The Highest Bidder

by Roxanne St Claire

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  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

  © 2005

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  * * *

  Prologue

  ^ »

  Spencer Ashton studied the inviting sway of the woman's hips as she sashayed across his spacious office and out the door, ending the interview but starting the mating dance.

  His choice was made. This one was young, eager and ambitious enough to request a fancy title—"administrative assistant." With an amused snort, he spun his chair around to the fog-tipped view of San Francisco eighteen floors below.

  A little ambition in a secretary was good, he thought wryly. Then they understand just what they have to give in order to get. Too much ambition, on the other hand, and they cease to be satisfied with promises and pay raises, and the demands get stronger … and turn into ultimatums.

  At the thought, the image of his wife appeared in his head. Lilah Jensen had been the perfect secretary—smart and sexy. A breath of fresh air after all those years married to the mouse, Caroline Lattimer. And now, seventeen years and three children later, Lilah was still smart enough to keep her mouth shut and look the other way when she had to. She had the status she craved as Lilah Ashton, and he had the freedom he required. Shrewd woman, Lilah. Always was.

  This new secretary would be good. She'd flipped her hair and wet her lips enough times to let him know she'd do whatever he asked. He inhaled a satisfied breath, puffing up his chest with a deep breath and liking the way his still-toned muscles stretched the fabric of his custom-made shirt. She couldn't be more than twenty-five, about half his age. With a grin, he patted his hard-muscled stomach. Spencer Ashton still had it all. Good looks, a hard body and more money than God.

  His quick laugh at that thought was interrupted by a tap on his door.

  "What is it?" he called out, gruffly enough to communicate his distaste at any intrusion that he didn't plan. Whoever it was should be stopped by his secretary and buzzed in through her.

  The door inched open and the woman he'd just interviewed gave him a wary look. "Sorry to bother you, Mr. Ashton. Just one more thing."

  Damn, she hadn't even started yet. He swallowed the reprimand and flashed an easy smile. "You're no bother…" Donna? Debbie? He couldn't remember.

  "I was just in the reception area and, uh, I noticed your secretary, well, she sort of packed up her bag and left."

  The little bitch. She'd figured out that the string of women he'd been interviewing were her potential replacements, before he had a chance to give her enough severance pay to guarantee silence. He cursed his thoughtless mistake.

  His gaze swept over the brunette in front of him, making no effort to hide his admiration. "Then I hope you can start tomorrow."

  She did the hair toss again, and her eyes sparkled. She might as well have rubbed her crotch. The message was the same.

  "I can start right now, Mr. Ashton," she replied in a low voice.

  He felt himself respond. "Good."

  "As a matter of fact," she took a few more steps into the room and held out a thin white envelope. "While I was out there, a messenger delivered this for you. It says personal and confidential, so I didn't open it."

  He nodded and absently took the envelope, his attention still on the generous rise of her breasts she'd thoughtfully revealed by removing her jacket. "Thank you."

  "I'll just get settled at the desk," she added with a smile. "And thank you."

  She turned to leave, offering him that nice backside view again. "Just a second…" Dorie? Damn, what was her name?

  "Yes, sir?"

  "You may have to work a little late tonight." He gave her an appropriately innocent look. "Just to learn some of the Ashton-Lattimer policies and procedures."

  "No problem, Mr. Ashton."

  He dropped the letter on the vast, empty surface of his desk and picked up his phone to call Lilah to let her know he'd be staying in his city apartment tonight and not driving home as he'd planned.

  As he dialed the private line to his estate winery in Napa, his gaze fell on the envelope. On the front, his name was typed, with no return address.

  While the phone rang in his ear, he sliced the envelope with his finger and swore as the paper cut a quarter-inch slash in his skin. He'd have to train… whatever the hell her name was … to open everything for him.

  "Ashton Estate."

  He recognized the voice of his housekeeper, Irena, and didn't bother with pleasantries. "Give me Lilah."

  "Of course, Mr. Ashton. One moment, please."

  As he waited for his wife, he sucked the drop of blood from his finger and pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the envelope. When he opened it, a yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered onto the desk. What the hell was this?

  Like the envelope, the note was typed. One paragraph. No date. No signature.

  An unholy tendril of apprehension snaked through him as he read the first sentence, the cut finger still in his mouth.

  "Bigamy is against the law."

  He swallowed and tasted the bitterness of his own blood as he read:

  Enclosed is the obituary of one Sally Barnett Ashton. Unfortunately, this newspaper seems to be in error. In the third paragraph it states that Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was divorced from her husband, Spencer Ashton, at the time of her death. In fact, Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was never divorced. Careful research reveals no divorce documents to be found in Crawley, Nebraska, or San Francisco, California. According to the laws of both states, that means her husband couldn't remarry as long as Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton remained alive. If he did, such a union would be illegal, and any results of that union would be null and void. Wouldn't the second Mrs. Ashton be interested to learn that her marriage—and the subsequent divorce settlement—was not legal?

  The taste in his mouth turned metallic, as white-hot anger shot through his veins.

  He picked up the clipping and stared at the obituary of the woman he'd been forced to marry thirty years ago. His gaze dropped to the handwritten note in the newspaper margin.

  "It'd be a damn shame for anyone to find out about this."

  His fists balled as tightly as the knot in his gut. No one would blackmail Spencer Ashton. No one would dare. He'd kill them with his bare hands first.

  "Hello, darling." Lilah trilled in his ear. "Sorry to keep you holding. Don't tell me you're not coming home."

  Disgust and something frighteningly close to fear strained his chest. "Of course I am." He glanced at his closed office door and thought of the new secretary. There'd be plenty of time for that. He needed to think tonight. "I'm leaving here around six."

  "Wonderful, darling. Then you haven't forgotten it's Paige's birthday. The party is Saturday, but your baby is ten today."

  "Of course I haven't forgotten."

  He hung up without another word and grabbed the letter again, watching in horror as a single drop of his blood spread a scarlet stain on the paper.

  Swearing, he tore the sheet in half again and again until he had dozens of pieces in his hand. Then he stuffed them all into the trash.

  * * *

  One

  « ^ »

  "And the lady is … sold! To the gentleman at table four!"

  The auctioneer's gavel smacked the podium and the 450 guests in the Ashton Estate Winery reception hall erupted in a chorus of cheers and boos. The bidding for a date with the blond Napa Valley socialite, also known as bachelorette number seventeen, had been fast and furious.

  She had a name—the auctioneer had even said it—but Paige Ashton's mind worked better with numbers than names. And now that number seventeen was bought and paid for, there were only three women left before dessert and dan
cing could commence. Then Paige was done.

  She hugged her clipboard and beamed from the side of the stage. They were just shy of the magic number of $20,000, to be raised for the Candlelighters of Northern California. God bless the brave ladies willing to parade on that stage, willing to let men shout out dollar amounts they'd pay for a date.

  Not only was it a wonderful cause, the annual Candlelighters Bachelorette Auction was a smashing event, and she'd coordinated every detail for the "Take a Walk on the Wild Side" jungle theme right down to rainforest-inspired centerpieces. It had been a breeze after the balancing act she'd been performing with her family the past few months.

  Still, she'd been a little nervous about executing this event—her first on her own since she'd returned home to the winery to help her sister handle the massive functions held at the world-famous estate. Megan would be proud, if she weren't in the throes of morning sickness. Paige planned to debrief her sister on the success the next day, and they'd share a welcome reprieve from discussing their father's murder and the various leads the police were following to find the person who shot Spencer Ashton.

  "Tiffany Valencia is gone."

  The words, whispered to Paige by one of the auction aides, tickled her ear and raised a hair on the back of her neck.

  "Gone? Number eighteen is gone?" It didn't take her lightning-speed brain to solve this problem. "Get nineteen."

  The aide, a young intern for the auction company, shook her head. "No can do. That one just left with Ashley Bleeker for a smoke."

  "Bleeker? That means eighteen, nineteen and twenty are gone?"

  "We have to take a break."

  "No break," Paige insisted. That would ruin the rhythm of the event and, worse, stop the bidding. The event would ultimately be judged by how much money was raised. "Where the heck is eighteen—er, Tiffany?"

  "I think she met a guy and took off with him," the aide said apologetically.

  Paige rolled her eyes. "He's supposed to pay for that privilege."

  The aide shrugged and looked up at the stage where the auctioneer was peering at them. "You better tell George. He's not good at ad-libbing. He needs someone to auction off."

  Paige didn't waste a moment thinking about what needed to be done. "Get the band in place, we're almost done with the auction portion. Let me talk to George and see if he can keep things moving until we find her." She gave the aide her clipboard and took a deep breath, her palms suddenly too damp to risk smoothing her silk skirt.

  How did these girls do it? Just going onstage to chat with the auctioneer raised her heart rate.

  The room quieted a little as she stepped into the spotlights that flooded the stage. Someone whistled from the back.

  Good heavens. They thought she was the next bachelorette. Paige threw an apologetic smile into the crowd and shook her head, but the lights blinded her. She could only make out a few faces in the very front, one of them her cousin Walker, looking both surprised and amused.

  "Well, here's a shocker!" The auctioneer further hushed the crowd with his booming voice. "Paige Ashton is bachelorette number eighteen."

  Blood drained from her head and rushed to her pounding heart. "No, no, I'm not." Her denial was too soft to be heard over the rowdy response. She'd done her job and made sure the Ashton wine flowed freely. Now she had a roomful of inebriated men who'd have applauded any female at this point.

  "I don't have a fact sheet on Paige," the auctioneer admitted, his commanding voice hardly needing a microphone. "But I know firsthand that she's a delight to work with. She's—how old, Paige?"

  "Twenty-two!" She recognized Walker's voice, and one more glance at her cousin revealed his fairly evil grin. He leaned over to say something to another man, missing the dirty look Paige directed at their table.

  "How much do we hear for this twenty-two-year-old beauty with a well-known last name and an angel's face?"

  Death. Death would be preferable to the lights burning her cheeks—or was that just one massive blush that threatened to explode every blood vessel in her face?

  "Five hundred!"

  Oh, dear God. They were bidding. She held up a hand to stop them, but the auctioneer grabbed it, spinning her in a Fred Astaire-like move. "Just five hundred? Look at this beautiful young lady. Svelte, sweet and smart as a whip."

  "Six-fifty!"

  "I hear six-fifty for the honey with honey hair, do I hear six seventy-five, six seventy-five…"

  Paige felt her legs weaken. Please God, make this end. "This is a mistake, George," she whispered to the auctioneer, her voice hoarse and low. "I'm not number—"

  "Seven hundred!"

  "That's more like it," George bellowed into the microphone. "I hear seven hundred, seven hundred, do I hear seven-fifty?"

  He launched into the forced staccato that had enthralled the crowd all night, and someone yelled out a higher amount. The auctioneer's drone rose in intensity as he dared and defied them to up the ante.

  "Eight-fifty!"

  "Nine hundred!"

  Her legs would never hold. George spun her again. Twirling, Paige caught a glimpse of Walker, still talking to the other man, but the light prevented her from seeing who it was.

  "Nine-fifty!" The shout came from the back of the room.

  That silenced the crowd for a moment, no doubt because they neared the thousand dollar figure that usually stopped the bidding.

  Her cousin laughed at something his companion said, and leaned back, momentarily blocking the blinding light and giving Paige a straight shot at the man sitting next to Walker.

  "One thousand dollars!"

  She heard the amount called out from the back, but her gaze locked on wolf like gray eyes that devoured her. A spray of goose bumps cascaded down her spine as they stared at each other.

  "Fifteen hundred!" The bid was shouted from the far left side of the crowded room, followed immediately by another.

  But the lights seemed to fade, the shouting muted, and the merciless bidding drowned out. She simply couldn't tear her gaze from the handsome stranger who stared right back at her. Who was he? Who had Walker invited to this fund-raiser? Then he lifted his lips in a provocative half smile.

  Whoever he was, he was a heartthrob.

  "Two thousand!" With the blood rushing through her head, Paige barely heard the crazy bid barked from the far right side of the room.

  The auctioneer roared with glee and urged the frenzy onward.

  A trickle of perspiration snaked between her shoulder blades and she tried to swallow, still unable to look away from the man's riveting gaze.

  Then he winked. So subtle, so sneaky, no one else could possibly have seen his secret message. But she did. And it sent an involuntary shudder through her body.

  "Ten thousand dollars."

  The auctioneer froze and looked toward the front table. "Did I hear…?"

  He couldn't. He couldn't have said that. The wolf with gray eyes stood to an impressive height. Backlit by a spotlight and looking like a monarch making his pronouncement, his half smile widened to a predatory grin. "Ten thousand dollars for Paige Ashton."

  For a long time the room remained soundless, then the gavel slammed so hard the podium vibrated and Paige's knees nearly buckled.

  "Congratulations, sir, you've bought yourself one expensive evening out!"

  His gaze never wavered from her. "Worth every penny."

  "What the hell did you do that for?"

  Matt Camberlane grinned at Walker Ashton's question. "I couldn't stand to see her suffer," he declared, his gaze skimming the stage for another glimpse of her. That had been true, but Matt knew that his lifelong competitive streak had just seized him. No way that pretty woman was going out with any of the sharks in this room. At least not with any other shark in the room.

  Walker burned Matt with a threatening stare. "She's my cousin. She wasn't up for bid. I told you, she's running the event."

  "Precisely why I had to rescue her."

  "She doesn't need y
our kind of rescuing."

  Matt attempted a "Who me?" look that he knew didn't work on his friend. "I just told you, I've sworn off the opposite sex. You may have found the holy grail of love with Tamra, but I am not meant to drink from that ultimate cup of happiness." To underscore his point, he drained his goblet of Ashton pinot noir. As he tilted his head back, he caught a flash of butter-yellow silk behind the temporary stage and curtain. She'd get away for sure, if he didn't get back there and stake his claim.

  He heard Walker snort. "Love? You weren't looking at her with love in your eyes, Matty boy. That was lust and I repeat—she's my cousin. We were raised together. Paige is like a little sister to me. Plus, she's been through hell the last couple of months."

  "Chill, Walker. I'm not interested in her. I'm merely doing a little good deed. Some charity work." Still, he'd seen the intelligent glint in her almond-shaped eyes, and couldn't help noticing a few enticing curves on her slender body. He was most definitely interested. "She was seriously uncomfortable, couldn't you tell?" He stepped away from the table, determined to nab her. "It's for a good cause, remember?"

  Before Walker could respond, the auctioneer started yammering about number nineteen, and a skinny redhead slithered into the spotlights. Matt dashed between the round tables and made his way behind the velvet curtain.

  He stood in the back for a moment, searching the darkened area for the woman who'd just caused havoc in his head … and a few other places, too.

  "I don't know who you are, sir, but I guess I owe you ten thousand dollars."

  Matt turned to find Paige behind him, barely reaching his chin, even in the strappy high heels he'd checked out while she'd been up on stage. They'd done very nice things for her legs. She stood with her shoulders locked in defiance, but her wide, sea-green eyes gave her a hint of vulnerability. She clasped a clipboard like a protective shield in front of her chest.

  "Perhaps you don't understand how this works," he said, letting his gaze roam over her china-doll skin and settle on her slightly glossy, slightly parted lips. "I owe you ten thousand dollars. All you owe me is the pleasure of your company for an evening."