His Savior Was Never My Sister
The kind of blue a woman could drown in.
Isabella’s breath caught, audibly. She leaned forward, a hand drifting to her throat.
A fire, petty and self-destructive, ignited in my chest. Before I could think, my gloved hand lifted, the numbered paddle a stark white in the gloom. “Fifty thousand.”
Heads turned. A murmur rippled through the crowd. Bidding against your own sister? How deliciously tense.
Isabella’s eyes met mine, a flicker of surprise, then wounded confusion. She bit her lip, a picture of thwarted desire. Her admirer, a brutish captain from the Genovese crew, immediately raised the bid. “Seventy-five!”