dressed-up women, we’d found seats with a good view of the stage. The air was filled with perfume and impatience as a distinguished silver-haired man made a rah-rah pitch for the children’s wing, encouraging everyone to bid their hearts out. Viewing screens behind him projected his image for those who couldn’t see the stage clearly.
We sipped the event’s signature cocktail, called Raining Men. It was pink and creamy and tasted of strawberries, passion fruit, and a hint of brandy.
I rolled up the program and tapped it nervously against my thigh, above the hem of my black cocktail dress, as the man on stage thanked the bachelors, the silent auction donors, and the event sponsors. “Now please welcome radio talk show host Cara Winters, your emcee for the bachelor auction.”
A brunette in a slinky red evening gown and killer stilettos embraced him and took the mike. Holding it close to her shiny red lips, her overblown image repeated on the viewing screens, she said in a sexy drawl, “Ladies, I know why you’re here tonight, and I’m here for the same reason. I—” her voice rose in volume—“need a MAAAAN!” The audience chuckled.
“Say it with me, ladies,” she said. “Tell me what you need.” Together, voices escalating, the audience chanted, “I NEED A MAAAAN!”
Jazzed, I joined in. The rules said we could buy a man to paint the living room, do our taxes, escort us to the theater, or do almost anything our little hearts desired—except have sex. The rule was, we weren’t buying sex, but despite that, the whole ambience was sexy. For example, the waiters who’d passed appies were, to a man, eye candy. My body, which had been celibate for six months, had definitely perked to attention. Tonight might be purely business, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy the scenery. And the company of my vibrator later tonight.
“Then that’s what you’re going to get,” the emcee said. “Twenty-four of Vancouver’s finest bachelors. So, without further ado…”
The lights changed to dramatic stage lighting and the song “It’s Raining Men” poured out of the sound system. Men, each carrying an open umbrella, paraded onstage as the audience clapped and whistled. A few guys strutted, others danced to the music, some walked normally. They were a fine-looking bunch—some cute, some handsome; some lean, some broad; some fair, some dark. There were men in business suits, men in tuxes, men in muscle-hugging T-shirts and ripped denim, one in only board shorts, and three in firefighter garb. A true smorgasbord of attractive guys—and with luck and enough money, one of them would be my fiancé.
Kimberly pointed. “Look at the firefighters!”
I’d already focused on them. The three were clearly together and had planned what they’d wear. They were all in turnout pants, bare-chested but for suspenders. One toted an ax, one had a coil of hose, and the other held a huge torch. “They can save my life any day.”
The three really were hot. Especially the dark-haired one with the ax and killer smile. That smile made all my female parts hum with sexual awareness. So did his stride, as the men circled the stage. Not a swagger, just a natural ease with his own body. The kind of walk that made a woman imagine how good he’d be in bed.
“You can buy a firefighter,” Amarjeet whispered.
I shook my head. “I want a white-collar guy.” A man who fit my image as—hopefully—the future CEO of Triple-F. Yet, it was hard to tear my gaze away from the firefighter and study the rest of the candidates.
When the song ended, the men left the stage to enthusiastic applause. The emcee said, “Now that your appetites are whetted, ladies, let’s learn what’s on the menu. Each bachelor’s going to tell you a bit about himself and answer one question. They won’t know the questions ahead of time. I’m choosing them at random.” She waved hot-pink index cards.
“I’ll call the men in the order listed in your program. After, we’ll have a break so you can collect your thoughts.” She winked. “Then we’ll start the bidding.”
I clicked open the red pen I’d been given at the door and got ready to take notes.
“First up,” the emcee said, “is Justin Wong, a tax lawyer who loves fine dining.”
As a sleek guy in a tux took the stage, Amarjeet leaned close. “White collar, Chinese, attractive, fit. Bachelor number one could be your man.”
“He could.” I listened as Justin gave his spiel. The bachelors would have been told to play to the audience and sell themselves, and he did a good job, but underlying it was a note of Chinese humility. Granny would love him. I was pretty impressed myself. This was a man I’d like to date for real. Maybe my faux fiancé could turn into my genuine one!
The next guy was the one in board shorts. Cute, but not the image I was looking for. The next was too old and too arrogant about his job. Then came the firefighter with the hose. Not being interested in a blue-collar guy, I slipped away to get a second round of Raining Mens.
For another dozen or so guys, my friends and I made admiring or snide comments and I jotted notes. A high-school teacher made it onto my list, and a doctor with a family practice.
I was scribbling madly when Kimberly said, “Ooh, another firefighter.”
“He’s very handsome,” Amarjeet said. “And don’t you love the ax?”
My head jerked up. Sure enough, it was the dark-haired man with the great smile. Quinn O’Malley, his name was. His skin was darkish, though lighter than mine. His black hair was cut short, in a style that emphasized his strong features and the dramatic slashes of cheekbone and black eyebrows. His eyes—dark brown or black—sparkled and his sensual lips curved, counterbalancing the impression of raw masculine strength.
His bare torso was strong and toned, but not in an overdone “must be on steroids” way. Even though his lower half was concealed by the turnout pants, I knew it would measure up. I wondered what, besides more toned muscles, he was hiding under those bulky pants, and felt the hot throb of arousal between my legs. With the cute waiters and some of the other bachelors I’d felt a quiver, but with Quinn O’Malley, the impact was a hundred times stronger.
He was utterly masculine and had a devil-may-care aura that reached out and grabbed a girl by the throat. And the pussy. No question which guy my body would vote for if it got a say in the matter.
“We’re supposed to talk about our jobs,” he said, “but you folks know what firefighters do. When I’m not at work, I sail, windsurf, ride my motorbike, hike.”
Though I had no interest in bidding on him, my brain was still in evaluation mode. Humble about work: a good thing. Hazardous occupation, motorbike, dangerous hobbies: bad. Very bad. An adrenaline junkie, a man who flirted with danger. That was unacceptable. In my teens, my papa, a cop, almost lost his life on the job. It traumatized Mom and me. She’d persuaded him to give up active duty, and since then he’d taught at the Justice Institute. I would never go through that kind of horror again. Never get involved with a man who risked his life every day.
No, wait. This wasn’t about whom I’d date for real, it was about finding the best faux fiancé. And it wasn’t Quinn O’Malley.
His smile deepened, revealing a dimple. “And, yeah, I’ve been known to enjoy romantic stuff like dinners out, dancing, moonlight strolls along the beach.”
Oh, God, those things were good, very good. I imagined dancing with him, feeling the coiled strength of that powerful body moving sensually against me. Or kissing in the moonlight, finding a deserted pocket of beach, making love with only the stars watching.
“Jade?” Kimberly tugged my arm. “You’re gaping at him like you want to eat him up.”
“Mmm.” With my tongue, my lips, my entire body. And then I wanted him to eat me up. Under my skimpy dress, my nipples rubbed against the lace of my bra, and the crotch of my panties was damp with need. Oh, yes, he could eat me up this very minute, and launch me into a shuddering, screaming climax.
He was talking about his skills, mentioning