Selling Scarlett (18 page)

When Priscilla heard I volunteered for the fight tomorrow night, earning myself an invitation to the gala even after all the charity plates have been purchased, she demanded to be my date, but we're not riding together, so I shouldn't have to see her until I arrive at the Heat Enterprises Mansion in an hour.

"Damnit." I bring the phone up to my ear, working to sound calm and aloof, the way I used to sound before I realized Priscilla was going to Michael Lockwood's house on a regular basis, in addition to fucking Josh Smith.

I take a deep breath. "Priscilla."

"Hunter."

I roll my wrist, which is sore from the last time I saw her. “What can I do for you?"

"I'm coming up in ten." I can hear her Cheshire grin through the phone, and then her laughing hiss. "Get ready.”

I strip out of my tux and swear that this will be the last time. Tonight, I'll figure out Priscilla's game, and end it. Josh Smith will be at the gala, as will Michael Lockwood. If I can find out what Priscilla wants with Smith—other than his dick—or the nature of her relationship with Lockwood, maybe I can finally put a stop to this farce.

I wait behind the front door of my penthouse. I'm planning to grab her from behind when she walks through it. Maybe rip her gown off. Bind her wrists with my neck tie and fuck her doggy style.

I shut my eyes, inhaling slowly while I wait in my darkened foyer like the crazy SOB I am. The small amount of enjoyment I've begun to get from these games with Priscilla makes me sick. I'm further disgusted by my cowardice. I pretend like I’m keeping her close for Sarabelle’s sake, but the truth is I won’t turn her in, just like I won’t stop fucking her, until I know my skeletons will stay in the closet where they belong.

I don't give a shit about my father's political career, about what people would think if they knew he fell in love with an escort. Their relationship would be painted in the most tawdry light possible by the press, but would it jeopardize anything about my father's position? Very unlikely. Would it shock all of New Orleans? Yes. My father returned from his business trip with a newly pregnant Roxanne, but for most of her pregnancy, she stayed secluded in West Manor. Less than a week after she died in labor—at the house—Rita came knocking. Dad was somehow able to hush the whole thing up, and I was presented many months later as Dad and Rita’s child.

Things went just the way Rita had hoped, and ten months later, my half-sister Amber was born. She still lives in New Orleans, managing the advertising arm of West Bourbon, and she knows exactly what kind of insanity went on in our house before Rita got cancer. She also knows just how Rita died, and what went on afterward.

I lean my head against the wall and go over what we’ve got so far. The PIs—Dave and the two other Vegas PIs we just hired, Julie and Roberto—have found a few good leads:

1. Josh Smith is Michael Lockwood's third cousin. Last time Smith saw Lockwood: the morning before Smith told the FBI that I liked to tie girls up.
   

2. Michael Lockwood took a bus to San Luis two days ago. He had lunch in a hotel and went to the men's room twice.
   

3. The night Priscilla invaded my plane, a man searched both of my homes in Vegas. Marchant's guy, Dave, captured the whole thing on film, proving that, for now at least, the bad guys have no idea that we are onto them. When he later pulled up an image of Gus Victor, the man's mug shot matched the face of the guy searching my homes.
   

4. Two years ago, just before Priscilla's affair with Governor Carlson began, one of the governor's mistresses went missing. Maybe. Missy King was a working girl and rising porn star the governor met on a gambling trip. He put her up in a fancy Vegas apartment complex—that part, we've confirmed is true—where she lived until she didn't. There are no missing person reports, and there has never been a police investigation. But her friends tell Dave they think she was kidnapped, and the LVPD did nothing to find her.
   

Priscilla's phone is bugged as of today, so I'm looking forward to the next time she talks to the governor. Or to Smith. Or Lockwood, for that matter. I'm hoping they’ll fill in some of the pieces, because right now I don't know what this is.

In a few days, I'll go down to San Luis myself to see what the hell could be down there, but tonight, the most important thing I can do is go to the gala. In my most ambitious plan, I can get my hands on Lockwood's cell phone. He'll be there because, like me, he's brawling at the Joseph Club tomorrow night in the name of charity.

Marchant wouldn't sign up for the brawl—something about winning making him look like a pimp and losing making him look like a loser—so I paid my five grand and slid into a spot vacated by a Vegas councilman who sprained his ankle.

There was nothing Priscilla could do to keep me out of the party at the Heat Mansion, so she pretended to be pleased. I wonder if she's coming up here now to try to keep me away.

As if on cue, the door to my penthouse swings open with a swoosh of air. I let her get a few paces inside before I slam the door shut, jumping on her from behind. I sweep her up into my arms and tear her mink coat open.

She squeals, and I hear something drop. I spin her in a circle and see a big, leather bag sprawled on my floor.

"What did you bring me?"

"Why don't you open it and see?"

I strip Priscilla to her open-nipple bra and crotchless panties before I dump her on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace and open the bag.

What's inside is vile. And it doesn't make my cock soften at all.

Chapter Sixteen
~ELIZABETH~

When Marchant Radcliffe started Love Inc., it was a high-end brothel on the Vegas Strip. If the Wikipedia page can be believed, Marchant never wanted to open 'just another brothel'. He wanted a place where the escorts were treated like any other profession—they have excellent health insurance, 401Ks, and the top performers can even buy a small stakes in the company.

He wanted a different kind of clientele, too. Wealthy. Connected. Men and women who appreciated an upscale ambiance and a whole lot of privacy.

I'm guessing this must be Wiki's way of saying he wanted to keep the riff-raff out. Eliminate tourists, bachelors, and shut-ins.

After only a year or two, he opened another location in a rural area southwest of Vegas, on a plot of land so large it's a bonna fide green spot on my GPS. If I recall, it's something like two hundred acres. For several years, the location on the strip acted as a sort of gatekeeper. If the escorts liked a client or the client was regular enough, they got invited to the ranch. The strip location was swanky enough that it competed easily with more established places, so Love Inc. grew as a name-brand, but all the while, the ranch was building an identity of its own.

According to Forbes, the ranch location made more than $600 million last year. It has two dozen full-time female escorts and seven full-time male escorts who live on the grounds, setting their own prices and choosing their own clients. Many of them have worked there five years or more. The place has a job-satisfaction rating comparable to Google.

Somehow, the Love Inc. Ranch has come to be known as the 'fluffy bunny' ranch. I've heard it's not fluffy—all kinds of prostitution goes on there, even some of the more hard stuff—but it's nicer than most other places.

I bypass Vegas, veering onto an interstate and following it southeast. It's eight thirty, and I'm starting to get a serious case of belly bats (the unrelated more serious cousins of butterflies).

It takes me almost forty minutes to get past Vegas and into the dry, flat land to the southeast of the city. In that time, I manage to contain my excitement/horror/hysteria by clinging to the 'fluffy' part of this place's nickname. I think about sparkling fixtures; plush, animal skin rugs; gleaming hardwoods; gourmet foods; and beds so soft you might actually want to climb into them with a stranger.

I veer off the highway onto a smaller, freshly paved two-lane road, its dark asphalt gleaming in the glow of an almost-full moon. Suddenly there are lamplights, and although the land on either side of the road is reddish desert dirt, my GPS tells me I'm within eight miles of my final destination.

Holy belly bats!

I can't believe I'm actually doing this.

As I grip the wheel, I wonder who will greet me. Richard? The manager, Rachelle? What if it's Marchant? When I spoke to Richard this morning, he didn't say. Why didn't I ask?

I look down at myself. What if I'm not dressed right? Should I have worn a skirt or something? Maybe something more glam? Black slacks? My Manolos? I slow my car, pulling over on the side of the road, and reapply my lipstick. It's red, at least. That should be a good thing—I think.

As I flip my mirror shut, headlights, then tail-lights, wink past me. I recognize the shape of the vehicle: a limousine.

I pull back onto the road, excited and frightened to see that, just ahead, a billboard shines over the road.

I squint and slow down.

'Selling Scarlett'. And there I am, stretched out on my stomach, airbrushed and fake-tanned, but still very much the version of myself I was a few days ago when Richard asked me to send these pictures. I'm on a billboard, stamped with the Love Inc. Symbol.

Holy moly. Suri did a nice job posing me against white sheets in the great room. I don't even look like me. I look...like an escort.

My stomach clenches, and I try to feel okay about that. This is my choice, I remind myself. I'm doing this for Cross.

Another half-mile, and there's another Love Inc. billboard. This one features a stunning black-haired beauty with yellow eyes and a supple, suntanned body clad in jade green lace. She's opening a bedroom door, beckoning with her finger, the tiniest smile on her cat-like lips.

Another half-mile and another one. Except that this one has an arrow, pointing to a road that intersects this one. There’s a brick guardhouse, and metal arms blocking both the entrance and exit.

Oh my God. I'm really here.

I roll my window down with sweaty fingers, and the beautiful face that appears behind the glass is framed by long, curling red hair.

"Scarlett!" She grins. "You're the VIP tonight." She leans to the left, and a door behind her opens. Out steps a tall, bulky man with thinning brown hair and a devilish smile.

"Scarlett." He stretches his hand out the window
.

I grab it. "Richard." I recognize his voice.

"How do you like the sign?" he rumbles.

I blush. "It looked very...professional."

The redhead laughs. "Nice save." Her voice is kind. Warm. "I'm Marie V." She stretches out her hand, and I smell a pleasant scent that reminds me of sunlight and linen. "It's my off-night," she explains, "so I'm on booth duty for a few hours. The clients like being welcomed by a familiar face."

I nod, because my brain is blown. "Why don't you drive on through?” Richard says. “I've got you all set up for tonight. The valets will take your car and you'll be met in the doorway by some very friendly women who will help you get acquainted with the place."

Marie V. leans forward. "There's food, too. Make them take you to Alan, our cook-slash-guard. Or," her eyes gleam, "if he's already on his way back out here, just go grab a sweet roll. They're amazing."

She looks so mischievous, so gleeful, that I can't help smiling. "Thank you. I feel ten percent less nervous."

"Make it one-hundred," she says, and Richard chuckles.

"There's nothing to be nervous about, Scarlett. We don't bite—unless you ask."

I can barely think straight as I drive ahead, following a curl of asphalt that rolls through unnaturally green grass, beneath enormous trees between whose branches I can see the winking stars. Lamp posts line the road, but it's the greenery that really gets me.

It doesn't belong anywhere in the Midwest. In fact, it reminds me a little of New Orleans. Then I remember that Marchant Radcliffe went to Tulane—where he met Hunter—and I shake my head. Well, duh.