Page 144 of His to Hunt

That's when I see her.

She stands near the back of the room, partially concealed by a marble pillar, but positioned where she can clearly see the auction stage. Even from a distance, she's striking—the kind of classical beauty that graces magazine covers and museum walls. Platinum blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon, flawless makeup that enhances rather than masks, a figure-hugging scarlet dress that probably costs more than most people's cars.

But it's the details that catch my attention, the small tells that speak to my practiced eye. The way she holds herself with just a fraction too much deliberate poise, as if she's studied videos of how wealthy women are supposed to move. The jewelry that's expensive but not quite right—beautiful pieces that don't belong to any particular set, suggesting they've been acquired individually rather than inherited or gifted as a collection. The dress that fits perfectly but shows the subtle tan lines of someone who's spent considerable time in more casual clothing.

She's playing a part, and playing it well—but not well enough to fool someone who's spent his life reading people's true intentions.

Most intriguingly, she's not alone. A man stands beside her, closer to my age, with the soft features and carefully maintained appearance of someone who's never worked for anything in his life. I recognize the type immediately: old money that's been carefully preserved but never earned, the kind of man who lives off trust funds and family connections while contributing nothing of value to the world.

More importantly, I recognize the man himself—Marcus Pemberton, a Patron-level member of the Owner's Club. Not wealthy enough or influential enough to achieve Owner status, but with enough family pedigree to buy his way into the outer circles of power.

The dynamic between them is immediately clear to my experienced eye. She leans in when Marcus speaks, laughs at his undoubtedly mediocre jokes, touches his arm with just the right amount of interested affection. But her eyes remain alert, calculating, constantly cataloging the room around them.

She's working him. And doing a damn good job of it.

"Lot seventeen," the auctioneer announces, "a charming landscape by Hudson River School artist Thomas Cole. We'll start the bidding at five thousand dollars."

My attention snaps back to the mystery woman as she straightens with sudden interest. The painting in question is competent but unremarkable—the kind of piece that might fetch eight to ten thousand on a good day. Nothing that should excite someone with clearly expensive tastes.

"Six thousand," Marcus calls out lazily, apparently bidding to impress his companion.

The woman leans closer to him, whispering something that makes him smile with masculine satisfaction. When the auctioneer asks for seven thousand, she raises her own paddle.

"We have seven thousand from the lady in red," the auctioneer says smoothly.

I watch with growing amusement as she continues bidding, her excitement palpable as the price climbs well beyond the painting's actual value. Marcus looks increasingly uncomfortable as other bidders drop out, leaving them competing against only one other determined collector.

"Fifteen thousand," she calls out, her voice carrying a note of triumph that suggests she thinks she's getting a bargain.

The other bidder shakes his head and withdraws. The painting is hers for nearly twice what it's worth.

"Sold to the lady in red for fifteen thousand dollars!"

She actually claps her hands together in delight, then throws her arms around Marcus in celebration. The poor fool looks like he's just been hit by a truck, probably calculating how much this evening is going to cost him.

I find myself genuinely impressed. Most grifters would show more restraint, would worry about drawing attention to themselves. But she's committed to the performance completely, embracing the role of an excited, naive collector who's gotten caught up in the thrill of bidding.

It's either the work of a master manipulator or genuine enthusiasm from someone who truly doesn't understand what she's doing. Given everything else I've observed, I'm betting on the former.

"That was quite a show," Luna comments quietly, having followed my gaze.

"Indeed," Sebastian agrees. "Someone's about to have a very expensive evening."

Beckett says nothing, but I catch him studying the woman with the same analytical attention he brings to potential business acquisitions.

"Excuse me," I say, rising from my seat as the auctioneer moves on to the next lot. "I think I'll go congratulate the happy winner."

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. "Should we be concerned?"

"Always," I reply with a grin. "But never bored."

I make my way through the crowd with practiced ease, accepting congratulations on my latest business venture from acquaintances, deflecting invitations to boring dinner parties, and gradually working my way toward the back of the room where my target stands admiring her new acquisition.

Up close, she's even more striking than I initially assessed. The kind of bone-deep beauty that no amount of money can buy, no matter how skilled the surgeon. But it's clear she's tried—subtle enhancements that speak to considerable time and expense devoted to perfecting what nature already got mostly right.

"Congratulations on your acquisition," I say, approaching from her left side where Marcus can't easily intercede. "Thomas Cole is an excellent choice."

She turns toward me with a smile that's pure sunshine, the kind of expression that probably makes lesser men forget their own names. "Thank you! I've admired his work for years. I couldn't believe when Marcus said we might actually be able to afford something of his."

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