Chapter 150 Chapter 151

Chapter 150 Chapter 151
Denis had followed his journey, happy the raven-haired lad had pursued professional rugby. He’d been more brilliant than Denis could have ever imagined, winning the love of the Scottish people, becoming a legend after his first year on the national team. The world didn’t seem to get enough of Ravi. He was as much on the telly as any A-list movie star.
This year, he’d cemented his legacy by scoring the winning try against the French, finally breaking a decade-long curse. Not even the English had cared that it had been Scotland who’d beaten them. As long as the French were finally defeated, the English would cheer right along.
Ravi had always been tall and muscular, and that was true to today. But five years on the field against the best had done him good. Back at university, there had been something young about his face, but the last traces of softness were finally stripped. His cheekbones were unreal, his jawline cutting. But that was not what stuck out the most; it was the way he carried himself. 
His Ravi had always treaded carefully, scratching the back of his neck while keeping his eyes peeled to the floor. If he could avoid talking, he would; if he could make his large body smaller, he’d do his darndest – shoulders hunched and back crooked. In the end (the blonde didn’t care to dwell on the end), he’d been becoming prouder, pushing his jaw forward and taking up space, but the awkwardness had always lingered.
Not anymore.
Ravi was sauntering forward, a slight spring in his step that only professional athletes possessed. He was grinning, the cut of his lips against the rich brown hue causing Denis’s stomach to clench. As if Ravi could sense the effect he had on the room, his smile widened, a dimple making an appearance. He looked good, really bloody good.
Someone had had the bright idea of putting him in a suit. Not just an off-the-shelf Calvin Klein or something equally lukewarm, but in a tailored dark Brioni, the fabric doing him all the favours. Beneath, he was wearing a crisp white shirt, the collar open, revealing the hollow of his throat. Again, Denis’s stomach clenched.
He was not looking around, but he could feel the charged air, the way everybody else was ogling the striking figure Ravi made on stage. 
Ravi didn’t seem bothered by the hungry wolves circling him like a deer lagging behind its herd. He just winked at his audience, his body nothing but long lines of brewing confidence. Denis’s jaw flexed.
The moment seemed to last forever, Ravi in front, watching the sea of people at their tables, tall and proud with a suit that hugged his waist and shoulders. That's not speaking of his slacks, they made his legs look endless. Denis tried to breathe, finding it difficult, impossible really. His saving grace was that everybody remained turned forward, not even his Maman noticed his slow descent into madness.
“So,” Wood continued. “If you find yourself short of a dance partner, why not place a bid on Baldwin here?”
Bloody hell.  
Ravi did a spin, completely unfazed by the scrutiny of the room. Someone in attendance was whistling, causing the raven-haired lad to throw his head back and laugh. Denis was instantly drawn to the column of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 
Denis Arnold was not okay. His mind flooded with too many memories to sort through. Five years should have been enough. He should be better than this after five years.
Ravi’s silver-wired glasses flashed in the overhead lights from a chandelier. There were people between them, a mass keeping Denis hidden. He could leave, sneak off. He didn’t.
The bidding started, Ravi, remaining on stage, one hand in his pocket and the other casually tapping against his leg. He was effortless in his poise and strength, like only the young, beautiful, and successful tended to be.
His Maman leaned back, eyes still glued to the front. “Should we bid?” she asked of all things. “He’s a national treasure.”
Denis croaked out. “I thought you didn’t like rugby.”
She huffed, her voice airy. “He’s friends with the crown prince. Revered by the people. It’s not a matter of like or not like, just of good sense.”
It somehow felt like a punch to the gut. Denis gasped, almost blacking out. He braided his fingers together, squeezing hard enough he feared he’d break every single digit clean in two. It didn’t stop him from squeezing harder.
The bidding started. The lads up on stage beamed as the bids climbed higher at an alarming speed. They called out new amounts by the second, going from fifty-thousand pounds to three-hundred-thousand in the span of a minute. Lady Beaumont was the most active bidder, her eyes gleaming two tables over as she furiously tapped on her oblong device, her husband wearing an ill-fitting smile as he twirled the ends of his wispy hair. 
More and more dropped off in the bidding war; it was nearing seven million pounds. At last, it was only Lady Beaumont and Lord Howard going one-on-one, tiptoeing upward as they tested each other's resolve. Woody called out each amount placed, motioning to Ravi as a reminder of what they were fighting for. Ravi preened beneath the scrutiny; years of media training had made him lethal. 
Finally, Lady Beaumont seemed to emerge victorious, her bid on ten million pounds uncontested by Lord Howard.
This was good. He could let her have Ravi for the night, and Denis could sneak off. The blonde glanced at the Lady, her eyes wide and hungry, her mouth smiling like the Cheshire cat’s. 
It wasn’t a conscious decision, really. Denis just placed a bid.
He sent it off, pushing the button on his oblong device before he could change his mind, watching the stage, heart in throat. His pulse was racing, like he’d just jumped off an aeroplane with no parachute.
Wood in front leaned forward as the bid arrived, smile fading. His face drained of color. He glanced over at Coote, the microphone picking up a few words whispered between them: “mistake” and “double check.”
Wood looked over at Denis, catching the blonde’s eye despite the grand table decorations, seated attendants, and hazy light conditions. Cold grey clasped with navy blue, Denis raising a dark eyebrow. Wood swallowed audibly, eyes flickering down towards the oaken lecter, the stand polished to a shine.