Chapter 2

2

Jack

It’s almost eleven o’clock when my phone rings. I’m sitting in my bathtub with a cigar in my mouth, staring into the fireplace, finding it impossible to get my mind off…the girl.

Always the girl.

This obsession should have run its course by now. I’ve spent no time in her presence. She picked up her mother once and I glimpsed her through the upstairs window, the afternoon light turning her into a glowing sunbeam in her yellow dress, the line of her neck elegant, her voice a gentle lilt that haunts me. Somehow one glance was all it took for the infatuation to take hold. For me to rearrange finances and lose my ability to focus. Concentrate.

Yes, I might know my interest in the girl is ridiculous, but I can’t help but be annoyed at the interruption when I’m thinking of her. I almost ignore the call. If it wasn’t for the fact that I seldom receive them at this hour, I might have. But I sit up in the tub and glance over at the screen and my senses go on alert.

Kirk. The private investigator. If he’s calling me, there’s a good reason.

Quickly, I wipe my hand on the closest towel and hit the speakerphone button. “Yes?” I bark around my cigar. “What is it?”

“Mr. Lincoln, we have a situation that is developing rapidly.”

Thanks to his harried tone, I’m already out of the tub, steaming bathwater pouring down my body onto the marble floor, the phone poised near my mouth. “A situation? With her? What the fuck does that mean?”

“She normally cleans on Saturday nights, but she went out with two friends instead. Girls from her neighborhood.” His audible swallow makes me nervous—and I don’t like to be nervous. I spend a lot of money to make sure I am always in control and having it taken away from me is unacceptable. “I would have called you sooner, sir, but I…I couldn’t believe she would come here. I thought they were passing through the area to get to the next town…”

“Where is she?”

“The Creed Estate, sir. The guests are…bidding on her.”

The blood in my veins turns to ice, denial digging its claws into my stomach.

No. No, it doesn’t make any sense. For the last six months, I’ve learned everything about Maisy Whitaker, down to her favorite food—Thai noodles—to the kinds of audiobooks she checks out of the library—historical romance, with the occasional self-help title thrown in. She avoids male attention like the fucking plague and every once in a while splurges on a romantic comedy at the theater. Alone. With gummy bears.

She does not attend sex parties at the house of a crime boss.

“Get her the fuck out of there.”

Kirk blows out a breath and I can hear the background noise, the male voices and shifting of furniture. “It’s not going to be that simple. She’s causing a stir.”

I sprint into my adjoining bedroom and throw the phone down on the bed, leaving it on speakerphone. “Of course she is.” I throw open my closet, blindly pulling out the first suit my hand lands on. “Jesus, you have to bid on her. Tell Winston Creed you’re bidding on my behalf. He’ll allow the bidding to be done over the phone.”

“There’s a matter of the membership fee, sir—”

“Pay it. And do not let anyone outbid you. I don’t care how high it goes. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The line goes silent and I set a land speed record getting dressed, sliding my feet into loafers and booking it out the front door of my estate. My home is only a mile from Creed’s, so it won’t take me long to get there. I’ve averted this crisis. That’s what I tell myself, but my palms remain clammy on the wheel of my Bentley, my carotid artery beating in Morse code.

Is that my breath rasping in and out?

This is very inconvenient.

I was just going to watch Maisy, make sure she’s safe, help make life easier for her. In return, she wasn’t supposed to scare me like this. Or do anything out of the ordinary.

Christ. In a few minutes, I’m going to be in the same room with her for the first time.

I’m definitely not nervous about that.

What do I have to be nervous about?

I’m a goddamn billionaire. I’m young, in great shape.

And I’m a completely unlikeable asshole.

She’s going to hate you.

I swallow the lump in my throat and stomp down on the gas, trying to banish images of old men breathing on her beautiful skin. If one of them has already touched her, I’m going to breathe fucking fire, so help me God. But I don’t think Winston Creed will allow it, once he knows I’m interested. Like recognizes like, and although he’s a dangerous man, I have enough money to be dangerous, too. He really doesn’t want to piss me off. And “pissed off” is an understatement of what I’ll be if someone else were to win Maisy.

How did she get herself into this?

Haven’t I been paying her mother enough to clean my house?

My phone beeps and I take my eyes off the road long enough to see that Kirk has texted me the security code for Creed’s gate. A moment later, my tires squeal to a stop in front of it and I hammer in the numbers with my finger, barely restraining myself from hitting the gas and plowing my Bugatti right through the gate.

Finally, it opens and I burn rubber, reaching the circular driveway in a matter of seconds. Whereas my estate is modern, this perverted motherfucker is all about old world charm, a throwback to the mob’s glory days, and it curls my lip in disgust. I wouldn’t give a second thought to his design choices if he wasn’t using the extravagance to hide the manipulation of girls who can’t turn down the extra money. Girls like Maisy.

Although…I can’t quite believe she’d come here willingly.

It just doesn’t fit. And I like it even less knowing that she might have been coerced.

With a growl, I try the handle on the front door and find it locked, so I’m forced to knock, molars grinding. I’m impatient. To pay whatever I have to pay and get Maisy out of here, even though I have no clue how I’m going to explain my obvious determination to win her when we’ve never met. Or how I’m going to explain my aggressive bidding on an eighteen-year-old girl when I’ve never been to one of these pervert parties in my life, nor would I.

Some old fucker answers the door and I breeze past him, pasting a huge smile on my face as I enter the living room—which is actually more the size of a ballroom, with antique furniture scattered in intimate clusters. Not to mention lots of flat surfaces where the winner can collect on his bid afterward while everyone watches.

Not with Maisy. Not even over my dead body.

I untuck a cigar from my suit jacket and light it, waiting for the bidding to pause and everyone to give me their attention. “So this is where all the dirty old men have been hiding,” I drawl, blowing a smoke ring into the air. “I’m already bored. Did I win yet?”

Maisy is standing in the front of the room and I only allow myself a split second to look at her. To determine that she’s unharmed. I’ve been in board rooms with a lot of these sharks and if they sense how deep my infatuation with her runs, they’ll circle her all the faster. So I glance away as quickly as possible, but it’s enough to brand the sight of her in pink silk and a terrified expression forever.

Oh, she definitely isn’t here willingly.

“Ah, Jack Lincoln.” Winston Creed’s smile is brittle. “You’ve never accepted an invitation to one of our gatherings. I was surprised when your associate here agreed to pay the membership fee and immediately started throwing around such hefty bids on the new girl.” He runs lecherous eyes over Maisy and I force myself not to stiffen. “There must be something very special about her, men.”

Kirk approaches me from the side. I don’t shift my attention from Creed while Kirk whispers in my ear. “We’re the lead bid as of now. It’s already at two hundred and fifty thousand.” I don’t flinch at the number. I can make that in my sleep. Problem is, so can the other men in this room and they’re old members. They have seniority. I’ll need to pull my dick out to make them go away. These veterans only know one language and it’s aggression. “There are five men in the running, all old enough to be her father.”

I keep my smile in place, but my jaw is about to shatter. “Why don’t we end this now, since you’re all up past your bedtimes? 60 Minutes ended hours ago.” I saunter closer to the front of the room, desperately needing Maisy to be within reaching distance. “A million dollars for the girl. Cash. Do we have a deal or will you bore me further?”

Murmuring starts behind me and I use the guests’ distraction as another chance to look at Maisy. Jesus. She’s so beautiful, she rattles me. Goodness radiates from her every pore. Makes me want to pray, to thank a higher power for creating her, when I haven’t acknowledged my maker in years. I’ve had Kirk send me pictures of Maisy, daily, for the last six months, but film doesn’t do her justice. Doesn’t capture the gentle curve of her mouth, the virtue in her brown eyes, the way she shines.

Her virginal body.

All limber limbed and soft as fuck, swells and valleys in all the right places.

A million dollars would be a bargain.

How is she looking at me?

There’s some curiosity, surprise…and definite resentment. Of course there is. She thinks I’m here to purchase her for sex. She has no way of knowing I’d never make her go through with it. That I’d rather die than fuck her when she isn’t willing.

But I can’t tell her any of that. Not now.

These men need to believe I’m as unscrupulous as they are. Or they’ll be threatened. They want me culpable. To sink as low as them. Or they’ll worry about me ruining their ongoing party. And in a lot of ways, I am unscrupulous. Hard. Demanding. A bastard.

That’s why I watch her from a distance. That’s why I don’t touch.

I smile at her—with teeth—and she sucks in a breath.

“Two million,” a man’s voice calls out behind me. “Haven’t had a virgin since I was in high school.”

“Gosh, Eisenhower must have still been in office,” I grit out, refusing to show my panic. Slowly, I turn on a heel to face my opponent. “How about ten million, you saggy-balled motherfucker? Remember, you’re retired. I’m still raking it in.” I clamp my cigar between my teeth. “I can go all night.”

There’s a long pause.

I can hear Maisy’s whimpering intake of breath behind me. The sound is an icepick through my chest, but I strive to maintain a cocky appearance.

It’s usually not so difficult.

“Do I hear eleven million?” Winston Creed asks behind me, his tone gleeful. “No? Ten million going once, going twice. Sold. I suppose it’s somewhat fitting that our freshest meat goes to the newest member, Jack Lincoln. Congratulations.”

Relief floods me, but I shrug, as if winning Maisy is no big deal. I turn around and meet her dazed eyes, wishing I knew how to be reassuring. She needs it, the poor girl. She’s trembling, for godsakes, her knees knocking together. At least I know I can ease her worries by getting her the hell out of here. Home where she belongs.

Feeling completely inept, I hold my hand out to her. “Come on, angel,” I say hoarsely. “You’re done here.”

“No, she’s not. Neither of you are,” Winston Creed croons, already guiding the next girl to the front of the room. “Perhaps you should have read the membership agreement before joining, Mr. Lincoln. The highest bid of the night is consummated in the viewing area.” His lips bend into a smile. “Where we can all watch.”