“Fifty-five,” he said calmly. He was prepared to go as high as a million, but from the looks of things, it wouldn’t get close to that.
“Sixty,” Duchanes said, turning to offer a smug smile.
Irritation burned in his chest, but Dorian nodded politely, holding off on raising the asshole’s bid. Another woman went to $70,000, volleying with a few others until it reached $100,000.
Dorian raised it by ten.
“Do we have one twenty?” the auctioneer asked. “One twenty for Hans Whitfield’s Desolate Rains, Series Two?”
For a moment it seemed no one else had any interest. Disappointment settled into Dorian’s stomach—the painting had to be worth more than a paltry $110,000.
“One ten, going once,” the auctioneer said. “Going twice—”
“One fifty,” Duchanes said.
Before Dorian could respond, another bidder jumped in at one seventy-five.
The woman.
He glared at her, unable to hide his surprise.
She raised her eyebrows, offering Dorian her best innocent-looking smile, the kind that was clearly anything but. “I couldn’t let him get away with that.”
Heat raced through Dorian’s veins. “You’re after my painting, love?”
“I’m after a lot of things. Care to raise the stakes?”
“One seventy-five,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have one eighty?”
“Two hundred,” Dorian said.
His woman squared her shoulders. “Two fifty.”
“Two seventy-five,” Dorian said.
“Three.”
So she likes to play hardball too.
He grinned, filing away the information for later. “Three fifty.”
Duchanes jumped in at $360,000, and then another bidder offered $400,000. Dorian’s pulse kicked up with each new bid.
This is more like it.
He leaned forward, eager to keep his head in the game. His mystery woman might feel differently about what made these events bearable, but Dorian loved this part—the hunt, the strategy, figuring out when to jump in and when to ease up, knowing exactly when to deliver the final blow.
But by the time the bidding reached $600,000, the other bidders bowed out, leaving only Dorian, Duchanes, and his woman.
“Six fifty,” she said.
Dorian narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out her game. This wasn’t a tag sale. You didn’t show up at an exclusive art auction to browse the shelves, pick up a bit of this-and-that for the summer cottage.
What are you playing at, darling?
“Do I hear six seventy-five?” the auctioneer asked.
“Seven,” Dorian said.
“Eight,” the woman countered.
“Nine.”
“Nine fifty,” Duchanes said.
Dorian’s heart banged in his chest. He didn’t know what the woman was after, but Duchanes was clearly antagonizing him.
“One million dollars,” Dorian said.
The woman held her bid card against her chest, nibbling her lower lip, contemplating her next move.
Dorian leaned in close, whispering hotly in her ear. “Is that all you’ve got for me, love?”
Her eyes blazed. She waved her card with renewed vigor. “A million five.”
“Two million,” Duchanes said, sucking the last of the fun out of the game.
Dorian was already well past his intended max, but he couldn’t quit now. Not while Duchanes held the winning bid.
“Three million dollars,” he said firmly.
Everyone held a breath as they awaited another volley.
“Three million dollars for the Hans Whitfield,” the auctioneer said. “Do I hear three million five? three four?” She scanned the room, waiting for another bid that never came. “Going once. Going twice. Sold, to bidder twelve for three million dollars.”
The room erupted in applause, and Dorian closed his eyes, momentarily lost in the rush of victory such conquests always brought him… and a wave of relief they usually didn’t.
By the time he regained his senses and turned to face her again, his mystery woman was gone.
“Ah, but they fly the nest so quickly.” Duchanes flashed a smarmy grin Dorian wanted to carve from his face. Then, with a slight bow of his head, “Mr. Redthorne, I’d like to request an audience.”
Dorian didn’t bother hiding his displeasure, but Duchanes kept right on grinning.
Since he’d issued the request on neutral ground, honor and tradition prevented Dorian from refusing—especially in the presence of other vampires.
But he didn’t have to like it.
“What do you want, Duchanes?”
“It’s not so much what I want, as what I can offer.” The twat’s eyes darkened with his unchecked lust for power, and Dorian knew before the words even graced his lips what was coming next. “In your time of need, House Duchanes extends the invitation of an alliance.”
Chapter Five
“An alliance. With House Duchanes.” Dorian paced before the bar, the thin veneer of his patience finally shattering. His woman was still on the premises—her scent was all around him now, driving him to the very brink of sanity—but rather than hunting her down and devouring every silky, forbidden inch of her body, Dorian was here, listening to a bloodsucking opportunist he’d been swatting away like a gnat since Prohibition.
Duchanes swirled his bourbon, his gold signet ring glittering on a fat finger. “Consider your predicament, Redthorne. Your father’s gone. You’ve no sired heirs in your line. Your family’s power is waning. And last I heard,” he said, lowering his voice as if he actually gave a damn about decorum, “there isn’t a witch in all five boroughs willing to bind herself to the Redthorne royals.”
Dorian seethed. He didn’t need Renault Duchanes to articulate his predicament; he could feel his very cells dying with each passing heartbeat. Tonight’s curbside meal, which should’ve been enough to sate him for a week, had done little to ease the burn of hunger in his gut. Even in low light, his eyes constantly ached. And every day the sun rose, the fog in his head lingered a bit longer, dulling his senses by degrees.
Such was the nature of creatures of the night—a nature that could only be mitigated by a skilled witch, and only by vampires that could afford one.
Through spells and enchantments that enhanced their powers and muted their limitations, witches allowed vampires to live as humans in all the ways that mattered most, sparing them the agony of an immortal life in a dank cave or tunnel, hunting one another like so many of the wraith-like creatures Dorian had encountered when he’d first been turned. Such creatures could never venture into the light, never taste human food, never love.
In return, a family of witches who bound themselves to a vampire line received protection, housing, more money than they could spend in a lifetime, and unlimited access to one of the most magical ingredients in the known world—vampire blood.
But as much as it burned Dorian’s balls to admit it, Duchanes was right. Aside from selling him the occasional one-off spell or hex, there wasn’t a witch on the entire eastern seaboard suicidal enough to align herself with House Redthorne.
Dorian couldn’t blame them. The last Redthorne witch hadn’t survived past her twenty-third birthday.