Auctioned to the Single Dad (Sold to the Naughtier List #6)

Chapter 1

RONAN

“Ah, shit.”

I almost drop my champagne flute, catching it at the last second. The liquid sloshes against the crystal, threatening to spill over as my focus narrows to a single point across the crowded auction hall that’s been decorated for the holidays.

Her.

Who is she and why do I feel like the floor has just disappeared from underneath me? Like I’m standing on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, unmoored and alone?

A woman I’ve never seen before stands on the auction block, blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face.

She’s not the polished trophy type these events typically parade.

No, she’s soft curves and vulnerability, her blue eyes scanning the room like she's searching for an exit. Well, she probably is, and I can’t say I blame her one bit.

I’ve been to dozens of these “charity companion auctions.” Rich people buying a weekend with beautiful women and men, all under the thin veneer of philanthropy. Normal people buy gifts for themselves at Christmas. This is the billionaire version of that.

I came tonight only because Xavier, my VP of acquisitions and occasional friend, insisted our absence would be noticed. I had no intention of bidding.

That was the plan.

Until now.

The auctioneer drones on about her attributes—as if she’s a prize mare—while she stands there, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand clenching and unclenching, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

She wears a simple black dress, modest compared to the other offerings tonight.

Nothing about her screams for attention, yet I can’t look away … not even if my life depends on it.

I set my champagne down on a passing waiter’s tray, my decision already made.

No one will have her but me. I’ll break the fingers off anyone who even thinks of touching her, owning her.

No, this woman is mine and mine alone.

“Bidding starts at five thousand dollars,” the auctioneer announces.

Several hands go up immediately. Of fucking course. I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet, fury rises within me as I check out some of the men I know try to outbid each other. I’m this close to wringing their necks for even thinking they’re allowed to breathe the same air as her.

Pathetic, delusional fuckers.

I watch her face as each bid registers—the flicker of dismay, quickly masked. She’s not here by choice. That much is clear.

A heavyset man in the front row raises his paddle.

I recognize him—Gerhardt, old money, notorious for his “relationships” with auction companions that extend well beyond the contractual weekend.

Something in me hardens when I see his eyes travel up her body.

I could crush his windpipe without breaking a sweat.

Or maybe I could just glare at him until he withers in my presence.

That has always been effective in scaring even men twice my size.

“Fifty thousand,” I call out, not bothering with the paddle.

The room ripples with whispers. People turn to look at me, but I keep my eyes on her. For the first time, she meets my gaze directly. The relief that washes over her face is unmistakable and strangely satisfying.

Interesting.

“Fifty thousand from Mr. Ward,” the auctioneer confirms, barely concealing his excitement. “Do I hear fifty-five?”

Gerhardt turns, scowling when he spots me. He raises his paddle again. “Fifty-five.”

“A hundred fifty,” I counter immediately.

More whispers. The woman’s eyes widen, her lips parting slightly.

“A hundred fifty thousand dollars,” the auctioneer repeats, voice climbing an octave. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is already double our highest bid of the evening.”

I don’t care. Money means nothing to me.

I’ve made and lost fortunes in single days.

But something about this woman makes me want to empty my accounts just to keep her away from the other men in this room.

I’m more than willing to use my bare hands, but, unfortunately for me, auctions don’t work that way.

“Hundred fifty-five,” calls a voice from the back.

My jaw tightens. I recognize this one too—Adrien Keller, tech billionaire, younger than me but with twice the reputation for debauchery.

Fuck no.

The woman’s face pales. Her other hand clutches the small purse she’s holding, knuckles white with tension.

“Two hundred thousand,” I say, loud enough to carry through the now-silent room.

Gerhardt turns back to the stage, contemplating. Keller steps forward, squinting at me through the dim light.

I could do this all fucking night.

“Come on, Ward,” he says with a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. “Spread the wealth. Two-ten.”

She’s trembling now, barely perceptible unless you’re watching as closely as I am. Something protective and primal surges through me.

“Three hundred thousand,” I say flatly.

The gasps are audible. The auctioneer fumbles his gavel.

“T-three h-hundred thousand dollars from Mr. Ronan Ward,” he stammers. “Do I hear any advance on four hundred thousand?”

Gerhardt shakes his head, disgusted. Keller hesitates, then gives me a mocking bow of concession.

“Going once, going twice…” The auctioneer’s voice rises with each word, drawing out the moment. “Sold! To Mr. Ward for three hundred thousand dollars!”

The crowd applauds, more for the unprecedented amount than for me. I ignore them all, keeping my eyes on her as she’s ushered off the stage. Relief washes over her features, but uncertainty quickly replaces it. She doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know if I’m any better than the alternatives.

I’ll show her I am. I’ll make myself worthy of her.

I move through the crowd, ignoring the congratulations and curious glances. In the holding area behind the stage, staff members process paperwork for the “dates” being auctioned. She stands alone by a high table, pen hovering over a document, hesitation in every line of her body.

“Mr. Ward,” a coordinator greets me. “Congratulations on your winning bid. If you’ll just sign here, your companion for the weekend will be all yours.”

I take the pen, feeling her eyes on me as I sign without reading. I know the terms—forty-eight hours, no obligation beyond companionship, all very civilized and proper on paper. What happens between consenting adults after the paperwork is signed is nobody’s business.

Only when I set the pen down do I turn to look at her properly.

Up close, she’s even more beautiful … and more frightened.

Those blue eyes are deeper than I realized, intelligent and wary.

Her skin is flushed, whether from the stage lights or embarrassment, I can’t tell.

It makes the freckles smattering across her nose and cheeks even more prominent.

“Ronan Ward,” I say, extending my hand.

She hesitates for a beat and places her small hand in mine. The simple contact sends a jolt down my spine. The world slides to a stop around us, and I’m fully aware of my blood rushing down south, making me harder with every second she stares at me.

It’s nothing more than a handshake, but my mind somehow registers it as foreplay.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I acting like a hormonal teen?

Her skin is cool but soft, and I can’t stop myself from lifting her hand to my mouth and brushing my lips across her knuckles. Even through the noise behind us, I hear her sharp intake of breath.

“Rayne Silva,” she says.

Am I imagining it or is her voice a little breathy?

“First time at one of these?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

She nods, withdrawing her hand too quickly. “Yes. First and last.”

Something about her tone catches my attention. Desperation, perhaps. The kind that drives people to do things they’d never otherwise consider.

Well, I’m no stranger to desperation myself.

“Not enjoying yourself?” I keep my voice neutral, but I’m studying every microexpression that crosses her face.

“Being auctioned off isn’t exactly on my bucket list.” A flash of spine beneath the vulnerability. Interesting. “So, no, Mr. Ward. Not really.”

“Ronan. Call me Ronan.” I step closer until our faces are just inches apart. She’s shorter than me, so the top of her head only reaches my chin—even when she’s in high heels. “And for the record, I don’t think it’s on anyone’s bucket list. I wouldn’t want anyone bidding on me, either.”

“So why did you? Bid on me, I mean?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I let my gaze drop to her mouth and have to physically restrain myself from claiming her in front of this crowd.. “Or rather, the three-hundred-thousand-dollar question.”

The coordinator clears her throat. “Everything’s in order, Mr. Ward. Ms. Silva is all yours until Monday morning.”

All mine. The words trigger something possessive I didn’t know existed in me.

I’ve never wanted to own another person before.

But this night has proven extraordinary.

Nothing ever made me want to stake my claim so badly like this.

Nothing that made me feel almost delirious with want within minutes of seeing someone.

“Do you have a coat? Anything you need to collect?” I ask Rayne.

She shakes her head and gestures to her small purse. “Just this.”

I nod to the coordinator, dismissing her with a look, before turning back to Rayne. “My car’s waiting outside.”

As we walk through the auction hall toward the exit, I’m acutely aware of the eyes following us. Men who lost the bidding. Women calculating what made this particular auction item worth three hundred thousand dollars. I place my hand on the small of Rayne’s back—a clear signal to everyone watching.

Touch her and you die.

She stiffens momentarily at my touch, but eventually relaxes, moving closer to my side as we navigate the crowd. Her instinct to trust me pleases something primitive in my brain.

Outside, the night air is cool and clean after the perfumed, champagne-heavy atmosphere of the auction hall. My car idles at the curb, Jackson, my driver, standing at attention beside it.