More Than a Mistress
Autore
Sandra Marton
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CHAPTER ONE
TRAVIS BARON stood in the wings of the improvised stage at the Hotel Paradise, a hint of defiance in the rake of his jaw, waiting to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
And wasn’t that a hell of a thing for a man to be doing on a beautiful Thursday night in early June? Travis thought grimly.
He ran his fingers through his hair, then smoothed his hand down the lapel of his tux. He couldn’t see the crowd in the elegant ballroom but he could damn well hear it, every feminine hoot, whistle and catcall. This was the crème de la crème of L.A. society, Pete Haskell had said. Maybe so. But they sure sounded pretty down-and-dirty from where Travis stood.
The wheedling drone of the auctioneer’s voice oozed from the loudspeakers like honey from a comb on a hot Texas day.
“What’m-I-bid, what’m-I-bid, ladies, c’mon, c’mon, don’t be shy, don’t hold back. Win the man of your dreams for the weekend.”
Shy? Travis snorted. Based on what he’d been hearing for the past hour, the women gathered in the ballroom were about as shy as a herd of buffalo, and about as delicate in making their wants known. They cheered, they laughed, they hooted and hollered until the gavel came down and then they applauded and whistled until Travis figured the noise level was enough to have the riot cops bust the place. And then they started up all over again, when the next hapless victim was shoved out on stage.
Not that all the Bachelors for Bucks had to be pushed. Lots of them went willingly, grinning and throwing kisses to the crowd.
“Hey, man,” one guy had said, after a look at Travis’s glum expression, “it’s all for charity, right?”
Right, Travis thought, his scowl darkening. But the guy with the smile had probably volunteered for this nonsense. Travis hadn’t. And to make things even worse, the luck of the draw was sending him out on that stage last.
How, he thought, how had he let himself get talked into this mess?
“Sold!” The auctioneer’s triumphant shout and the smack of his gavel were drowned out in a burst of cheers and applause.
“Another one gone,” a voice mumbled, and Travis turned as a skinny blond guy stepped up beside him, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he adjusted his tie. “Man, I’d rather be going for a root canal.”
“You got that right,” Travis said.
“Now, now, gentlemen.” Peggy Jeffers, who’d cheerfully introduced herself as “your friendly slave mistress for the evening” when they’d all been introduced, tweaked the skinny guy’s cheek. “You just relax, go on out there and have yourself some fun.”
“Fun?” the guy said, “Fun?”
“Fun,” Peggy repeated, and she put her hand in the middle of his back and gently pushed him out of the wings and onto the stage.
The roar of the audience sent the blood right to Travis’s head.
Peggy smiled. “Hear that?”
“Yeah,” Travis said, with what he hoped would pass for a smile. “Sounds like a pack of hyenas on a blood trail.”
Peggy giggled. “You got that right.” She took a step back, then eyeballed Travis from the top of his sun-streaked chestnut hair to the toes of his shiny black boots. “My oh my, handsome. They’re gonna go nuts when they spot you.”
She grinned, and Travis tried to return it.
“Don’t tell me a hunk like you is nervous,” Peggy said.
“No,” Travis said, lying through his teeth. “Why would I be nervous about going out on that stage in front of a million screaming women to get myself auctioned off?”
Peggy laughed. “It’s all for a good cause,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried away. “And you’ll get snapped up in a second.”
Yeah, Travis thought, oh, yeah. That’s what he’d been telling himself all night—that, and the fact that he was a sane man, a normal, healthy, sane, thirty-two-year-old attorney. A bachelor, yes…but a bachelor who liked to choose his own women.
And choose them, he did. All the time. If he had any problems with women, it was getting them to understand, when the moment of truth came, that all good things came to an end. Relationships between the sexes weren’t meant to last forever. A bad marriage and a worse divorce had finally taught him what the lessons of his childhood hadn’t, but those two blips in the road were long behind him.
It wasn’t as if he was opposed to women coming on to him. He liked a little aggressiveness in a woman, in bed and out. He found it sexy.
But a woman hitting on a guy she spotted at a party was one thing. Bidding for him, as if he were a slab of meat…
That was something else.
He’d been conned. And it had happened during a partners meeting at Sullivan, Cohen and Vittali a few months ago.
If only he’d realized that Pete Haskell was setting him up.
“Hey, Baron,” Pete had said casually, as he bit into a bagel, “I was talking about you the other day with some guys from Hannan and Murphy.”
“Ah,” Travis had said, with a smile, “were they telling you how much they wish I’d accepted a partnership there instead of here?”
Pete chuckled. “Actually, we were talking about the Bachelors for Bucks thing. You know, the annual charity auction?”
“That’s still going on?”
“Yup.” Pete buttered the other half of his bagel. “They’re figuring the new guy they hired is gonna come in at an all-time high bid.”
“No way,” one of the other partners said.
Pete shrugged. “They’re taking bets he will, John. They figure nobody can beat him, considering his record.”
“What record?” John reached for the sweetener. “The guy talks too much, you know what I mean? Any man blabs endlessly about all the broads in his life, well, right away, I have my doubts. No man has that much time, much less stamina.” John grinned. “Well, except for ol’ Travis, here.”
Pete nodded thoughtfully. “I agree.” He shot Travis a look. “But Travis never talks. Never lets us in on what he’s been doing, and who and how often he’s been doing it with.”
Travis looked up from his coffee and grinned. “I am a man of honor,” he said. “I never talk about my women.” His grin broadened. “And the silence just kills you, pal, doesn’t it?”
“But,” Pete said, undeterred, “we all know what a stud our Travis is. Talk about his latest conquest is a staple in the secretaries’ lunchroom. We spot the newest lady getting out of a taxi in front of the building at quitting time.” He grinned. “And we watch the bouquets of long-stemmed roses fly out of the florist’s shop next door, when Trav decides it’s time to dump a broad.”
“Please,” Travis said, his hand to his heart. “I’d never send roses. Everybody sends roses.”
“So, what do you send?”
The partners all looked up from their coffee. Old man Sullivan was the one who’d asked the question. It was the first time he’d said a word during a meeting in six months.
“Whatever flowers seem appropriate for that particular lady,” Travis said, and smiled. “And something small but tasteful, with a note that says—”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Sullivan suggested, and everyone laughed.
“The thing is,” Pete said, “I told the guys from Hannan and Murphy that they could boast all they like about their man getting the high bid, considering that our man didn’t even enter.”
“Which he hadn’t, and isn’t,” Travis said firmly.
“Oh, I know that. We all know that. Right, boys?”
Later, Travis would remember that everybody in the room, even the two female partners, nodded vigorously, then put their heads down as if on cue. But right at that moment, Pete’s comments had seemed casual.
“And they said?”
Pete sighed. “They said that we’re all lawyers, and we should know better than to present a case with nothing but hearsay evidence.”
Someone groaned. Someone else laughed, but old man Sullivan narrowed his rheumy eyes and leaned forward in his chair at the head of the boardroom table.
“And, Peter?”
“And,” Pete said, after a barely perceptible pause, “they challenged us. They said we should put our boy, Travis, on the block.”
“No way,” Travis said quickly.
“Then, they said, we’ll really see which guy wins.” He paused dramatically. “And the firm that loses has to treat the other to a golf weekend at Pebble Beach.”
“Cool,” somebody said, and then a wild cheer went up around the walnut-paneled room.
“Now, wait just a minute,” Travis had started to say, but old man Sullivan was already smiling across the table and assuring Travis that they all knew he’d carry their banner high into battle, and make them proud to be partners in Sullivan, Cohen and Vittali.
Trapped, Travis thought grimly. It had been a conspiracy. Old man Sullivan had probably been the only one not in on the scheme. Not that it mattered. There’d been no way out of the setup, not without hearing about it forever from the rest of the partners. And so now here he was, a man about to go onstage before a crowd of estrogen-crazed females like a lamb being led to the slaughter, and if he came in at a penny lower than five grand—which was what Hannan and Murphy’s entry had gone for—he’d never live it down.
“I didn’t really have a choice,” he’d said to his kid brother, over the phone. “Anyway, it’s for a good cause. All the money raised goes to children’s hospitals.”
“Sure,” Slade had said, and then he’d snorted.
“What?”
“Well, I was just thinkin’…” Slade’s voice took on the soft, Texas drawl of their childhood. “It’s kind of like a bull bein’ auctioned off to a herd of heifers.”
“It’s a legitimate auction,” Travis had said coldly, and slammed down the phone. Then he’d picked it up, punched in the code for Slade’s Boston number again and said, before Slade could say a word, that he should have known better than to have expected sympathy from his own flesh and blood.
“You got it, bro,” Slade had replied, and laughed until, at last, Travis had laughed, too, and said how bad would it really be…
Travis shuddered. “Bad,” he whispered, and closed his eyes.
All the senior partners and associates were in the audience. The clerks and the secretaries were waiting by their telephones, eager to hear how their entry did because this thing had taken on a life of its own, with side bets, pool bets…
How much would he go for? Would he top the Hannan and Murphy guy? Where would he place in the overall standings? Would the woman who “bought” him be good-looking? A ten, on the nutty scale the secretaries had drawn up? A five? Or, as his own secretary had explained, with a shudder, would a two or even a one be the winner?
Travis groaned.
Unless he went for the right price, to the right female, he’d never live it down. And there was just no way to tell how things would go, once he got on stage and put his fate in the hands of the auctioneer and the wild-women masquerading as solid citizens. Why hadn’t he had the brains to set things up? Bought a ticket for Sally—no, not Sally. He’d just sent her a bouquet of dog-toothed violets and an eight ounce bottle of Chanel. Okay, then. Bethany. He could have bought Bethany a ticket, told her to bid a thousand bucks more than whatever the Hannan and Murphy guy went for and he’d pay her back—with interest.
Except, what good was a bet, if you had to cheat to win it?
There was no choice except to leave the bidding up to fate. And he, of all people, knew that fate wasn’t always kind, not even for an event as silly as this.
“Your turn next, Cowboy.”
Travis jerked upright at the sound of Peggy’s voice.
“Great,” he said stiffly. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”
“Want me to take a peek at the house? Tell you who hasn’t bought herself a hunk yet and looks as if she might be willing to pay a decent price for you?”
“It’s unimportant,” he said, with dignity, and she laughed.
“Move over, and let me look.”
“Look? Look where?”
“There’s a tiny crack, right here…” Peggy slipped up beside him and put her eye to the wall. “Aha!”
“Aha, what?” Travis asked, despite his best intentions to appear disinterested.
“There are definitely some—what do you guys call them now? Foxes? Babes?”
“Attractive women,” Travis said with dignity, and sent up a silent thank-you.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Okay, then, handsome, there are some attractive women.” She sighed. “And some so-so’s.”
“Well,” Travis said valiantly, “that’s fine.”
“And…” Peggy stiffened. “Uh-oh.”
Travis froze. “Uh-oh, what?”
“Uh-oh, there’s a lady right in the center who, uh, who probably has a great personality. A terrific personality, you might say.”
“I’m sure she has,” Travis said bravely.
“And I’m sure the woman with the feather boa and the rhinestone tiara at the table right behind her will fascinate you no end.”
“Oh.” His shoulders slumped. “As bad as that?”
“And then there’s the blue-eyed blonde who just walked in. Oh, I hate her on sight! Great hair. Great face. Great bod, from what I can see of it. Mark my words, Cowboy. Any woman who looks like that probably has the intellect of a potato.”
Travis laughed. “Meow.”
“I’m just being honest. You get looks like that and, to compensate, you get empty space between your ears. And the disposition of a weasel.”
“A weasel, huh?” Travis grinned. “Whoever said women were the gentle sex didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“Well, it’s the truth.” Peggy stepped closer, smoothed down his lapels. “So you do yourself a favor, Cowboy. Go on out there and play to the crowd. To the—what’d you call ’em?—the ‘attractive women.’ Heck, if you’re feeling generous, maybe even to the, uh, the lady with the terrific personality.” She smiled. “Forget about the Ice Princess.”
Travis smiled, too. Suddenly, with the moment of truth upon him, he saw all his worries for the foolishness they were. And he owed the revelation to Peggy.
He took her hand and bowed over it.
“Ah, Slave Mistress, you have my heartfelt gratitude. To hell with Pebble Beach and my reputation.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” He lifted her fingers to his lips. “Too bad you’re not out there bidding, m’love. I’d be honored to be yours for the weekend.”
Peggy blushed furiously and pulled her fingers free of his just as the gavel sounded and the crowd roared.
“You’ll do lots better than me,” she said, and gently shoved him toward the stage. “Go on, handsome. Get out there and knock ’em dead.”
Which was exactly what Travis decided he’d do.
He went onstage at a brisk trot, arms high overhead, hands clasped in a winner’s pose, and did a fair imitation of Sylvester Stallone’s victory dance in Rocky, while flashing a thousand-watt grin.
The crowd loved it, and roared its approval.
Travis laughed. What he’d told Peggy was the truth. This wasn’t real life. It was for a good cause. And it was fun, or it was supposed to be. If the jerks in his office had made it into something else, that was their problem, not his.
So what if he went for five hundred bucks? So what if he wasn’t snapped up by a hot-looking babe? Let everybody at Sullivan, Cohen and Vittali have a laugh at his expense. Let ’em lose their crazy bets. He was going to get into the spirit of things, have some fun and do his best to raise a bundle of bucks for kids who really needed—
Uh-oh.
Travis’s smile dimmed just a little as he spotted the lady at the center table nearest the stage. Peggy had certainly nailed it right. The lady was certain to have a great personality. Well, so what? She had a nice smile. Hey, she was probably a nice person. The auctioneer was doing his intro, a bit about Travis Baron, Esquire, and Travis strutted a little more, grinned when somebody let out a piercing wolf whistle and shot a big smile to the lady in the front.
“Do I hear five hundred dollars to start?” the auctioneer said, and the lady with the smile and the personality whooped and said, “How about a thousand?”
A cheer went up and Travis smiled, and looked at her, looked past her…
And thought, just for a second, that his heart was going to leap straight out of his chest.
A woman was standing behind the last tables. He knew, right away, she was the latecomer Peggy had described.
She was also the most beautiful woman Travis had ever seen in his life.
Peggy had said she was blonde and blue-eyed. With great hair, a great face and a great body.
All correct. And all wrong, because those words didn’t come anywhere close to describing her.
Her hair was a cascade of silk the color of ripening wheat, her eyes the color of Texas bluebells. Her face was a perfect oval, with those incredible blue eyes darkly lashed and wide-set under slender, arched brows. She had a proud, straight nose, a sexy indentation above her mouth…
Oh, that mouth. The full upper lip. The softly curved lower one.
It was a mouth made for kissing.
His gaze dropped lower, to the tanned shoulders left bare by a halter-necked dress the color of garnets, to the generous lift of her breasts, the slender waist and rounded hips. Her skirt ended at midthigh, revealing a long length of shapely leg.
His blood hummed in his ears.
He wanted her. Wanted her with a primal need and desire that surpassed anything he’d ever known. He wanted to kiss that mouth, caress that body…and melt the coldness that clung to her like an invisible sheath of ice. He could see it in her posture. In the way she didn’t so much as blink when his eyes met hers again. In the defiant lift of her chin.
He knew she could see the frank, sexual appraisal in his gaze—and that it didn’t matter a damn to her.
Look all you like, she seemed to say, but don’t be foolish enough to think you can have what you see.
Travis felt his body tighten. The sounds of the cheering women, the drone of the auctioneer, faded to a dull roar.
He imagined himself coming down off that stage. Going to her. Taking her in his arms. No words. No niceties. Just taking her in his arms, carrying her out of the ballroom to a place where they’d be alone, ripping that piece of dark red silk from her body and burying himself deep inside her while she wrapped her arms and legs around him…
Oh, hell.
He was standing in front of hundreds of people, thinking things that could only bring a man public humiliation. Stop it, he told himself fiercely, and he tore his gaze from her, thought about cold showers and forced himself to focus on the delighted faces of the crowd.
“I have five thousand,” the auctioneer shouted. “Do I hear six?”
“Six,” the lady in the front yelled.
Travis fixed his attention on her. He flashed a sexy smile. She squealed. He turned his back to the audience, looked over his shoulder and pretended he was going to slip his jacket off.
The crowd whooped and cheered.
“Six-five,” a brunette shouted. Travis turned and blew her a kiss.
He didn’t need the blonde Ice Princess. He had a trio of women in a frenzied bidding war over him. What more could a guy ask?
“Seven,” a stunning redhead said.
“Hey,” he shouted, “I’m worth a lot more than that!”
The crowd stamped its well-shod feet in approval. The brunette laughed, and another redhead shot to her feet. “Seven-five,” she called, and everybody cheered and applauded.
Travis grinned. The guy from Hannan and Murphy had gone for five.
“I’m worth more than that, too,” he yelled.
The crowd loved it.
“Eight,” the lady in the front said.
“Eight-five,” the brunette shouted.
“Nine!”
Travis laughed. The evening he’d dreaded was turning out to be fun. One more glance at the blonde, that was all, before the gavel swung down. Not that it mattered. He’d probably overestimated her looks. If she’d walked farther into the room so that she was closer to the stage, he’d have seen her flaws.
What flaws?
She had come closer, while the bidding was raging. She was almost at the stage and Lord, she wasn’t beautiful, she was spectacular.
And she was looking at him. Her expression was difficult to read. Interested, yes, but it seemed…
Speculative. As if she were appraising him. And finding him wanting.
Travis’s hands knotted at his sides as the woman turned swiftly and started back up the aisle.
Who did this babe think she was, to check him out and then walk away? Turn around, he thought furiously, turn around!
The woman’s pace increased.
Travis took a step forward. To hell with the auction!
“Nine thousand,” the auctioneer shouted, and the crowd roared. “Nine thousand once. Nine thousand twice…”
“Ten,” the brunette screamed.
The blonde woman stopped. That’s it, baby, Travis thought. Turn around. Look at me.
And she did. Her eyes met his. Their gazes locked, and held. For one breathless moment, there was no one else in the room, no one else in the universe. It was only them. Travis, and the woman.
She knew it, too.
He saw her acknowledge it as her eyes widened, saw the impact of the understanding in the sudden, rapid rise and fall of her breasts. The tip of her tongue—a pale, silken pink—slipped over her soft-looking mouth.
Travis’s eyes bored into hers. Do it, he thought. Do it, do it…
“Going once,” the auctioneer said, “to the lady at table three, for ten thousand dollars. Going twice. Going—”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
The crowd gasped. Every head swiveled toward the woman with the blond hair. Even the auctioneer leaned forward.
“Would you repeat your bid, please, madam?”
The woman took a deep breath. Travis thought he saw her tremble but he knew he must have been mistaken, because when she spoke again, her voice was cool, controlled, and touched with something that bordered on amusement.
“I said, I bid twenty thousand dollars.”
Bang went the gavel. “Sold,” the auctioneer said, triumphantly, “to the lady in red.”
And the crowd in the ballroom of the Hotel Paradise went wild.
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