With champagne and
caviar inundating my every sense, I slither through the light wooden floors of
the Lila Acheson Wallace Wing in The Met. As I walk, I pretend to admire the
expensive jewelry being showcased tonight by a famous designer whose name I
can’t remember. A multicolored diamond butterfly sparkles to my left and a
cobra made out of black stones glistens to my right. Rows upon rows of precious
gems twinkle under the soft lights of the room, flooding the space between the
walls with the glow of a thousand stars. Furtive glances. Secrets gossiped.
Beauty criticized. Lofty music fills the atmosphere as the über rich mingle and
pretend to like each other, yet you can almost taste their conceit and derision
for one another in the air.
This is Walker’s world, and I love
it.
Standing across the room, where the
crowd is thinner and the music fainter, I spot Walker’s blond head in the
corner of the room, talking to a group of his colleagues and their wives. He
looks polished and worth every penny of his trust fund in his sleek black
tuxedo, perfectly starched white shirt and black bowtie. His long golden hair
parted to the side shines like the sun. He is truly flawless.
I smile because it’s hard to picture
that this is the same guy who likes to snort coke off my tits as he fucks me
while hardcore porn plays in the background. He looks untouchable and so cool,
but his searching eyes, scanning the crowd for me give him up. He’s wondering
where I am. He did tell me not to go too far, after all. Soon after we arrived
at the party, I gave him some space to talk to his friends and do his thing
while I did mine. I hate clingy people, so I avoid being one.
I grab a third flute of champagne
from a passing waiter, and try to decide which of the different displays to
check out first when my eyes land on a spectacular piece of jewelry. On a bed
of black silk, similar to my hair color, lies an extravagant necklace made of
diamonds and rubies—a small heaven within one’s reach as long as you can afford
the price.
I bridge the space between the glass
protecting the necklace and me until it’s within my reach, fighting the urge to
touch the cool surface. As if under a spell, I observe how the rows of diamonds
embedded in platinum form leaves and thorns. At its center is a rose made out
of red diamonds almost as big as my palm.
I feel someone walk up and stand next
to me, but I don’t give him or her a second thought as I continue to admire the
way the light hits the gems, making them shine.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
His voice is smooth and commanding,
dripping absolute power. I keep my eyes locked on the display. Call it sixth
sense, but somehow I know that under no circumstance should I make eye contact
with the stranger who speaks like the ruler of the world.
“Yes,” I say simply.
“I wonder how much it is?” the man
asks.
“I don’t think it matters … I highly
doubt anyone can afford it.”
He chuckles, and the sound is more
delicious than his voice. Lusher. “Oh, but I can.”
I smile at his self-assurance. I love
cocky assholes. “I still doubt it.”
“You shouldn’t. I only speak the
truth,” he retorts coolly. His voice is nonchalant yet his words leave no room
for disbelief—a demand and a statement all in one.
Suddenly, the noises of the room
become distant. People talking and laughing amongst friends and the orchestra
playing all fade away until all I hear is him speaking.
And at this moment, that is all that
matters.
“The truth is very subjective, sir.”
“The truth may be subjective but money isn’t.
Money can buy anything.”
His answer is like an electroshock,
jumpstarting my brain from a champagne-induced haze. My pulse begins to
accelerate, excitement making it hard to take a deep breath. Don’t look at him
… don’t.
“Oh really,” I say, my voice dripping
with sarcasm. He’s right, though.
“Of course. I believe everything,” he
pauses, “and everyone has a price.”
Curiosity winning the battle against
curiosity, I turn to face him, and what a fucking big mistake that is. When our
eyes meet, I feel incapacitated of all sense and movement. The sight of him
takes my breath away. This man gives the term “lust at first sight” a whole new
meaning.
In my short twenty-three years, I’ve
been with extremely handsome men, perfect even, but to classify the man
standing next to me in any kind of category would be a disservice to him, and
not really fair to the others. Longish, light brown hair wildly framing his
face, vacant eyes the color of dollar bills, a slightly crooked nose, and a
mouth that begs to be buried deep within your thighs. His beauty is as harsh as
it is stunningly perfect. Dressed in a simple black tuxedo and unbuttoned white
shirt, the man exudes innate virility and grace, reminding me of a black
panther stalking his prey. And just like a panther, it’s the pure raw and
powerful energy emanating from within him that I find most attractive. Because
just by standing next to him, I get the sense that his word is always the last
spoken and his wishes the first ones to be fulfilled. He doesn’t ask, he
demands. He doesn’t hope, he expects.
He’s quiet for a moment; his uncanny
eyes hold me captive as though they are baring my soul to him and I hate it. I tighten
my hold on the crystal flute. I want to look away, but I can’t. The way he’s
staring at me makes me want to squirm.
“I wonder … do you have one?” he asks
softly before turning to examine the piece of jewelry once more.
“A what?” I ask, momentarily stunned.
He smiles. “A price.”
“For the right amount … I just
might,” I say quietly, my heart beating so fast it feels as though it wants out
of my chest. As soon as the words leave my mouth, there’s no shock coursing
down my body, no rolling waves of shame pulling me down for having said that to
a complete stranger—nothing.
And why should there be? I am who I
am.
I’m staring at his profile, waiting
for him to acknowledge my answer, when a breeze of cool air floats past us,
making me shiver. About to chase the goose bumps on my arm with my hand, I
watch as he slowly turns to look at me, catching me staring at him. Time stands
still as I watch him raise his large tanned hand and touch my bare shoulder,
his fingertips lightly grazing the temporary small bumps covering it. Then he
smiles as if he knows that my skin is tingling from his scalding touch, and
looks away.
“I thought so.”
We remain standing next to each other
for another minute or so, the distance between us almost nonexistent. It would
be so easy to reach out and hold his hand. The sound of an incoming call breaks
the silence, bringing us back to reality.
He takes his cell phone out of the
inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket and ignores the call after noting the name of
the caller. He lifts his gaze to meet my own.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. I should go … I’m here
with someone,” I reply, not really wanting to leave him just yet.
“Yes, that’s probably a good idea.”
I frown. He didn’t have to be quite
so blunt. The stranger extends a hand toward me, holding something in his
fingers.
“Here … ”
I open my hand as I feel the edges of
what I assume is his business card poke the skin of my palm. “What’s this?” I
ask stupidly.
“My business card, of course.”
“Obviously … but why?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his
eyes. “Let’s just say that I’m an interested buyer.”
And then he’s gone.
He turns and walks away from me,
disappearing into a sea of colorful gowns and black suits. As the sounds of the
party infiltrate my ears once more, I lower my gaze to stare at the simple
cream-colored card in my hand. Its simplistic and elegant design draws
attention to the name printed in bold black letters on the paper.
Lawrence Rothschild.
I smile and let my fingertips trail
his name. It depends on what you’re willing to pay, Mr. Rothschild.
Published by Mia
Asher
Copyright © 2013 by
Mia Asher
