Page 50 of The Marriage Auction 2: Part 1

“I can go all night.” I crossed my arms with my paddle lit in front of me, staring him down, and hollered, “Eight million.” I skipped right over another million and a half to let him know I was serious.

The man scowled as he grated, “Fine. You can have her.”

“Excellent. I was planning on it.”

“Going once…going twice…sold to Number 5 for eight million dollars,” Madam Alana stated. “Please exit the stage, Summer.” My bride-to-be crouched to grab her robe and slipped it on.

“Can’t wait to meet you, Number 5!” she called out and waved.

I couldn’t help but laugh. No matter what happened from here, at least I knew I was not only marrying a gorgeous womanwho seemed to want what I did, but she would also fill my life with laughter. There wasn’t a price high enough one could put on that.

I stood up, buttoned my coat, and left the bidding room. I was met by one of Alana’s employees.

“Come this way, Mr. Larsen. We’ll have you sign the final marriage agreement which includes your bidding details and payments over the next three years, the 20% commission for our services, and the $250,000 deposit that must go into the candidate’s account tonight after she agrees to the same terms as you.”

I could hardly wait to see her face when she found out who’d bid on her.

“Excellent. Bring me to my bride.”

Episode 19

What Have I Done?

RHODES

“Is it almost over?” I asked Christophe as I adjusted my tie for the third time, then undid it and ripped the blasted thing over my head. I tossed it onto the small circular table where my auction paddle sat next to my drink.

We’d just seen several men and women auctioned off to the highest bidder. And if I was being perfectly honest, the entire process was fascinating. I could tell that Madam Alana was proud of her company. She exuded extreme confidence at the podium along with a heaping dose of her charm. She didn’t make the process feel tawdry or debauched, even when the candidates were showing off their bodies. It felt rather similar to a private fashion event, like the kind I used to attend when my ex-wife would walk in a runway show for a particular designer.

“I’m surprised you haven’t bid on anyone,mon ami. I thought for sure you would raise the paddle for Summer. She seems like your type.” Christophe sipped his wine, one leg crossed nonchalantly over the other.

“Why? Because she’s blonde?” I scoffed.

Christophe grinned and shrugged. “Oui.”

I shook my head. “Let me just say the only blonde I want in my house is my daughter. Portia put me off blonde women in a romantic capacity, for… Well, let’s just say forever.”

Christophe chuckled. “This makes sense. She could put any man off an entire group of women.” His lips twisted into a sour expression.

“Too true.” I snickered and then eased back into my chair feeling a tad lighter, the gin and tonic I drank easing the tension in my shoulders.

“We have our last candidate of the night. It is my great pleasure to welcome Maia Fields,” Alana announced.

I was about to pull out my phone to check on Emily back at the resort when I glanced up at the stage and couldn’t believe my eyes.

“My pickpocket!” I gasped.

“Maia Fields is twenty-three, a native of Colorado, and loves being outdoors. She is a petite five foot three. It is my experience that the best things in life come in small packages.” Alana’s red lips pressed together in a knowing smirk.

“Small enough to spin on my cock,” said a rotund man who nudged his friend’s shoulder while rubbing his hands together. “We call those types of little thingsspinners,” he continued, licking his lips as he did so.

Before I knew it, the smarmy fellow lifted his paddle into the air. “Three million for the sugar baby,” he called out.

“Sugar baby,” I sneered under my breath.How rude.How dare he talk down about a woman in such a way when he was sitting there bidding on a bride without having to make any effort to woo her. Probably because he would never have been able to get a woman like that. The back of his balding head had a poorly done combover and he was sweating profusely, his wide, curved nose red and ruddy from the booze he likely partook of too often for his own good. His suit was expensive but ill-fitting.

“Have some respect,” Christophe hissed while tapping the man on the shoulder, earning his attention.

“For what? A pint-sized whore?” he returned with laughter.

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