Acquired: A Billionaire Auction Romance

by Charlotte Byrd

  I identify him. He is leaning against the bar on one elbow, opening up to the rest of the room. His other hand holds a rocks glass filled with amber liquid. He is chatting with another man. The ‘frat boy’ is a tall, broad shouldered guy who looks like he used to be in good shape and then let an excess of alcohol settle around his mid-section. Not so the dark-haired man. His face is lean and angular. His jaw muscles pop out as he crunches on a handful of bar snacks. His jacket is hanging open, revealing a tight-fitting shirt underneath that clings to his muscular torso.

  “So, I see him. He seems pretty engrossed in his conversation. Are you sure he was looking over here?”

  “Please. You think I can’t tell when a man is looking at something he wants? He was looking right over here.”

  I lean back in my chair. I don’t need to pay any more attention to this conversation. Even if he was staring over at our table, he was obviously looking at Hannah. I knew I would be. Everyone at the bar took turns looking at her. Not that I have any reason to feel bad about how I look. When I put myself together, I think I look pretty good. But Hannah is statuesque, a goddess among mere mortals. I pull out my phone and flick through pictures on Instagram while April and Hannah discuss the various desirable aspects of the man at the bar.

  I decide to look up again. No harm in checking a guy out. April and Hannah have moved on to another topic of conversation and April is showing Hannah something on her phone. I look up toward the dark-haired guy and my breath goes out of my mouth. He is staring right at me.

  He is not looking near me, not looking toward the table at Hannah. He is staring right into my eyes. It feels like time slows down, like all of the motion and sound of the bar fades into the background and the space between him and me is the only thing that exists. He is exquisitely handsome. His eyes seem to glow softly under the low lights. He doesn’t smile, wink, or communicate in any way. He just keeps looking at me. It feels like it goes on for minutes, but in reality only a moment passes before his friend taps him on the arm with their bill. The dark-haired man looks away and doesn’t look back. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him as he and his friend leave the bar.

  Chapter 5 - Emma

  When I wake up, I immediately regret my decision to go out last night. I have to be at work at six a.m. and my head is pounding. I stumble out of bed and start the shower. I keep the lights off to prevent further headache and shrug out of my pajamas. The steaming hot water feels so good I don’t ever want to leave. Whenever I don’t get enough sleep or have to wake up before a reasonable hour, I get cold. The prospect of leaving my hot shower and getting dressed for work becomes more unappealing every moment. But eventually, my better senses kick in and I turn the water off, rubbing the towel over my body to dry off as quickly as possible.

  I throw on my work clothes and head to the door. I check the time on my phone. I still have ten minutes to spare. Living a short walk from work has its perks. I step into the hallway and notice a flash of color on the floor. An envelope is propped up against my door. The paper stock is heavy, smooth, and cream colored with deep purple borders. There is no stamp, no return address. The only marking on the envelope is my name delicately hand-written in purple ink.

  My heart starts to beat fast, so fast I can feel the blood rushing around my body. Who had put this letter here? I slide my finger under the flap and rip an opening in the envelope. Inside is a single piece of paper – an invitation. It is written in the same delicate hand, using the same purple ink. A ribbon is tied in a bow through the top. The invitation addresses me by name, informing me that I am welcome to attend an exclusive event this Saturday, with further information to come later.

  I realize that I have been standing in my doorway for several moments, reading and re-reading the invitation. There is no indication of who it is from, what the event entails, or even where it is. It almost feels like one of those credit offers where they send you a fake check for thirty thousand dollars. But there is no number to call, no website to visit. If this is a solicitation, they did a poor job of letting me know how to take the next step. Regardless, I don’t have time to ponder any longer. I hurry down the stairs and head to work.

  The rush of the early morning crowd helps me lose myself and forget about the mysterious invitation. I can put all of my focus and attention on the often byzantine orders from some of the more demanding customers. When the line thins out around eight-thirty and I pause to take a breath, the invitation pops back into the front of my mind. It bothered me that whoever had left the invitation had been inside my building. But at the same time, there isn’t any perceptible menace in the invite. Not that I am planning on doing anything as crazy as going to the event, whatever it is. Wherever it is.

  At the same time, though, I have to admit it is intriguing. The invitation was elegant, refined. Whoever put it together definitely had class. I don’t know why anyone like that would be targeting me. It isn’t as if I am going to fancy affairs on a regular basis. It is nice to imagine being on some exclusive list of fabulous people, going to the kind of parties nobody even heard about outside a privileged circle.

  April has the day off, so there isn’t really anyone at work for me to talk to, not about something as odd as this invitation. I send a text to Hannah. I describe the invitation and ask her whether I should even consider taking it seriously. She writes back almost immediately. Just three words. “Be right there.”

  She wasn’t kidding. Hannah breezes into Anchor like she is in a commercial. I swear there are wind machines artfully blowing her hair about. She waits impatiently behind the person at the counter and points to a table in the corner. She mouths the word ‘coffee’ and takes a seat. Once I’ve completed the other customer’s order, I pour Hannah and myself a pair of Americanos and tell my co-worker I’m taking my fifteen-minute break. Hannah starts talking as soon as I sit down.

  “Can I see the invitation?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Hannah. How is your day going?”

  “Please, you know all you want to talk about is the invitation, so let’s not bullshit. Come on, show it to me.”

  I pull the invitation, still in the envelope, out of my back pocket. It is a little creased from being in my pocket all morning. Hannah’s face is oddly tight. I expected her to be excited, intrigued, but she seems tense. I hand her the invitation and watch her face. I see a light of recognition in her eyes when she looks up at me.

  “You know what this is?”

  She nods, a little smile on her face.

  “This, Emma, is how I got my new bag.”

  “You’ve gotten one of these, too?”

  “Last month. Same thing, same invitation, and everything. No return address and all that.”

  “And you went to the…what was it?”

  “Umm, it’s kind of hard to explain.” Hannah squirms in her chair. “It is a party. The people there are rich, like really rich, and hot.”

  “That sounds great, but who invited you? How did you get on the…list, or whatever?”

  Implied, but unspoken in my question is – how did I?

  “I’m not one-hundred percent sure, but I guess someone was interested in me and found a way to get me an invitation. Have you noticed anyone recently? Maybe someone coming in here frequently when you are on?”

  There are certainly a lot of regulars at Anchor, and a lot of them are wealthy. There is a lot of money flowing around Washington D.C. But I haven’t seen anyone show any particular interest in me. I shake my head at Hannah.

  “Well, whoever it was, I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What do you mean? I’m not planning on going.”

  “Oh, you have to! Trust me, you won’t regret it. I promise you will have a good time.”

  Hannah’s smile is mischievous. I trust her, of course, but I have the feeling she isn’t telling me everything.

  “Besides,” she continues, “I’ll be there, too. We can go together.”

  I sit quietly for a mo
ment, mulling it over. An exclusive party with the rich and powerful does sound alluring, and if Hannah has been there before, it probably isn’t a scam or some deranged cult or something.

  “Ok, I’ll go.”

  Hannah’s face lights up.

  “This will be so much fun! Ok, you should get a text with the address of the party a couple of hours before it starts. I’ll come by your apartment and we can go there together.”

  She gets up and gives me a quick hug.

  “Oh, and Emma,” she says as she starts to walk to the door, “Wear something sexy.”

  Chapter 6 - Blake

  There is a palpable sense of anticipation in the crowded loft apartment that serves as the location for the pre-party. As soon as I walk in, I think about turning right around. I am not one for crowds. But Trevor convinces me to stay. He promises it will be worth it. I find a corner that is relatively free of well-dressed and well-heeled attendees and sip my whiskey as I scan the crowd. I suppose I should mingle. After all, some of these people could be potential clients. Clara is always badgering me to do more networking. But I like my business small, exclusive. As long as the right people know about me, I am happy. Besides, I hate working on boat designs for people who have money, but no love of the sea. I don’t like to make boats that just sit in the marina as status symbols. Unfortunately, the number of people at the intersection of having enough money for a custom yacht and having the ability to actually sail it is small. So I end up making boats for a lot of people who will end up hiring captains to take them out a few weekends a year and spend the rest of the time having drinks at the dock.

  Trevor is circling the room like he’s the host – slapping backs and making jokes. I wonder if it is his utter lack of genuine personality that makes it so easy for him to engage in small talk with anyone he meets. I have never liked small talk. When an elegant couple comes up to talk to me, I begin regretting that I decided to come.

  “Mr. Ericson? How do you do? I’m Jeffrey Dunn, from Dunn & Duquesne. This is my wife, Hilary.” I vaguely remember that Dunn & Duquesne is a law firm. They do a bunch of work for…for some industry group I can’t remember. Jeffrey must be the son of the actual name partner because he doesn’t look much older than thirty-five. His wife is even younger. She is beautiful, but in a severe, cold manner. She holds herself stiffly, as if to embody the marble statue she resembles.

  “I saw the boat you just finished for Ted Gordon.” He pauses, like this is a statement that invites a response. After a moment, he continues. “It is a gorgeous boat. I know Ted is just over the moon. Can’t wait to take it out.”

  I take another sip of my whiskey.

  “I’m glad he is happy with it.”

  “I was wondering, Mr. Ericson, can I call you Blake?” I nod. “Blake, Hilary and I were hoping you might have some time in the schedule for us.”

  Thankfully, before I have to answer, a tone sounds and a voice comes over the sound system.

  “Welcome everyone. If you will please direct your attention to the screen at the front of the room, we are about to begin.”

  The Dunns smile at me as if to say ‘we’ll continue this later’ and walk toward the front of the room.

  Conversation continues at a low murmur until the lights dim and the large flat-screen television flicks on. On the screen are the letters OPN in flowy purple script against a white background. The voice comes over the sound system again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. The lots for this evening’s auction. Please remember, all bids are subject to acceptance by the other party. Funds must be deposited in the escrow account you were provided earlier today. Specific questions can be directed to our agents at the party. Please enjoy yourselves.”

  The screen immediately switches over to a picture of a gorgeous young woman. A slideshow of pictures, close-ups of her face mixed with full body shots. A brief description fills the right side of the screen. Age, height, weight, educational background, et cetera. She stays up for a minute or two and is then replaced by another young woman, just as pretty, but dark haired instead of blonde. One after another, a parade of exquisitely attractive people. Most are young women, but some are equally good-looking men. My attention starts to waver. I am not planning on bidding on anyone, so I will just enjoy watching.

  But then I recognize one of the faces that pops up on the screen. It is the girl from the bar last night. I noticed her when I was out with Trevor; she was out with a couple of her friends. Trevor had been focused on her friend, the leggy blonde, but when I looked over at the table, I only saw her. I watched for a few minutes before she looked up and then I couldn’t look away. It felt awkward, staring like that. But then she was staring right back. I was done with my night and so I didn’t go talk to her. I assumed it was just a pleasant moment, gone as soon as it had come. But now here she is. Up on the screen. Open for bidding.

  Emma Taylor, it says. Twenty-six years old, works at a coffee shop. Graduated with a degree in Classics? What an odd choice. My interest is truly piqued now. I studied history in college myself and have a deep interest in archaeology. Her picture flicks off and is replaced by another beautiful woman. But she is still in my head.

  I overhear someone in front of me talking and Emma’s name comes up. He is talking with the man next to him, planning how much he is going to bid on her, discussing what his night with her would be like.

  For some reason, even though I haven’t even spoken a word to this Emma Taylor, I begin feeling possessive. I’m not going to let this random guy buy her tonight. I wasn’t going to be participating in this auction, but if anyone is going to win this girl for the night, it is going to be me.

  Chapter 7 - Emma

  I spend more time than I expected picking out an outfit for this party. I have a few high-end dresses, but nothing feels elegant enough for the kind of event that Hannah described. Finally, I settle on a deep blue evening gown. I take a long, hot shower, scrubbing every inch of my skin. Hannah told me to wear something sexy. While the dress may be a little too formal to qualify, I make sure to pick out the most over-the-top bra and panty set that I own. The most expensive, too. I don’t know why the smallest amount of fabric has to come with the highest price tag, but these cover only the bare minimum of my assets. Not that I’m planning on showing them to anyone. In fact, nobody has seen me in these since I bought them six months ago. But, I have found that wearing something sexy underneath helps me to feel sexy and powerful. And tonight, I need all the help I can get.

  My makeup is nearly finished when I get a text from Hannah saying she’s almost here. I add a few last-minute touches and then grab my bag and head downstairs. Hannah pops out of the cab just as it pulls up to the curb and waves me over.

  “You look amazing!” she says, as if she is unaware of how dramatically she outshines me. I feel good about how I look, but it is hard not to have some self-doubt when standing next to her, but Hannah’s enthusiasm is genuine and it makes me feel a touch more confident.

  That confidence disappears when the cab pulls up to the address.

  It is a warehouse.

  An abandoned warehouse.

  I’m about to walk into a horror movie.

  “Are you ladies sure this is the right place?” the cab driver asks with some concern in his voice. The concern isn’t misplaced, this looks like anything but the location of a swanky party. But Hannah is entirely unperturbed.

  “Yes, this is it,” she says breezily. She turns to me and says quietly, “It was similar last month. Different place, but same thing – totally unmarked, underground. Just wait, you won’t be disappointed.”

  She pays the cabbie and steps out of the car. I follow. I have been friends with Hannah for a long time and I think I would know if she had joined some crazy cult and was bringing me along to be a human sacrifice, so I am pretty sure there is nothing to worry about. That doesn’t stop me from worrying, though.

  I follow Hannah into the warehouse. Our high heels ring against the pitted
concrete, echoing in the cavernous space. An arrow on the floor points out the path. It is painted in the same purple color as the invitation. That is some relief, at least we are in the right place. A series of arrow-marked winding turns leads us to a wall of curtains. They are heavy, like stage curtains, and block the entire hallway.

  The fabric rustles and a tall, broad man in a black suit steps into the hall. He is wearing an earpiece and carrying a clipboard, must be a security guard.

  “Names?”

  Hannah answers for both of us and hands the impassive doorman/security guard our invitations. He looks them over carefully. He seems to be looking for hidden marks or some other authentication that was not readily apparent. Finally satisfied, he steps aside and pulls the curtain apart, waving us forward. I stay on Hannah’s hip as we walk through a tunnel of velvet curtains. It is dark, lit only by a few strands of soft lights. The tunnel turns left and opens up into a huge space. I come to a stop, shocked and dumbfounded.

  I can’t believe this is in the dingy, broken-down warehouse we just entered. I am standing in one of the most elegant rooms I have ever been in. The same purple drapery surrounds an area at least one hundred feet on each side. Crystal chandeliers hang down from the ceiling far above. The ceiling itself, which I’m sure was, at one point, raw concrete, is covered in hanging white fabric. A fully stocked bar is surrounded by a small crowd on one side and everywhere there are tall tables, little groups of couches, even chaise lounges big enough to serve as beds.

  The center of the room is dominated by a round stage. It is chest high and surrounded by high-backed chairs. There must be some kind of performance later on. I notice speakers hanging in the corners of the room, so maybe there will be music. I am not much of a dancer, and I am pretty sure I can’t even attempt to while I’m wearing these heels, but music would be fun.