by Alison Ryan
Murmurs filled the room. Before Canaan had time to act, bids began to fly. An Asian man in a black suit quickly answered all challengers, lifting his paddle each time his bid was exceeded. With little encouragement from the auctioneer, the price quickly exceeded €3,000,000 and then slowed as it crept to €4,000,000 and then approached five.
Canaan had yet to act, sitting with his arms folded. Duncan leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Raven says the last phone or computer bid was at three-point-two-five and everything had been quiet since then. I think the only man left is in the black suit.”
“€4.8 million going once,” called the auctioneer. “Do I hear four? This is a First Folio, gentlemen. You’ll not see another. Going twice. And…”
Just as the gavel began to drop, Canaan stood and shouted over the genteel gathering. “Eight!”
All eyes in the room landed on the handsome, previously silent, man in the crisp green suit, Canaan Titan.
The auctioneer cleared his throat. “Very good, sir. We’re at €8,000,000. Do I hear eight-point-two?”
Duncan Gilchrist tugged at Canaan’s sleeve as the youngest Titan still stood, staring down the man whose bid he’d surpassed by over one million euros. “Eight? Canaan, you could have gone to five or six first.”
“I could have gone to ten. Eight will break him,” Canaan growled, fists clenched, still intensely eyeing his opponent, who had slumped down in his chair.
“Once, twice, and sold, for €8,000,000 to the man in the green suit! Sir, enjoy your First Folio.”
“It’s only money,” Canaan reminded Duncan with a laugh. Odin’s right-hand man shook his head and sent a text to Odin with the news.
A flurry of rare books followed; first editions and autographed copies of classics. Nothing, however, that Odin Titan couldn’t live without. His personal collection already contained most of the pieces on offer, and generally in superior condition.
A brief recess was called, and the room grumbled in anticipation.
“Raven says they have phone bids lined up for the Gutenberg that go to €35,000,000,” Duncan whispered to Canaan, having just checked in with an electronically-eavesdropping Raven Conway.
“I’m surprised it isn’t higher already,” Canaan replied. “But I’ve heard whispers that if it hits a certain number, they may not award the book to the highest bidder. There may be other ‘considerations’ at play. Everybody with a spare billion will be in the running.”
The auctioneer reappeared at the dais, and the Gutenberg Bible was wheeled out in front of the gathering, accompanied by half a dozen men with automatic weapons.
“Not exactly Christie’s, is it?” Duncan joked, referring to the world-famous New York City auction house.
“What, Christie’s doesn’t have a team of Legionnaires working security for them?” Canaan asked. When Duncan looked puzzled, Canaan leaned in to explain. “Those guys are French Foreign Legion. I did time with one of them. Not one of these guys, but I know the tattoos.”
Duncan nodded. “Ah, no. I’ve never seen an assault rifle at a Christie’s auction. Their security is a little more…discreet.”
“Sounds boring to me,” Canaan retorted. “Let’s get this show on the road, Odin’s money is burning a hole in my pocket!”
“Attention, attention everyone,” the auctioneer urged, rapping his gavel several times to bring the room to order.
“The final item up for bid today will be a priceless original Gutenberg Bible. Complete, and printed on vellum,” announced the auctioneer. Hushed whispers filled the room and patrons who’d shown little interest in most of the items on the day’s menu sat forward in their chairs.
The auctioneer continued promoting his biggest ticket item: “The Gutenberg Bible was completed in late 1454 or early 1455. It was the first book printed by Johannes Gutenberg on his invention, the moveable type printing press. Prior to the discovery of this edition, it is believed that twenty-one complete Gutenberg Bibles remain intact, and only four of them bound in vellum. The last complete copy to come to auction was sold in 1978.
“This may be the one and only opportunity to own such a glorious piece of history. We’ll open the bidding at €20,000,000.”
A frenzied series of bids quickly pushed the price over €30,000,000 and when the pace slowed for a moment, anonymous (to everyone save Raven Conway and the company handling the auction) bids over the phone and online sent the number almost to forty.
Canaan stood and set the price at forty million, but he was quickly exceeded by a portly Chinese man who punctuated each bid by stabbing his walking stick into the air, as if trying to impale a bird flying past.
All heads in the room swiveled as if watching a high-stakes tennis match. By increments of one million euros, the bid swung back and forth between the two men, interrupted by a telephone bid for fifty-one and then one of the sheikhs lifting a paddle at fifty-five.
Canaan’s highest bid set the price at sixty million. He already knew Odin had okayed him to go as high as seventy, if necessary, but he hoped it wouldn’t come that that. The price had gone well past auction estimates already.
“€60,000,000 to the man in the green suit,” the auctioneer said, with a sense of finality. It seemed a plateau had been reached. For the first time, the Chinese man paused, rather than immediately raising the number.
Canaan and his opponent locked eyes, and Canaan expected to see a slump of resignation, as he had when bidding for the First Folio.
Instead, for the first time the Chinese man struggled to rise to his feet, a la Canaan Titan. He swung his walking stick up into position, wiggled it with a flourish, and stabbed pointed it directly at Canaan, across the room, as if he were trying to score a point in a fencing match.
“Sixty-five!” The man shouted, and the room buzzed with conversation.
Canaan broke into a wild grin. He pulled a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and made a show of dabbing his forehead. The Chinese man triumphantly nodded his head and sat back down with a “Hrmph!”
The auctioneer reminded the assemblage exactly what was being bid for, trying to motivate the Arab to jump back in or the man on the phone to consider going above €65,000,000. All was quiet, and Canaan adjusted his tie and sat down, dejectedly.
Well-wishers shook the Chinese man’s hand and patted him on the back. Going through the formalities, the auctioneer lifted his gavel and gave the call. “Sixty-five. Going once…going twice…and…”
“Seventy-five!” Canaan Titan shouted, and stunned gasps filled the room. The smile left the Chinese man’s face, replaced by a grimace, as if he’d just taken a large swig from a glass of spoiled milk.
Before a reply was forthcoming, the auctioneer lifted the microphone to his lips. “The bid stands at €75,000,000 for the Gutenberg Bible,” he announced. “Per the wishes of the seller, we will suspend the auction for the evening and commence in the morning at 0900 hours. We recognize the man in the green suit as the current leading bidder.”
A tall, pale man approached Duncan Gilchrist with paperwork, and the two of them had a brief conversation regarding the bid and the identity of the bidder and whose proxy, if anyone’s, he held.
The room exhaled. The bidding had been wild and reached an astronomical number, beyond what had been verified as liquid assets for some of the bidders still in contention at almost $90,000,000 US dollars.
“This is insane,” Raven said into the earpiece Duncan wore. “What kind of an auction takes an overnight break?”
“The kind that’s going to break pretty much every record in the auction business,” Odin replied to Duncan when his assistant relayed Raven’s message.
Duncan Gilchrist’s phone buzzed, and he read the text aloud to Canaan. “Odin’s upped his limit to €110,000. I don’t think there’s any way it goes that far, and I’m sure Clara is losing her shit, but that’s the order from Odin.”
Canaan laughed. “That’s, what, one hundred and twenty-five or thirty mill US? With th
e buyer’s premium you’re talking another thirty? One hundred and fifty or sixty million bucks for a damn book?”
“What Odin wants…” Duncan began.
Canaan finished: “Yeah, yeah, Odin gets. What the hell, it’s only money. I guess all of my old man’s grandkids can each have a few pages as an inheritance.”
Before Duncan could respond, he was interrupted by the approach of a curvy redhead in a shimmering gold dress.
“Very impressive bidding, Mr. Titan,” she said, extending a hand, which Canaan accepted and kissed with a flourish.
“Why, thank you,” Canaan said. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. You are…?”
“Madeline. Madeline Carmichael.”
Canaan, no stranger to beautiful women, was dumbstruck by Madeline Carmichael.
The thick curls of her red hair poured down her back and over her shoulders, framing an angelic face. Her body was lush and sinful, but Canaan couldn’t be bothered to notice. He was struggling to tear himself away from her warm brown eyes and the maddening freckles that interrupted the alabaster perfection of her skin. They gathered mostly on the bridge of her nose, with a few strays on her chest and cheeks.
During the day’s events, Canaan had scanned the crowd repeatedly, but he didn’t recall seeing her there. And she was, in every way, memorable.
Her accent was posh and cultured, and everything about her screamed refinement. Canaan was mesmerized. No woman since Aidana, on any of the five continents he’d visited since leaving Kazakhstan, had made his pulse race like the woman now standing before him.
Sensing that his presence was neither required nor desired, Duncan Gilchrist excused himself.
“Sir, I have some calls to make, I believe I’ll retire to the hotel?”
“Yes, perfect,” Canaan replied, diverting the absolute minimum attention from Madeline, for only the briefest moment.
“Madeline Carmichael…” Canaan spoke her name softly, hoping speaking it aloud might unlock her mystery somehow. “Do you prefer Madeline or Maddie?”
“It’s not a question of preference,” she replied. “My name is Madeline. Maddie is a little girl’s name. Do I look like a little girl to you, Mr. Titan?”
“Certainly not,” Canaan replied. “Oxford or Cambridge?” He asked, taking the chance that a creature as lovely and obviously privileged as she, must have been educated at one of England’s premier institutions of higher learning.
Madeline completely disarmed Canaan with her smile. “Newnham College for Women. At Cambridge, of course,” she replied.
“Of course,” Canaan answered. “And what brings you to such a gathering of scoundrels and ugly old men, Ms. Madeline Carmichael?”
“I’m something of a… collector,” Madeline said. “When I see something I desire; I simply must have it.” As she spoke, she moved closer to Canaan, well past the barrier that delineated his “personal space.” She was so close he could smell her hair. When she touched the collar of his white tailored shirt, whatever resistance remained inside him crumbled.
“Did you,” Canaan’s voice cracked, “did you buy anything today?”
“You beat me to the First Folio,” she conceded. “And I was in on the Gutenberg until you and the Chinese got into your bidding war. Those were the two pieces I really coveted.”
“Sorry,” Canaan offered. “I’m here on behalf of my brother, and I’m afraid if I don’t come home with the Bible, I may not have a home to come back to.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Madeline said. “You Titans seem to be a tight-knit bunch. I doubt you’d be disowned.”
“You have me at a disadvantage, you seem to know much more about me than I do of you.”
“Oh, just what I read in the tabloids,” Madeline laughed. “I’m surprised the Titan family doesn’t have its own reality show yet.”
“That would be much more my brother, Odin, and my father, than it would me,” Canaan explained. “Nobody’d want to watch a show about me.”
“I’d tune in every week,” Madeline flirted. “Looks and money are practically a guaranteed ratings-grabber. And they could have you fence shirtless during sweeps week.”
If he wasn’t so physically overwhelmed by Madeline’s beauty and proximity, Canaan may have worried that he was face to face with some sort of deranged stalker. Fencing wasn’t exactly a huge spectator sport, and even during the Olympics, only hard-core fans could tell the difference between a sabre and an épée, two of the three swords used in competitive fencing, much less identify a competitor in one of the events.
“I don’t even think back in the Olympics of old, when they ran marathons naked, that anybody was foolhardy enough to fight with swords without some sort of protection,” Canaan insisted. “Unless you’re talking about gladiators, in which case they were hacking each other to death for the entertainment of the crowd. I don’t think I’d be anywhere near the front of that line.”
“If I have my history correct, I believe that sometimes powerful Roman women would select winning gladiators to entertain them in private once the games were completed,” Madeline said, pressing herself suggestively against Canaan.
“I imagine that, along with keeping one’s organs inside one’s body, that such a prize would be quite a motivator,” Canaan said.
“Minus the bloodshed, what I watched in that auction today, especially when the Gutenberg came out, had all the excitement of anything that took place in the Colosseum,” Madeline purred.
Canaan wished he could reach down and adjust himself. His cock was responding to Madeline, but was trapped awkwardly in his boxer briefs.
“Well, unfortunate for me that I didn’t win, then, no?” Canaan joked.
“You beat me to the Folio, and you’re holding the high bid for the Gutenberg Bible,” Madeline countered. “Why don’t you take me to dinner and we can discuss your reward, Canaanus Titanus?” Madeline batted her eyelashes and Canaan was helpless.
“I, uh, yes, sure, I had dinner plans, but I don’t see why I can’t juggle them,” Canaan stammered.
Canaan fired off a text to Raven asking for a raincheck on dinner and asking her to let Duncan know.
Madeline and Canaan stepped out into the street, her arm in his, and made for the nearby Steirereck, the top-rated restaurant in Vienna. Despite a crowd inside and out due to guests in town for the auction, at the mention of the name “Titan,” a table magically became available.
As the “Empress” and “gladiator” dined on grilled alpine ox, fried lamb, warm artichoke salad, and while enjoying the best wine in the house, they continued a roleplay that had Canaan shifting uncomfortably in his seat as his rampant manhood strained to be satisfied.
“You see, Canaanus, watching you in the arena today, seeing the blood on your sword, has caused my own blood to boil and made me sweat nearly as much as your exertions did to you,” Madeline said as they enjoyed their dessert, an Austrian favorite called Mohnnudeln, potato strings covered in poppy seeds, crushed pistachio, and caster sugar. Neither Madeline nor Canaan had ever tried it before, but they found it delightful and had Canaan not been so looking forward to the “dessert” Madeline was offering, he may have ordered a second plate.
“I find that many men don’t have the…ahh…’stamina’ to satisfy me, Canaanus,” Madeline continued. “And you must be exhausted from your performance today. So at least for a while we’ll leave your ‘sword’ sheathed and I’ll avail myself of your mouth instead. Or, you can return to your quarters beneath the Colosseum and dream of what heaven might taste like. The choice is yours.”
Canaan swallowed hard. He’d never in his life been approached so aggressively before, certainly not by anyone who looked like Madeline Carmichael. His breath was short and he feared he might be flushed with arousal. Meanwhile, Madeline was as cool as ever, a predator casually and flawlessly stalking her prey.
“Yes, empress,” Canaan replied, playing his part so well that Madeline couldn’t help but break character and grin.
As they rose to leave, Canaan felt drunk, even though he’d only had three glasses of wine and had plenty to eat. No amount of alcohol could have produced the effect Madeline was having on him.
“I’m at Hotel Sacher,” Canaan told Madeline.
“How would it appear if an empress were to visit the quarters of a gladiator?” she asked in response. “I’m at the Wien Grand, just a block down. It’ll be much more discreet.”
“As you command,” Canaan replied, getting deeper into the role. It turned both of them on.
In the elevator, Canaan moved to kiss Madeline, but she put a finger to his lips. “You’ll have to kiss me elsewhere before you earn a kiss of these lips,” she said, her index finger tugging gently at her full, red bottom lip.
Canaan stifled a groan.
Her voice, the way her hips swayed when she walked, those eyes…Canaan found himself helplessly enslaved by Madeline Carmichael.
If he’d only known, he was but an insect, entangled in a web of a very clever and deadly spider.
7
Madeline Carmichael had spent years perfecting the art of seducing billionaires and power brokers all over the world. She’d done things to build her fortune and solidify and extend the influence her family enjoyed, things of which she wasn’t proud. Things she hadn’t been asked to do, but things she felt needed doing or would give her an advantage, whether immediate or long-term.
She’d slept with repugnant men, physically and ideologically, and she’d learned that if she could get nothing else out of it, that most men could be trained to please her with their mouths, if nothing else. On the rare occasion that one of these mostly-middle-aged men could actually get it up, it was never for long enough to satisfy, so she took advantage of what they all seemed to have; inexhaustible tongues.
