The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction)

by Naima Simone

  Women, on the other hand, let a man think everything was all hunky-dory and allowed time to pass, and all the while they stewed and plotted. Then, when a man least expected it, she kicked him in the nuts, bringing him to his knees.

  Five feet in front of Niall sat Khloe Richardson, God’s blow to the balls.

  Jesus H. Christ. What was she doing in a place like this? The ballroom filled with rich, more-money-than-sense eejits wasn’t exactly her crowd. The fact that he was one of those eejits didn’t escape him either.

  He ground his teeth together, narrowing his eyes at the younger sister of his best friend. It didn’t matter that Michael had died three years ago, she was—and always would be—the sibling to the finest man he’d ever known. The one woman who remained beyond his reach, untouchable. Except for the one night when he’d been drowning in alcohol and grief and had spent hours in her arms and inside her body.

  The night he would go to hell for.

  Damn it. Familiar guilt and anger roiled in his gut as if he’d downed shot after shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. He’d known this—returning to Boston from Dublin, Ireland, after a three-year absence, participating in this meat market for vain, bored socialites—had been a bad idea. When his publicist had arrived in his office with the invitation in hand, his “hell no” had been immediate and adamant. Standing on a stage, masked and trussed up like a five-course meal only to end up arm-candy for some spoiled and avaricious rich woman? Fuck no. Been there, done that, had the divorce decree, lighter wallet, and lump of coal in his chest to prove it.

  Besides, as CEO and owner of Duir Music, the foremost leading record label in Ireland, he rarely had time to eat, much less spend several days abroad. But his publicist had been aware of Niall’s hot buttons to push: his mother had been a loyal member of the Rhodonite Society when alive; earlier in the year, the group had honored her with a dinner, and he hadn’t attended; and the proceeds of the auction would benefit literacy, a cause Michael, as an almost educator, had been passionate about.

  After a lot of grumbling, he’d relented.

  He should’ve followed his instincts and kept his ass on the other side of the ocean.

  Khloe slowly rose from her chair, her wide gaze fixed on him. Damn, she was beautiful. He scanned her from the dark brown strands he knew from personal experience were soft and thick to the tips of her shoes and back up to the gorgeous, green eyes that haunted his dreams.

  Even in the ugliest dress he’d ever seen, she outshone every woman in the room.

  The…thing… might have had a collar as high as a nun’s habit, and the dark material skimming her body had all the shape and appeal of a potato sack, but he remembered the body underneath in startling, vivid detail. Three years hadn’t dimmed his memories—not when he fucking thought about her naked and writhing underneath him with a regularity that bordered on obsession. Breasts large enough to fill his palms, a tiny waist that accentuated the sensual flare of her hips. Hips he’d gripped as he’d dragged her up and down on his cock as her toned, lightly muscled thighs quivered with the exertion her virgin’s body hadn’t been used to. Well, hadn’t been used to before that night.

  A bead of sweat rolled down his spine as every pint of blood in his body seemed to flow south and congregate in his cock. Somewhere there was a woodshed with his name on it for the lessons he’d taught her that night. As much as he’d been drinking, he shouldn’t have been able to move, much less fuck. But he’d taken her like a man possessed. Over and over. On her back. Her stomach. Her side. On his back. And he recalled each and every moment as if the sheer heat of those hours had burned away memories that should’ve been fogged by alcohol.

  Maybe that was part of his punishment for laying a hand on Michael’s much-loved baby sister. Damned to never forget the most explosive, mind-blowing sex of his life…and doomed never to repeat it because of his friend’s last request before his death.

  Yeah, God was definitely a woman.

  Only a female could be that fucking diabolical.

  “Ladies, please step to the front of the stage and meet your bachelors.” The evening’s hostess with a slit in her dress almost as high as her other slit summoned the winning bidders to the front of the ballroom. He gritted his teeth, the reason for his being at the gala rematerializing with the force of a sledgehammer. Right. Arm candy. Cattle for the slaughter. Hell, he silently growled, he wouldn’t be surprised if the woman who won him inspected his teeth or fondled his dick to discover if she’d bought worthy goods.

  Following the other nine men off the platform, he once more sought out Khloe. But she no longer stood beside the table he’d spotted her at earlier. He frowned, again wondering why she was attending the society fundraiser. The newly graduated twenty-two-year-old he remembered from three years ago had favored quieter, much less populated venues. Like get-togethers with friends at coffee shops. As a matter-of-fact, the only parties she’d attended had been those boring-as-hell gatherings of her parents. Michael, six years his sister’s senior, could often beg off attending, but Khloe hadn’t attained that measure of independence then. When they could manage, he and Michael would try to help her escape, but those times had been few and far between.

  Carter and Rosalind Richardson had already failed to keep their only son away from Niall’s corruptive, indolent, hedonistic—their words, not his—influence, and they’d refused to take chances with their daughter.

  Had Khloe finally managed to unearth herself from under their overprotective, stifling wings? He grimaced as an image of that awful dress flashed in front of his eyes. At twenty-five, she might not live with them any longer, but their sway seemed to be as strong as ever.

  Not that it mattered, he concluded, emerging from the back of the stage area and into the ballroom. None of it—Khloe’s presence here, her questionable fashion sense, parents’ control or lack of it. It’d been three years since he’d climbed out of his bed while she slept, hair a thick, mahogany tangle over his pillows, her beautiful body curled into a ball like a sleeping kitten, soft, adorable snores escaping her parted lips. Three years since he’d sent her away, racked by guilt over fucking his best friend’s sister while he’d been drunk and she’d been vulnerable. Three years since he’d seen her, touched her, talked to her.

  Once he had this ridiculous date over with and out of the way, it would be more years. That night had been an aberration. He’d betrayed Michael’s friendship and memory by taking advantage of the one person his friend had loved and valued above all others. And from the way his gut clenched and his cock throbbed, if he remained in Boston longer then was necessary, he might commit that treason again.

  “Bachelor number ten,” a sultry voice murmured. And cooled the need pulsing inside him as effectively as an abrupt dousing of freezing water. He lowered his head and met the gleaming appreciation in a direct, bright blue stare. The woman’s polished, flawless beauty reminded him of a perfectly cut and brilliant diamond—and left him as cold as one. Diamonds were exquisite but possessed all the warmth of a witch’s titty. His ex-wife, Veronica, had shared the same cutting loveliness. “So nice to meet you.” She extended a slim hand toward him almost as if she expected him to kiss the back of it. “Morgan Lett. And you are?”

  “Niall Hunter.” He accepted her hand, pumped it once then released it. “I’m assuming I have you to thank for the twenty thousand bid?”

  “The one and only,” she replied.

  “Well, thank you. A donation that size should really help the foundation.”

  She waved off his gratitude with a flicker of a bejeweled hand. “Of course. It was nothing.” From the size of the ruby weighing down her ring finger, the hefty price probably was nothing to her—and didn’t even dent the trust fund she undoubtedly owned. “Is that an Irish accent I detect?” She smiled, and a picture of a female lion licking her chops leaped in his head. “I love accents,” she purred.

  “That’s fortunate, since you’ll hear a lot of it during the time we spend in
New York. Speaking of…” He glanced down at his watch. 9:30. It wasn’t too late in the evening, but he had a return flight to Dublin leaving at 7:30 in the morning. It would be nice if he could make it back to his hotel room at a decent hour and get some sleep. “We should set when you’d like to—”

  “Yes, about that. I won’t be going on the date with you. I placed the bid for a friend. She will take my place instead.”

  His eyebrow jacked up. A twenty-grand favor? That must be some friend. “Okay.” He shrugged a shoulder. One woman was as good as another. That had damn sure been his motto for the last year since his divorce. “Where is she? I’d like to make arrangements with her before I leave for the evening.”

  “Oh, she’s right…” She glanced over her shoulder. As did Niall. Nothing but air occupied the space behind Morgan. A scowl darkened her lovely features. “She was right here. Where could she have gone? I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Morgan didn’t wait for his assent but pivoted and quickly disappeared in the throngs of people. He sighed, sliding his hands in his pants pockets. Whoever this mysterious “friend” was, she had about ten minutes before he left. He’d crossed an ocean and several time zones to be at this auction, and in the matter of days, he’d have to repeat the process. A glass of something stronger than the frou-frou champagne being served here and sleep topped his list of priorities.

  Even as he imagined finally returning to the hotel and solitude, he scanned the crowded room for a particular face of delicate lines; a full, wide, sinful mouth; and stubborn chin. Seeking Khloe out. Another bad idea. But damned if he couldn’t stop searching. And not just because her beauty drew him like southern heat lured birds fleeing winter’s cold. In a room full of strangers, she was a familiar beacon. A reminder of the thirteen years he’d lived in Boston with his best friend. Of the love, warmth, and friendship he’d found with the Richardson siblings. To Michael and Khloe, Niall hadn’t been the son of one of the most powerful, influential, and wealthiest men in Ireland. They hadn’t cared about his exclusive Boston address, his mother’s lineage, or his family’s money. They’d cared for him. Imperfect, sometimes brusque, often rebellious Niall Hunter.

  He hadn’t known that kind of unconditional acceptance since Michael’s death and those dark, sweaty, passionate hours with Khloe. In the quicksilver moment when he’d first spied Khloe, he’d felt like he’d finally come home.

  But that instance had evaporated, and now so had she. Not that he could blame her. She’d been a virgin—a fucking virgin at twenty-two in this day and age—and he’d rejected then abandoned her without a word as if he’d picked her up on a street corner. She didn’t know he’d been protecting her from himself as well as honoring a promise to her brother, still… She had good reason to despise the sight of his face.

  Another peek at his watch revealed five minutes had elapsed since Morgan had gone in search of her friend and his date. Five more minutes, he promised himself. Then I’m out of…

  There.

  Heat surged through him, spread across his chest, and bottomed out his gut. A wee thing, he’d almost missed her. But she hovered by the room’s entrance talking to—

  Holy shit. Morgan.

  Dread tripped and stumbled down his spine. No way. No way in hell. But as Morgan grabbed Khloe’s arm and dragged her in his direction, he couldn’t deny what his mind roared had to be a mistake.

  Khloe was Morgan’s “friend.”

  He remained frozen in place, unable to move as the two women neared. One wearing a determined expression, the other a scowl hot enough to raze the building down to its foundation. Within moments, they stopped in front of him, and he stared down into eyes as green as the hills Ireland was famous for.

  “Here she is,” Morgan gritted out, baring her teeth in a ferocious smile. “Niall Hunter, I’d like you to meet—”

  “Hello, Khloe,” he murmured.

  “Niall,” she muttered in return, her frown remaining.

  His palms itched to draw her into his arms and hug her close. But the fire snapping in her gaze warned him not to try unless he liked writhing on the floor with his balls rammed to the back of his throat.

  “Oh.” Morgan glanced from her friend to him. “You two know one another.”

  “Yes,” Khloe said. Paused. “Unfortunately.”

  The verbal jab stung. He inhaled, braced himself against the throb of it.

  “Her brother, Michael, was my best friend.”

  She tipped her chin up. “Morgan, I appreciate your help tonight. And I really hate that you’ve wasted twenty-thousand dollars. Because I’d rather have a Brazilian than go on a date with him. And you.” Her eyes narrowed on him, and the fury there scorched him. “You can go to hell.”

  She whirled around and stalked away without a backward glance.

  “Wow. A Brazilian?” Morgan whistled. “Whatever you did, you must’ve really fucked up.”

  And wasn’t that the understatement of the decade?

  But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—change a thing about it. Because breaking a promise wasn’t an option.

  Chapter Three

  Monday mornings were a bitch.

  Especially when Saturday and Sunday had been spent in a pralines-and-cream-barbeque-potato-chip-Diet-Coke binge. After that third bag of chips and second quart of ice cream, the hours started to grow hazy. This morning, she’d woken with a queasy stomach, swollen fingers from all the soda, and the fire-and-brimstone sermon of the early morning television evangelist ringing in her ears. Not that she had to worry about going to hell for fornication. The only foreign thing in her bed was potato chip crumbs.

  Thank you very much, Niall Hunter.

  The reminder of her brother’s long-lost best friend sent another nauseous wave lurching against the wall of her stomach. And the mercury on her temper shooting for “Hulk, smash!” degrees.

  Three years.

  It’d been three years since she’d seen or heard from Niall.

  Thirty-six months since Michael’s death, and she’d impulsively travelled to Ireland and Niall’s home to check on him as well as seek comfort and to escape her parents’ grief, anger, and claustrophobic smothering.

  One-hundred-and-fifty-six weeks since she’d opened her eyes to find a messy tangle of sheets, tenderness in places in her body she hadn’t known existed, and a cold stranger who wore Niall’s face telling her she should leave and go back home.

  She given him her virginity, and he’d given her a Coyote Ugly send-off.

  Sighing, Khloe slipped a mechanical pencil from her bun and tapped the end against the desk top. Yes, Niall had basically kicked her out of his house after shattering every notion she possessed about sex conceived from romance novels, YouTube video manuals, and Cinemax soft porn. None of those books, videos, or movies could have prepared her for the erotic storm that was Niall Hunter. He’d buffeted her with his fierce sexuality, swallowed and changed her with his raw hunger like the winds of a devastating hurricane rearranged a shoreline.

  But it hadn’t been his callousness after hours of hot sex that’d hurt her most. That honor belonged to his absence and utter silence afterward. Niall had been a fixture in her life since she was seven years old, when he’d come home with Michael after school one day, his Irish accent funny and musical to her ears. Unlike most teenage boys, he’d been patient, long-suffering, and kind to his friend’s baby sister. And as time passed and they all grew, the fascination for Niall had altered into something sharper and filled with yearning. Her crush had been epic—pathetic. She twisted her lips into a bitter smile. And her angst-ridden love had endured when Niall and Michael had moved to New York and later Dublin. Because even then, he’d remained in contact with her through phone calls, emails, Skype, visits. While she’d believed someone as beautiful as Niall could only want her in her dreams, above all, she’d treasured their friendship.

  And after Michael’s death, she’d lost her brother and her best friend. For the first time in her life, she’d be
en alone.

  Vestiges of the loneliness, confusion, grief, and hurt echoed in her chest, slowly inflating like a balloon trapped behind her sternum. Stop it. She gave the mechanical pencil one last hard tap before tossing it to the desk and swiped the wireless mouse across the pad. The green and black code of The Matrix disappeared from her monitor, and she brought up the latest project she was working on.

  “So please tell me you eventually tracked down Henry Cavill, gave him a piece of your mind, and then just a piece,” Morgan said in lieu of “good morning”, sailing into Khloe’s office. Khloe groaned as Morgan sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk, crossing her long legs and arching a golden eyebrow.

  “I believe Henry Cavill is British, not Irish,” Khloe hedged, spinning in her office chair to face her friend. Was she quibbling? Most definitely. Because she could see the similarities between the actor and Niall. The tousled waves of black hair. The elegant, almost patrician bone structure. The faint dent in his chin, shadowed by a dusting of hair along his jaw. The startling blue eyes and thick, dark fringe of lashes. And that kissable—bitable—mouth that was almost too lush for a man, but balanced out the strong angles of his face.

  Good Lord. All that and capped off by a body that would shame The Rock into a fatty farm.

  “You dare play semantics with me when I’ve been calling you all weekend to find out the dirty details between you and Superman? Dish, bitch.”

  Khloe winced. Not at the “bitch”—one of Morgan’s favorite words besides “ho” and “va-jay-jay”—but at the guilt winding its oil-slicked way through her chest. Of course she’d noticed the number of times her phone had rung and Morgan’s name had popped up on the screen. But she’d been chin-deep in a pint of pralines ‘n’ cream. No time to talk when a spoon was lodged in her mouth.

  “And he’s Kryptonian,” she corrected, and flicked up her hand when her friend’s lips parted. Probably to blast her to hell and back. “And I’m sorry about avoiding your calls. I wasn’t in the mood to talk.”