Love at First Sight Series Boxed Set: (Books 1-5) Read online

  Love at First Sight Series

  Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

  His for the Taming

  His for the Touching

  His for the Teaching

  His for the Trusting

  His for the Tempting

  Lynn Cooper

  The books in this boxed set are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Lynn Cooper

  All rights reserved.

  Each book in the Love at First Sight Series is a standalone romance with a touch of tenderness and a smattering of smut. So, if you’re ready to fall in love fast and pant furiously, grab your e-reader, hold on tight and let’s get this party started!

  Lots of love to you all,

  Lynn Cooper

  His for the Taming

  Chapter One

  Winter Primrose

  IN MY WILDEST DREAMS, I never thought I’d find myself on an auction block. Actually, it’s more like a highly-polished, walnut-stained stage inside a fancy, historic theatre in downtown Inville.

  I’m sitting beside a stark-white, decorative cube with my elbow comfortably propped on it. However, I am anything but comfortable. Wearing a form-fitting, fiery-red bathing suit cut seductively low in front to showcase my cleavage, I have one chubby leg bent at the knee and the other tucked beneath it. This pose, along with the contrasting color scheme, was picked out just for me by Sarah Hellerman—a trophy wife and former pageant coordinator. She’s married to the CEO of Marketing Madness, the advertising agency I work for.

  Her pseudo-sweet tone is loosely laced with cyanide when she speaks. “For God’s sake, Winter, hold your shoulders back! When you slouch, it makes the fat rolls around your middle protrude even more.”

  I bite the inside of my jaw to keep from calling her every unsavory name in the book. With her blonde-from-a-bottle hair, Botox-infused face and burgundy-lacquered acrylic nails, she looks like a middle-aged Barbie doll who’s seen better days. Through gritted teeth, I grudgingly say, “I’ll try to do better, Mrs. Hellerman.”

  She huffs. “Well see that you do. Chad needs this charity auction to be a success.”

  My brain screams, Chad needs to keep his dick in his pants! My mouth says, “I’m sure everything will go off without a hitch. The stage is full of pretty women, and on the other side of that curtain,” I nod toward the velvety monstrosity hanging in front of us, “the auditorium floor is peppered with rich, single men, waiting to place their bids.”

  With a look bordering on repulsion, Sarah rearranges the now-straightened locks of my naturally-curly, auburn hair before retouching my makeup. I feel the jealousy and resentment radiating off her in searing waves. She, along with all the other judgmental, sickeningly-skinny, snooty socialites, think I don’t belong here. I don’t. And, in fact, I’d rather be anywhere else. But her stupid, reckless husband is the reason I’m stuck on this platform, striking a ridiculous pose instead of relaxing at home on the sofa with a glass of iced tea and a good book.

  Like so many of the other executives in this town, Chad Hellerman lives to chase skirts. It was his most recent indiscretion which spurred tonight’s charity event. Thanks to his blatant philandering, Marketing Madness has begun to suffer financially.

  Several of our longtime and most lucrative clients with family-friendly campaigns have pulled their accounts, saying they don’t want their products associated with a company being run by an adulterer. With the loss of revenue, it soon became abundantly clear to the board that drastic measures needed to be taken in order to restore our clients’ faith in Chad and the business.

  Why did he choose me to be auctioned off? He said it was because my Rubenesque figure would bring in some bountiful bids. That my curves would really get the currency flowing. I think he wanted a little revenge. To publicly humiliate me for rejecting his sexual advances. From day one of my five-year career with the company, he has done nothing to hide his attraction to me. His flirtatious behavior and sexual innuendos are never-ending. And he hates that I never reciprocate in his lecherous inner-office games. With an over-inflated ego bigger than the great outdoors, he simply can’t fathom any woman turning him down.

  Status and money have always been powerful aphrodisiacs for a lot women, but not for me. The thing that really turns me on is the truth, and honest men are harder than hell to come by.

  Standing back, forming a rectangle with the thumbs and forefingers of her hands like a director looking through an imaginary camera, Sarah sighs. “Well, I’ve done the best I can to make you look presentable, Winter. The rest is up to you,” she says, shaking her head. “Do try to smile at least. You’re as frigid as the Arctic Circle. My husband must have taken leave of his senses when he put you up for auction. No man is going to bid on an ice queen.”

  Ice Queen.

  That’s my nickname around the office and apparently outside of it, too. I let her jabs roll right off of my frozen shoulders. I have good reasons to be cold and icy. Two to be exact—my father and my now ex-fiancé.

  Chapter Two

  Torin Stoke

  I DESPISE PRETENTIOUS ASSHOLES. Believe it or not, it is possible for people to have an abundance of wealth and not act like spoiled, entitled douche bags. I’m Torin Stoke—a self-made multi-millionaire—one who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the propriety of high society. What I do care about is helping those less fortunate than myself. Why? Because I’ve been where they are. I’ve struggled. I’ve loved and lost. I’ve beaten the odds and want to give others an opportunity to do the same.

  Tonight’s event is just one in a long line I’ve attended since finding an insane amount of success in the real estate business. Finding isn’t the right expression. Working my damn ass off day and night is more like it. As a result of my relentless endeavors, I can afford to show up at charitable functions and give away lots of money. This particular cause—a brand new, state-of-the-art, children’s oncology wing for Inville Memorial Hospital—is especially close to my heart.

  When Chad Hellerman screwed up, down and sideways again, it was I who suggested the auction. Not only am I interested in getting the hospital wing built, I also have a vested interest in Marketing Madness. Chad’s father, Earl, made me a board member right before he passed away last summer. He was a nice old man who realized too late what an immoral, egotistical prick his son was.

  Once he saw through his flesh and blood, Earl felt like the company needed someone with a level head to look after the interest of the stockholders. Someone who didn’t come from old money, who would show a genuine concern for the investors and make sure they actually got a return on their investment.

  After having played golf together every week for a year at Inville Country Club and Spa, he asked me to be that person. I couldn’t say no. Earl had been like a surrogate father to me, and having him sponsor my membership into the club helped me to grow my own business by leaps and bounds. I owed him.

  At the time of our agreement, I considered it a small favor. It wasn’t until after I took my seat on the board that I saw my role for what it was. A fireman put in place to put out Chad Hellerman’s fires. And damn if that man didn’t drop a match wherever he went, setting flames of destruction ablaze in his path.

  Eventually, he’ll literally fuck up so royally I won’t be able to contain the damage. When that day comes, I’ll do what I do best: sweep in, buy him out and make Marketing Madness part of my empire. Until then, I’ll stick around and enjoy the show.

  I have
to admit, with his loud, booming voice, Chad makes the perfect auctioneer. He does not need the microphone but seems to take great pleasure in placing his lips right up against it when he speaks.

  Smiling his million-dollar smile, he bellows, “Welcome distinguished guests. I’m sure all of you will agree tonight’s auction is the event of the year.”

  He pauses for applause. “The selection of beautiful women you’ll be bidding on can only be classified in one way. Simply put, each one is the object of any man’s desires.”

  Low, murmuring voices, along with the clink of crystal, reverberates through the air. As much as I hate to admit it, a stir of excitement and anticipation causes a tightening in my low belly and in the crotch area of my slacks. The physical reaction isn’t due to horniness. It’s an innate response that’s hardwired into all red-blooded men. Truly, I have no problems getting women or getting laid.

  I’ve been told by hundreds of attractive ladies that they find me sexy and desirable. Plenty of times they’ve said it while lying on their backs, legs spread wide across my bed. The problem is, I never know if it’s me they truly want or my money. I’m not stingy, mind you. Quite the opposite. I’m generous to a fault, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let a gold digger drain me dry. When I find the woman I’m meant to be with, she will lack for nothing. What’s mine will be hers. I just haven’t found her yet.

  When Chad pulls down on a thick, heavy, gold rope with a tassel as big as a softball hanging on the end, a floor-length, blood-red, velvet curtain draws back, revealing the ten women up for auction. The crowd of men in tuxedos breaks into a roar of catcalls, clapping and low wolf whistles.

  Chad raises his voice over the crowd, quieting them. The room is suddenly filled with a thick cloud of testosterone as all of us gape at the beauties on stage. Each woman has her own space on the floor, depicting a particular theme.

  The first woman is dressed in an ocean-blue gown with a tight bodice and long, flowing skirt. Her raven-colored hair is piled atop her head and styled like a saloon girl of the old west. Gigantic peacock feathers with circles and shades of azure matching her eyes are arranged at her high-heeled clad feet.

  Chad removes the microphone from the holder on the podium and walks in her direction. With a sweeping motion of his arm, he says, “Let’s start the bidding at twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  Nearly every placard rises high in the air. A sea of yellow paddles with black, embossed numbers flap with excitement.

  Feeding off the crowd, I watch Chad turn into a smooth, masterful auctioneer, speaking faster and faster in a hypnotic rhythm.

  “Can I get thirty? Who’ll bid thirty? Thirty here in the front! What about thirty-five? You’ll have this exquisite woman in your presence for the entire weekend.”

  A short, balding man who looks to be fiftyish squeaks out. “Forty-five. I’ll gladly give forty-five.”

  Chad smiles devilishly. “Two fun-filled days and heat-filled nights with this hottie. You can do better than that. Let me hear fifty thousand, and she’s yours.”

  Squeaky lowers his paddle, but a tall, lithe man wearing glasses and an expensive-looking toupee raises his. “Fifty thousand right here, Chad. She’s mine.”

  “Okay, fifty is the new bid. Do I hear fifty-five?” he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around the sea of men who are now waiting to bid on the next woman. “Fifty it is then. Going once. Twice. Sold!”

  For the next eight women, the process is the same. Rinse and repeat. Sold. But when Chad gets to number ten, his smile and gait falters. I can see the sickening look of desire flaying his face like a gutted fish. He wants this one for himself. Even with his wife standing in the wings to his left, he can’t seem to mask the unadulterated fever in his eyes.

  I suck in a sharp, almost painful breath as my own lusty gaze slowly moves over the never-ending curves of her voluptuous body then back to her gorgeous face. The subzero-degree expression frosting her cheeks and eyelashes could make a polar bear shiver. I can’t stop a wicked smile from lifting the corners of my mouth. Given a day or two, I’m confident I can melt her icy exterior with my charms. But if that doesn’t work, the slap of my belt across her perfectly-rounded ass should get the job done.

  Chapter Three

  Winter Primrose

  CHAD HELLERMAN IS A perverted predator. And even though I dislike his snippy, critical wife, I can’t help but feel sorry for Sarah. I’m also feeling a little bit sorry for myself. Because my idiot boss can’t control or even conceal his animalistic needs, he is making me an even bigger target than I already am.

  Due to his blatant overtures and his habit of constantly calling me into the conference room and locking the door behind us, the gossip grapevine in the office runs amuck with vicious rumors about me. Now, he’s here doing the horny-GI bit in front of practically the entire business community.

  I am so angry I could chew nails. Chad’s unchecked behavior tonight could seriously make my place of employment unbearable. And I can’t let that happen. I need my job. Without it, I’ll be standing in a soup line. When he opens his mouth to start the bidding for me, my jaw drops. His voice is roughened by desire, and the sound makes me sick to my stomach.

  “Opening bid for Winter Primrose is one hundred thousand dollars.”

  The entire theatre falls silent. What in the hell is he doing? It’s almost as if he wants to derail the auction. Like he wants to drive the price so high that no one will bid on me.

  I hold my breath, taking in the looks of disbelief and astonishment on everyone’s face. Everyone except the man leaning leisurely against a cement pillar in the middle aisle. He looks a little bit amused and a lot dangerous.

  His tuxedo hugs his body like a second skin. His eyes are the same shade of black as his tousled hair. With his arms folded across his massively broad chest, his feet crossed at the ankles and no paddle, it’s painfully obvious he is a spectator and not a participant. His gaze makes me feel terribly self-conscious and embarrassed. I notice my shoulders slumping forward as I try to crawl inside myself. Then I remember what Sarah said: When you slouch, it makes the fat rolls around your middle protrude even more.

  Quickly, I correct my posture, hoping the shockingly-handsome sex symbol didn’t notice any tummy protrusion.

  Every second that passes without a paddle being raised rips through my soul like jagged shards of glass. This is just another painful chapter in the book of my life titled No Decent Man Wants Me.

  Chad groans into the microphone. “Imagine tasting her,” he says. How much would pay for that privilege?”

  A man looking to be in his mid-thirties, about ten years older than me, raises his paddle. “I’d pay seventy-five thousand for that pleasure.”

  My stomach clenches. If it weren’t for the children battling cancer, I would stand up, withdraw from the auction and run as fast as I could to my car.

  I glance at Chad, then at his wife who has stepped forward and out of the shadows but is still hidden behind the drawn curtain. A sheen of perspiration has popped out on his forehead, and she’s wrapping her arms around herself in what I assume is an attempt at self-soothing.

  Anger infuses Chad’s tone. “I said the bidding starts at a hundred thousand. Don’t you damn dare insult Winter with such a disgustingly low number.”

  The bidder hangs his head and trudges to the back of the auditorium. Chad flings the microphone off the stage with a level of violence that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. The volume of his voice sounds like it’s booming through an amplifier.

  “Imagine pressing her against a wall and touching the sweetest, most secret recesses of her flesh. Do I hear two-hundred thousand dollars?”

  Five paddles shoot up like rockets into the air, each man frantically calling out his bid.

  Chad looks smug and utterly pleased.

  As he continues to work the bidders into a sexually-charged frenzy, the price climbs to five-hundred thousand, and I nearly faint. I’m screaming no inside
because, for that kind of money, the bidder will be expecting more than I’m willing to give. More than is outlined in the fundraising contract between those buying and those being bought.

  Sure, the bidders get to spend the entire weekend with us, but it’s at a high-end hotel where we and our dates have separate rooms. We’re to keep them company by the pool during the day and join them for dinner at night, not be their sex toys. These rules and boundaries are in place to protect everyone.

  Just as I have always known, Chad Hellerman is out of his damn mind. He will do or say anything to weasel a huge donation from these men and in the process end up looking like the hero. But this time, his over-the-top raunchiness has made him look like a horny whack-a-doodle instead.

  The charity auction was supposed to help clean-up his bad-boy reputation and win back favor in the court of public opinion. After this fiasco, I will not be surprised if the remainder of our advertising clients pull their accounts from the agency, too. Oh, well, at least the hospital will get a new oncology wing for those precious children.

  As fresh waves of anger and disgust mute my senses, I no longer hear Chad’s voice. My vision is blurry, like looking under water with my eyes open. Just as I am about to tune out completely, I catch a slight yet purposeful movement out of my periphery. The handsome man without a paddle steps forward. In that instant, all of my senses grow sharp with a surge of anticipation and a dab of dread.

  His voice is commanding, making my knees go weak even though I’m still sitting in the same pose Sarah arranged me in. If I had been standing, my legs would have given way. I’ve never heard such a rich, warm and deep timber before.

  “One million dollars for Miss Winter Primrose.”

  Chapter Four

  Torin Stoke

  THE LOOK ON CHAD’S face is priceless. He stutters a second before recovering. “Sold to Mr. Torin Stoke for a million bucks.”

  In unison, the bidders drop their paddles to the floor, grumbling as they drag themselves to the exit doors. Me, I nod at Hellerman without saying a word then stride toward the stage to retrieve my prize.