Page 146 of The Enslaved Duet
I yanked my arm from his hold, avoiding the condemnation in those icy eyes. Normally, I could control my unreasonable desire to distance myself from the people, specifically men, in my life, but I was thrown so far off-kilter by the events of the past few days, I felt as if I’d been put through a wood chipper. Pieces of my scarred past, tumultuous present, and dreams of my future lay scattered around me like debris, and I had no idea how to make sense of the chaos.
“Forgive me?” I asked Mason softly, crossing my legs and leaning over in my chair so that I could cup the side of his neck. “I’m on edge tonight.”
“You could talk to me about why that is,” he suggested mildly, still angry. “I know you don’t like to talk about your past, but has something or maybe someone come up again? You know you can tell me anything, right?”
I sighed and turned to my glass of red wine for solace like any Lombardi woman would.
Mason and I were silent as dinner started, and a well-dressed master of ceremonies took the podium to speak about the cancer charity we were supporting. I played with my food instead of eating it even though one of my favourite New York chefs was catering the event. There were too many things on my mind to absorb the magnificent evening. My heart was set to rapid pounding, knowing the risk I was taking to go to England even though I hoped it would pay off by posing for the most famed photographer in the world.
“Hey.” Mason’s soft voice interrupted my thoughts, and I looked up to see his face creased with something edgier than concern, something like anxiety. “Are you still up for this? We can always go home.”
I shook my head adamantly. “No. I know this is important to you, so it’s important to me.”
He nodded curtly, but he was frustrated with me for being so tight-lipped. I shrugged off my fretfulness and focused on the night ahead of me. Mason’s first love, his high school best friend and secret boyfriend, had died at twenty-three from brain cancer, and now that Mason had money and influence in the city, he was one of the charity’s biggest patrons. Which was why I had agreed to be “sold” for a date night to the highest bidder to raise money for the illness.
The irony of voluntarily selling my beauty again was not lost on me, but my therapist had assured me it was a viable way to “take back my power” and rewrite a traumatic experience into one that was positive and altruistic.
I thought it was a load of crap, but I wanted to be supportive of Mason, and I was experienced at playing on my beauty like a maestro with her instrument.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests,” the emcee declared dramatically. “I am privileged to announce the items we have for auction tonight. Please remember, the proceeds go to a very worthy cause.” I tried to focus on his explanation of the charity, but pins and needles played against the skin on the back of my neck. Frowning, I turned slightly to brush the itch away when I spotted him. The Earl of Thornton, Alexander Davenport sat at one of the main tables in front of the stage, his legs crossed with one arm slung casually across the chair next to him where a pretty young woman sat chatting to him. The very same blonde goddess I’d seen him with last time in Milan, Lady Agatha Howard. I couldn’t see his eyes from where I sat, but I knew without hesitation that he was staring at me.
Hope and fear churned in my gut. I pressed my fist to my mouth as I fought through my nausea.
“Too much wine?” Mason murmured, his eyes still on the emcee.
I shook my head, my eyes inexorably linked with the man across the room. I could feel the anchor pull painfully in my soul as our connection snapped taut and vibrated with energy. He was wearing an all-black ensemble, but for the gold silk pocket square. Even from so far away, he quite literally took my breath away.
What the hell was Alexander doing at this charity event?
I swallowed convulsively and tried to take my eyes off the gold pocket square. Was it too much to think he wore it as a subtle reminder that he owned me and my golden eyes?
“And now the moment we have all been waiting for,” the emcee crowed. “Everyone, please welcome to the stage the lovely ladies and gentlemen who have volunteered themselves for the auction!”
That was my cue, but I remained arrested in my seat, staring at the silver coin eyes I hadn’t seen in so many years.
“Cosima, what are you waiting for?” Mason whispered, nudging me with his thigh.
I watched as a slow smile spread across Alexander’s features, and only when he gave a slight nod of his head did the enchantment snap, and I found myself free of his hold.
Shame coursed through me like volcanic heat, and I tasted the ash of my old dreams on the back of my tongue.
He wasn’t mine to want anymore, and the feelings of unwitting desire he still stoked in me were deplorable reminders of my own lingering need for a sexual satisfaction only he could give me.
I stared daggers into the back of his head as he turned to smile winningly at Agatha fucking Howard.
“Who is that?” Mason asked sharply, more alarmed than he should have been as my friend and fake fiancé as he followed my eyes to the other table.
“No one important,” I said flippantly with a big smile as fake and functional as fabric flowers.
With a languid smile, I rose to my feet just as the last few volunteers mounted the stage, and I pressed a long, lingering kiss on Mason’s surprised lips. I could feel the eyes of the room watching me as I pulled away and walked unhurriedly up to the stage where the other women eyed me with varying looks of annoyance. Surprisingly and horrifyingly, it was Agatha Howard who seemed the most amused by my tactics. Her blue eyes sparkled as she grinned at me sashaying through the tables.
“Excuse us for a moment, folks,” the emcee asked as he watched me climb the stairs. “This one is worth waiting for, and I do think she knows it.”
I beamed at him as I passed, and when he offered his powdered cheek for a kiss, I complied. The swell of catcalls and whistles buoyed me. Let Alexander see just exactly what he had been missing the past four years.
The auction began with a petite brunette at the other end of the line, and I realized that I would be the last woman called.
“You did a remarkable job,” Agatha whispered in her incredibly posh British accent. “The anticipation is just going to build now that you’re last.”
