1
RONAN
“Ah, shit.”
I almost drop my champagne flute, catching it at the last second. The liquid sloshes against the crystal, threatening to spill over as my focus narrows to a single point across the crowded auction hall that’s been decorated for the holidays.
Her.
Who is she and why do I feel like the floor has just disappeared from underneath me? Like I’m standing on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, unmoored and alone?
A woman I’ve never seen before stands on the auction block, blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face. She’s not the polished trophy type these events typically parade. No, she’s soft curves and vulnerability, her blue eyes scanning the room like she’s searching for an exit. Well, she probably is, and I can’t say I blame her one bit.
I’ve been to dozens of these “charity companion auctions.” Rich people buying a weekend with beautiful women and men, all under the thin veneer of philanthropy. Normal people buy gifts for themselves at Christmas. This is the billionaire version of that.
I came tonight only because Xavier, my VP of acquisitions and occasional friend, insisted our absence would be noticed. I had no intention of bidding.
That was the plan.
Until now.
The auctioneer drones on about her attributes—as if she’s a prize mare—while she stands there, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand clenching and unclenching, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here. She wears a simple black dress, modest compared to the other offerings tonight. Nothing about her screams for attention, yet I can’t look away … not even if my life depends on it.
I set my champagne down on a passing waiter’s tray, my decision already made.
No one will have her but me. I’ll break the fingers off anyone who even thinks of touching her, owning her.
No, this woman is mine and mine alone.
“Bidding starts at five thousand dollars,” the auctioneer announces.
Several hands go up immediately. Of fucking course. I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet, fury rises within me as I check out some of the men I know try to outbid each other. I’m this close to wringing their necks for even thinking they’re allowed to breathe the same air as her.
Pathetic, delusional fuckers.
I watch her face as each bid registers—the flicker of dismay, quickly masked. She’s not here by choice. That much is clear.
A heavyset man in the front row raises his paddle. I recognize him—Gerhardt, old money, notorious for his “relationships” with auction companions that extend well beyond the contractual weekend. Something in me hardens when I see his eyes travel up her body. I could crush his windpipe without breaking a sweat. Or maybe I could just glare at him until he withers in my presence. That has always been effective in scaring even men twice my size.
“Fifty thousand,” I call out, not bothering with the paddle.
The room ripples with whispers. People turn to look at me, but I keep my eyes on her. For the first time, she meets my gaze directly. The relief that washes over her face is unmistakable and strangely satisfying.
Interesting.
“Fifty thousand from Mr. Ward,” the auctioneer confirms, barely concealing his excitement. “Do I hear fifty-five?”
Gerhardt turns, scowling when he spots me. He raises his paddle again. “Fifty-five.”
“A hundred fifty,” I counter immediately.
More whispers. The woman’s eyes widen, her lips parting slightly.
“A hundred fifty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer repeats, voice climbing an octave. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is already double our highest bid of the evening.”
I don’t care. Money means nothing to me. I’ve made and lost fortunes in single days. But something about this woman makes me want to empty my accounts just to keep her away from the other men in this room. I’m more than willing to use my bare hands, but, unfortunately for me, auctions don’t work that way.
“Hundred fifty-five,” calls a voice from the back.
My jaw tightens. I recognize this one too—Adrien Keller, tech billionaire, younger than me but with twice the reputation for debauchery.
Fuck no.
The woman’s face pales. Her other hand clutches the small purse she’s holding, knuckles white with tension.
“Two hundred thousand,” I say, loud enough to carry through the now-silent room.
Gerhardt turns back to the stage, contemplating. Keller steps forward, squinting at me through the dim light.
I could do this all fucking night.
“Come on, Ward,” he says with a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Spread the wealth. Two-ten.”
She’s trembling now, barely perceptible unless you’re watching as closely as I am. Something protective and primal surges through me.
“Three hundred thousand,” I say flatly.
The gasps are audible. The auctioneer fumbles his gavel.
“T-three h-hundred thousand dollars from Mr. Ronan Ward,” he stammers. “Do I hear any advance on four hundred thousand?”
Gerhardt shakes his head, disgusted. Keller hesitates, then gives me a mocking bow of concession.
“Going once, going twice…” The auctioneer’s voice rises with each word, drawing out the moment. “Sold! To Mr. Ward for three hundred thousand dollars!”
The crowd applauds, more for the unprecedented amount than for me. I ignore them all, keeping my eyes on her as she’s ushered off the stage. Relief washes over her features, but uncertainty quickly replaces it. She doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know if I’m any better than the alternatives.
I’ll show her I am. I’ll make myself worthy of her.
I move through the crowd, ignoring the congratulations and curious glances. In the holding area behind the stage, staff members process paperwork for the “dates” being auctioned. She stands alone by a high table, pen hovering over a document, hesitation in every line of her body.
“Mr. Ward,” a coordinator greets me. “Congratulations on your winning bid. If you’ll just sign here, your companion for the weekend will be all yours.”
I take the pen, feeling her eyes on me as I sign without reading. I know the terms—forty-eight hours, no obligation beyond companionship, all very civilized and proper on paper. What happens between consenting adults after the paperwork is signed is nobody’s business.
Only when I set the pen down do I turn to look at her properly. Up close, she’s even more beautiful … and more frightened. Those blue eyes are deeper than I realized, intelligent and wary. Her skin is flushed, whether from the stage lights or embarrassment, I can’t tell. It makes the freckles smattering across her nose and cheeks even more prominent.
“Ronan Ward,” I say, extending my hand.
She hesitates for a beat and places her small hand in mine. The simple contact sends a jolt down my spine. The world slides to a stop around us, and I’m fully aware of my blood rushing down south, making me harder with every second she stares at me.
It’s nothing more than a handshake, but my mind somehow registers it as foreplay.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I acting like a hormonal teen?
Her skin is cool but soft, and I can’t stop myself from lifting her hand to my mouth and brushing my lips across her knuckles. Even through the noise behind us, I hear her sharp intake of breath.
“Rayne Silva,” she says.
Am I imagining it or is her voice a little breathy?
“First time at one of these?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
She nods, withdrawing her hand too quickly. “Yes. First and last.”
Something about her tone catches my attention. Desperation, perhaps. The kind that drives people to do things they’d never otherwise consider.
Well, I’m no stranger to desperation myself.
“Not enjoying yourself?” I keep my voice neutral, but I’m studying every microexpression that crosses her face.
“Being auctioned off isn’t exactly on my bucket list.” A flash of spine beneath the vulnerability. Interesting. “So, no, Mr. Ward. Not really.”
“Ronan. Call me Ronan.” I step closer until our faces are just inches apart. She’s shorter than me, so the top of her head only reaches my chin—even when she’s in high heels. “And for the record, I don’t think it’s on anyone’s bucket list. I wouldn’t want anyone bidding on me, either.”
“So why did you? Bid on me, I mean?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I let my gaze drop to her mouth and have to physically restrain myself from claiming her in front of this crowd.. “Or rather, the three-hundred-thousand-dollar question.”
The coordinator clears her throat. “Everything’s in order, Mr. Ward. Ms. Silva is all yours until Monday morning.”
All mine. The words trigger something possessive I didn’t know existed in me. I’ve never wanted to own another person before. But this night has proven extraordinary. Nothing ever made me want to stake my claim so badly like this. Nothing that made me feel almost delirious with want within minutes of seeing someone.
“Do you have a coat? Anything you need to collect?” I ask Rayne.
She shakes her head and gestures to her small purse. “Just this.”
I nod to the coordinator, dismissing her with a look, before turning back to Rayne. “My car’s waiting outside.”
As we walk through the auction hall toward the exit, I’m acutely aware of the eyes following us. Men who lost the bidding. Women calculating what made this particular auction item worth three hundred thousand dollars. I place my hand on the small of Rayne’s back—a clear signal to everyone watching.
Touch her and you die.
She stiffens momentarily at my touch, but eventually relaxes, moving closer to my side as we navigate the crowd. Her instinct to trust me pleases something primitive in my brain.
Outside, the night air is cool and clean after the perfumed, champagne-heavy atmosphere of the auction hall. My car idles at the curb, Jackson, my driver, standing at attention beside it.
“Ms. Silva,” I say as Jackson opens the door, “after you.”
“Rayne. Please call me Rayne.”
She slides into the backseat, arranging her dress carefully. I follow, settling beside her but leaving space between us. The door closes with a solid thunk, sealing us in the quiet luxury of the car’s interior.
Up close, in the dim light of the car, I can see the subtle signs of strain around her eyes. Fatigue, worry, sadness. Emotions at odds with someone who should be celebrating a charitable triumph.
“Three hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money,” she says quietly, breaking the silence as Jackson pulls away from the curb.
“Not to me.”
She wrings her hands together and looks out the window. “For a weekend with a stranger.”
“I don’t make investments I don’t fully intend to enjoy.”
Her eyes snap to mine, alarm flickering through them. I realize how my words sound. Shit.
“I meant the company,” I say, waving a hand. “Nothing more than you’re comfortable with. If there’s one thing you should know about me, Rayne, it’s that I don’t force myself on anyone.”
The tension in her shoulders eases marginally. “Why me? There were other women tonight. More … beautiful and experienced ones.”
The question surprises me with its directness. I consider lying, saying something smooth about her beauty or grace. But something tells me Rayne would see right through platitudes. For some reason, I also refuse to lie to her.
This is unlike the cold, calculating me everyone knows. I’ve never been this considerate to anyone before, except for my son, Ryan, that is.
“Because you didn’t want to be there,” I say finally. “Everyone else was selling. You looked like you wouldn’t be there if you had any other option.”
She bites her lip lightly, and it takes herculean effort not to drop my gaze again and give in to the instinct of tasting her. “That obvious?”
“To me.”
She looks away, out the window at the city lights blurring past. “And that appealed to you? Someone who didn’t want to be auctioned off?”
“What appealed to me was that you needed rescuing,” I admit. “From Gerhardt. From Keller. From whoever else had their eyes on you tonight.”
“And you’re what? My knight in shining armor?” A hint of bitterness edges her voice. “Do you have some kind of hero complex?”
“No. I’m just a man who knows what he wants when he sees it. And I don’t stand and watch while someone else takes what belongs to me.”
Her eyes return to mine, searching. For what, I’m not sure. Deception? Danger? Whatever she’s looking for, she seems to find something that satisfies her, because she nods slightly.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, “for outbidding them.”
I incline my head, acknowledging without accepting her gratitude. I didn’t do it for thanks, but I find it interesting that she has nothing to say about belonging to me.
We ride in silence for several minutes, the distance between us on the seat both negligible and vast. I’m not used to this. This restraint, this careful consideration, this need to please a woman. With Rayne, the wanting is different. Deeper. More complex than simple desire.
I want her, yes, but I want her willingly or not at all.
As we approach my estate, she stirs from her thoughts.
“Where are we going?” she asks, peering out at the gated mansion coming into view.
“My home.”
She swallows visibly. “And what happens there?”
“Whatever we decide happens,” I answer honestly. “The contract says forty-eight hours of companionship. Nothing more specific than that.”
“And what do you want from these forty-eight hours, Ronan?”
It’s the first time she says my name, and the shock to my system is immediate. I need her to say it again. “I want to know you and take what you’re willing to give.”
Surprise flickers across her face. “Most men who pay for company want the fantasy, not the reality.”
“I’m not most men. You should have figured that out by now.”
The car glides to a stop by the front door. Jackson opens my door, and I step out, then turn to offer Rayne my hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she takes it, allowing me to help her from the car.
The same thing happens the moment we touch. My self-control cracks, a rush of deep longing rushing through the gap. I already knew it the second I laid eyes on her. My usual defenses are useless against this woman.
Her hand remains in mine as we walk to the house. Only when we get to the portico do I release her, stepping back to give her space.
Rayne stands straighter, chin lifted slightly. The frightened deer from the auction block is gone, replaced by a woman gathering her courage. I like this side of her because the last person she has to fear is me. She’ll learn that eventually.
She catches me watching her and meets my eyes. A blast of heat, violent and sudden, surges through me. A freeze-frame of her writhing, thrashing, and screaming my name slides into my brain.
Jesus Christ. Who is this version of me? I’ve never had a problem with restraint, but now I can feel it fraying thread by fucking thread.
The grand entryway doors open to the foyer. The lights come on automatically, revealing the sleek, minimalist space beyond. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city spread out below us, a carpet of lights against the night sky.
I step aside, allowing her to enter first. She moves past me, her scent briefly enveloping me as she passes. I follow her into the living room, watching as she takes in her surroundings.
Rayne watches the place, and I watch her.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, moving toward the windows. “I’ve never seen a view like this before.”
“The view is better from the bedroom terrace,” I say, then immediately regret it when she tenses. “That wasn’t a proposition.”
She turns to face me, something like defiance in her eyes now. “Wasn’t it?”
“No.” I step closer, close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in her eyes. “When I proposition you, Rayne Silva, there will be no mistaking it.”
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t back away. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
I shrug. “I know what I want. Whether I get it is entirely up to you.”
For a moment, we stand there, the air between us charged with possibilities. The tension is so thick I can cut it with a butter knife, but she doesn’t look away. Her slim throat flexes as she swallows hard, and she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.
Fuck me. My body is already aching, and I’m dangerously close to acting on my filthy thoughts. But no. I won’t pounce on her the first night. Not until she gives herself to me.
With an internal groan, I sigh and step back, breaking the tension.
“You’ve had a long night,” I say. “You must be tired.”
“A little.”
I gesture toward the hallway. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“My room?” She can’t quite hide her surprise, her forehead scrunching.
“Did you think I’d expect you to share mine? Without even buying you dinner first?” I raise an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly.
A small smile touches her lips—the first I’ve seen from her. It transforms her face, softening it, revealing a glimpse of who she might be when she’s not afraid or when her defenses are down.
I want to see more of that woman. So much more.
But I need her to want me first.
