Chapter 3 #2
“Lot number seven,” the auctioneer continues.
“Twenty-nine years old, five-foot-nine, natural blonde. College-educated, from Montana. She’s been working in guest relations at The Drake–Monterey for the last six months, so she knows how to handle demanding clients with grace and professionalism. Kathryn Briggs.”
The curtain parts, and there she is. I sit forward without meaning to.
She walks onto the stage as if she owns it, chin up, shoulders back, every movement controlled and deliberate.
The casualwear they’ve dressed her in is simple: designer jeans that hug long legs, a white silk blouse that suggests curves without revealing them.
Her blonde hair frames her face, falling in waves past her shoulders.
Christ, her face. High cheekbones, full lips, blue eyes that stare straight ahead without flinching from the lights or the men. Not beautiful in a delicate, fragile way like the other girls have been. Beautiful in the way a wild horse is beautiful. All power and barely contained energy.
I know her.
No, her name isn’t Kathryn, it’s Lennox.
Guest relations, flagship property. I noticed her months ago, the way she handled the drunk assholes at the pool bar without losing her smile, the way she organized chaos during high-season weekends, the way she never, ever looks intimidated, no matter how demanding the client.
She served me coffee once. I’d been in the lobby going over quarterly reports with my operations manager, and she brought over a fresh pot without being asked.
Anticipated the need. Smiled politely when I thanked her.
Moved on without lingering, flirting, trying to get my attention by talking my ear off, or doing any of the things women usually do when they recognize me.
Professional. Competent. Unmemorable in the best possible way.
Except I remembered her anyway.
Because there is something underneath that polished exterior.
Something sharp and unbreakable that reminds me of the ranch girls I grew up around.
The ones who could pull a calf and shoot a rattlesnake before breakfast. The ones who don’t cry if a horse throws them or when their hands bleed from barbed wire.
A real woman. Not the soft, influencer wannabes who clutter up my resort pools, taking selfies.
What the hell is she doing here?
“As you can see, gentlemen, Kathryn has excellent posture and presentation.” The auctioneer gestures at her with his gavel like she’s livestock. The men are murmuring now, interested. I can practically hear them calculating, weighing her against their expectations.
“Now let’s see what we’re working with.” The auctioneer nods at her. “Darling, go ahead and transition to swimwear for us.”
Lennox’s jaw tightens, just for a second; it’s barely noticeable. Then her hands move to the buttons of her blouse.
She undresses without theatrics. No seductive movement or coy glances. She unbuttons the silk blouse, shrugs it off, unbuckles her belt, and steps out of the jeans like she’s alone in her bedroom. Clinical. Efficient. Refusing to give these men the performance they want.
Underneath, she wears a black bikini that shows exactly what they bought into. Long legs, a toned stomach and curves that aren’t exaggerated but are undeniably there. She’s standing there in the bikini and staring at the back wall like the forty men eye-fucking her don’t exist.
And I’m hard.
Not from the bikini or the body; I’ve seen countless women in less. But from the way she’s refusing to give them anything. The way she holds herself separate, untouchable, even while standing nearly naked under blinding lights.
She’s a challenge. A puzzle. A woman who could hold her own in any situation.
Everything I’ve never wanted suddenly feels like the only thing I need.
“Excellent presentation,” the auctioneer says. “Now for the evening wear.”
One of the handlers brings out the emerald gown.
Lennox steps into it without assistance, zipping it herself, adjusting the slit with steady hands.
When she turns back to face the audience, she’s elegant.
Sophisticated. The kind of woman you could take to a business dinner or a charity gala without worrying she’d embarrass you.
Mom would approve. The thought comes unbidden and unwelcome.
Eleanor Drake has pushed me toward “appropriate” women for years.
Society daughters, ranching heiresses, women who understand legacy and duty.
Women who bore me to tears within five minutes of conversation.
Their lives are wrapped up in gossip and luncheons at the most expensive restaurants in Dallas.
I want someone who is going to challenge me. Call me out on my bullshit.
Lennox Briggs isn’t society. She’s something raw, something real. And I watch her stand on that stage, refusing to give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing her fear. I have no doubt she’d call me on the bullshit.
I want her.
Not for a night, a week, or however long it takes to get bored. I want to own her. To take her home and strip away every defense until I find out what it would take to make her mine. To see if she’s as strong as she looks or if it’s all performance.
I want to marry her.