Selling Scarlett (31 page)

"Stick in your arms," he says, a little gruff.

I do, and he turns me to face him. That heaviness is still there. His eyes look desperate; they make me feel itchy.

"Let’s go.”

His voice is still rough, and I think about saying something sarcastic. I would have, if we were doing this at a party, or dare I dream it a date, or any other social function that didn’t involve him paying me $10 million to have sex with him. As it is, I’m not sure how to act.

Eventually, I decide to salute him. I’m reaching all the way back to middle school for this one. "Yessir," I say smartly, snapping my feet together.

"Damn right," he mutters as he opens the door for me.

I step into the hall to find my girl posse waiting with hugs for both Hunter and me. The only Hunter hug I see, as I'm pulled into embrace after embrace, is the one between him and Loveless. She pulls him close, cradling his nape with her long fingers, and my heart bursts into jealous flames. The flames are quickly extinguished as I see her hug him tightly around the back. Hunter flinches. It's a barely there motion, subtle enough that I'm probably the only one who notices it. His arm, wrapped loosely around her waist, stiffens, falling down beside his leg.

She hugs him once more, and I see him push his face into her shoulder. Then I'm swept up by Juniper, who gives me a crushing hug. Loveless joins after a minute.

"Take good care of him, and yourself, too."

I hug her hard, and then Hunter is there beside me, offering his arm. As we move toward the side door, crowded by the laughing, hooting girls, and Hunter wraps an arm around my waist, I can't help feeling just a little like we're bride and groom. Which is ridiculous. So, so silly. And feels more so as we burst through the door into a ring of guards. I feel Hunter's arms around me, guiding my steps, and then he's picking me up. I feel his feet leave the ground and I'm aware we've moved into a car.

He tucks me close, under his rock-hard arm, and leans up. "Drive," he tells someone.

I feel the car lurch forward and hear the familiar whirring sound of the thick, plastic partition going up between the front of an Escalade limousine and the back. Seconds later, the hood is pulled gently off my head, and I'm staring into Hunter's green cat eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Eight
~HUNTER~

I've gone and done it now. Lost my fucking mind. When Marchant started acting sketchy on the phone last night, I didn't know what the hell was going on, but then I remembered those billboards on the way to the ranch, and how I always get a giant hard-on when I see that woman's curves. I got a sick idea and when I really lit into March, he gave the old tired “I’m not going to say yes or no”, and for Marchant that's always a “Yeah, Bro!”

Libby DeVille—virgin for sale.

I had half a mind to punch Marchant out until I realized what a hypocrite I was being. Well, until he pointed it out—that I myself pay for escorts, and what's different about Libby and those girls?

The answer: a thousand fucking things, and nothing at all. Is it wrong for me to make a distinction? Maybe, but I don’t care. I stayed angry, and tonight, when I saw her wearing red, all that long dark hair splayed across the bed, it was like a holy vision. Except we weren’t in heaven. We were in a fancy brothel, and there were a dozen other men with the same view I had—and they didn't deserve to be there. I know I didn't either, but this world's imperfect, and I couldn't stand to see her with somebody else.

So I bid on her.

I piled cash all the way to the ceiling for her, but now that I’ve won I'm wondering what the hell I'm gonna do with her. I don’t plan to make her fulfill her contract, obviously… I know, I've had a lot of sex with escorts, but Libby isn't an escort. If she fucks me, it'll be because she wants to.

Hal pulls away from the curb, and there’s an obvious question in Libby’s ocean-colored eyes, like she has no idea why I'm so riled up. She folds her arms over her middle, looking gorgeous with her hair rolling in waves over her shoulders. "I wish I understood what's going on with you."

I grit my teeth. The feeling is mutual. “Why did you do this?"

"Do what?" She crosses her legs, and I can see every line of her under the snug jacket I borrowed from Loveless.

I scowl, because I’m not in a game-playing mood. “Pursue your PhD,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. “What do you think?”

She's looking down at her hands, but her spine is stiff. She's got her hackles up. Her eyes rise to mine and I find her face blank. "I did it because I needed the money. Are
you
going to get all judgy?"

Me who just paid for her. Me who, I assume she knows, visited Love Inc. almost daily for several years. Of course I don’t judge her for the idea, but the execution…well, stupid, even if she doesn’t know that.

I shudder to think who she could have ended up with. I also don’t understand why she’s so hard up. "I know the value of your mother's home. Why not just sell it?" I rub my dry eyes.

“It’s in my dad’s name.”

I frown. “You must have had some other means. Some kind of trust fund—”

"Hunter," she cuts me off, quiet but firm, "you're not my keeper."

I inhale deeply, rubbing a hand across my face. I like the way my name sounds coming from her mouth. I think about the way she looked, lying on that bed, and I'm hard again in an instant, even as she gives me a wide-eyed, serious look.

"I hope you didn't bid on me out of some misplaced feeling of responsibility." Her eyes drop, then raise to meet mine, and I can sense a rallying as she squares her shoulders slightly. "Why did you bid on me?"

My answer won't do, so I ignore her question. "Do you realize anyone could have won?"

"Anyone without a criminal record," she corrects. "And yes."

"Do you know who the runner-up was?" The runner up was Alexander Halford, a weasel corporate attorney who's fifty-five and only fucks women in their '20s.

She lifts her shoulders, staring straight ahead, at the limousine’s divider wall. "I don't care."

"Such trust in the world." Even to my own ears, I sound like a caricature of some cynical old man, but I don't give a shit. Looking her over, imagining Halford's hands on her, I feel another wave of rage.

"Trust or apathy?" She arches a brow. "It's just sex, and it's just one time. I wanted what could be done with the money badly enough that it didn't matter who the winning bidder was."

My dick twitches, and I scoot a little farther away from her. "You're helping your friend, the Carlson boy." Remembering that day in court, I grit my molars. I'm probably about to stick my foot in my damn mouth again, so it's a good thing she cuts me a fed-up look and signs.

"Why I want the money is no one's business but mine."

I snort. "I was in the courthouse that day. Unless you've got something else in the works..."

Her mouth tucks up, the little minx. "Maybe I do."

I turn toward her, wanting her to understand this. I pin her with my eyes and turn my gaze on high. "You can't trust just anyone. And definitely not a man that’s going to pay millions to have sex with you?"

"I have guards," she points out.

"Yeah, and you dismissed them to come with me. How well do you think you know me, Libby?"

She surprises me by reaching out and touching my shoulder. "Well enough to know you're tired and grumpy, and your back's still sore." She sighs. "I know I don't know you very well, but am I really supposed to worry you're some kind of villain?"

“I'm a recovering addict who visits brothels and has a penthouse at a casino. You've seen me fucking a porn star—not too easy, either. You're riding an awful fucking lot on intuition.”

"And you’re not telling me anything I don’t know," she murmurs. She looks away from me, and guilt grabs me by the throat. Guilt that I've treated her the way I have.

I sigh into my hands. Lift my head. Meet her eyes. "The other night at the Joseph—"

"Doesn't need to be rehashed. Seriously, Hunter," she says calmly. "There was nothing complicated about that, so why make it complicated now?"

Now I do snort. I'd hate to see her version of complicated. I wonder if the mess I'm in up to my ears would qualify. Probably so, I think grimly.

She sits back against the heated seat, and I wonder how anything with us could ever be anything but fucking complicated. I can't help being hard as a rock, sitting this near to her. All that long brown hair, that gorgeous face, the way she smells, like cinnamon and vanilla—delicious.

I'm silent as we roll toward Batshit Ranch. Not counting Priscilla, who comes by uninvited, I've never brought a woman here before.

*
~ELIZABETH~

I feel like I’ve fallen through the rabbit hole.

I’m sitting by Hunter on a plush, heated bench seat inside his stretch Escalade. We are rolling past fortress-like houses and sprawling, landscaped lawns, on our way to his ranch. He's been quizzing me about my choices, like a...well, I'm tempted to say a jealous boyfriend, except I know there's no way Hunter West is jealous over me.

I pull the coat closer around myself and wish I was wearing something different underneath. I think of what I just told him, about how our last encounter was no big deal. I wonder what it means that he wanted to talk about it.

Now that I’ve had some time to digest, I'm incredibly glad it's Hunter I wound up with. I can't account for what he does with other women—especially Priscilla Heat—but he's never been anything but gentle with me, and I can't picture him being different tonight.

I slide a glance his way, admiring his body in those tight, black clothes. My God, he looks amazing. Sex on a stick.
I'm going to be having sex with him!
I shiver a little, and Hunter puts his hand on my knee. "Cold?"

"I'm okay."

He pushes a button on his door, and I feel more heat coming from the vents.

"Thank you."

He doesn't speak, but he seems to notice that his hand is still on my knee. He lifts his palm up, looking kind of confused, like he's not sure how it got there. We endure a few more minutes of weird silence before the limo passes through massive, iron gates and starts rolling down a long driveway. A few hundred yards later, I see a huge, stone house surrounded by big, lush oak trees. We turn into a circle drive and park between a fountain and the bib-shaped stairs.

Hunter is out before I am, coming around to my side and opening the door before the driver can reach me.

His hand in mine feels warm and rough. He tugs me gently toward the stairs before he stops, cupping my cheek with his other hand, looking contrite. "Libby, I know I've been a dick tonight, but...I don't want you to worry. I'll make sure you're comfortable with our arrangement."

"Thanks." It sounds awkward, but then I am awkward. What does he mean, make sure I'm comfortable? It's sex, not a bikini waxing. Is he talking about how much it hurts the woman when the hymen rips?

My stomach is clenched hard when he tucks an arm around my shoulders, and then we're going up the stairs. He pushes through the double doors and leads me into a massive foyer, with gorgeous, hardwood ribbon stairs curling up to a second-floor, a massive wood-carved chandelier with dancing gas flames, and a marble tabletop with a curved, scroll mirror that rises toward a vaulted ceiling.

"Wow—it's beautiful."

I feel a little embarrassed as I say it—a little bourgeoisie—but this is Hunter; he's seen my mom's 1990s kitchen, and I know he knows about my family's financial woes.

His hand around mine tightens. "Decorator.” In the dancing light of the chandelier, his face looks beautiful and hard. "Are you hungry?"