He cupped his hands on my bare shoulders. His fingers, as usual, were as icy as his voice. With a shiver that shimmied down my spine, I spun around to face him.
Victor was in his mid fifties though his fit body and handsome face made him look at least ten years younger. He was a tall, lean, debonair man with slicked back salt and pepper hair, a permanent tan, and elegant features that included piercing steel gray eyes and an aquiline nose. Wearing an expensive tweed jacket, open-button dress shirt, and well-cut gabardine trousers, he exuded old money. A shrewd businessman, he was known for making vulnerable companies his prey. Many on Wall Street called him “The Vulture.”
His eyes roamed down my body, lingering on places they had no right to be. But he felt he had the right to claim. He was always hitting on me. I was his prey too. I inwardly shuddered as he planted a wet kiss on each cheek.
“Well done today, darling. I’m sure the show will drive first quarter sales. Our shareholders will be pleased.”
“Thank you, Victor.” I hated when he called me “darling.” The less I said to him the better. I always tried to keep it to dollars and cents.
“Why don’t we celebrate with a dance?”
The last thing I wanted to do was dance with him. He moved uncomfortably close to me. The rancid smell of cigarettes mixed with alcohol on his breath assaulted my senses. He squeezed my jaw.
“Don’t disappoint me, Gloria.” He squeezed my jaw tighter.
“Please, Victor, you’re hurting me.” I jerked away. My pashmina shawl fell off my shoulders to the floor. Before I could bend down to pick it up, it was back on me, draped perfectly over my dress. I instantly recognized the scent of my hero. Jaime!
“Sorry, she’s with me,” he growled, wrenching me away from Victor. Their eyes clashed, the air between them thick with tension and animosity. Unspoken words flew between them. Victor’s eyes narrowed into sharp slivers of glass as Jaime led me deeper into the crowd. As we neared the bar, I stole a glance back at Victor. He stood there motionless, his glacial eyes fixed on me. It was not the look of defeat but rather that of a man who wouldn’t take “no” for answer. He frightened me.
“Do you know who that was?” I asked Jaime.
“A fucking asshole.” His face hardened.
“Do you know he’s the Chairman of—
“Yeah, I know,” he said, cutting me off. “I don’t give a flying fuck.”
His contempt for Victor shocked and enthralled me. “He could get in the way of you winning the Gloria’s Secret account.”
His jaw stiffened. “He won’t.” It softened. “Do you want a drink?”
“I’d love one,” a female voice responded. Slinking up to us was Victor’s daughter, Vivien, dressed to the nines in a fuchsia strapless bandage dress that hugged her curves and pushed up her D-cup boobs. Matching platform stilettos completed her ensemble. She flung back her loose ebony hair with a shake of her head, and gave Jaime a wide toothy predatory smile.
“Later,” Jaime said coolly.
Vivien’s face took on the expression of a miffed spoiled little rich girl who was used to getting anything she wanted. She glowered at me as she sauntered off. My face didn’t move a muscle. Bitch!
“So where were we?” asked Jaime, his tone now sexy and seductive.
“Um, uh, a drink,” I stammered. Drinking at business events was against my rules, but I sure could use one.
“What would you like?”
“A vodka martini with extra olives.”
“Don’t move.” He strode over to the bar and returned quickly with two martinis, one for me, one for him.
“Thanks.” As I put the cold, velvety liquid to my lips, the pulsating music came to a sudden halt. The auction for Rihanna’s diamond-studded bra and thong had begun. All eyes, including Jaime’s and mine, were riveted on the wiry auctioneer standing behind a podium at the front of the club. The items were displayed on a curvaceous mannequin to his right.
The bidding opened at $100,000. It quickly escalated to $500,000. My heart was palpitating. While I was seriously amazed that someone would pay so much money for a set of underwear (Okay, they were diamond-studded and Rihanna-strutted), I was thrilled because all the proceeds would go to Girls Like Us, the charitable organization I had started to help underprivileged and troubled teen girls pursue their dreams. Like me.
At $900,000, a new bidder stepped in. I recognized the glacial voice immediately. Victor!
“I have $900,000. Do I hear one million dollars for these treasures?” shouted the enthusiastic auctioneer.
Dead silence. Everyone in the room held their breath.
“One million dollars.”
I gasped. Jaime Zander had just shouted out that exorbitant figure. I shot him a wide-eyed look. A smug smile crossed his face. What the hell was he doing?
“One million dollars to the man with the gorgeous blonde.”
I cringed. His smile widened.
“Do I hear one million five hundred thousand dollars?”