His Acquisition (2 page)

I saw it all, in that perfect moment of stillness before
disaster strikes. A young man, his eyes wide and horrified, reeling backwards.
Our mutual momentum sent us both careening out of control, struggling to regain
our balance. We both lost the battle.

And so did the white vase in his hands. Gently, gracefully, it
rolled from his fingers and began its fateful descent toward the floor.

Horror speared me straight through the heart as I fought to
regain my footing, knowing I had only a split second to launch myself forward
and catch the falling vase, but it was a pipe dream from the beginning. Still
stumbling backwards, my ass hit the edge of the table holding the
to-be-auctioned art, sending a shock of pain up my back, and I tumbled forward
to my hands and knees. My phone hit the floor the same time as the vase. My
phone, swathed in rubber, survived the fall.

The vase didn't.

With a terrible sound, it shattered into a million pieces on the
hard floor. Bits of white porcelain skittered across the wood, some spinning
off under the assembled tables, others content to stay where they landed in the
initial blast.

Silence descended upon the assembled throng of my fellow peons.
The kid who had been carrying the vase stared at its broken corpse, his face
going green.

I knew that vase was worth probably five thousand dollars, if
not more. Perhaps ten to the right collector. There was no way this kid doing
grunt work for the elite had anything like that kind of money. He was probably
living paycheck to paycheck in a six-story walk up apartment with three other
roommates. In fact, I knew he was. I could see it on his face. The utter,
abject
fear
of someone already deep in debt just about to head further
into it. I knew it because I'd been there.

Shit.

“Fuck,” I said out loud, breaking the silence. “That was my fault.”

It wasn't. It was the kid's fault. The breakable pieces had been
packed in well-insulated boxes for a
reason,
but it was too late. I'd
been really fucking poor once. I wasn't gong to let him take the fall.

He looked at me with eyes full of gratitude, but I had to look
away.
How the hell am
I
going to pay for this?
I thought. I mean,
I had a good job. But I also had gobs of debt. Anton's accountant helped me
consolidate it, but I'm still kind of cruising along, unable to save much. I
expense everything I can, but frankly, this was not something any amount of
expensed meals could save up for.

I scrambled to my feet and pointed at the culprit. “You,” I
said, “sweep this up.
Carefully.
I want you to have every single piece
of this vase in a bag by the end of the night. And I mean
every piece.”
He
nodded, and I gingerly picked my phone up from the floor and studied it, making
certain it was still in one piece.

Thank god. No cracks on the glass, and it flashed to life when I
hit the button. Pulling up my catalog of art, I found the entry again. Seeing
the beautiful vase, still whole and healthy on my phone, made me feel sick
inside, but I pushed it down. I had to find the vase's owner, and fast. I
glanced at the name.

Malcolm Ward.

All right,
I thought.
Sounds like an old guy.
I
reached up and adjusted my little black dress so that my breasts—such as they
were—pushed up over the top. Maybe I could knock a couple hundred dollars off
my debt with some cleavage. Grabbing a passing stage jockey, I gave him fierce,
whispered instructions and then swiftly strode out of the backstage area and to
the lounge. Behind me I heard the emcee pause in his monologue, and then say:
“Malcolm Ward, please meet Mrs. Waters' personal assistant, Ms. MacElroy, in
the Edison Lounge.” A chorus of whistles and whoops went up from the drunken
crowd and I rolled my eyes as I exited.

The lounge was dim and mostly abandoned, the gaudy zebra stripes
of the booths shining white and ghostly in the dark. I moved to one of them and
sat down, crossing my legs at the ankle and sitting up straight so my breasts
would thrust out. I had to look like the quintessential Personal Assistant, the
one who would Do Anything to Make Her Employer Happy. I wanted Mr. Ward to
think I was lovely and pliable, even though I'm anything but, on both accounts.
Getting a thousand dollars or two knocked off my debt was worth it, though.
What's a little exploitation among unequals?

In an attempt to look nonchalant, I turned my phone on and
casually swiped through my catalog. There were twenty-five pieces in all—well,
twenty four, now—and each of them was slated to bring a decent price in. If we
were lucky we'd end up with at least fifty thousand dollars for the charity,
and I had to be content with that. That I was going to have to turn the heat
off in my apartment for the next three years was simply the natural consequence
of my own partial fuck up.

I sighed, watching the beautiful pieces of art pass me by,
slipping up the screen, and I wished I was out of debt. And better paid. I'd
have given quite a few pesos for some of these pieces...

A clearing throat had me looking up. For a moment, I was blinded
by the flash of my screen still scored across my vision. Then it cleared, and I
found myself staring at my blond Batman.

He towered over me, staring down at me with his weird,
mischievous smile plastered on his face. He was scoping me out. I hate feeling
like meat.

“May I help you?” I asked him icily.

“Miss MacElroy?” he said. “I am Malcolm Ward. You... wanted to
see me?”

Even his voice was full of suggestion. Here was a man who liked
to get what he wanted, and I was almost glad his pretty vase was smashed.

I stood up so he wouldn't be towering over me any longer, but
that was a miscalculation, because he was very, very tall. He still towered
over me. But I'm not a shrinking violet.
Project,
I thought.
Don't
let this jackass think he can walk all over you.

I looked him directly in the eye and ignored the little shiver
that ran up my spine at the contact. “I am sorry to inform you, Mr. Ward, but
your donated lot has met with an... incident.”

He quirked a brow. “An incident, Miss MacElroy?”

“Yes,” I said. “Specifically, an incidental floor. It has met
with an incidental floor. I apologize, but it did not survive the meeting. I,
of course, take full responsibility for this. Please tell me how much I owe you
so we can work out a payment plan.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying the vase was destroyed?” he
said at last.

No use beating around the bush about it. “Yes,” I said. “It has
been destroyed. Like I said, I take full responsibility. If you would like to
sit down, we can work out a plan to resolve this debt, and then we can go on
our way.”

He didn't respond immediately. Instead he tilted his head and
studied me. Again I felt the cool appraisal of his gaze, slipping over my face,
lingering on my lips, traveling down to my cleavage—my damn cleavage! why did I
think it was a good idea to show it off, again?—and then further down. Where
his gaze touched me, I grew hot, then cold. His frank assessment gave me the
willies, as if he were deciding just which part of my body he should...
do
something to
first. I was only forty percent curious as to what that
something
was. The other sixty percent of me was telling me to run very fast in another
direction.

And I was in this guy's debt.

I sure do know how to pick 'em.

Out in the ballroom, the emcee was announcing the third lot. The
third lot, already! I needed to rush backstage to assess the rest of the lots
and make sure everything was in place. Annoyance flared in me.

“Stop ogling me and let's get this done with,” I snapped. “I
have a lot of work to do.” See? I'm terrible at public relations.

Mr. Ward raised his brows again. “Very well, Miss MacElroy. I
will be quick. The vase, while beautiful, held little importance to me, and its
monetary value has most likely been recouped already by my vast investments, so
the money is, for lack of a better word, immaterial to me.”

Was he letting me off the hook? Oh my god, I wasn't going to
have to pay him thousands of dollars? I couldn't stifle the relieved smile that
broke across my face and I opened my mouth to thank him, but he held up a hand.

“The chief value of the vase was in what it would have fetched
for the charity tonight,” he continued. “Where I had placed a piece on the
auction block to be auctioned off, there is now... nothing. Something must
replace it.”

I blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?” I said. “Do you have
something else you can auction off?”

That quirky smile returned. He looked quite devilish when he
smiled. “I believe,” he said, “that since you are in my debt, that I may now
auction
you
off.”

I blinked at him. He smiled back.

“What?”
The word erupted from deep in my chest and I
barely recognized it as my own voice. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He held up a long, beautifully tapered finger. The sort of
finger useful for sculpting, or shading, or...
other
things. “Let me be
clear. You
owe
me. Therefore
I—”
he pointed to himself, “—own
you.”

My blood boiled. “I don't think it works that way any more.
Slavery was banned.”

He shrugged. “In name,” he said. “Now, lot six is up. I believe
my lot is listed as number eight?”

I froze and listened. Yup, sure enough, the bronze mirror was going,
going, and soon to be gone. I'd taken responsibility for the vase and now I was
going to pay for it.

“Are you sure you don't want to just put yourself up there?” I
said, trying to keep the pleading from my voice. “I mean, no one will argue
that you don't own yourself. And besides, who would buy
me?
I'm not
exactly high society material.” This much was true—I didn't even try to hide my
tattoos and piercings, even though plenty of people turned their noses up at
them. But even more I wanted to know:
what would anyone buy me
for?

“If you don't want to go up on the auction block, then I will
simply have to set the price of the vase at one million dollars.”

I paled. “No one would uphold that amount,” I said.

“But who can afford the lawyer to argue that?” he asked me.

Ruthless.
Not one of the old money set, and not one of
the inbred country clubbers. A self-made man, just like Anton. Anton, who still
gave me the shivers, though Felicia had softened his approach to other people
somewhat. And this man, Malcolm Ward, had me in a bind. A drunken cheer went up
from the crowd as someone won the mirror. Rich folks get randy at too much
champagne and money changing hands.

“Lot Seven...” the emcee began. I knew that lot seven was pretty
worthless. I wondered who would pay money for it. And after that...

“Fine!” I said. “I'll go up there. But no one gets to buy me for
weird sex stuff!”

“Of course not,” he said. “That would be illegal.”

And with that, he gave me a bow and a smile, and turned around
and walked out of the lounge.

“Anyone? Anyone?” the emcee was saying.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, turned my heels, and ran
back to the backstage area. The lackey who'd dropped the vase stood by its
empty spot, looking agonized and awkward. I ran up to him and quickly told him
the change in plans before ordering him onstage. What the hell, right? He'd
already ruined my night and possibly more. Might as well make him do something
useful.

He scurried back out onstage and whispered furiously to the
emcee as lot seven—unwanted, it seemed—was taken away, numberless. Nervously I
smoothed my skirt and hoped I didn't look too much like something the cat
dragged in. The stress of this job was seriously getting to me. I deserved a
vodka and vodka with a shot of vodka on the side after I was done being sold.

I had no idea why anyone would want to buy a person, but people
sold at auctions were usually sold for dates. I had no desire to date any of
these people. Although if a woman bought me I'd probably go lez for the night
just out of gratitude for whisking me out from under the noses of the leering
elite. Rich guys were the worst for that sort of thing. Guys period, actually.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, the previous lot eight, listed in
your programs, has met with its demise. That exquisite china vase, dating from
the seventeenth century, sadly went to the great foyer table in the sky a few
moments ago.” He laughed at his terrible joke. “But we have a replacement lot,
just as exquisite.”

In the shadows of the side stage I rolled my eyes so hard I
think I saw my brain.

“May I present to you the replacement lot eight, Mrs. Felicia
Waters' personal assistant, Miss Sadie MacElroy! Let's give her a big round of
applause!”

I knew my cheeks were flaming, but I plastered the biggest smile
on my face that I could. It was this, or paying an unscrupulous business guy
way too much money for no reason at all. I hated everyone in that moment, but
you never would have known it as I strode out onto the stage, my head held high
and my shoulders thrown back, showing off my still fluffed-up tits for the
world to see. I mean, they're not B cups or whatever, but like my mom's
boyfriend always said,
More than a mouthful is too much.
God, he'd been
creepy.

The spotlights blinded me as I stopped by the emcee and turned,
tossing my hair over my shoulder, then cocking a hip and putting my hand on it.
I hoped looked sufficiently saucy and fiery to deter the older crusty guys from
bidding for me.

The applause died down. “Very good,” the emcee said. “I believe
this lot is a date with Miss MacElroy. A meal of your choosing, or some other
activity, negotiated between you and this ravishing woman.”