His Acquisition (4 page)

“I'm professional in many things,” Ward interjected, sounding
almost hurt.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, since you yourself said you're an
amateur, you'd better read up on the rules of engagement first.”

In the dim light, I saw his eyes gleam and harden. He seemed to
think I was presenting a challenge to him rather than giving him the benefit of
the doubt and kindly instructing him on how civilized people behaved toward
each other in situations such as these. “Hey,” I snapped. “I'm not joking
around here. This is how professionals behave.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “And I vow I shall behave quite
professionally.” From the depths of his jacket he produced a white card and
held it out to me, pinched between two elegant fingers. Gingerly I reached out
and took it, trying to ignore the sudden dark hum of my blood in my veins when
our fingertips brushed together. I ripped the card from his grip as I snatched
my hand away. His eyes glittered down at me, but he said nothing about my
reaction.

“My home address and phone number,” he said instead. “Are you
available tomorrow afternoon?”

I swayed on my feet. I doubted I'd be available for anything
tomorrow other than to try out any and all hangover cures, for science.
However, a modeling gig wasn't so bad, and the sooner it was done the sooner I
could cut ties with this guy. “Yeah,” I said, tearing my eyes away from his and
pretending to study his card under the dim blue light. “Yeah, I think I'm
free.”

“Excellent. Are you allergic to ferrets?”

My brain clunked.

“No?” I said. “I don't think so, anyway.”

“Oh good.” He beamed. “Because I have many ferrets. I might,
perhaps, wish for you to pose with them. Nothing sexual, I assure you, but I
think I could make an interesting composition from those elements.”

Ferrets. Really.

Maybe this guy wasn't a PR juggernaut, using eccentricity to his
advantage. Maybe he didn't have an unfortunate coke addiction. Maybe he really
was
as bugfuck nuts as I'd heard, and I suspected that I, virtuous woman that I
am who owns no television, had only scratched the surface of his crazy.

I liked this deal less and less all the time. I don't like
crazy. Crazy brings drama. Drama brings tears brings screaming brings fighting
brings slamming doors brings makeup sex and the cycle begins anew. And I'd had
enough of that bullshit to last me a lifetime. Longer than a lifetime. When I
get reincarnated into, say, a deer herd, I'll totally be a loner deer who
doesn't interact with the other deer just to avoid bullshit drama about who
rutted with who, and who saw who rubbing antlers with who, and so forth.

That's probably why I stuck with my current job. It was a steady
paycheck, and the drama was minimal, and always involved other people when it
was there, people I could brush off and ignore and then when I got home I could
just read a book and not think about it...

Oh,
I thought.
Oh, crap.

Am I getting
boring?

I looked at Malcolm Ward again, really
looked
at him this
time. Yes, he was quite handsome, extremely well-dressed, and very well-formed.
But aside from that there was a certain...
something...
about him that
called to me. A little thrill of attraction, stretching from him to me. I'd
felt it when our eyes met across the room. I'd felt it when he had demanded I
submit myself for auction.

I was feeling it now.

I won't lie. I've been a magnet for drama in the past. I'm used
to handling it. The drama of my current job is piddling compared to the shit
I've had to deal with in the art world. But I had to admit, life
was
getting
rather dull...

I'm bad at avoiding drama. I'm good at resolving it, but I guess
I've had a lot of practice.

“Great,” I heard myself saying. “I'll be there tomorrow
afternoon, ready to pose with ferrets. What time?”

“Shall we say four o'clock? That way we might catch an early
dinner afterward...”

A date. Of course he wants a date from this.
But
whatever, if it took care of this, if it
resolved
this drama, I could do
that. And it probably wouldn't be torture.

“Sure,” I agreed. Because I'm an idiot who makes the same
mistakes over and over again. “That sounds fine.”

“Excellent!” He beamed at me, then reached out and put his
delicate, long-fingered hands on my bare shoulders before leaning in to kiss my
cheeks, European style.

The moment his skin met mine, a wave of dizziness swept over me,
a slipping, falling sensation dropping straight through the center of my body.
The warmth of his touch spread out over me, dripping along my skin like golden
honey, and the scent of him, rich and masculine, invaded my head as he leaned
in close. His cheek brushed mine—slightly rough with the growth of a day's
beard—his lips barely grazing against my face before he moved to the other
side.

As in a dream, I saw his mouth pass by my eyes as he traveled
from one cheek to the other, and in that instance I saw his lips twisted and
drawn, not in a devilish smile as I thought he might be wearing after wringing
concessions from me, but in misery. Then the moment passed and he kissed my
other cheek before drawing back, beaming once again, his hands still heavy on
my shoulders.

“Tomorrow!” he bellowed, then swept past me, leaving me reeling.

Dazed, I watched him weave through the crowd, clapping his hand
on backs, leaning in for more kisses. My face burned with his touch, my heart
racing like a rabbit's in my chest, and long after he disappeared through the
door to the ballroom I stared after him.

What a weird guy,
I thought. And I was going to spend
more time with him. The most interesting character to come out of these
terrible events, and I'd pretty much fallen into his lap. A neat disruption to my
dulling life.

Despite my better inclinations, I was looking forward to it,
ferrets and all. But what I was most looking forward to was a chaser for my
chaser.

I signaled the bartender and settled back in my chair, preparing
to forget this stressful night ever happened, with the help of my good friend
alcohol.

*

My bid to contract amnesia didn't work, sadly. It only made me
wake up at ten the next morning with dread and bile in my stomach, last night's
clothes on, and one of my false eyelashes stuck to my forehead. Looking at the
clock, I realized I had to be clean, presentable and preferably not sick in
slightly under six hours. I didn't know if I was going to make it, so I did
what I always do when I wake up with a terrible hangover and guy problems: I
took a cold shower and dragged myself over to Felicia's house.

“So,” I said, when Felicia opened her door to my incessant
knocking,“what do you know about Malcolm Ward?”

Felicia crossed her arms, and through my hungover haze I
realized she was wearing only a waist cincher, a garter belt and some
stockings. I clapped my hands over my eyes and lurched forward until I was well
inside the house and she closed the door behind me. “
Must
you?” I
demanded blindly from the middle of the foyer.
“Must
you insist on
destroying my brain with your perversions?” It was mostly faux-outrage by now,
but man. She and Anton just did
not
let up.

“Oh, come on,” she said, “you know I do it all for you.”

“Put a robe on. I can't look at your tits and think straight.”

“I'm glad I have that effect on you,” she said, and I heard her
waltz off and ascend the stairs.

With a sigh, I lowered my hands and staggered into her kitchen
for coffee. By the time she came back down wearing a black silk robe, I was
feeling a little more chipper and ready to assess my contracted modeling
gig-slash-date with her. She sat down across from me at the breakfast table,
propped her chin in her hand, and grinned at me.

“So,” she said, “you like Malcolm Ward?”

I glared at her. “I didn't say that. I asked you what you knew
about him.”

She shrugged. “Not much besides the stuff he does to get himself
in the news and on the gossip blogs.”

“But... he was on the list for
your
party,” I said. “And
you must know him well enough to have asked for him to participate in the
auction... right?” Given my level of idiocy regarding the current state of who
was
in
and who was
out
in the worlds of business, finance, and
high society, Anton left the invitations to Arthur and the organizing to me. I
had assumed that Anton would know the guy, and that Felicia, by virtue of being
married to Anton, would sort of absorb the information by osmosis.

Felicia waved a hand. “Oh, you know, I don't have a lot of
control over that stuff. I hate those functions. If you want to ask someone
about Malcolm Ward, ask Arthur. He clearly thought Ward was a big enough player
in the business world to invite him.”

I groaned. “I don't want to ask Arthur. He hates me. Or likes
me. I can't tell with that guy. He's always
smiling.”

Felicia laughed. “I think he's a really nice guy.”

“That's because he has to be nice to you. You guys pay him lots
of money to be nice.”

She pursed her lips. “I suppose that's true.” Abruptly she stood
and walked across the kitchen to where her cellphone sat, plugged in and
charging. Turning it on, she selected a contact and held the phone to her ear.

“Who are you calling?” I asked her.

“Arthur,” she said, though in a chirpy voice, and I knew that
was my cue to lie low. “Hi! Sorry to call on a Saturday, but I was wondering
what you knew about Malcolm Ward and why you invited him last night.”

She listened as Arthur spoke on the other end of the line.

“Well obviously I'm concerned about Sadie,” she said. “She's my
best friend and she got sold off to him.”

She listened for a while, nodding occasionally, then rolling her
eyes at me. Finally she said, “Okay, well, that's all I wanted to know. Yeah,
see you on Monday,” and hung up.

“So?” I said as soon as she set the phone down. “What did he
say?”

She shrugged at me. “Not much. Malcolm Ward is a self-made
billionaire. He's thirty five. Comes from a good New England family, all that
jazz. Before this past year he was known for being very severe and withdrawn,
though he took insane risks with his businesses and he was a really brutal
taskmaster for himself and his employees. That stuff paid off, which was good,
but over the last year people have been saying he's going a little... crazy.”

Ferret-crazy,
I thought. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “He's still insanely rich and an incredible
connection to have, so Arthur put him on the list and solicited a donation. He
didn't actually expect Ward to show up, much less put something on the auction
block. I think Arthur was hoping he was crazy enough to spend a stupid amount
of money on something at the auction.”

“He did,” I said. “He bought me, remember?”

“I think Arthur was hoping more for something in the area of
fifty thousand dollars. Nine thousand is still pretty good, though.”

“So that's it? Nothing about what he likes or don't likes or is
famous for?”

“Other than being crazy and rich? No. I'm under the impression
that up until last year he was extremely bland. I don't even know if he
had
much
of a personality, to be honest.” At my curious look she blushed. “I spent some
time last night researching him on the internet for you.”

I wanted to smack myself in the head, but I didn't because I was
afraid I might cause myself to be sick. Looking shit up and handling things
like that was usually
my
job. I'd been too drunk from my vodka chaser's
chaser's chaser to even drunk-text an ex, much less actually do something
useful, like research. “Anything interesting at all?”

She shook her head. “Not that I could see. Mostly it seemed like
he was a workaholic for ages and now he's gone a little loopy in the head. Or
so they say.”

“Yeah, I bet,” I muttered. He hadn't struck me as particularly
nuts when I was talking to him, except for the ferret bit, but he
was...
well, definitely a little off. I sipped my coffee. “You don't think he'll,
like, try to skin me and wear me as a hat, do you?”

Felicia laughed. “No. I totally don't. I met the guy last night
after he talked to you at the bar. He was really... outgoing.”

“Hmph,” I said. I've known plenty of outgoing guys. They were
all jerks.

“So what kind of date is he taking you on?” she asked.

“It's not a date. I don't think. He wants me to pose for him.”

Felicia blinked. “Pose?”

“Like for pictures.”

A horrified look crossed her face. “Oh,
Sadie—”
she
began.

I made an irritated noise at her. “It's nothing illicit. He said
he's an amateur artist and he wants to use me as a subject.”

Felicia looked puzzled. “I'd never heard anything about him
being an artist.”

“I only know what he told me.”

“Huh.” She thought for a moment. “What kind of artist?”

We both knew what she meant, but unfortunately I had no idea
what to tell her. “He sort of implied... everything?” I thought back on what
he'd said. “Photography, sculpture, painting...”

Felicia frowned. Like me, she knew a lot of artists. There
certainly
were
people who did all sorts of different things in different
mediums, but in our experience people tended to find a focus and hone in on it.
Yeah, it was great to take classes in other stuff and see what you liked, but
usually something
called
to you. You didn't end up doing more than two
things, and usually the two things were related if you did. Photography and
design, for instance.

We both sat there and puzzled this out for a few minutes before
Felicia heaved a sigh. “Well,” she said, “don't do anything I wouldn't do, I
guess,” which was really funny, considering.