Page 2 of Prince of Storms
I choked up, unable to continue, cursing myself for souring the mood. His hand on my knee gripped a bit harder, and he just nodded, staring at the car.
One day, I vowed, I would get him that car. If it was the only thing I did, to bring him back to the early days of his love with her. To make him feel young again. Whatever it took.
I wouldn’t lose him, too. Not anytime soon. One parent was enough.
Shaking my head, I focused on the car.Eyes in the prize, as my dad would say. The bidding was now at forty-five thousand and starting to slow. Most of the others had dropped out. The only person left was an older gentleman several rows behind us … and a man near the front.
I focused on him. I couldn’t make out much about him as he raised his hand to increase the bid to fifty thousand. The most noticeable thing, however, was the pure whiteness of his hair. Not gray, but actuallywhite.Was it dyed? I didn’t see any roots, but it was such an unusual color I had to wonder.
He wore a royal blue suit that seemed to fit him like a second skin. That, and the casual way he motioned to up the price, indicated someone with too much money on their hands.
We’re not going to get the car.We went into the day knowing it was unlikely that we’d be able to afford the car. But with every auction we went to, our budget grew a little more. We were nearing the point where, on a lucky day, we might actually score one.
“Fifty-two thousand. Fifty-two. Fifty-two thousand, do I hear fifty-three? Fifty-three? Does anyone have fifty-three thousand for this lovely 1971 Chevy Chevelle SS?”
The older man behind us looked irritated but not out. He was considering it. I took advantage of the lull and raised our paddle.
“Fifty-three! Fifty-three from the father-daughter duo!” the auctioneer crowed, then began repeating it about sixteen different ways in the span of three seconds before turning around to ask for fifty-four in the same rapid-fire staccato way.
At the announcement of new entrants to the bidding, Mr. Suit turned at the waist to look into the stands.
Time and space lost all meaning as I made eye contact with two orbs surrounded by stormy gray irises. The color, somehow visible from several rows up, was stunning. It matched the rest of his diamond-like face, with a strong but narrow jaw molded to his head like it was cut from marble. Everything about him, from his tanned skin to the windswept look of his white hair, made him seem rugged.
Not the usual rich-guy look. My body was fucking tingling with desire just from locking gazes with him. I withdrew my hand from my father’s before he started to ask why I was suddenly all clammy. I didn’t need to tell dear old Daddy that all I could imagine right then was getting absolutely railed in the back seat of the car by the guy in the front row.
Some things should be kept to myself. That seemed like one of them, even as my mouth dried up and other parts of me turned into the rainforest. My breathing came in shallow gasps. I could sense it. But I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. The man was commanding me with just a look, imploring me not to turn away.
Then he grinned.
He knew. The fuckerknewwhat sort of effect he had on me, and he’d done it on purpose. Then he lifted his hand and bid again, just before the car was sold to me. His smile, despite being patronizing, was blinding, reaching into parts of me that hadn’t been alive in a long time. Not since—
The sudden memory of my mother passing away practically in my arms the year before cast a long shadow over Mr. Suit’s horny eyes. I tore myself away in time to see the older gentleman behind us lift his paddle to get back in the bidding.
“Jesusfuck!” I hissed, looking down and away.
“Mia? Darling? Are you okay?” my dad asked, putting a hand on my shoulder.
“Uh, yeah, Dad. Just, uh, cramps. You know.”
“Ah, yep,” he said, sitting upright.
Love my father to pieces, he was the best dad I could have ever asked for, but he had absolutely no idea how to handle “feminine problems.” Even if I was faking them to disguise how tightly wound I’d become.
“Sixty thousand!”the announcer crowed. “Do I see sixty-one?”
Gritting my teeth, I raised the paddle.
“Mia!” my father said sharply. “That is above our budget.”
“Not by much,” I said, doing my best to glare down at Mr. Suit and his perfect mane of white hair as he pushed it to sixty-two.
“Yes, but not by much isstill over budget. That’s how budgets work.”
“I’ll find a way,” I said, lifting the paddle at sixty-three as well.
“No, you won’t,” he said, gently taking the paddle away from me. “I can’t let you do that. We’ll wait for another one.”
I sat back, watching as Mr. Suit and the elderly man bid until the car went for seventy-two thousand to the man up front. Twelve thousand over our budget.
