Hot Commodity

  Champagne Books Presents

  Hot Commodity

  By

  Linda Kage

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Champagne Books

  www.champagnebooks.com

  Copyright 2010 by Linda Grotheer

  ISBN 9781926681900

  November 2010

  Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey Produced in Canada

  Champagne Books

  #35069-4604 37 ST SW

  Calgary, AB T3E 7C7

  Canada

  Dedication

  For Lydia Marie

  One

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Olivia Donovan should've known better than to answer the door to her twelfth-floor suite at the Hyatt Regency when someone rapped on it. She knew that sharp knock; only a headache would follow if she opened up. But the repercussions would be even more severe if she didn't.

  She smoothed out the wrinkles on the black cocktail dress she wore, skimming her fingers over her waist and hips. Then with a sigh, she took a firm hold of the doorknob, stalling one last moment to brace herself. The smile she bestowed upon her caller was practiced and as fake as the implanted breasts of the woman who stood before her.

  Vivian Helbrock-Donovan-Roark sniffed as she glanced at Olivia's attire with a condescending pucker to her painted eyebrows. Before Olivia could greet her, Vivian stepped over the threshold and past her daughter, sweeping into the room with a box tucked under her arm. "You're not wearing that dust rag tonight."

  Olivia paused in the middle of shutting the door. "But—"

  "You'll wear this instead." Vivian flung the box on the bed with enough enthusiasm to make the lid slip off a few inches, showing Olivia a peek of silky red material.

  Her mouth dropped open. "You bought me a new dress? Thank y—"

  "Your appreciation is unnecessary. And unwanted." Vivian whirled around, her mouth stretched thin with annoyance. "There'll be a man at the dinner tonight. His name is Cameron Banks. When I introduce you to him, I want you to—" she glanced at the red peeking out from under the skewed lid—"dazzle him."

  Olivia glanced at the dress as well, blinked twice, and turned back to her mother, shaking her head. "I don't understand. You want me to do what exactly?" She was used to schmoozing people her mother didn't like yet wanted to remain professionally connected to. This didn't sound quite like one of those instances, however.

  Vivian's sigh was loud and irritated. "I swear you're as dense as your father was. Listen and listen good. Banks is just the kind of man I've always wanted in my back pocket. And his being family could ensure that. He always finds the hottest commodities on the market and invests at the right time." Shaking her head, she murmured, "The lucky SOB must have connections I could only dream of. It's too bad Nolan hasn't keeled over yet, or I'd be all over him myself. Here."

  She thrust forward a business-size envelope with a Hyatt Regency logo in the top left hand corner. "I've written up a small dossier on Banks. Know it inside and out by the time you two are introduced. I want it to appear like there's some kind of brain in the empty head of yours when he meets you."

  Still rattled by confusion, Olivia accepted the envelope and opened it. Noticing there was a foil container inside with the folded sheet of paper, she lifted the small package before realizing it was a condom.

  "I want you to treat him good, Olivia," Vivian murmured with a bit too much evil glee. "Make him want you more than any other woman he's ever wanted."

  Olivia's mouth fell open.

  "And make sure he wears it," Vivian advised, giving an ominous shake of her finger at Olivia's nose. "He'll think you're responsible and trustworthy if you insist upon protection. Later, however," she added with a shrug, "if we need more leverage, we'll poke holes in the latex. A baby might be able to convince him to marry you more than you could."

  Flabbergasted, Olivia stared at the condom. She wished she could be a smart ass and spit back something like, "What, couldn't you at least find one 'ribbed for my pleasure'?" But her mind went blank as she studied the prophylactic, rubbing it between her fingers as if it might vanish into thin air with enough chafing and cease to ever have existed.

  "Meet me in the lobby at seven," Vivian said. "We'll walk to the conference hall together." Whistling, she turned and strolled from Olivia's room.

  Olivia couldn't believe it. Vivian had no respect whatsoever for her only child. Yes, the woman actually whistled as she commanded her only daughter to whore herself out for Vivian's career advancement.

  For twenty-four years, Olivia had been the perfect daughter, striving to become someone her mother could love. She'd done everything Vivian Helbrock-Donovan-Roark demanded of her. Sit up straight, Olivia. Run along and stay out of the way, Olivia. Hold your comments to yourself, Olivia. Lie to the police for Mommy, Olivia.

  Olivia had always obeyed, longing for a single crumb of affection.

  Her hand trembled, her fingers constricting around the condom until it crumpled in her fist. She sank onto the bed next to the red dress. Lost and confused, she clutched the foil the way someone drowning in the ocean would hold onto the only life preserver around.

  ~ * ~

  An hour later, Olivia leaned over the porcelain vanity and patted the last bit of makeup into place under her eye. There was nothing to be done for the red streaks marring the whites of her eyes; it hadn't occurred to her she'd need to pack her Visine for this trip. But at least the skin circling her baby blues didn't look as swollen and puffy as it had twenty minutes ago. And the tears had dried enough so they didn't clump her lashes together.

  Straightening, she took in her overall appearance in the reflection and shivered down a spurt of dread.

  Instead of slipping into the dress Vivian had bought her from the hotel boutique down on the first floor, Olivia had returned and exchanged it for another. Now, at a quarter 'til seven, she slipped into a pair of strappy shoes and started toward the exit, where she eased open the door to her suite and scanned the halls in her new outfit.

  To be honest, though, the term outfit was probably too liberal for the contraption she sported. With her eyes and lips lined in thick black, Olivia's face matched her costume (ah, now 'costume' was a good name). The tight black leather bustier and matching mini skirt adorning her body could give Cat Woman a run for her money. All she needed was whiskers and a tail to match.

  She already had a leash-like collar wrapped snuggly around her neck. Silver spikes studded the black choker necklace. It was so goth, she'd been tempted to dye her hair black just to match the wicked duds. But Olivia loved her silky, oh-so-blonde corn-silk mane, so she let it be.

  There was no need for a dye job anyway. She looked perfectly transformed without one. Vivian would drop dead if she caught sight of her daughter in this get-up.

  She snuck from her room and darted for the elevator. The escape would've gone smoothly except for the fact that one of her four-inch d'Orsay stilettos snagged a tassel on a rug and tripped her. She went careening forward and probably would've torn her fishnet hose if she hadn't caught herself with her hands at the very last moment, breaking a new French-tipped fingernail in the process.

  She struggled to her feet—and not gracefully—when the elevator opened, emitting an elderly couple. The pair pulled to a halt when they saw Cat Woman sprawled at their feet. The man's jaw dropped.
He pressed a fist to his chest as if he might have a heart attack. His wife, a prudish-looking fiend, immediately covered his eyes with her long, bony fingers.

  Olivia glanced down, hoping she hadn't spilled out of the top of her costume. Her shoulders slumped when she saw all was good in the boobexposing department. Not a nipple in sight, just a nice healthy display of deep cleavage between the criss-crossing leather ties holding her bustier together.

  "Thank God," she muttered, staggering to her feet.

  She grinned engagingly at the couple.

  But the woman merely scowled and yanked her husband a step back. "Well, I never." She elbowed her man when he peeked around her fingers in order to get another look at Olivia.

  Olivia hissed at them.

  Hey, it seemed like a Cat Woman thing to do. Actually, most of her actions this evening were spurred on by courage in a bottle. After bawling her eyes out, she'd raided the suite's tiny fridge and divested it of its entire stock of mini liqueurs. Now, feeling loose and free, she tossed back her shoulders and tilted up her chin, then strolled toward the elevator where the attendant, hanging his head out to gawk at her, held the door open with a white-gloved hand.

  Feeling suddenly uninhibited and mischievous, Olivia winked at the guy in the elevator and swatted the old married fart on the butt as she passed. She felt him jump and spin around, but she didn't bother to give him a backward glance.

  She was on the prowl.

  It was a new and odd sensation, this sudden loss of inhibitions. But the proverbial camel's back had been broken and the straw that had done it was tucked neatly in its safe foil container inside Olivia's bustier—just waiting to be used on the right man.

  Vivian Donavon had gone too far this time, and her obedient daughter wasn't going to allow it.

  Olivia had actually scanned the report about Cameron Banks. There was no picture or age listed in the information, but what she'd learned made her cringe.

  Cameron Orville Banks, president of EarnNet spent his time buying and selling other companies in order to gain a profit. If that detail, which mirrored her mother's occupation right down to the dotted I's and crossed T's, hadn't turned Olivia off, then the rest of the information certainly finalized her distaste. Banks was supposedly a recovering alcoholic whose wife had committed suicide and left him a millionaire widower.

  No, it definitely didn't make her heart go pitter-pat with the warm fuzzies. The rage skimming her bloodstream was barely leashed and growing more uncontrollable by the minute, and in effect, making her crazy plan sound even more sane.

  Her mother wanted her to marry a lousy alcoholic. Fine. She'd marry a lousy alcoholic. In fact, she planned to snatch up the first alcoholic moron she came across. And then she was going to use the condom meant for Cameron Banks, and she was going to make her new alcoholic husband beg for mercy.

  The elevator stopped on the first floor. Grinning one last come-hither smile at the attendant, Olivia trailed her nails over the chest of his uniform as she stepped out into the foyer.

  Suck on this, Vivian.

  She lifted her chin again and sauntered out the front doors, where the cab she'd called was already waiting.

  She let the doorman open the back door for her. The driver asked where she wanted to go, and when she answered, "Just drive," he complied.

  From the backseat, Olivia scanned her options. There were so many places to husband-hunt. Cruising the Vegas Strip opened numerous options. Not that she felt picky at the moment.

  "This looks good," she told the driver about ten minutes later.

  The taxi pulled to the curb, she paid her fare, and out she slid, only to wrinkle her nose at the seedy-looking bar and swallow nervously. Good God, was she really going to do this?

  Maybe she should just go back to the hotel, wait for her mother, and calmly explain she wasn't going to sleep with some stranger, no matter how much Vivian insisted.

  But then Olivia thought about how swell that announcement would go over. There was a good reason she'd never defied Vivian before. Vivian was a cruel, powerful woman. Those two qualities totally sucked when one made an enemy of her—sucked for the enemy, that is. Olivia had seen Vivian's opponents fall under her metaphoric sword, and Olivia never wanted to get on her mother's bad side.

  Of course, there was also the option where she actually went to the dinner, met Cameron Banks, and did her damndest to seduce him. But, no. That wouldn't work either. She didn't want to be anywhere near one of Vivian's crusty, old cronies, and she certainly didn't want to invite the geezer into bed with her. Two years ago, Vivian had married the most available millionaire around. If this Cameron Banks fellow was anything like Olivia's eighty-two-year-old stepfather, Nolan Roark, she'd gag if Banks even tried to kiss her. The mere thought made her shudder. Gross.

  Forcing her rebellion to take precedence, Olivia fisted her hands and entered the bar. But she hadn't even made it all the way inside before she was ready to leave. There were some truly scary-looking people hanging around, and they all turned to ogle her as soon as she stepped over the threshold. The door shut at her back and swatted her in the butt as it closed, making her yelp and jump a foot further inside.

  Olivia sent the roomful of gawking eyes an innocent little smile as she eased a step in reverse. She might've been looking for the worst candidate Vivian could imagine, but she had to be able to stomach the guy too.

  No one present looked to fit that bill.

  As she reached behind her, she sent one last fleeting glance around the slime-infested joint, and that's when she finally caught sight of him. Paying no attention to her, he exited the bathroom and made a beeline toward the bar. As he neared a stool that had an empty shot glass in front of it, he went to sit and missed his seat, tripping and slipping off the side. He caught himself just in time. Laughing at his own clumsiness, he ordered another drink as the bartender approached to ask if he was all right.

  Intrigued, Olivia watched. She waited until he turned slightly in her direction to glance up at the television over the bar. The breath snagged in her chest when she finally caught a view of his side profile. The guy was positively gorgeous. He was dressed in a ratty pair of jeans and a holey Tshirt, yet he looked so yummy Olivia decided she could go grunge after all.

  She'd always been a sucker for well-defined facial features. Pronounced cheekbones, square jaw, deep-set eyes, and a high forehead.

  As the bartender set the tiny glass in front of him, he grinned at the man, thanking him. Olivia's stomach filled with butterflies. He looked, well, he looked kind of lovable, like a happy-go-lucky drunk who didn't care if he didn't have a cent to his name just as long as the alcohol kept coming.

  Her mother would hate him, absolutely despise the very sight of him.

  "Hey, sexy," a tall, burly man said, approaching Olivia and getting so close his bulging pecs brushed her arm. "Can I buy you a drink?"

  She didn't bother to glance over. Her eyes were fixed on the bum at the bar. The drop-dead sexy bum at the bar.

  "I'm with someone," she answered and proceeded to stroll her fourinch heels toward the bum.

  Biting her lip as she approached, she studied his back. Even with his shoulders hunched over his shot glasses, she could tell they were nice and wide. From the side view she'd had of his face, she noticed there was at least some kind of intelligence in him. Despite the fact he was plowed, there'd been a modicum of lucidity in the ornery curve in his smile, like he knew some kind of inside joke about the rest of the world.

  From her standpoint, he appeared too good to be true. Dreamy men like this just weren't available. They—oh, hell. He was probably married, or at least taken.

  Coming up directly behind him, Olivia glanced around his shoulder as he picked up his glass to swallow yet another shot. Must be a lefty, she mused as he lifted the glass with his left hand—his left hand that was completely bare of rings.

  She continued to stare as he set the empty cup down. She was lefthanded. He was left-handed. She
figured it was a sign.

  This was her guy.

  Now, how did one go about asking a total stranger to marry you? "Hey, will you marry me?" sounded about as straightforward as she could imagine. So, before she could lose her nerve, Olivia tapped him on the shoulder.

  He was slow to turn, but when he did, he looked at her with a set of penetrating dark green eyes that made her swallow.

  "I take your chair?" he said, slurring his words a little.

  She blinked. Huh?

  It took her a moment to realize he was asking a question. "Oh! No," she answered, glancing toward the bar stools on either side of him. Even if he had taken her seat, she could've settled for any of the ten free stools surrounding him.