At worst? Well, Dorian preferred not to think about that, choosing instead to glare at the back of Duchanes’ head, imagining it popping right off his neck and rolling along the floor like a bloody bowling ball.
With everyone finally seated, the auctioneer got down to business, starting with a small but richly colored painting of a Parisian sidewalk scene—A Moment’s Pause, the last known work of Johan Saccari. Dorian didn’t recognize it.
“What do you think it’s worth?” he whispered to his companion. “Fifty thousand?”
“Not even close.” The woman leaned in, a conspiratorial grin lighting her face. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
“After Saccari’s death, his apprentice sold a dozen of his own paintings under his master’s name. When he was finally caught, he admitted that A Moment’s Pause was Saccari’s final painting, and its value skyrocketed. It was stolen from the Louvre in the thirties, returned in the forties, and stolen again in the fifties. After they recovered it the second time, it was sold to a private collector for three million dollars.”
“No kidding?” Dorian was impressed by her knowledge. The bidding had already gone up to $80,000, and it was climbing steadily. “Think it’ll go for six figures?”
“Probably. But here’s the real secret: it’s worthless.”
“You said it was Saccari’s last—”
“This one’s a fake. You can tell by the flat texture. Saccari was known for mixing foreign matter into his paints—sand, glass, stones, even hair. The real Moment’s Pause is hanging over a fireplace in Spain, still with the family who purchased it from the Louvre.”
“Sold!” the auctioneer said. “Four hundred thousand dollars from bidder seven.”
“Wow,” Dorian said. “Poor bastard.”
“You know what they say about suckers, right?”
Dorian grinned. “Bet bidder seven wishes he was sitting next to you.”
“Bidder seven wouldn’t stand a chance with me. He probably doesn’t bite until the fourth date.”
Heat flared in her eyes, sending another bolt of desire to his cock. But with a frightening realization, Dorian’s blood went cold.
“The Whitfield painting,” he said urgently. “Do you know it?”
“Of course. Are you interested?”
“I am if it’s really the Whitfield.”
“Oh, that one’s totally authentic. I was relieved to see it, actually. For years it’s been… unaccounted for.” Her face clouded, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows, her heart rate spiking ever so slightly. It looked as though she had more to say on the matter, but when Dorian pressed, she waved it off.
“Now that’s an interesting piece,” she said instead, drawing his attention to an ancient alabaster bust that just went up for bid. “Also authentic. It’s King Darius the First, carved in the late period Egyptian style. Egypt was part of the Achaemenid Empire by then. The piece was probably commissioned by one of the king’s local wives.”
The auctioneer opened the bidding at $8,000. “Eight, to the gentleman in front. Do I hear eight five?”
“Nine,” his woman called out. She was all business now, the playfulness gone from her voice.
A third and fourth bidder entered the game, his woman keeping pace through a volley of bids. The price climbed to $55,000 before she finally dropped out. In the end, it sold for $72,000 to the Darkmoon witch.
Dorian wasn’t surprised. Witches often collected antiquities, using them to tap into ancient magic. And at the rates they charged for their services, they could certainly afford the bids.
“I’m sorry, love. I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”
“Nah. It’s a great piece, but not a stellar example of late period Egyptian art by any means. Certainly not worth seventy grand.”
“Someone disagrees with you.”
“What did I tell you about suckers?”
“After all your talk of pretense,” Dorian said, nudging her knee with his, “could it be you’re an art snob?”
She pressed a hand to her chest, feigning offense.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’m a bit of an art snob too.”
“You don’t say?” She fingered the cuff of his suit jacket, stroking the fine Italian wool where not too long ago the evidence of his father’s demise glowed white in the setting sun. “Here I thought you were the type to have a trophy room full of dead-animal heads.”
“To be fair, the live ones are a bit harder to mount.”
Her unabashed laughter attracted more than a few impatient glares, but Dorian couldn’t get enough of it. She was even more beautiful when she laughed; her entire body glowed with it.
The curve of her bare shoulder glimmered—a temptation Dorian could no longer resist. With his arm still resting on the back of her chair, he reached out and risked a delicate caress. Her skin rippled with goosebumps, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her heart rate kicking up.
Dorian traced a soft path from her shoulder to her neck, fingers dancing over the pulse point near her throat. Beneath her satin-smooth skin, warm blood stirred at his touch, calling to that dark, ancient beast inside him, drawing his cock to painfully abrupt attention.
All this, from a mere shoulder and neck. He could only imagine what the rest of her body felt like, what it looked like under that dress, what it tasted like.
He drew his hand back, unleashing a sigh from her lips, a gentle shiver trembling across her shoulders like a wave kissing the shoreline.
Dorian’s mouth quirked into a smile. With nothing more than a touch, he’d commanded such a response. It was as if her body had already foreseen its destiny, already resigned itself to a future pinned beneath his hungry, insatiable mouth.
The dizzying scent of her desire washed over him anew.
And in that moment, he knew with utter certainty—despite his vows, despite his responsibilities, despite everything—tonight could only end in one of two ways.
He was going to fuck her.
Or he was going to feed on her.
“…Desolate Rains by Hans Whitfield.”
The announcement cut into his carnal thoughts, bringing the auction room back into sharp focus. His painting was up for bid—a moment he’d been working on for years. He couldn’t turn his back on it now—not even for her.
The woman glanced up at him, her eyes dark with unfulfilled need. But she quickly blinked it away, forcing a smile and wishing him luck on the bidding.
Clinging to the last vestiges of his control, he returned her smile and whispered a quick retort. “I don’t need luck, gorgeous. I’ve got money.”
Sliding the bid card from his suit jacket, he quickly scanned the room, assessing the competition. A handful of people leaned forward in their chairs, but to Dorian it looked more like curiosity than commitment.
He hoped that wasn’t the case. He needed the adrenaline rush of a good fight to take his mind off the throbbing ache below his belt.
“We’ll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars,” the auctioneer said. It was an insulting opener for such a priceless piece, and several bid cards floated lazily into the air. He waited until the bidding reached $50,000 before making his first move.