Page 3 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Graham

I make my way through the crowd with practiced ease, accepting congratulations on my latest business venture from acquaintances, deflecting invitations to boring dinner parties, and gradually working my way toward the back of the room where my target stands admiring her new acquisition.

Up close, she's even more striking than I initially assessed.

The kind of bone-deep beauty that no amount of money can buy, no matter how skilled the surgeon.

But it's clear she's tried—subtle enhancements that speak to considerable time and expense devoted to perfecting what nature already got mostly right.

"Congratulations on your acquisition," I say, approaching from her left side where Martin can't easily intercede. "Thomas Cole is an excellent choice."

She turns toward me with a smile that's pure sunshine, the kind of expression that probably makes lesser men forget their own names. "Thank you! I've admired his work for years. I couldn't believe when Marty said we might actually be able to afford something of his."

Interesting. She's maintaining the fiction of financial limitations even as she's just spent fifteen thousand dollars without blinking. Either she's deeper in character than I gave her credit for, or Martin is being more careful with his money than she anticipated.

"Graham Ellsworth," I say, extending my hand.

"Sophia Reeves," she replies, her handshake firm and confident. "And this is Marty Pemberton."

Martin steps forward with the kind of territorial aggression that suggests he views me as a threat to whatever arrangement he has with the lovely Miss Reeves. "Ellsworth... I know that name. You're the one who bought out Harrison Industries last year."

"Among other things," I reply mildly. "Though I try not to make a habit of discussing business at charity events. It tends to spoil the altruistic mood."

Sophia laughs, a genuine sound that transforms her entire face. "How refreshingly honest. Most people here seem to treat charity events as networking opportunities."

"And you don't?" I ask, meeting her eyes directly.

For just a moment, her composure slips, and I catch a glimpse of something sharper underneath the polished surface. Then the mask slides back into place, and she's once again the enthusiastic art lover.

"I suppose everyone has their ulterior motives," she says lightly. "Mine happen to involve beautiful paintings and supporting sick children. Hardly scandalous."

"The most dangerous motives rarely are," I observe, my tone conversational but my meaning clear.

This time her smile doesn't waver, but I see her pupils dilate slightly—the involuntary response of someone who's just recognized a worthy opponent.

"Well," Martin says, clearly uncomfortable with the undercurrents he can't quite identify, "we should probably arrange payment for the painting. Sophia, darling?—"

"Of course," she says, but her attention remains fixed on me. "It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Ellsworth."

"Likewise, Miss Reeves." I pull out my phone, fingers moving across the screen.

"I'm having a small gathering at my place next weekend.

Nothing formal—just good wine, better conversation, and the kind of art collection that might interest someone with your evident passion for the Hudson River School. "

Her phone chimes with an incoming text message. She glances down at it, then back up at me with an expression that might be surprise or might be calculation.

"How did you?—"

"I have my methods," I say with a slight smile. "The question is, do you have the courage to accept an invitation from a dangerous stranger?"

Martin sputters something about prior commitments and not knowing anything about my reputation, but Sophia holds my gaze steadily.

"I'll consider it," she says finally.

"I hope you do."

But I don't walk away. Not yet. There's something about this woman—this performance she's putting on—that has captured my attention completely. She wants to play games? How delightful. It's been far too long since anyone provided me with genuine entertainment.

I let the silence stretch between us, savoring the delicious tension. Sophia's calculating behind those beautiful eyes while Martin fidgets like a schoolboy who's lost his lunch money.

This is already more entertaining than the last three charity galas combined.

"Actually," I say, my tone casual as ordering coffee, "why wait for the weekend? The night's young, and I'm finding myself unexpectedly... fascinated by your perspective on art acquisition strategies."

Martin practically chokes on his champagne. "Now see here, Ellsworth! Sophia and I have plans?—"

"Do you?" I ask Sophia directly, completely ignoring Martin’s existence.

It's a power play so blatant it borders on rude, and from the way her lips twitch, she appreciates the audacity.

"Because I was thinking we could continue this conversation somewhere with better wine and fewer. .. distractions."

"Distractions?" Martin sputters, and I have to resist the urge to pat his head condescendingly.

"The auction, Marty. All this noise and bidding. Makes it so hard to focus on what really matters." I lean slightly closer to Sophia. "Like discovering whether someone's passion for Hudson River School painters extends to more... contemporary pieces."

She tilts her head, and I can practically see the gears spinning. "That does sound intriguing. Though I should mention I'm quite particular about my wine."

"Excellent. I despise people with low standards."

Martin looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. "This is completely inappropriate! Sophia, you can't seriously be considering abandoning our evening for some stranger?—"

"Stranger?" I laugh, genuinely delighted. "Marty, we've known each other for what, three years now? Though I suppose from your perspective, anyone who didn't inherit their social connections might seem foreign."

Sophia's composure cracks for just a microsecond—a flash of genuine amusement that transforms her entire face. Oh, she's definitely enjoying this show.

"That's not what I meant," Martin protests, his face flushing an unflattering shade of pink. "I meant Sophia doesn't know anything about your... reputation."

"My reputation?" I raise an eyebrow, grinning. "You mean successful, charming, and devastatingly handsome? Because I'm pretty sure those are generally considered positive attributes."

"You know what I mean," Martin says weakly.

"Actually, I don't. Please, enlighten us." I'm practically purring now, and I can see Sophia fighting not to smile. "What exactly should Miss Reeves know about my terrible, scandalous reputation?"

Martin opens and closes his mouth like a fish, clearly realizing he's walked into a trap. He can't exactly list my supposed sins without sounding like a gossipy schoolgirl, and we both know it.

"Everyone knows you only got into the Club because of your connection with the Collectors," he finally manages, grasping at straws.

"Ah, you mean my partnership with Preston Wolfe?" I nod thoughtfully. "The one that made us both obscenely wealthy? Yes, I can see how leveraging talent and intelligence instead of relying on great-great-grandfather's dusty old money might seem... unsporting."

The barb hits its mark. Pemberton’s family fortune is old but not particularly impressive, and everyone knows it.

"Besides," I continue, turning my full attention back to Sophia, "I get the impression Miss Reeves is perfectly capable of making her own decisions about how to spend her evening. Unless, of course, there's some arrangement I'm not aware of?"

Sophia's smile is pure sunshine laced with razor blades. "No arrangement at all. And I have to say, Mr. Ellsworth, your invitation sounds far more interesting than..." She glances at Martin. "Well, than whatever we had planned."

Poor Martin looks like he's been slapped. "Sophia, this is highly irregular?—"

"Irregular?" I laugh. "Marty, we're at a charity auction, not a convent. Miss Reeves just made a brilliant acquisition and deserves to celebrate with someone who can properly appreciate her... refined taste."

I wonder if Martin is smart enough to catch on to the double meaning. Sophia's pupils dilate slightly—the involuntary response of someone who's just realized the game got infinitely more interesting. So, she gets it.

"Well then," she says, slipping her hand through my arm, "I suppose we should go appreciate some art."

I have to admire her commitment to the performance. She's playing this perfectly—interested but not desperate, intelligent but not threatening. If I didn't know better, I'd almost believe she was just what she appeared to be.

"Wonderful. Let me just say goodbye to my friends—they'll want to meet the woman who just outmaneuvered three seasoned collectors tonight."

As we walk toward my table, I can feel every eye in the room tracking our movement. This kind of social theater doesn't go unnoticed in these circles, and the gossip mill will be spinning before we reach the exit.

"Gentlemen, Luna," I say as we approach. "Meet Miss Sophia Reeves. Sophia, these are my partners in crime—Beckett Sinclair, Sebastian Ashford, and the lovely Luna Laurent."

Sebastian's eyebrow practically reaches his hairline. "Well, well. And here I thought the evening was going to be boring."

"It was," I reply cheerfully. "Until Miss Reeves decided to bid on that Cole piece with the enthusiasm of someone discovering buried treasure."

"I may have gotten a bit carried away," Sophia says with perfectly calibrated embarrassment.

"The best things in life require a certain degree of... enthusiasm," Beckett observes, his tone dry as desert sand.

Luna elbows Beckett. "It's lovely to meet you, Sophia. Are you enjoying the auction?"

"Very much. Though I think I'm about to enjoy the after-party even more."

Sebastian snorts. "After-party. Is that what we're calling it now?"

"Art appreciation, Sebastian," I say solemnly. "I'm going to show Miss Reeves my collection."

"Your collection," Beckett repeats. "Of course."

"You three are terrible," Luna says, but she's smiling. "Have a lovely evening, both of you."

"Oh, we intend to," I reply, already guiding Sophia toward the exit. "Don't wait up."

She wants to try her hand at seducing a billionaire?

Bring it on.