Selling Scarlett (41 page)

He nods, and I can't help myself. “So she's framing you. Blackmailing you or something.”

He starts the movie and pulls me into his lap, in one of the recliners. I'm surprised, but I adore the closeness. “Don't worry about me,” he says as I settle against his chest. “And please, don't ever be afraid of me. You know...I still remember the first night I ever saw you.”

“You had a woman over.”

“An escort.”

I frown, wondering about his mother. She was an escort, or so his father said. “Do you only like escorts? Is that why you're not having sex with me?”

“I have sex with escorts because they don't want anything. Remember? I'm a no strings attached kind of guy.”

“You seem like you would make a good boyfriend,” I say, stroking his arm. Not that I can really say, having even less experience in relationship matters. “I mean, if you found the right person.”

He’s silent for a second, and I kick myself for being so obvious.

Eventually, he says, “I think ultimately I just can't take that risk.”

He kisses my temple. I snuggle up to him as the movie starts to play, and want to cry.

*

~HUNTER~

Libby falls asleep against my chest sometime before the credits roll, and I carry her to my bed. Then I discuss the Priscilla incident with Hal, who doubles as my driver as well as my head of security. It seems at some point Priscilla—or one of her friends—rewrote my system’s security protocols to admit her 24/7. Hal has reset the system, and he’s called in his brothers, Jake and Gilly. I have him post both outside my door.

As I dress, I think about everything that's transpired between Libby and I. Everything that's been said. And I wish, for the first time, that I was a free man. Really free. I wish that I could have her. Not just for a night. She's not that kind of woman. And the crazy thing is, when I'm with her, I'm not that kind of guy.

I think about all the food I cooked for her for breakfast. I never cook. I never want to. But I want to feed Libby. I think about how I let her touch me with her eyes open. I let her look at me, and I didn't feel anxious like I do with other women. In fact, it's the opposite; I like looking into her blue eyes. I think about her up there in my bed, and I'd give anything to be there with her. Kiss her. Fuck her. Fly around the world with her. I'd like to take her to New Zealand. The Alps. Some place that's as beautiful as she is.

Instead, I get my gun and call Marchant to see if any of our people have a lead on Priscilla’s location. He tells me no one has she's still M.I.A.—so I head out to try to find her. I check out with Hal and open my front door, already thinking about how I'll get the little recorder stashed in my glove box and put it in my pocket, just in case I actually find Priscilla and can get her talking.

I lock the door, turn around, and jump as a slender arm encircles my waist.

“Hunter.”

Priscilla!
Now that's a surprise. She’s standing in the nook where a huge potted palm blooms, right beside my door. The porch light is on, and in the amber glow, her hair looks white, her eyes almost black.

“Priscilla,” I growl. I want to throttle her right here and now, but I need the recorder to make any of this worth while. I push her against the side of the house, pressing my palm against her ribcage, and look into her coy face. “You and I need to go talk. Somewhere not here.”

I guess she sees the rage twisting my face, because her eyes widen, and she arches up against the stone wall. “I didn't pick you, Hunter,” she says quickly. I try not to let my surprise show as she leaps right into a confession. “Not for anything but sex. I wanted you beside me on screen. We look great together. That’s all I cared about.”

“So it was all Lockwood?” I murmur.

She leans up to kiss me, but I move my hand from her chest to her throat. “Don't try that shit,” I hiss.

She sticks her hands up like I'm holding her at gunpoint. She’s worried, and I’ve never seen her worried. Is this a game? Why is she here? Why is she talking? “He knew I had drugged you that night, and he wanted to fuck Sarabelle. She never took him as a client. He didn't like that.”

“So he—what? What did he do to her?” I need to know, but I don’t want to know, and that just stokes my anger. I wrap my fist around Priscilla's blouse and tug her down the stairs, toward my truck. She slips and falls, but I'm not thinking clearly. I don't care if she gets scraped up. I jerk her forward.

“Hunter, stop!” She shrieks, and it's loud enough to wake the fucking dead. “Listen to me! Listen to me!” She wraps her arms around a rock that's in the flower bed by the bottom stair and looks up at me with her mouth hanging half open. “I can't control what he does, Hunter!”

“What did he do?” I growl.

“He slipped into the room. She was asleep and you were out. I think he knocked her out and then he—” She swallows. “It's disgusting—I know it is, but I had nothing to do with it!”

“And then what?” “You can't expect me to tell you anything extra,” she says, haughty again. “You've made your bed, and now you'll have to lie in it.
You
took her out to the car and put her in! I asked you to, and you did it without question!”

“No I didn't.” That's ridiculous. “I would never do anything like that! You're a goddamned liar.”

“You did it,” she snaps.

“Because I was fucking drugged!” I lunge down and grab her by the wrists, dragging her toward my truck.

“I recorded you on my camera phone, and I’ve already delivered a copy of the file to Lisa from the FBI. She has your cuff link, too! Did you know that? And your real mother? Roxanne the escort?
The Los Angeles Times
knows about her, too. In fact, about now they should be learning a lot about you, Hunter West. I came upon a whole stockpile of your history.”

“You
bitch
.” I want to slap her, but I'm so shocked, my hands stop working and I let her go.

She dances out of reach, blonde hair flying around her face. “It was so easy,” she laughs. “What I told you was true—we didn’t plan this. But Lockwood has a cousin on the police force. Once he heard that they were really going to make a case out of this, he remembered how you helped us that night and he reached out to me. At that point I was pissed off.” She gestures at her body, laughing shrilly. “If you think you're too good for me, I'm too good to help you, so I helped him set you up.”

I lunge forward, grabbing her wrist, and she shrieks again as I drag her toward my truck. “Let me go!”

I fumble with the “unlock” button on my key as I try to keep her talking. “I still don’t understand why you’re helping him at all.”

“Who?”

“Lockwood! Are you in love with him?” I know she's not before she snorts, and I'm correct that the ridiculous question will elicit an elaboration.

“In love with that disgusting boar? Of course not!”

I swing the door open, tightening my grip around Priscilla's forearm. I'm going to get this shit recorded if it kills me.

“So it's the governor,” I murmur as I jerk her toward the cabin.

She shrieks and starts to go ape-shit, kicking at my crotch and biting at my arm. “LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!”

“No,” I growl. I throw her skinny ass into the front seat and Priscilla starts to claw at me. As I try to climb in behind her, planning to hold onto her arm until we take off driving, she pulls a can of Mase and sticks it in my face. I move so fast I'm out of the car before Priscilla can get her balance back; she tumbles out into the dirt.

As she gets to her feet, I try to grab her again, but she slaps me in the face, and I go reeling back.

“You can't win this, you stupid motherfucker. It's got roots you can't imagine, and you're the FBI's suspect number one. That's what I came to tell you!” She takes off into the lawn, her hair trailing behind her as she dashes to her Camaro. She stops mid-way. “You know, I am a little sorry, Hunter. Good men don't belong in prison.” She shrugs. “Guess that's what happens when you fuck hookers. Even virgin ones.”

“If you touch her, I will kill you slowly,” I warn.

She laughs, throwing back her head. “What a great idea.” She waves, and she's walking around her car—gone, and my opportunity is lost.

Chapter Thirty-Six
~ELIZABETH~

I wake up the next morning feeling like something is missing. I roll over in my cozy bed, and that's when I notice where I am.
Holy crabcakes, I'm in Hunter's room!
That makes me grin into the pillows. My smile slips a little when I realized I’m in it alone, and it goes away completely when I remember that today's the day I promised I would leave.

And I’m leaving a virgin.

I don’t want to leave, and not just because I still have my V-card. I don’t want to leave Hunter. He needs me right now—I feel certain he does. I roll over in the sheets, inhaling his scent, and I have to swallow back a sob. If I leave now, we might never spend this kind of time together again. And what about the trouble Hunter's in? Who's going to help him?

I go into my room, check to see if there's a text from Suri—there's not—and then I slide into a red dress and pin my hair back with red barrettes. I check my phone again, not quite ready to leave the room and set this day in motion. The clothes I slept in still smell like Hunter, so I bring them to my nose. How am I ever going to get over him? How will I forget any of this? Not just the experience with Hunter, but the dark story weaving itself around him. Sarabelle, Priscilla, the governor? I want to know more—for Cross's sake, and for Hunter’s—but I can’t ask.

I leave the room without zipping my bags. I inhale deeply when I reach the stairs, praying I'll smell breakfast—but there is nothing in the air except the smell of cleaner and hardwood. Where is Hunter? Is he even here?

I'm headed to his study, not sure exactly what I'll find. As soon as I reach the first floor, the doorbell rings. Doorbells at odd times remind me of the accidents my mom has had—accidents or incidents in which the cops showed up at our house. So hearing it now stops me in my tracks.

I look around.

It rings again.

I step over to the hallway that leads to Hunter's study. “Hunter?” I call. Surely a house like this has speakers in most rooms; in fact, I think I've seen them.

The doorbell rings again, and I step slowly to the glass panes surrounding the doors. Against my better judgment, I peek out. I'm shocked to find the person on the porch is Dr. Bernard. I clutch my stomach as my panic soars. She can only be here for me. Did something happen to my mother?

Without a second thought, I unlock the door and pull it open.

I'm holding my breath, bracing myself for her news, when she reaches her hand out to me like she wants to shake mine. Her face is curious, not grave.

“I'm surprised to find you here, Elizabeth. How are you?”

“I'm surprised to find you here,” I manage. I suck a deep breath in. “Are you here to see me?”

“Actually I'm not.” She smiles, a little awkward, but friendly. “Would you mind letting Hunter know I'm here?”

My stomach clenches—maybe because I can’t imagine why she’s here. “Uh…one second.” I shut the door in her face without even thinking of asking her in. As soon as I turn around, Hunter is there. He's wearing black jeans and a brown shirt, and he looks pissed off. Behind him are four other men, all beefy, with guns on their belts. They definitely don’t look like cops.

“Is that Elizabeth Bernard?” he asks, frowning.

“Yes. She says she wants to see you.”

He nods, looking kind of dazed. “I was in a meeting. I thought you would be sleeping.”

One of the men—they are all still standing in a row beside the stairs—tips a baseball cap at me, and I say, “That's okay. I only answered because I thought she was here for me.”