Selling Scarlett (42 page)

Hunter looks over his shoulder. “Dave, Jake, Gilly, why don't you wait for me in the kitchen. My chef, Bernita, is there. She can feed you.”

“I'll show you the way,” I offer, as Hunter opens the door.

He smiles as he squeezes Dr. Bernard’s hand. “How can I help you, Libby?”

My jaw drops, and I almost run into the couch. That—Dr. Bernard is Libby? Someone kind from Hunter's past. Someone I remind him of. How weird is that?

I want to go upstairs, but I decide to wait for him outside his office. I won't get too close, just close enough so I can see him when he comes out. If I don't, I'm afraid I won't even get to say goodbye.

I'm not surprised to find the big, wooden doors shut, but I am surprised that Dr. Bernard's voice is coming from just inside the door. It's not loud, but it's crisp and clear. The woman has excellent enunciation, and I can hear every word. I take a step back, wanting to respect Hunter's privacy but then I hear “girl who disappeared” and my curiosity keeps my feet planted.

I inch closer, driven by curiosity over what happened to Hunter's former escort, and I can faintly hear Dr. Bernard say: “...looking back through some of my files. Quite a few women at the ranch were friends with Missy King. I trust you're familiar with what happened to her.”

“I am.”

“Yes, well I spoke with several of our escorts after she went missing. One of those women is still employed at the ranch, and she spoke with me yesterday about Sarabelle’s disappearance.”

“Do you have something?” Hunter asks. I’m shocked, because he sounds…almost desperate.

“I think so,” the doctor says. “One of the things that bothered her most was a connection she saw between Sarabelle’s disappearance and Missy’s. She said that Missy entered into a relationship with a man from San Luis months before she disappeared.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Jim Gunn. She’s sure.”

“How sure?”

There's a brief pause. “She seemed certain.”

Hunter is silent for a moment, and I would pay a lot to hear his thoughts. Eventually, he says, “Did she say anything else helpful?”

“Nothing that stood out, but if I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”

For a long second, no sound comes from the room.

Then I hear Hunter's voice. He sounds choked up as he says, “Thank you.”

“I know Marchant and you are looking into this on your own. He doesn't mind me telling you, he mentioned it during one of his sessions. I know you don't like that I moved West, and I know you don't like me knowing so many private things about your past. But I care for you, Hunter. I'm on your side, and I always was.”

I hear what sounds like a squeak from Dr. Bernard, and through the crack between the doors I can see Hunter's arms around her shoulders.

“Thank you, Libby.” His voice is low and sounds like it's coming from the back of his throat, and suddenly I understand the subtext here: Back in New Orleans, Dr. Bernard was Hunter’s shrink, too. Which is why she wants to help him now.

With questions spinning in my mind and an ache in my chest, I hurry toward the stairs.

*

I'm in the bedroom Hunter gave me, sipping a chilled latte I got from the refrigerator, when I hear footsteps coming down the hall. I've spent the last thirty or so minutes thinking over what Dr. Bernard said. Thinking about what Dr. Bernard knows. Thinking about how it all applies to Hunter. The truth is, I know so little I really can't even speculate. All I know for sure is Hunter's in a mess.

I sigh, and allow my mind to chew on other, more personal details. Like how his real mother was an escort. Rita, the woman I thought was his mother, died of cancer when Hunter was fourteen, but based on the conversation he had with his father, it sounds like there was no love lost between them. Was it Rita who hit him? Surely not. A well-bred woman from New Orleans wouldn't hit a young boy, would she? Maybe so. There are so many things I want to know—I want to know
everything
about Hunter—but he's up to his eyeballs in this awful situation, and if he wants me to leave so he can focus on getting all this figured out, I will.

I hear him turn the doorknob and my stomach aches. I don't want to go, though. I don't want to leave him here in this big house by himself. The thought that we might never share any time like this together again makes me feel terribly depressed, and the more I think about it, the more I think it's not just because Hunter is an unavailable male for me to idealize but never get to know. I
do
know Hunter now. And I like what I know.

He comes into the room, and as usual, I can't breathe for half a second. He's such a handsome man. It's not just his high cheekbones, or his beautiful, lash-framed cat eyes, or his soft, firm lips, or his messy, tug-able golden hair. It's the way he moves. The sound of his voice. The way he reaches out and touches my elbow. The way he looks at me with concern.

“How ya doing up here?”

I shrug. “I'm fine. How are you?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Just got a visit from an old friend.”

I smile. “I talked to her at the ranch. She's really nice.”

I'm surprised when his lips tuck up into a lazy grin. “I thought you might say that. You know, when we first met, you reminded me of her.”

I can barely contain my own silly grin. I love that I remind him of someone who cares about him. “Oh yeah?”

“Yep. You're both...just really nice.”

I smile, and I love the way his eyes caress my face. “I think you're the nice one, Mr. Southern Gentleman.” I take his hand and pull him close. His other hand curls around a piece of my dark hair.

“You think I'm a gentleman?” he smirks, then kisses me soft and low. His eyes burn when he pulls away.

“I want a rain check,” I murmur.

“What do I get when you cash it?”

I stroke my finger down his chest. “You get what you paid for.”

I'm shocked when he pulls me close. His arms close hard and firm around my back, and his face is buried in my hair. “I already got it and more.”

He holds me for the longest time, and I hold him. My eyes are hot with tears.

“I wish things weren't like this,” I whisper.

After I say this, my heart pounds. I've never been so open with anyone, and if Hunter sees me as nothing but a bed buddy, I think my heart will break in two. I'm holding my breath when he says, “So do I.”

My voice cracks when I start to speak. “Will you call me sometime soon?”

“As soon as I can.”

I look up at him, and I'm surprised to see the sadness in his green eyes. He's still got one arm around my back; the other hand is smoothing my hair off my forehead.

“I could stay here with you,” I say. “I don't mind if you're busy getting everything sorted out.”

He slowly shakes his head. Before I can argue, he brings a finger to my lips. Then his mouth meets mine for a kiss so gentle it makes me shiver. “I won't forget this.”

I nod. “I'm going to miss you.”

Half an hour later, I'm gone.

Chapter Thirty-Seven
~ELIZABETH~

“Seriously, Lizzy. You just can't make this stuff up.” Suri looks at me from behind the wheel of her lavender Land Rover. We're driving on the lonely, two-lane roads between Crestwood Place and Napa Valley Involved Rehab, and I've just finished my story—or at least, the censored version. Suri doesn't know all the heavy details, and she probably never will, which kind of sucks, because I don't think she has any clue how ripped up I am over leaving Hunter.

This is confirmed when she shakes her head in wonder. “Do the girls from the ranch know yet? That it didn't happen?”

“Yet?” I snort. “You think I'm just going to call and tell them? No way.” Sarabelle's funeral is today. I'm sure they're all too busy to care about how my sex life isn’t going.

“Are you going to tell the truth if one of them asks you?”

“I don't know.” I look out the window, at the bleak gray day. “I can't see myself lying, but it is kind of embarrassing.”

“I don't think so. I think it sounds like he really likes you, Liz.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” It's been three days, and I haven't heard a word from Hunter. With every hour that passes, I worry that he was too gentlemanly to take my V-card, but his care never quite reached the next level.

He's got his own life and I've got mine. Yeah, he has a vineyard home, but that doesn't mean he has time for or interest in having a California girlfriend. “There's no question, we have chemistry, but chemistry isn't everything.”

“Isn't it?” Suri murmurs.

And I know she's referencing Adam and her. She hasn't talked about it much, but her sadness is obvious.

I check my phone's screen—I'm pathetic, and have put Hunter's name into a search engine's alert system, so I'll know if anything about him is published online. Nothing new has popped up, not even news of his next tournament.

I slide my phone between my thighs and try to think of something non-Hunter-related. “I want to hear more about you and Cross.”

It's an intentional turn of phrase, because I think there's something going on, even though Suri won't spill.

She shrugs. “We've been hanging.”

I haven't had a chance to visit Cross yet, unbelievably. My first day back, Mom's rehab called and wanted me to do a discharge visit. It actually went better than they usually do. Mom looked more fit and happy than I've ever seen her. They’ve got her on a new antidepressant, and I'm trying to be positive about her recovery. I even stayed the night in one of the guest rooms at the 'spa'—where I lay awake on my little cot half the night, combing Google for news about Hunter or the investigation into Sarabelle’s death. The next day, yesterday, Cross got a visit from his father, so I couldn't visit then, either.

“I can't wait to hear how the visit with his father went,” Suri says. “I hope he wasn’t an asshole to Cross.”

“I hope so too.” I try to squash the awful curiosity about what Hunter's father said—about the governor—but I can't. So I look out the window and focus on the grass and trees.

A few minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of NVIR and I start getting butterflies. “Are you sure he doesn't mind if I come?”

It seems ridiculous asking. Cross has always been more my friend than Suri’s. But I’m struggling with the feeling that in just two weeks, Suri has taken my place.

“Of course, you silly goose. He's dying to see you and hear how your 'class trip' went.”

“Ugh. I hate having to lie to him.”

“ Are you actually going to write about it for school?” she asks as we get out of the car.

“I don't know. Maybe. Probably.”

We're quiet as we walk through the door, and there's Nanette. She's got her long brown hair pulled up into a pretty bun, and she's wearing purple scrubs. She reaches out her arms for me, and I'm kind of surprised, and kind of thrilled.

“Nanette. Long time!”

“Too long. How are you?”

“I'm good,” I say. It only feels a little like a lie.

“That's great.”

“How is Cross?”

“He's up and moving. He shaved today and he's been playing games on my cell phone. He's still having some trouble with his left hand and leg, but we’re seeing improvement in the leg.”