Page 5 of Last Shot

‘Nine thousand?’

On stage, Luca Barbarani was adjusting his cuff links, which twinkled like fat diamonds. They probablywerediamonds, Max realised. Even she could admit he was sickeningly gorgeous in the black suit that fit his sculpted body like armour: a disinterested Adonis surveying the mortals below him. He picked some lint or glitter from his shoulder, flicking it onto the stage. Max was surprised there wasn’t a Barbarani worker hired to do that for him. Apparently not in the job description of the giant sexist oaf? She’d been watching the guy throughout the auction, determined to work out his function (besides disappearing women into cars) and had come to the conclusion, by the way he kept to the darkness, and the ridge of the gun holster she’d felt brush her hip when he lifted the drunk girl from her, that he must be some sort of bodyguard. But clearly not a very good one. He’d left Luca alone for at least five minutes while he delivered the drunk barely-adult to the handsome Porsche driver. Maybe Max should have demanded she ride in the car too, to make sure the woman did get home. But then she would never have made it back here in time forthis.

‘Nine thousand, one hundred!’ The second bidder, with a halo of brown curls, raised her hand, her eyes wide and desperate.

The red-haired girl tapped furiously at her phone, sweat glittering on her freckled forehead. ‘Nine thousand, two hundred,’ she said in an evaporating breath, suggesting either it was her last bid or the person on the other end of the phone had just told her you can’t sell your eggs in Australia. Almost over now.

‘Nine thousand, five hundred!’ the other woman yelled to raucous applause. Her smug grin said it all – she had this in the bag.

The auctioneer wiped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘Nine thousand, five hundred dollars, for one hour with Luca Barbarani, going once, going twice—’

‘Ten thousand,’ Max declared, trying not to imagine the faces of all the people who’d donated to the poor little orphan girl whose parents had been hit by a drunk driver on Toodyay Road. She’d spent the first part of the pity cash on her Bachelor of Laws and her bike. And now the rest on a toll fee to get into the Barbarani property.

Guilt dropped like an anchor.

The girl with the curls looked at her like Max had stabbed her in the throat. The redhead gave a dejected sniffle.

‘Ten thousand ...?’ The auctioneer looked at Luca.

The Barbarani boy shrugged, ten thousand dollars clearly about as life-changing as finding a single gold coin in his suit pocket.

‘Going once ...’

Curly girl was frantically whispering to the guy standing beside her, who was shaking his head.

‘Going twice ...’

A tall, broad figure emerged from the shadows by the bottom of the stage. Max’s heart ran to the back of her ribcage.

‘And SOLD to ...?’

‘Maxella Conrad.’ Her legs were like ramen noodles as she ascended the stairs. Thankfully, the raucous, defeated crowd drowned out the inconsequential sound of her name. She hadn’t been recognised. Not by the auctioneer or the Barbarani boy either. She allowed herself one tiny exhale.

Luca was looking up now, his face passive and nonchalant, but there was something murky in his green eyes as they roved her body. What she’d whispered to him earlier, probably.

‘Enchante,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘I’m meant to kiss you on the cheek. Will you allow it? It’s part of my father’s personal brand of humiliation.’

‘I—’ Her hands were shaking. ‘Who is it meant to humiliate?’

‘Me,’ Luca said as though that was obvious.

‘Okay,’ Max said. ‘Just on the cheek though.’

‘Of course.’ The youngest Barbarani bent down and pressed his lips gently against her hot, sweaty skin. Max caught a whiff of cigarettes and concentrated liquor she couldn’t name – probably because it cost as much as her old Harley. The flash of the auctioneer’s phone camera blinded her momentarily and when her eyes could focus again, she found herself face-to-face with the giant oaf.

‘Luca,’ he said, not looking at Max, ‘that girl with the second highest bid – she’s the Premier’s daughter. Probably more what you ...’

‘Marcella won fair and square,’ Luca said, patting Max on the shoulder like she was a doddery old woman he’d just helped cross the street. She was surprised he’d got the first and last consonants in her name right.

‘Luca,’ the giant said again, more forcefully, ‘can I speak to you privately?’

‘You’re the Fixer, Grey, not my keeper. She’s coming home with us.’

What thehellwas a Fixer?

Grey.She mused over the name. Fitting perhaps, for someone whose job seemed to be to keep to the shadows, to stay in the murky grey of the Barbaranis’ lives.

The giant’s jaw twitched. ‘Coming home? That’s not part of the deal.’

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