She rolls her eyes again. "You've had too much champagne."
Zella
As the model finishes her walk down the catwalk, I smooth the lace, making sure my nipples aren't showing, adjust my flower crown, and shake out my hair. The stuck-up model's eyes challenge me to beat the $15,000 bid that her red gown brought in, smirking her confidence.
Cathy and I discussed a dramatic entry, so I deliberately wait for the model to clear the runway. When she turns to enter the wing where I'm waiting, the bright lights no longer blind her, and she sees what I'm wearing and what I'm not—her confidence vanishes, which makes mine soar. Regardless if we get the highest bid or not, we will be the talk of the town. There is no such thing as bad publicity.
I wait several seconds to build the anticipation before I emerge from behind the curtain, remembering what Cathy said to do. "Just imagine you are walking down the aisle to marry the man of your dreams and remember he's in the audience, watching. What did he say about you?" She winked. "Oh, yeah," She pretended to have to remember, but neither of us will ever forget what he said. The shock of his appearance guaranteed that. "She is perfection." She giggled happily again. Then she hugged my neck and said, "Princess Rapunzel, go dethrone The Wicked Queen."
"You got it!" I told her.
When I step out from behind the curtain, the audience buzz falls silent. I smile at the crowd as if they are friends and family attending my fairy tale wedding. Stopping and waving or nodding to them, thanking them for coming, I make my way down the catwalk.
I am halfway when the auctioneer finally finds his voice and asks for an opening bid. "This is the last exhibit of the night, ladies and gentlemen, from Cathy's Corner Boutique," and he reads the detailed description we provided him on the wedding gown. "Shall we start the bidding at…"
"$6,000" is shouted by someone to my right. I turn and curtsy to him.
"$7,000" is shouted by another man across the way, and I blow him a kiss.
The auctioneer begins calling the numbers as I make my way to the end of the aisle. "We have $7,000 from the gentlemen seated in section three. How about $8,000?"
I smile and wave, flirting, circling the aisle, working the room like models do, looking into the crowd making eye contact. Knowing we need to beat $15,000.
As I scan the audience, I look for The Wicked Queen. I want to give Cathy a detailed replay of her reaction.
"$8,000! Thank you, sir!" The emcee says, "$9,000 anyone? $9,000! Yes, sir! Can I have $10,000?"
"$12,000." One of the previous bidders shouts.
That's when I see d'Artagnan. Our eyes lock, and something strange happens. My eyes hone in on his and shut everything else out. The only thing I see is his eyes piercing mine with a connection that transcends time and space as the sensory memory of him seducing me in the dark floods my body with passion.
I feel his breath on my cheek.
I smell his intoxicating essence.
I taste his delicious tongue.
I feel his hard magnificence sinking deep inside me.
I hear my orgasm. Then I hear his.
The emcee speaks, and my trance is broken, but d'Artagnan still has my undivided attention. "$13,000 from the gentlemen in the back."
Then d’Artagnan stands. The look on his face is the same intense look that scared me in the elevator right before he stole a kiss as we traveled down to reality—frozen to the spot, my heart pounds in my chest. As he makes his way up the stairs to me, a hush falls over the crowd.
I am struck again by the power of his presence. In his dress white uniform, he makes a striking example of what an American hero should be. His hat is tucked under his arm and strangely symbolizes discipline to me. His proud carriage with his head held high, and his shoulders squared with confidence dominate everyone. But it is the determination on his face that says he's a SEAL, a special warfare operator who gets what he wants and won't quit until he succeeds.
His gorgeous, dark, smoldering eyes devour every inch of my body as he approaches, and I flush under the scrutiny, knowing I'm what he wants.
He stops two steps down, then reaches for my hand. For a moment, I only stare at his, afraid of the feeling that will surge through me when we touch and afraid he will kiss the ever-loving hell out of my mouth like he did before right here in front of everyone.
But when he softly says, "My Princess," with his gentle tone, my hand slips inside his. The surge of desire I knew I would feel runs from my fingertips, zaps my heart, and pings my princess parts. But it's his next words that light a fire inside me, "You make a very enticing case to become a bride."
My eyes narrow as I search his for what exactly he means by that.
Chapter 11
d’Artagnan
