2
RAYNE
Oh my God. What just happened? Am I dreaming? Is this real life? Is HE for real?
The heavy bedroom door closes with a soft click behind Ronan, leaving me alone in the most luxurious guest room I’ve ever seen. My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I’m certain he can hear it through the wall. I press my palm against my chest, trying to still the wild rhythm.
This night hasn’t turned out the way I expected, and I don’t even mind. Not one bit.
This isn’t fear. That’s what puzzles me. I expected to be terrified. I was terrified earlier tonight on that auction block, staring out at a sea of wealthy men and women eyeing me like merchandise.
But this? This hammering pulse, this electric current running beneath my skin? This is something else entirely.
I fall backward onto the king-sized bed, sinking into a mattress so plush it might as well be a cloud. Staring at the pristine white ceiling, I try to make sense of my reaction to Ronan Ward. My savior and currently the one occupying a good chunk of my mental real estate.
When I’d agreed to this auction, it had been out of pure desperation. Mom’s medical bills keep mounting, and after losing both my jobs in the same month (with promises of, “We’ll keep in touch if we need your services again”), I was drowning. Then I saw men like Gerhardt and Keller bidding—men with reputations that made my skin crawl—I nearly broke down right there. Money be damned.
But when Ronan’s voice cut through the room, something inside me stilled. Relief. That’s what I felt. Relief, when by all rights, I should have been even more terrified. Billionaire Ronan Ward is known for taking what he wants without apology.
Yes, I did my research and knew most of the attendees and bidders. I wanted to have an idea who I would potentially spend the next two days with. What can I say? It eased my anxiety. Not by much, but the information comforted me.
So why did Ronan’s presence calm me? Why, when he looks at me with those dark, intense eyes, do I feel like he’s seeing something worth looking at? The first time he looked at me, I didn’t know if I was about to melt into a puddle on the floor or climb his body like a tree.
God, he’s so hot it should be a crime. Those eyes that seem to see right through me, the stubble that darkens half his face, those big, veiny hands. Everything about him has my lady parts screaming.
I press my palms against my eyes. “Get it together, Rayne,” I say to myself. “It’s just forty-eight hours. After that, Ronan will most likely forget about you.”
Forty-eight hours that will test every ounce of my willpower and self-control. Because the truth—the embarrassing, ridiculous truth—is that several times tonight, I nearly flung myself at him. In the car. In the foyer. Just now, standing outside this bedroom door.
With a groan, I roll off the bed and head for the en-suite bathroom. Maybe a shower will clear my head. Or maybe I will just drown myself. We’ll have to see.
The bathroom is all white marble and gleaming chrome, with a shower big enough for four people. I strip quickly, avoiding my reflection in the full-length mirror, and step under the rainfall showerhead.
Hot water cascades over me, washing away the night’s tension but doing nothing to ease the persistent thrumming under my skin. I use the toiletries lined up in elegant glass bottles, breathing in the scent of jasmine and vanilla. Is this what Ronan likes? Did he choose these scents specifically for this room, or does some invisible staff handle these details?
After toweling off, I discover the dresser contains neatly folded clothes.
I select the softest pair of pajamas—pale blue silk that feels like water against my skin—and climb into bed. The sheets are cool and smooth, the weight of the duvet perfect for snuggling in.
Yet I can’t sleep.
Is Ronan already asleep? The thought bothers me more than it should. I picture him across the hall, perhaps lying in his own bed, staring at his own ceiling. Or maybe he’s working. Men like him probably don’t sleep much.
God, why am I even thinking about him? I really need to—
