Authors: Olivia Rigal
As He Bids
AS
THEY
PLEASE
1
AS HE BIDS
by
Olivia Rigal
Special thanks to :
For the cover work
for which I tortured
Willsin Rowe
& Clarissa Wild
For the cool support and the blurb
Christa Wick
Don't want to miss my next book?
Click here to subscribe to my mailing list.
© 2014 Lady O Publishing LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced to transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
contact / Lady O Publishing dot com
www.ladyopublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or person, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
CHAPTER ONE
I wait in the lobby area for the receptionist to get settled in. She's a very pretty woman in her thirties, wearing a dress that looks as though it's been painted on her. Perched on towering heels, she looks at us from high up. Her hair and makeup are impeccable. How does she manage to look so polished at nine in the morning?
Looking at my skirt and flat shoes, I feel rumpled. Next to me are two guys who are about my age, and they didn't bother to dress up even a bit. The three of us are caricatures of art students. They look around us with their mouths open, like fish out of water while I wear what I hope is a calm and composed look.
There's one thing we should be sharing: huge smiles on our faces. Out of hundreds of résumés, ours managed to land us an internship with Goldsmith and Evans Auctioneers.
Two months at Goldsmith and Evans! Just thinking about it makes me giddy. Of course, there are more prestigious international auction houses in Manhattan, but this is the one I wanted. This is where Bruce Nelson works, and he has been my obsession for longer than I care to admit.
Bruce started working here as an intern when he was preparing his PhD, and now he runs the painting department. He's been acclaimed as one of the best experts in his field... the field I picked for my master's thesis.
Inside me, there's a little girl jumping up and down with glee. I'm going to be working in the same auction house as Bruce Nelson for the next two months. The idea enchants and terrifies me at the same time.
To speak, or
think
, of the devil... Bruce Nelson enters the lobby.
Somehow, my inner girl vanishes in a puff of smoke. In her stead is a sultry woman who can't stop staring at him. He waves at the receptionist as he passes, on his way to the elevator, and gives her a killer smile.
Jealousy invades me. I want him to smile at
me
like that. I drink him in with my eyes until the elevator doors close behind him.
The distinctive ping of the Apple computer resonates through the lobby, redirecting my attention to the receptionist. A little twitch of her mouth lets me know that she's noticed my staring. She must see this happen a lot--crazy girls fawning over one of her bosses. Steve Goldsmith and James Evans, the two named partners of the auction house, are also kind of cute.
While her computer boots up, the receptionist calls out to us. "You're the summer interns, right?"
"Yes, ma'am," the three of us answer in unison as we gather closer to her reception stand.
"Don't 'ma'am' me." She laughs. "If you do, you'll make me feel ancient, and that won't do. Call me Tabitha or Tab, okay?"
The three of us nod like a row of Japanese lucky cats.
"Good, now that this major point is settled, let me see where I am to dispatch you guys." She searches the papers on her desk. She picks up four sheets, and I see those are our résumés. Through the paper, notes written with a red felt pen are visible.
"William?"
One of my companions stands to attention, and she looks at him. "You're in the antiquities department."
William does a fist pump. "Yes!"
With a benevolent smile on her face, she gives him directions to where he's to meet his new boss. She drops his résumé on her desk and looks at the next page. "Now, you must be Kenneth, and you are..." She raises her eyes from the paper and gives him a quizzical look. "The dolls and toys department."
A big smile spreads across his face. I look sideways at him and wonder if he favors antique porcelain dolls or lead soldier figurines... unless it's miniature trains or old-fashioned automatons. He has the smile of the boy let loose in a toy store. I can't help but smile, as well, while I wonder how cool that department actually is. They probably won't let him play with the toys.
"You'll have to wait for Jimmy here," Tab says to Kenneth. "He'll be coming any minute to pick you up to go out at a consignor's place to look at a private collection."
Kenneth nods and stands next to me. Isn't he nosy?
Tab is holding one résumé in each hand. She silently reads the two names and looks up at me, and I know for a fact what's going to happen, so I just go ahead and introduce myself.
"I'm Hannah Cohen," I say.
She blurts out, "Are you sure?"
"Pretty much," I answer with a light tone. "That's what my parents have been calling me for as long as I remember."
Kenneth chuckles, and after a short hesitation, Tab decides to smile at my usual retort.
"Of course. I'm sorry," Tab says. "It's just that..." She shrugs because it wouldn't be politically correct to say that she expected a paler skin color to go with the name. I'm used to people doing a double take when they have to match my name and my face.
How did a milk-chocolate-colored gal get such a white-sounding name? This is the question they never ask, but I can read it in their eyes. The answer is simple--I'm the product of the improbable marriage of a Haitian woman and a very fair-skinned European man.
I've spent the first twenty years of my life, sitting on a fence, processing the fact that none of my grandparents acknowledge my existence. For two decades, I defined myself by what I was not. I'm not black, and I'm not white. I'm not Catholic, and I'm not Jewish. I'm not Haitian, and I'm not German...
And then while in college, I decided to give a try at defining myself by what I am. I'm an American. I'm the product of true love. My religion is art, and my place is right here because it's a fabulous place to worship.
Tab clears her throat to hide her embarrassment, and she says, "Now, Hannah, you're going to be working with Bruce Nelson. His assistant left, and he's yet to hire a replacement. This means that you'll be spread out over several departments since he supervises old masters and..."
Tab's voice fades out as my heart rate accelerates, sounding like a crazy jungle drum in my ears. I'm hyperventilating. Oh My God, I'm going to work with Bruce Nelson, that is, if I manage to start breathing normally. Otherwise, I'm going to faint and crack my skull on the marble floor of the reception area.
"Hannah, are you all right?" she asks. "I know that Bruce looks daunting, but he's actually a pleasant man to work with."
"Don't you dare tell her that, Tab. Bruce rather likes his mean reputation--it keeps everyone on their toes," says a deep male voice behind me. It's Steve Goldsmith. He's not as spectacular as Bruce Nelson, but he's still a great looking man.
"Come on, Hannah. Let me show you your office." Without waiting for me, he turns away toward the elevators and snaps at me, "Come on, young lady. I'm sure you have a very busy schedule today."
Kenneth, who's standing next to me, puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a nudge, mouthing, "Go, go, go."
As I start in the direction of the elevators, Tab calls out to Steve Goldsmith, "The fourth intern is a no-show."
I just have time to slide into the elevator before the doors close behind me, and Steve answers, "Her loss."
He doesn't seem to notice that the elevator was already on its way up when he answered Tab. He no longer seems aware of my presence, either. His eyes remain focused on his phone.
When the doors open on the third floor, he signals for me to follow him. We walk down a hallway to a door with no name on it.
Steve knocks on the door then opens it without waiting for an answer. "Morning, Bruce. Your intern is here."
Bruce doesn't look up from whatever he's looking at on his desk. "Yep, I know. I saw her downstairs with the others. Tab should be giving them a tour of the place before they get started."
Steve smiles, and I decide that I need to save Bruce from the potential embarrassment of saying something he wouldn't want me to hear, so I diplomatically clear my throat to announce my presence.
Bruce looks up at me. His sharp blue gaze settles on my face, and for a second I have the feeling he can read my mind, but then I give myself a mental slap. I'm being silly. There is no such thing as a mind reader. He's not smiling, but somehow his expression shows that he's happy to see me.
He gets up and comes to me. I take a deep breath and fight the impulse I have to lower my head as he approaches. I look up at him as he says, "Oh, no tour, I guess. Come on in, Hannah. Welcome. Your desk is there." He points, and my eyes follow the direction of his hand, to another desk, the same size as his, on the opposite side of the large room. Then my gaze returns to his face.
He's just as incredibly good looking as I remember him being. Now that I'm closer, I notice a few crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes, but they suit him. They make him look more mature than he did when I attended his lectures in college.
He doesn't offer his hand to shake but touches my shoulder with the tip of his fingers to nudge me in the direction of my desk. The contact sends shivers down my spine.
That's when I realize I've made a terrible mistake. I should never have applied for an internship here. I can't be working with Bruce Nelson--the man takes my breath away every single time I look at him. How will I ever be able to concentrate?
CHAPTER TWO
I was right. Concentration is a bitch. The man is a powerhouse, and I need to concentrate to keep up with him. By that, I mean concentrating on what he's saying, not on how fabulous he smells, how magnetic his presence is, or on how fascinating his lips are. At times, I try to listen, but my eyes get drawn to his mouth, and I just can't hear the words anymore. I imagine what this sinful mouth would feel like on my own and then on other parts of my body and my physical reaction is immediate.
It's hard because I seldom have a minute to myself. Bruce likes his assistant to be in the same room with him. He carries out all his phone conversations on speakerphone, and I'm supposed to eavesdrop and, if necessary, take notes.
Whenever he wants privacy, he takes his cell phone and leaves the office. That happens every day at five sharp.
Every so often, he answers his cell at his desk and gives monosyllabic answers with a different voice that goes straight to my gut. It's this deep bass rumble that resonates through me and makes me feel all fuzzy. I can't explain it, but this tone calls out to me, as if he's drawing me in even closer.