The last of them left the bedroom and I was alone for the first time in what felt like forever. The entire room had been crammed with stylists and color specialists and nail technicians and people who just seemed to be there to cause me pain.

I’d sat in a robe and felt more like a piece of meat than I ever had in my life. My legs had been waxed and they hadn’t stopped there. Hands had been in intimate places so much I almost thought I’d lost my virginity.

Between my legs was sore from hair removal by medieval torture devices. My eyebrows had almost vanished. The hair on my head felt about twice as big as before and I dared not touch it, fearing the whole thing would collapse and the exasperated stylist would have to come back in and start again.

Make up artists had worked on me while I had to sit perfectly still and say nothing. All the time I wondered what he would think. It shouldn’t matter but it did. I wanted him to like the finished version of me, show him I could scrub up nicely even if it took a dozen hired hands to make it happen. I still held onto the pointless dream that he might want to ask me on a proper date.

Finally, they got me into my dress, the last of my modesty vanishing. Once you’ve been down to a thong in front of that many people, you can handle pretty much anything. They got me into the dress before finally leaving me to have a couple of minutes on my own to get used to the feel of the thing.

I stood in front of the tall mirror and examined my reflection. Looking back at me was someone I didn’t recognise. She was beautiful, looking like a movie star on the red carpet, not Jodie Harris, dowdy museum guide. I risked putting a hand up to my hair, I had no idea how it had ended up like that but it worked, up and off my face but cascading down the sides like I was in a shampoo commercial, about to flick it about in some mountain stream somewhere.

The make up was softer than I could ever manage, enhancing my features and making me look glamorous in a way that was only improved by the dress. I ran my hands over the fabric, it shaped my body perfectly. A slit to the thigh on the right, showing a scandalous amount of leg. It hung off my shoulder like the wind might carry it away any moment. My breasts were outlined without too much cleavage on show. For about the first time in my life, I felt sexy, properly sexy. It was a good feeling and I didn’t want it to end.

I knew it would go eventually of course. I had five days left after tonight. There was no getting away from the fact this was temporary and no Cinderella style Prince was going to come running after me when it was over.

There was a knock on the door and I thought it might be him but it wasn’t, it was his secretary.

“Are you ready?” she asked as she stuck her head in.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Now remember, that’s a hired dress. It must not be spoiled if it’s to be returned in the same condition it came to you. It has cost thousands and Mr Stempel will be furious if it is damaged. Is that clear? No drinks spilled, no food dripped onto it if you eat while you’re out. Look after that thing as if it’s the Turin Shroud.”

“More valuable than me, I get it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to, I get it. Let’s go.”

If I was nervous before, being told about the dress made my anxiety go through the roof. I felt as if every surface might leave a mark on it. I held my hands far out to the side, taking tiny steps downstairs, not wanting to stretch the fabric.

I forgot about the dress when I saw Mr Stempel standing in the hallway waiting for me. He looked incredible, poured into a dark grey suit that somehow revealed his muscles, I didn’t even know that was possible. He had even run a comb through his hair although he still hadn’t shaved. Somehow that just made him look sexier. He glanced up at me and then did a double take, as if he hadn’t realized it was me coming down towards him.

“How do I look?” I asked, coming to a stop and twirling for his approval.

“Good,” he said bluntly. “Now let’s go.”

He led me outside, me tottering in my heels and trying not to fall over on the gravel. He helped me climb into the back of the car, his hand on mine, making me shudder with repressed need just from his touch.

The slit of the dress exposed my thigh as I climbed into the seat and I caught him glancing down. His expression gave nothing away. Was this really just about making him look good? Was I fooling myself that there might be anything more between us?

“What is this auction?” I asked as the car set off. He was reading the brochure as we headed along the driveway. “Anyone I might have heard of?”

“The highlight is a Flambert.”

“What? Seriously?”

“You know him then.”

“Know him, he’s my favourite artist.”

“Not a lot of people have heard of him.”

“We have a piece of his worth thirty million at the museum.”

“So that’s how you know him.”

“It’s not just that. He painted my favourite artwork of all time.”

“And what’s that?”

“Moonlight on Water. It’s not been seen in public for decades, hidden away in some private collection somewhere in America.”

“Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned the brochure so I could see the image inside. “Is it this one?”

I looked at the photo of a painting. “That’s it! I love that painting. Does this mean I’ll get to see it close up?”

“The viewing was yesterday but the best pieces are sometimes held up while the bidding takes place. You like this painting then?”

“Don’t you?”

“It’s all right, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It looks very pretty, sure.”

He turned back to the brochure, flicking through the rest of the pages as we headed into the city.

“When we get there, you know what to do?” he said as the traffic grew heavier.

“You are my hero,” I said, clasping my hands together and batting my eyelashes at him. “Without your generosity I’d be living in the gutter, subsisting on rat tails and rain water, guv'nor.”

“Exactly. Make sure people hear all that.”

We arrived just before eight. There were photographers outside, a red carpet leading up to a tall black marble building, the door held open for us by a top hatted doorman.

Just as I climbed out of the car a photographer darted in front of us, snapping away before one of the staff got him back behind the rope that separated the guests from the press. “Bidding on anything tonight?” someone shouted at Mr Stempel.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Look this way, love.”

“Over here, Mr Stempel.”

Bulbs flashed, almost blinding me as we walked the short distance to the door. As we reached it, I slipped my hand into his. “Why are you doing that?” he hissed in my ear.

“Getting in character my hero,” I whispered back. “Think of yourself as my Daddy Warbucks.”

Then we were inside. To my infinite joy, he didn’t let go of my hand and I was able to pretend, just for a while, that we were husband and wife.

It was great fun for me seeing the jealous glares of the other women who were muttering to themselves, wondering who this no one was. They scowled at me taking the attention of the billionaire from them.

“I was hoping you’d reply to my message,” one woman said to Mr Stempel, stopping dead in front of him. “Are you free next Thursday for dinner perhaps?”

“I’m already seeing someone,” he replied, leaning down and kissing my cheek. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Yes,” I said, catching on quickly. “We’re very much in love.”

“Is that so?” she said coldly, her smile vanishing. “Well, congratulations to you both.”

She walked away quickly. “Who was that?” I asked.

“Vanessa Waltz, heir to the toothpaste empire in Germany. She’s been after me for months.”

“Got a hole that needs filling?”

“Very funny.”

“I’ve got a name for your child if you marry her.”

He sighed. “Go on.”

“You could call it Minty Fresh.”

“I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea,” he replied, shaking his head. “Come on, the auction’s about to start.”

Two seats had been reserved for us on the front row. I felt someone looking at me and glanced round to find it was Vanessa, glaring from the sidelines as the auctioneer announced the first lot.

For half an hour Mr Stempel said nothing. He held my hand the entire time though and I found myself looking down at it, a warm fuzzy feeling glowing inside me, like I was his. I could almost pretend it was really the case.

One painting after another was brought out and I got more and more excited. Any minute I’d get to see the painting I’d only seen pale copies of before. And then there it was, held up by two men in overalls. Looking even more stunning than I imagined it might. “The Gustav Flambert 1821 Moonlight on Water,” the auctioneer said. “Do I see one million?”

He pointed at a waving card. “Two million? On the phone there. Three?”

Mr Stempel let go of my hand and I tried not to feel disappointed at the loss. Then his hand was waving his bidding card. “Three million from Mr Stempel, thank you. Remember all proceeds from this lock to the Tomlinson Foundation, a worthy cause indeed. Four million? Thank you, Sir, at the back there. Five?”

Mr Stempel bid again. “What are you doing?” I hissed at him. “That’s so much money.”

“Six million? Ten million on the phone there. Do I hear twenty? Twenty to my left. Going once. Thirty million, on the phone. Forty?”

“Fifty,” Mr Stempel said loudly to audible gasps from the room.

“Fifty million. Do I hear sixty? No, I’ll take fifty-five. Anywhere? Very well. Fifty million going once. Going twice. Fifty-five there. Thank you, Sir.”

“Sixty million,” Mr Stempel said loudly, not bothering to raise his card. Sod it. A hundred million. It’s only money.”

The auctioneer looked at the woman on the phone who shook her head vehemently. He turned to the rest of the room. “A hundred million going once. Twice. Sold to Mr Stempel for one hundred million pounds.”

There was a ripple of applause as Mr Stempel got to his feet. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go pay.”

“A hundred million,” I muttered to myself a minute later as we stood looking at the painting. “I can’t believe you paid a hundred million for this.”

He passed me a slip of paper. “There you go.”

“What’s this?”

“The receipt. It’s yours.”

“Am I your accountant now? I’m supposed to keep your receipts.”

“Look at the name on the deed. The painting’s yours.”

I looked at him, waiting for the smile. It didn’t come. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. It’s a gift.”

“But it can’t be. Why would you do that?”

“Because you said you liked it.”

“But-”

“No buts. I get to look good to Tomlinson and my deal is worth a lot three times that much. I’ll make the money back and more so don’t think this is me going all mushy. Want to carry it out to the car or shall I get them to do it?”

“I can’t take it.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I’m…I’m going to the bathroom.”

I walked away, unable to look at him any longer. It had to be a joke. It had to be because if it wasn’t, he was giving me a painting worth so much money I might explode. I needed to get away. I needed to breathe.

I walked into the ladies and did my best not to burst into tears. If I did, the make up would be ruined. Even waterproof mascara wouldn’t be able to handle the deluge that was coming if I didn’t get control of myself.

“Got yourself a sugar daddy have you?” a voice said behind me. “Asked him to buy it for you?”

I turned to find Vanessa had followed me in. “Excuse me?”

She took another step towards me, tripping on her heel and tipping her champagne glass over the front of my dress. “Oops,” she said. “Sorry about that. I guess I’m just too clumsy for my own good sometimes.”

I gasped as the drink soaked through the fabric. Any hope of resisting crying was gone and I ran out of the bathroom in floods of tears. The dress was ruined. He’d kill me.

“Hey,” Mr Stempel said, grabbing me as I tried to run past him. “What’s the matter? What happened?”

“I…I spilled something,” I replied. “I’m so sorry.”

“Look,” he said. “Don’t cry. How about I make things even.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, sniffing in a very unladylike manner.

He grabbed a glass from a passing waiter, pouring the contents down the front of his suit. “There, now we match.”

“Perfect,” I said, managing a tiny smile. “I want to go home.”

“We’re done anyway. I’ve arranged for them to look after the painting for now until we’re ready to collect. It’ll stay on their insurance while it’s here. Ready to go home?”

I nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

The car was waiting outside. I climbed in and he got in beside me, tapping the seat in front. “Let’s go, Michael. Home if you please.”

Turning to me, Mr Stempel glanced down and smiled. “I didn’t want to say in there but did you know you’ve gone a little bit see through.”

I looked down, curling my toes in shame as I saw the perfect outline of my nipples through the soaking wet fabric. “Fantastic,” I said. “Just great.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. I think it makes you look good.”

“You like the wet teeshirt look, do you?”

“On you, yes.”

I looked up at him and he was staring straight into my eyes. I gasped as his hand slid over mine. “You look hot.”

“No, I don’t, I look wet and cold.”

He slid his fingers up my arm slowly. I did my best not to react. “You look good wet.”

“I’m glad you think so.” I gasped as his hand moved from my arm to my leg. Where it was exposed through the slit in my dress to set his fingers down, stroking in soft circles. I sat perfectly still, trying not to breathe as his fingers moved gradually higher.