Hot Commodity

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

Dedication

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 boob-exposing department. Not a nipple in sight, just a nice healthy display of deep cleavage between the criss-crossing leather ties holding her bustier