Page 16 of Stricken

Fuck.

"Do I have twelve million, gentlemen?" the auctioneer calls smugly.

Low gasps ripple through the crowd. Even these people who can easily drop this much on something they will not need know the car is not worth it.

At the same time, Ivan tugs at my sleeve. "Let it go," he hisses.

I brush him off, eyes locked on the figure that rose up from the front row.

"Twelve million," I snap, refusing to back down now that I know who I'm up against. He recognized me instantly, the bastard, before I recognized him. This is deliberate provocation.

Leaning close to Ivan, I mutter a question, "Who is he?"

Ivan squints, then shakes his head. "Ne znayu. Never seen him before."

The stranger's eyes dance with amusement, as if he can hear our whispered exchange. My fist clenches around the paddle. Who the hell is this man, and what game is he playing?

The stranger's voice, smooth as silk, says, "Thirteen million." His confidence radiates, igniting that primal feeling within me I experienced with him before.

More murmurs in the crowd. The auctioneer's gavel trembles in his hand, perhaps unused to such astronomical bids for the items that don't cost that much. I feel the weight of every eye in the room, but I only see him.

"Fifteen million," I growl, calmly but loud enough for everyone to hear.

The room goes deathly silent. Even the stranger's eyebrows raise a fraction, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before that infuriating smirk returns.

The auctioneer clears his throat. "Fifteen million dollars. Going once... going twice..."

My heart pounds in my ears. I know I'm being reckless, spending far more than this car deserves. But backing down isn't an option. Not with him watching.

"Sold!" The gavel slams down with finality.

I've won, and for a moment I feel content but then victory tastes bitter. Sweat beads on the back of my neck as the reality of what I've done sinks in.

"We should go," Ivan mutters.

I nod once, desperate to escape. While the auctioneer moves on to the next item, we push through the crowd gathered at the rear of the room. My eyes are locked on the exit and I'm scared to look anywhere but there. I don't need any more distractions today. Or ever. Especially not when they look like Greek Gods.

One foot in front of the other. Walk, walk. We're out of the room, the stage and the bidders are behind now and I mistakenly think I've escaped when a familiar figure blocks our path.

The stranger's eyes lock onto mine, a wolfish gleam in their depths telling me he will not play nice. "What a confidence. Great to meet you again, Mr. Solovey."

My blood runs cold. How does he know my name?

* * *

We stand frozen, locked in a silent battle of wills. The stranger's eyes flicker with a mischievous light, burning sharp against the chaos spiraling inside me. Ivan stands solid at my shoulder, a mute guardian.

For the first time in years, I struggle to keep my face impassive. My mind's racing with endless scenarios. Did he know who I was in LA? Was our encounter planned? The questions burn on my tongue, but I can't voice them here, surrounded by prying eyes and ears.

Instead, I force myself to be polite. "You've got quite the competitive streak." I inject false admiration into my tone. "I enjoy a good challenge."

The stranger's lips curl into a knowing smile. "Oh, I've noticed," he purrs, voice low enough that only I can hear. "You certainly do like... a challenge."

Heat floods my cheeks at the blatant innuendo. Memories of our night in LA flash, hot and unbidden–hands grasping, bodies straining against each other, neither willing to submit.

I grit my teeth, irritation flaring at his smugness. And at myself, for still not knowing his damn name.

He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Grapes and cherries when they are ripe. "Congratulations on your win," he murmurs. His gaze travels slowly down my body, then back up to meet mine. "I look forward to seeing what else you... acquire."

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