Rudy wouldn’t tolerate it. Not for long.
Tears of frustration pricked her eyes, but Charley blinked them away. There was still one more room to search—the potential goldmine otherwise known as the study. Rich people kept all kinds of important shit in there, like it was some kind of private Fort Knox no thief would ever penetrate.
For her sake, Charley hoped that was the case tonight.
“Saving the best for last,” she whispered hopefully, turning to exit the smallest bedroom.
But she couldn’t. Towering in the doorway, a huge beast of a man blocked her path.
It wasn’t the security guard, but a guest she’d spotted at the bar earlier. Now, he was grinning at Charley like she was a prized piece of art he’d won.
“Oh, hi!” she said brightly, pressing a hand to her chest to keep her heart from bursting out. “I didn’t see you.”
Tall and imposing, with dark, malicious eyes that matched his expensive charcoal-gray suit, he folded his arms over his chest and grinned. “Lost, little one?”
“No, I… I’m looking for—”
“Yes,” the man said, taking a few steps toward her. “Do tell me what you’re looking for, here in the private bedrooms of our hosts.”
The icy tone in his voice sent chills down her spine. Beyond the fact that he’d busted her, there was something off about the guy.
The word unnatural popped into her head. He was too still, even when he moved. Too calm.
And now he had her cornered.
“Tampons,” Charley blurted out, forcing an embarrassed giggle as she reached inside her purse and gripped Beyoncé, her trusty taser. “I was looking for tampons. Don’t suppose you’ve got any?”
The man didn’t flinch, and he sure wasn’t buying her ditzy female act, either. He took another step forward, forcing her back into the bedroom. The chill in his eyes shifted to solid ice, a look of deadly determination Charley knew all too well.
Shit. She really, really didn’t want to tase the guy. Tasing meant causing a scene. It meant people asking questions and calling the cops. It meant getting noticed.
But she wasn’t about to let this guy fuck with her, either.
“Back off, asshole,” she warned, her Jersey-girl soul breaking through the refined exterior as she pointed Beyoncé at his crotch. “Or I’ll send you home with a stutter and a smoking dick.”
He grinned and raised his hands in surrender, and for a second Charley thought it was done. But then he lunged for her, knocking her purse and weapon to the ground, crushing her upper arms in a bruising grip.
Without hesitation, she slammed her knee into his exposed crotch.
But he didn’t go down. Didn’t even grunt. Just kept grinning at her, his teeth long and sharp and…
Are those fangs?
Charley didn’t waste time second-guessing. She threw herself forward, the unexpected move buying her a momentary reprieve from his clutches, but then he was right back in her face again, hauling her against the brick wall of his chest as he kicked the door shut behind them.
The door didn’t slam, though.
Someone caught it.
“Is everything all right in here?” A smooth, deep-voiced English accent wrapped around her like a hot bath, and when the man it belonged to stepped inside, Charley gasped.
It was him. Her fantasy man from the lobby.
Perfect timing, hot stuff.
He took one look at the scene—giant asshole manhandling her like a rag doll, her belongings scattered on the floor—and his body went rigid.
“Renault Duchanes,” he said, his tone so dark, Charley’s skin erupted in goosebumps.
But that was all it took. One word, one look, and the asshole released her.
“You two are… acquainted?” The creep—Duchanes—stepped away from Charley like she was radioactive.
Ignoring the question, her man turned to her and held out his arm. “They’re almost ready to start the bidding, love. Shall we?”
Love? God, the sweet seduction in his voice made her ache.
She took the offered arm, surprised at how firm his forearm muscle was, thick and taut beneath a soft wool suit jacket.
Duchanes narrowed his eyes, but Charley wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of calling them out. Flashing a smug smile, she said to her man, “You were right, honey. These auctions do bring out the douchebags.”
“I warned you.” He winked at her, but when he turned back to the other guy, it felt like someone sucked all the air out of the room.
Tension simmered between them. Clearly, they knew each other. Clearly, they weren’t friends. They seemed to be having an entire conversation with nothing more than dirty looks and threatening scowls.
Finally, Duchanes backed off, exiting the room with grunt of annoyance.
Charley blew out a breath, her heart rate slowing back to normal.
“Are you hurt?” the man asked, crouching down to pick up her things.
“I’ll survive. That asshole a friend of yours?”
“He won’t bother you again.”
“Better fucking not.” She reached out to collect her purse and the taser, the slightest brush of his fingertips sending a zing of pleasure up her arm. “Prick was this close to getting fifty thousand volts up the ass.”
She kept the taser in hand, just in case.
The man chuckled and shook his head, and Charley snapped her mouth shut, stashing the Jersey girl back inside. She was supposed to be a wealthy art collector, and art collectors didn’t go around tasing random creeps at auctions or cursing like scrappy bitches in front of polite company.
Shit, shit, shit.
Tonight was not going according to plan.
“Thanks for the save,” she said, searching for a way to break free of his heated gaze. “I should… check my messages. My boss is… messaging me.”
Smooth, Charley. Real smooth.
Cringing, she traded her weapon for the phone, turning it back on vibrate. A dozen notifications flooded in from Rudy, but there was a text from her sister too—no note, just a picture of a huge cucumber strategically positioned between two shriveled avocados.
“Your boss sends you pictures of erotic vegetable art?” the man asked, a hint of playfulness in his tone.
Damn. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close.
“That one’s from my sister,” she said.
His eyes sparkled with mischief and intrigue, a combination that was quickly unraveling her. “Which begs the question… Your sister sends you pictures of erotic vegetable art?”
“It’s… kind of a thing with us. Last night I sent her one with two bananas with whipped cream on the tips, and…” Charley caught herself and shook her head, dropping the phone back into her purse. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Maybe I’m easy to talk to.”
You’re easy to look at, that’s for sure…
He held her gaze another beat, his smile making her heart sputter, then placed his hand on the small of her back. “Follow me.”
I follow no man, Charley thought. The words were poised on the tip of her tongue, but instead of voicing them, she inexplicably gave in to the light pressure of his touch, heading back out into the hallway and wondering why the hell his presence made her so damn lightheaded.