His Acquisition

His Acquisition

(The Billionaire's Muse, #1)

Ava Lore

Part I

Chapter One

I hung back from the press of people, lingering at the edge of
the crowd. The women were all dressed in onyx and ruby and sapphire and emerald
dresses, brilliant birds of paradise, while the men stood with them, all black
and white and staid and stolid as penguins. I scrutinized the assembled throng
and pondered a very important question.

Which of these men is Batman?

I hadn't found him yet, because most of the people that attend
these terrible 'charity' functions are old and boring because you have to be
old and boring to be invited. No one with less than ten million dollars is
allowed in, unless you're part of the support staff. Which would be me, I
suppose. And usually if you have ten million dollars you are either old and
boring or young and that particular sort of country club inbred that just
screams
I have a trust fund and have never done my own grocery shopping!
Except Anton Waters, my employer, who is handsome, rich, sexy, self-made and
young. Or I guess his wife and my best friend, Felicia, is my employer, but
ever since they were married a second time they've been so joined at the hip
they might as well be one person.

I sighed. Thinking about Felicia reminded me of how much I
missed her. I knew her before she married Anton, which is how I landed a job as
her personal assistant, though recently it had expanded to include other duties
as well. To my deep despair, I seemed to have a talent for this type of thing.
Otherwise I'd still be drinking watery piss beer and smoking some dank nugs on
my Friday nights rather than organizing a dumb charity auction for a bunch of
people whose shoes cost more than whatever they'd spend on 'charity' tonight.

God. If only.

I sighed again and grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing
alcohol jockey. I downed it in two gulps, feeling the alcohol warm me all the
way down to my toes, and resumed looking for Batman, my favorite mental pastime
at these events.

I didn't really expect to find him, of course. I know he's got a
secret identity.

I scanned the men.
Too old. Too short. Too bald, although I
guess Batman does wear a hood, so he could be bald under that outfit. But
probably not. Too old. Too old. Too old
again.
Too thin. Too goofy. Wearing
glasses. Wait, doesn't Batman wear glasses? No, that's Superman. Clark Kent.
Whatever. Too blind, anyway. Batman would have laser surgery. Too old. Too
inbred. Too old. Too...hot? Is that a thing? Wait a minute...

I pulled up short, my eyes widening. Not twenty feet away stood
a tall, sinfully handsome man, dressed to the nines. His sandy hair swept back
from his temples in slick, perfect waves, highlighting his fine cheekbones and
rich brown eyes. His mouth was a perfect, delicious pout, and the hand that
held his flute of champagne was elegant and poised. An artist's hand. And I
should know. Before I landed this sweet gig I'd spent most of my waking hours
buried in my art, and this guy was making me want to pick up a pencil and
sketch him. Naked.

His deep brown eyes bored into mine. Despite myself I felt my
cheeks stain with color under his scrutiny, and his perfect, pouty mouth slowly
broke into a suggestive smile.

Batman is staring at me,
I thought.
What a creeper.

His eyes flicked up and down my body, as though appraising me.
It wasn't a comfortable feeling and pissed me off, so I returned the favor.
Narrowing my eyes, I took in his broad shoulders and barrel chest, his trim
waist, his narrow hips and the muscled thighs barely poured into his tux pants.
I pursed my lips and tried to assess him from a cold, artistic perspective.

It wasn't working.

My god, he was hot.

I flicked my gaze back to his, hoping he couldn't see the
hammering pulse in my throat and quirked my mouth at him. A
seen better
to
his casual objectification. And I had seen better. In my dreams.

He held my eyes for a long moment, then lifted his brows and
this time his smile was knowing.

Oh, really?

A hand on my arm thankfully tore me away from his arresting
gaze, because who knows what kind of subtle semaphore we might have started
engaging in across the crowded ballroom? I turned with a flash of gratitude,
only to have it die in my chest as I realized it was Arthur, Anton's personal
assistant.

Great.

I like Arthur. I really do. I think he's smart and motivated and
actually pretty kind to people in general even though he doesn't have to be.
But I think he simultaneously wants to fuck me and wants to fuck
with
me.
Seeing as how he had to claw his way up from the rank of lowly intern to be
Anton's assistant and all I had to do was be Felicia's best friend to become
her
assistant, I think he resents the ease with which I landed my job. I can't
tell him that I've been putting up with Felicia's willful stupidity in the
realm of her own personal affairs for the entirety of our acquaintance and I
didn't even get paid for it. Felicia would be lost without me. It's a position
with many drawbacks. Such as now. Second-in-command on the personal assistant
totem pole is like coming in second place in a shit-eating contest.

And I was about to have to shovel turds.

“What?” I said. It came out a little sharper than I meant it,
but I knew that look on Arthur's face. He'd found a shit job for me to do and
he couldn't wait to pass it along.

He flashed me a smile, all business and propriety. One of the
many things about being a personal assistant that I am total balls at. I can
keep Felicia in line and do damage control, and bark orders with the best of
them, but everything else? Might as well hire a Golden Retriever to handle the
crowds. It'd be better and more coherent.

Arthur's eyes glinted. “Mrs. Glasscock is on the floor of the
ladies' room in a pool of her own vomit,” he said. “I'm going to go see if I
can't locate Mr. Glasscock, but I need you to see if you can't get her on her
feet and cleaned up.”

I groaned. Of course. And to be fair, this wasn't a job he could
just do himself. The
ladies room
is an inviolate sanctuary. Only a
lady—
and
I hardly qualify, but if someone checked I'd have the biological bits, I
suppose—may enter. Tossing back my champagne, I looked around for a place to
put it, and finally just set it down in a nearby potted plant. Someone would
find it. “Fine,” I said. “I'll have her up and running in ten.”

“Great. And then I need you to go make one last check on the
auction items, okay? Ta!” And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the
melee of well-dressed assholes.

“Wait!” I cried. One last check? Seriously? We'd checked the
auction items at least five times already. What the hell was I supposed to be
checking
for?

But he was already gone. Cursing, I slipped between the milling
people, my sandy-haired Batman all but forgotten. I had a drunken society maven
to attend to. And what could be more important than that?

*

Mrs. Glasscock took fifteen minutes to get up off the floor. I
took great satisfaction in slapping her awake, knowing she wouldn't remember
it. They were purely therapeutic slaps anyway. Therapeutic for me, I mean.

By the time I had mostly cleaned the vomit from her hair and
made her as presentable as possible,
I
was a mess. My cocktail dress
stank of regurgitated champagne, and I was redfaced and sweaty from the
exertion of holding her up and maneuvering her out of the ladies room and into
the arms of her grateful husband. Unfortunately I didn't have any time to
straighten up—the auction was about to begin, and I still had to do my
one
last check,
whatever the hell that meant. I could only suppose it meant
making sure none of the staff had contracted a case of sticky fingers, or that
nothing had become broken in transport from Anton and Felicia's house.

I knew Felicia didn't like charity events, but I'd organized
this one especially for her. It was an art auction among New York's upper
crust, and not a boring silent auction, but one where people actually had to
raise their little numbers and everything. The snobs probably thought it was
very droll, and it's great fun to watch drunk rich people try to outbid each
other, so of all the mandatory functions Felicia was obliged to throw at least
twice a year this, I had decided, was the least painful. Plus, Felicia could
probably buy some nice pieces she wouldn't otherwise have access to.

Me, I was just hoping for a fist fight to break out.

I checked myself one last time in the mirror, making certain I
didn't look too much like a vomit splash-guard, then grabbed my dumb beaded
clutch bag—the one with my phone in it, the portal to all my plans and
people—and stalked out of the bathroom, hurrying toward the backstage. The
Edison Ballroom is an old Depression-era hotel-turned-theater, and it's pretty
much perfect for an auction. There's a bar and a lounge and it's dim and
crowded so everyone can get all intimate with each other, whether they want to
or not. The auction was about to begin, and I had to make certain everything
was in place.

I arrived, out of breath, to inspect the pieces one last time.
Two handsome young men who probably did bouncer work as their day jobs were
lingering near the first lot, joking about some girl they both knew.
Gross.
I
stomped up to them and waved their bow-tie-wearing asses out of the way before
grabbing my phone from my purse.

The pieces had been donated by the audience, and it was
essential that they be in the same condition they arrived in. After all, people
were here to be seen, and also so everyone could know just how expensive their
tastes in art ran. That the money went to Felicia's favorite charity, an
inner-city arts program for disadvantaged kids, was probably irrelevant to
these people.

It didn't matter. I just had to make sure it ran smoothly, and
to that end I had photographed every piece before it left storage in Anton's
basement art gallery. I pulled up the list and began going down the line.

Lot one, an Andy Warhol. Pristine condition, still pristine.
Good.
You never knew when someone was going to smoke a thousand cigars
right under their modern masterpiece. Next!

Lot two, an Andre Masson paiting. Lot three, another one.
Both fine. Lot four, a piece of facade from some Greek temple. Awesome. Let's
just rip it all up. Lot five, a... really cool modern Aboriginal painting from
Australia. Shit, I wish I was rich. Lot six, a bronze Chinese mirror. Lot
seven, an ugly Edwardian brooch worth, like, nothing, haha, someone was doing
spring cleaning. Lot eight, a white porcelain Chinese vase, Qing dynasty... and
not here.

Why is it not here?

Out on the stage, the emcee, one of the inbred country-club set
who fancied himself a comedian, tapped the mic. “I'd like to welcome you all to
the First Annual Waters Charity Art Auction...”

Panic seized me. The auction was starting and we were missing
lot eight, one of the more expensive pieces in the auction. Its spot was empty.
Empty! It was a beautiful piece, too, exquisite and smooth and fine. For a long
moment as the emcee started babbling, I stared at the picture of it on my
phone, then at the spot on the table where it should have stood. Empty.

Phone: vase.

Table: empty.

Phone.

Vase.

Table.

Empty.

Oh, shit.

And that's when I somehow managed to fuck
everything
up.

Filled with ire, I took a step back, my voice already rising in
my throat. “Where the
fuck
is that white vase?” I hollered at the top of
my lungs as I pivoted smartly on the balls of my feet and set off to find out
whose ear to chew. Instead of striding purposefully through the backstage area,
my laser focus honed in on locating the missing vase, I collided violently with
someone rushing in my direction.