Surprise Bidder

By Ashlee Price

What have I got myself into this time!? Agreeing to being auctioned off at the Ambrosia Club. Desperate for money and for hope. Luckily, Gavin Scotsfeld can give me both. He's cold. Ruthless. And crazy rich. He'll do anything to get what he wants and protect what is his. I'm not supposed to fall in love with him. But I melt more with each touch and I come alive with every kiss. I'm definitely under his spell. I'm also blind to his secrets. Secrets that I'm discovering could destroy me. He isn't aware that I have a big surprise of my own. I'm carrying his baby. What happens when I tell him that he's the father?...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashlee Price
• Release date: Jun 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958676134

Book preview

Chapter One

Leah

The mason jar slips from my fingers and shatters on the floor. Drops of melted whipped cream and strawberry shake splatter on my stockings. The rest puddles beneath the ice cubes and glass shards and starts flowing through the gaps between the tiles.

Shit.

I kneel beside the mess to clean it up as fast as I can. Not fast enough. Footsteps thud into the kitchen. Seconds later, the sole of a black loafer crushes a fragment of glass as a wide shadow looms over me.

I look up to see Ron, the restaurant manager, with a frown sitting over his double chin. His eyes, which are narrow enough even when he's not in a bad mood, have almost disappeared into their folds now, and yet I can still see the disappointment in them. His arms are crossed over his chest. Thick fingers tap his elbows.

I give him a sheepish grin. Sorry?

That will come out of your pay, he tells me sternly. Just like that saucer you broke last week and the prawns you dropped the week before.

How nice of him to remind me. I still think that broken saucer was the customer's fault. I wouldn't have dropped it if his arm hadn't hit me. As for the prawns, the chef shouldn't have put them so close to the edge of the plate, especially not when they were dredged in that buttery sauce. For this glass, however, I can't think of an excuse. Maybe I had oil on my fingers from that pasta bowl I picked up before? Or my hand still hasn't fully recovered and my fingers suddenly felt weak? Not that any excuse will help.

I lower my head. Yes, sir.

It's all I can say.

And hurry up with the cleaning so you can get back to work. I'm not paying you to be on your knees.

With a snort, he turns on his heel. I quickly pick up the shards and gather them in my apron. Mandy, a fellow waitress, kneels beside me and starts to soak up the puddle with a rag.

I'm fine. You should get back to work, I tell her as I watch Ron step out of the kitchen. Or you'll get on Ron's bad side, too.

I'm already on his bad side, remember? She picks up the ice cubes.

If she's talking about that incident last week when Ron tried to throw away her lipstick because he said she was spending too much time reapplying it in front of the shiny fridge door- tried but failed because Mandy pried it away from his fingers and scratched him with one of her perfectly square nails in the process- then yes, I remember.

She dumps the ice cubes into the sink and shrugs. Frankly, I think we all are.

And I can't dispute that, because I've never seen Ron praise any of the staff. To be honest, I don't know how he ended up being a manager.

Besides, Mandy adds. I'm not scared of him.

Neither am I, but I can't afford to be jobless right now.

I empty my apron into the bin. You don't seem to be scared of anything.

Not true. She puts up a finger. I'm scared of dying and being put in a coffin... wearing bad lipstick.

Mandy brandishes her scarlet stick and turns to the fridge door.

I grin. Of course she is.

Or breaking one of my nails. She glances at them. Once, I was scared, too, when I was on this date with this hunk who looked like Channing Tatum. I desperately wanted to have sex with him, so all through dinner, I kept hoping I wouldn't get my period, because I was due.

My eyebrows go up. Okay.

I didn't, but I was fucking scared.

I'm not sure she understands what fear really is.

Mandy looks at me. Have you ever felt that way?

I scratch my cheek. Well, there was one time I was worried I'd get my period because I forget to bring a tampon with me, but-

Not that, silly. She comes closer and rests her elbow on my shoulder. I mean have you ever looked at a man and just had this urge to rip his clothes off? Like you couldn't wait for the two of you to be alone so you could have your hands all over him, have his hands all over you, have him inside you? Hell, you'd have sex with him then and there if you could, if he wanted, because your brain is so muddled you don't care what other people think.

No, I answer nonchalantly.

I've never been alone with a man, not unless you count a short trip in an elevator with a stranger. I've never gone on a date, never been kissed. I was too busy studying and doing gymnastics at school, too busy with chores at home because even when my mother was still around, she was usually too tired to do them. Fun was a luxury I rarely had. Romance? Never.

I didn't even own a single romance novel, nor did I have a poster of a guy on my bedroom wall to fantasize about. I did have this one crush in high school- not the captain of the basketball team that all the girls drooled over but the brooding delinquent at the back of the room with the leather jacket that sometimes smelled of cigarettes. I didn't lust after him, though, like Mandy's talking about. Mostly, I was just curious because I knew so little about him even though we shared a lot of classes, impressed by how he kept his grades up even though I never saw him studying, and envious of how he didn't seem to care about the rest of the world. I don't even remember his name anymore.

So no, I don't know what Mandy is talking about. I don't even know much about sex, except for what I've seen in movies, which happens mostly under sheets and shadows.

Yup, I'm in the dark on this one.

Holy shit. Mandy takes a step back and looks at me with wide eyes, like she's just seen a ghost. You're a fucking virgin, aren't you?

I purse my lips and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I feel the dishwasher's glance. Did Mandy really have to say it that loudly?

Well, obviously, a non-fucking virgin. Mandy shakes her head and clicks her tongue in disapproval. That's just sad.

Is it? It's never bothered me before.

How old are you again?

Almost twenty-two, I answer.

A virgin at twenty-two? I don't know if she's looking at me like a criminal or like a freak from the circus, but she's making me feel like both.

I shrug. So?

Oh, Leah, you poor thing. Now she's looking at me like I'm a stray kitten drenched in the rain. What on earth have you been doing?

Surviving?

Mandy sighs. You have no idea what you're missing.

Which is why I'm not missing it. What's so good about sex anyway? Is it really such a big deal?

You better get yourself out there. She points to the door. ASAP.

My eyebrows crease. She wants me to leave right now so I can- what, have sex with the first man I bump into?

Um, I have work to do, I remind her as I pick up a plate from the pile of dishes that need drying.

Oh, you bet you do. Mandy puts her arm around me. You know, I wasn't going to tell you about this gig that I learned about. Thought I would just reap all the rewards for myself. But I think you need it even more than I do.

I narrow my eyes at her curiously. What gig?

There's this rich woman, a widow with no children, that this friend of mine knows. And I mean filthy rich, like she has an apartment near Little Italy and this huge house in Greenwich. That's where the party is going to be.

A party?

And one at a wealthy person's house at that. I don't see how this can have anything to do with me, though.

Not just any party, Mandy tells me. It's a masquerade party for very rich and famous people. We're talking CEOs, professional athletes, producers, actors, models.

Which we're not, I point out as I grab another plate.

We're not going as guests, silly. Mandy slaps my shoulder. We're waitresses, so we're going as waitresses.

Now I understand.

So it's like a sideline?

A gig. Just one night. My friend says they're short on staff so they need a few more waitresses.

My eyebrows crease. We're applying?

Shh. Mandy holds a finger to her lips. Ron might not let us go if he hears. I think it's against the rules or something.

I nod, remembering something like that in the contract. Right.

So should I still go?

Speaking of rules, I think Kate said something about how the waitresses are supposed to be at least twenty-four years old. Or was it twenty-five? She scratches her chin.

Like I said, I'm-

I think you could pass for twenty-five, Mandy cuts me off. I mean, you've got a bit of muscle on you and your features are a little mature.

I don't know if that's an insult or a compliment.

They won't ask for an ID anyway.

They won't? Still, I'm not so sure I want to break the rules- Ron's rules or the minimum age rule. As an athlete, you treat rules like law.

Anyway, it's on Sunday night, so you know, we're free, she adds. You should come with me.

Should I?

How much does it pay?

Five hundred for the whole affair.

The plate nearly slips from my fingers. Five hundred? For like eight hours of carrying trays of food and pouring champagne? That's nearly as much as what I make in a week here at the restaurant. And that's without any deductions.

I could definitely use that money, I confess.

In fact, I'm already thinking of all the things I could use it for. My rent. My phone bills. A handful into that jar I'm trying to fill up so I can go back to college and finish those three semesters I have left.

Good. Mandy squeezes my shoulder. It's not about the money, though. I mean, yeah, the money's good, but I'm not in it for that.

No? What, then? There's only one thing I can think of that Mandy likes better than money.

I throw her a puzzled look. You're not saying we're going to double as prostitutes, are you? Because if that's the case...

Prostitutes? Mandy lets out a loud laugh. Shit, no. I like this new direction your brain is going, but no. This piece of meat? She touches her breasts. Not for sale. That would take all of the fun out of it. But yes, sex.

So you're going to have sex with one of the guests?

Or two, Mandy answers with a grin. And I suggest you do, too.

What?

These are rich men we're talking about, Leah. First class. Bespoke suits. Million-dollar watches. They smell like Christian Dior. Their cocks probably do, too. If you're going to lose your virginity- and it's past time you do- you won't do better than one of these men.

I'm still puzzled. You want me to go with you to this party so that I can have sex with a guest?

She shrugs. What's wrong with that?

Plenty that I can think of.

Isn't that against the rules, too? I set the dry plate down. We could get fired.

Mandy chuckles. What? Did I forget to tell you? This kind of party has no rules. It's all just fun.

Okay.

My friend, she did it with this guy at one of these parties before, some famous swimmer. He just grabbed her arm and pulled her behind some bushes. She said it was the most amazing sex she ever had.

I blink. I'm starting to think this party isn't such a good idea.

You know what? I step away from her. I don't think I'll go after all.

What? Mandy's shoulders sink. Didn't you hear what I just said? The most amazing sex. Ever!

You said he grabbed her, I tell her. I may be a virgin, which makes you think I'm stupid and somehow deprived of something essential to living, but I'm not very comfortable with the thought of being grabbed.

Mandy's shoulders bunch up. Then just say no. There are no rules at the party, but that doesn't mean the law doesn't apply. If you don't want something, no one will force you.

That makes me feel a little better.

Mandy grabs my shoulders. But are you really going to say no? Do you really want to stay a virgin all your life?

No, but...

Hey! Ron shouts as he waddles back into the kitchen. What did I say about getting back to work? I'm not paying you to stand around, either.

I quickly pick up a wet glass to dry. Mandy bumps my shoulder on her way to the other side of the kitchen.

Think about it, she whispers. This is the chance of a lifetime.

No talking! Ron shouts again.

What? Mandy turns to face him. Are you going to take every sentence out of our pay, too?

I frown. Please don't give him any ideas.

Ron points a finger at her. Don't tempt me, Missy.

For a moment I fear she might say more, but she just grins as she walks off. I hear Ron's footsteps fade as well. As soon as he's gone, I look at Mandy. She glances over her shoulder and as our gazes meet, her lips open to form four words.

Chance of a lifetime.

I let out a sigh as I turn my gaze back to the glass in my hand, my mind on the decision I have to make.

I'm still hesitant about going. What if Ron finds out and I lose my job? What if they find out I'm twenty-one and they refuse to pay me when the night is over?

Or what if I mess up? What if I break something even more expensive than five hundred dollars? What if I spill wine on someone's tailored suit? I've only been a waitress for three months and I definitely haven't been serving rich people. What if my nerves get the better of me?

And what if someone does grab me just as Mandy's friend said? I don't intend to be a virgin forever, but I don't want to lose it to some stranger, either, billionaire or not. And I definitely don't want it stolen. What if I say no and he doesn't listen?

I shake my head. No. I'm sure he'll listen. Like Mandy said, these men are the cream of the crop. They're well-educated, well-behaved. They have reputations to uphold.

Besides, I can't just ignore the five hundred dollars. That figure is stuck in my head just like one of those Post-its on Ron's desk. I need that money. And although Mandy may be wrong about some things, she's right about one- chances like this, even though they're not exactly once-in-a-lifetime, come rarely enough, especially for people like me who seem to have fallen out of favor with Lady Luck.

I've already lost so many chances- my chance at becoming an Olympic gymnast, my chance at finishing college, my chance at a bright future. Why not take this one?

As for the rules, to hell with them. I'm not an athlete anymore. I'm a survivor, and I have to do everything I can to survive.

I set the glass, now thoroughly dry, down on the counter and let out a deep breath. I guess I just made my mind up.

~

I thought I did, but now that I'm standing in front of the mirrored wall of the sitting room that has been converted into a changing room for the additional staff, second thoughts keep barging in.

Am I really doing this?

The nerves started setting in as soon as I arrived at the house. Huge doesn't even begin to describe it. The more I saw of it, the more it sank in- I really am going to be a waitress at an extravagant party. Even this room, which isn't even going to be open to the guests, looks amazing, color coordinated in shades of green and filled with Oriental objets d'art. I spot a celadon teapot, and a jade lion that must cost more than I make in a month.

Now, here I am in my uniform, or at least my outfit for tonight. It's not the usual gray dress with black apron. Instead, I'm wearing a black silk cheongsam embroidered with white and gold flowers, one that stops an inch above the knee and has a slit on the right side that goes even higher. And that's with no stockings underneath. That's fine. I wore leotards on the mat for so long that I don't mind bare legs. What I do mind is that the dress seems too tight. I've never worn a cheongsam before, so I didn't realize how fitted it would be. The silk clings to my neck and wraps around my breasts. It feels more like a sheath than a dress, and I fear I might pop out of it at any minute. The fact that it's fastened with braided knots at the side doesn't help. Well, maybe it will when I go to the restroom, but not when I'm walking around.

Can I really move around in this?

Mandy interrupts my thoughts with a whistle as she circles around me. Look at you. I knew there was a bombshell hiding in there.

Me? A bombshell?

I study my reflection. Sapphire blue eyes gaze back at me from the glass, peering out from an oval face. My sandy blonde hair is held back in a tight bun like always with just a few loose wisps brushing against my forehead and cheeks. A button nose. A thin upper lip shaped like a bow paired with a thicker, rounded lower one. A pretty face. I've been called that often, though I've never considered it a compliment, always a challenge. When someone calls you pretty, they assume that's all you are. And then you get the urge to prove them wrong.

But a bombshell? That's something new. Maybe it's just the dress, though. I may be struggling to breathe, but it does seem to do wonders for my figure.

There's just one thing missing.

Mandy stands in front of me and takes her lipstick out of her pocket. Before I can say a word, she grasps my chin and starts painting my lips. When I look in the mirror again, I find them coated ruby red.

Go on. Give them a smack, Mandy tells me.

I smack my lips together.

Perfect. She places a hand on my shoulder. Now we're both ready for service.

I narrow my eyes at her. You're not still going after the men, are you?

Of course I am. Aren't you? She applies a fresh layer of lipstick and smacks her lips. Though I seriously think they'll be the ones coming after us.

I frown. I'd rather they don't.

I've already decided I'm rejecting any advances tonight. I'm here to work, nothing more.

Mandy lets out a sigh. Fine. I won't waste my breath trying to convince you. You know what? It may be even better for me if you decide not to play. That way, I'll have more men to toy around with. Your loss. My gain.

I shrug. Whatever.

I'm just here to do my job.

Fine. Be all work and no party. But me? Mandy points to herself and winks. I'm going to have fun.

Fine.

I don't care how much fun she has, or even if she dumps all the work on me, which I'm beginning to think is why she brought me. I'm just grateful she did.

Girls! Clarissa, the woman who ushered us in earlier, claps her hands as she walks into the room. You have five minutes to finish getting ready. Then come outside so I can give you some reminders. I can't stress enough how perfect everything needs to be tonight.

I nod and join the chorus. Yes, ma'am.

Great. More pressure. But it's too late to back out now. I'm here. I'm dressed. I'm ready to work.

I draw in a deep breath and square my shoulders.

Let's do this.

~

So far, so good, I think as I take my first ten-minute break just outside the kitchen, roughly two hours after service officially started.

I sit on the marble stairs and take off my shoes to rest my aching feet. A cool breeze blows and caresses my cheeks. I'd love to take off my mask as well, but Clarissa told us not to, not even during breaks. I settle for gazing up at the full moon through the holes punched into the velvet cloth secured around my eyes.

After a while, I close them to savor the breeze and the tranquility of the surroundings. Constant music and chatter fill the air inside, but here, those are muted. The soft singing of the chimes hanging from tree branches is the symphony that reigns, accompanied by the rustle of leaves and water cascading down a nearby fountain. Somehow, it makes my weariness and all my worries melt away.

The concert has only gone on for a few seconds, though, when it is interrupted by a voice from above. I open my eyes and look up. There, on the second floor balcony, a man is on his phone.

I can hear him talking and yet the words seem to go in one ear and out the other as I stare at him. He's clad in all black like a shadow, from the mask over his eyes to his tie, his vest, his shirt and the jacket that hangs from his broad shoulders. They all seem to blend into each other, fitting him perfectly. Now, that's bespoke! Even more impressive than the suit, though, is the man wearing it. Even with a mask on, I can see the rigid lines running through his chiseled features as he engages the person on the other end of the line in a serious conversation. So serious. Every now and then, I see a flicker of impatience, annoyance even. Fingers tapping on the balustrade. Clenched jaw. Pursed lips. Chin tilted upwards. His tone remains the same, though- calm, completely in control.

Finally, he moves the phone away from his ear. As he looks at the screen, he runs his other hand through his hair, fingers combing the ebony strands.

My teeth dig into my lower lip. Damn, he's sexy.

Only seconds later does my own mental remark set in. Sexy? That's new. Then again, I've never felt this way before. So intrigued, enthralled, excited.

Is this what Mandy was talking about?

Well, I'm not sure I want to have sex with this stranger. I can't help but keep watching him, though, and the more I do, the more my imagination goes out of control. What would he look like without that mask? Without that suit?

Suddenly, he turns his head. As our gazes meet, my breath catches. My heart leaps to my throat.

The dark eyes staring from behind that leather mask study me intently. They gleam with intelligence, confidence, and something else that I can't seem to put a finger on. All I know is that I find it forbidding and yet electrifying at the same time. A shiver goes down my spine. Heat explodes behind my breasts.

I want to look away but I can't. I'm trapped, drawn to that gaze and the man who seems to be wielding it like a weapon.

Then he gives a mischievous, boyish grin. My heart flips. My throat goes dry and I swallow.

What is with this man that even though we've only just