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Blurb
Love
is selfish...
My
name is Blaire.
I'm
the bad girl.
The
other woman.
The
one who never gets the guy in the end.
I'm
the gold digger.
The
bitch.
The
one no one roots for.
The
one you love to hate.
I
hate myself too...
Excerpt
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
About
the Author:
Mia
Asher
My
name is Mia Asher.
I'm
a writer, a hopeless romantic, a wanderer, a dreamer, a cynic, and a
believer. And, oh yes…I might be a bit crazy - but who isn't?
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