Page 52 of Bidding War

I lock up behind him and wait fifteen minutes to make sure he didn’t forget anything. If he comes back and I’m in my grown-up clothes, he’ll be curious. I dress and do my hair and makeup before running out the door. Andre’s office isn’t terribly far, so I walk it and will change into my heels in the lobby of his building.

It's a ten-story art deco high rise, probably constructed in the early 20th century, if I had to guess. Classy, but with the potential to have plenty of secret ins and outs, like his building in New York. At least, I think it was in New York. I’d been blindfolded during the trip there. That building had bulletproof glass and tamper-proof systems to keep Andre safe. I wonder what safeguards he’s kitted out this building with. The man is nuts, and he is extreme when it comes to his own safety.

In that regard, I’m jealous of him.

The lobby is just as pretty as the exterior, also in an art deco style with ornate trim on every surface and a chandelier so gilded and radiant that it would make the Pope blush from its opulence. Everything is gorgeous except for the security team at the entry. They wand over me and search my bag. I’m a little surprised by the frisking, but it’s completely professional.

When they ask me who I’m here to see, the one I’m speaking to has no reaction. But the other guard’s eyes widen. Is this a trap of some kind? No backing out now, I guess. The collected guard says, “You’ll take the elevator at the end of the hall.”

“What floor?”

He smiles. “There is only one button in that elevator. It goes to the penthouse suite.”

“Oh.” More and more, this is feeling like a trap. But why would Andre trap me when he can have his goons come and get me at any time? He wants me here willingly for some reason, and I have to take him at his word that this is for a professional matter, don’t I?

Who am I kidding? I’m here for revenge on Elliot.

The truth is, coming here feels like taking my power back. I didn’t tell Anderson, in part, because he would argue against it, and I don’t want to hear another man telling me what to do. Even if he thinks it’s for my own good. I honestly just want to do what I want to do, regardless of anyone else’s opinions of it.

Since the night I sold myself at auction, men have been running the show, and I’ve had to react to their behavior. Their wants, their needs, their motives. Anderson bought me that night. Why? Because he wanted to protect me from the men I’d opened myself up to. Kinda sweet, kinda bossy. Then there was Elliot, who cut him off, which meant he couldn’t pay me. Andre stole me away. Anderson rescued me. Elliot stole my money and had me excommunicated from my industry. Neil tried to rape and murder me. All these men, telling me what to do … I’m sick of it.

I love Anderson, and he means the world to me. But sometimes a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do. In one way or another, I’ve had my autonomy taken from me by men over and over in the past few months, and I am done with all of that. They can react to me from now on. I might not have much power over them, but I do have power over my own fate.

I smash the penthouse button, stand a little straighter, and wait to see what Andre has to tell me. If I like it, I might say yes. If not, I’ll walk. Either way, it’s not up to him. Or Elliot. Or Anderson. This is my choice and mine alone.

So, why do I feel like I’m going to throw up?

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29

JUNE

When the doors open, I’m almost disappointed. Part of me thought I’d walk into a room where Andre would turn around in a high-backed chair while stroking a white cat. Instead, he’s at the elevator to greet me himself.

Andre Moeller is a medium-framed, impeccably dressed white man in his fifties, by my estimation. He has sparkling green eyes and brown hair with silversides. Not a speck of scruff on him to cover his classically handsome face. He’s even wearing the imitation of a friendly smile as he shakes my hand. “June, I am glad you could make it.”

I throw on a smile, too, since this is the ruse he’s using. “Same here. Shall we get started?”

He nods and gestures for me to enter the main portion of the suite. It’s set up like a living room with a bar—complete with a bartender—near the exterior wall of windows. All art deco styling, even down to the ottomans and the end tables. A plush gray rug sits beneath the couch to delineate the seating area. He sits there, so I take a nearby chair.

The bartender comes by to take our orders, and Andre’s bijou request surprises me. It’s an old cocktail made with London dry gin, orange bitters, sweet vermouth, and green chartreuse, so if the bartender has all of that back there, my Tom Collins shouldn’t make him blink. It doesn’t.

Andre smirks. “Not too many your age drink Tom Collins.”

“Amazing how many young bartenders stare at me blankly when I order one, but it’s a classic, and it’s delicious.”

“Did you acquire the taste for them by working at that dive you’re moonlighting at?”

That’s the thing about Andre. He always knows far more than he should. “No, actually, I used to have to make them for my grandmother, and I started stealing sips of them when I was nine.”

He grins. “You’ve always been a little wicked, haven’t you?”

“I have, indeed. And you? When did you come into your rambunctious side?”

“Now, now, cheeky girls get the paddle.”

I don’t even know what to say to that, but an unexpected laugh pops out of me, which makes him smile wider. The bartender delivers our drinks, and I settle back into my chair. The drink is perfect, no complaints. But I’m not here for drinks with a friend. “Andre, might I speak plainly?” I nod toward the bartender.

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