tumbling over her shoulders and bare breasts. “Since the night I saw you at the auction, I’ve wanted to fuck a man in a tux.”

  That was one need he was more than willing to satisfy.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Talk about making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

  For what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes, Noelle paused in front of the cheval mirror in her bedroom. And for the tenth time, she couldn’t believe the reflection staring back was her. The woman there shared her face—sort of. The carefully applied eye shadow, blush, lipstick, and foundation, courtesy of the makeup artist Aiden had hired, had changed Noelle into a sultrier, more mysterious version of herself. As had the hairstylist who’d fashioned an intricate updo of curls, twists, and braids.

  Then there was the dress.

  A gorgeous creation that toed the line of sexy and elegant. She smoothed a hand down the black, silk skirt that draped from low on her hips to the floor. The high-necked top, a lace concoction, molded to her torso as if she’d been sewn into it. And the back. She exhaled as she turned to the side, her belly somersaulting. The back was nonexistent. Instead of hiding her tattoos, black, lovely lace edged them like a frame bordered a picture.

  The dress was the most exquisite thing to ever touch her body.

  And Aiden had chosen and bought it for her.

  After all the intimacies they’d shared since Thursday night, him personally dressing her ranked among the highest.

  A kernel of unease took root in her stomach. He’d spent money on her. And not chump change. The dress, the makeup artist, the hairstylist—the kernel sprouted roots at the thought of the cost. Other than her father and brother, she’d never allowed any man to buy her anything. Not even lunch or dinner. Because favors or gifts became obligations and debts owed. They always expected something in return.

  But Aiden had already received what the others would’ve expected. So, why had he gone to all this trouble? For her?

  Because he doesn’t want to be embarrassed, a sly voice whispered against her skull. She tried to shake the thought, but like a pit bull, the taunt sank its teeth into her brain and held on. The truth tended to do that. From the clothes he’d seen her wear to work for the last three weeks, Aiden probably knew she didn’t have something appropriate or lovely enough to wear to Sydney’s dinner party. Lucas’s wife had called earlier in the week and invited her to their get-together Saturday night. Not wanting to be rude or offend Sydney when she’d been so nice to Noelle the first and only time they’d met, Noelle had accepted with every intention of bowing out later. She didn’t belong in Lucas and Sydney’s—and Aiden’s—world. She didn’t know how to navigate it or, if not fit in, at least not stick out like a sore thumb. If Jocelyn was an indication of the people who would be attending this party, Aiden would want Noelle to be presentable and not an embarrassing reflection on him. That hurt like hell, but it made sense.

  Sighing, she exited the closet and crossed the room to sit on the bed. The box containing the silver-and-black shoes that matched the dress rested on the sheets. She sat and slipped on the shoes, unable to corral her thoughts or gaze from traveling to the unmade covers. Since Thursday night, she hadn’t slept in this bed alone. Aiden had exhausted her with his fierce, passionate lovemaking, then lulled her to sleep with the furnace-like heat of his body curled around hers. They didn’t speak of it in the light of day—

  Wait. Her mind backtracked, skidding to a halt on the phrase “lovemaking.” They didn’t make love; they screwed like rabbits. If she’d so casually let that term slip—a term that intimated a caring, devoted, emotional as well as physical connection that didn’t exist between them—then she was fucked. Royally.

  Aiden didn’t want more from her than a fuck buddy. He’d made that abundantly clear the night he’d shown up at the gallery.

  You deserve more than I’m offering. But I want you. For one night. Two. Three.

  He’d been nothing but honest with her, and she’d agreed because they had “temporary” stamped on them in big, bold, black letters. Their living arrangement. Their friendship. Their sexual relationship—it all had a ticking clock attached. And the moment she started believing they could be more to each other… Well, she couldn’t. She’d worked too hard, come too far, to end up dependent on a man so far beyond her reach he might as well live on Uranus. Or whatever planet was still a planet. Since she was old enough to understand how relationships worked she’d vowed she would never be one of those girls who waited on the scraps of attention a man doled out in order to validate her worth and happiness. Too easily—much too easily—she could see herself allowing Aiden to become her joy. Her heart.

  And he would take both, walk away, and leave her with nothing but a dark, gaping hole in her chest.

  Straightening her shoulders, she inhaled a breath and picked up the ridiculously tiny purse that had been nestled in the shoebox. Resolve strengthened, rose-tinted glasses firmly removed, she left the relative safety of the bedroom and headed down the stairs. As she stepped off the bottom step, Aiden’s voice drifted to her. The living room. She moved in that direction, but her steps slowed as she neared the entrance.

  “Yes, I received the report,” Aiden said, his back to her. She couldn’t help but admire the impeccable cut of the black suit jacket and pants. Some men were born to wear formal clothing, and he was one of them. “Thank you for your quick attention to the matter.”

  The phone. He was speaking to someone on his cell. She started to edge away, grant him privacy, but then, maybe sensing her, he turned, and his emerald gaze settled on her.

  “No, no, thank you. I won’t need your services any longer.” A pause while his steady, hooded scrutiny scanned her from her styled hair to the hem of her dress. “Yes, I’m sure. Thank yo
u again, and if you’ll email that invoice to me, I’ll take care of the bill.”

  He lowered the phone from his ear, his stare holding her prisoner. The self-consciousness that had swamped her upstairs returned full force. She lifted a hand to her hair and touched a twisted strand before forcing her arm down.

  Clutching her purse in front of her, she restlessly fidgeted. And waited for him to say something. Anything.

  “I’m ready,” she announced and then inwardly cringed at the inane statement. Hell, she stood there dressed. Of course she was ready.

  “Not quite,” he finally murmured, crossing the room toward her.

  He once again snagged her attention, distracting her from the nerves doing the Macarena in her belly. His long-legged, sensual gait sent a delicious swirl of heat coiling through her, pooling between her legs. Everything the man did reminded her of sex. His voice, his gaze, his walk. He was a living, breathing orgasm billboard. He paused in front of her, and she couldn’t help but inhale his earthy scent. That same scent permeated her sheets, her bed.

  Reaching up, he removed the earrings that dangled from her lobes. They were the only things she wore that belonged to her. Embarrassment crawled over her, firing her skin. “I know it’s only costume jewelry, but I thought it went okay—”

  “Shh.” He pocketed her earrings and dipped a hand in his suit jacket. “They were fine. I just want you to wear these tonight.” He opened his hand, and a small, velvet box perched on his palm. He nodded. “Open it.”

  With slightly trembling fingers, she did as he requested. And a deluge of emotion flooded her. Awe. Joy. Sadness. Anxiety. They coalesced inside her chest, pressing so hard against her sternum she could barely draw a breath.