Selling Scarlett (9 page)

Her furrowed brows crease more deeply. "The old retreat?"

I nod. "Bought it off the Anglican church a few years back. Turned it into a quail hunt." She still looks wary, so I give her a little more. "Just being neighborly."

Her face is blank, and I can't tell what she's thinking. I wonder the odds of her having heard about my connection to Sarabelle's disappearance, and decide they're nil.

Next I think about that night on my bed: her head pressed into my pillow, her hair spread out around her face. The memory of it makes me hard, but then I remember how it ended, with Libby seeing me with Priscilla. Impotent rage washes over me, but I'm still hard as a damn diamond. I shift my weight; that makes it worse.

Libby's eyes are on mine, thankfully. "Well I'm okay," she tells me, tucking some hair behind her ear. A tiny pearl gleams from her earlobe, and I have the odd thought that I could buy her something so much bigger.

"I appreciate you stopping in to check on things, and I'm sorry you got an earful of my business." She waves at the kitchen doorway. “You're free to go.”

I don’t want to go. It’s that same strange draw I always feel toward this girl. For half a second, I want to put my arms around her and stroke that silky-looking hair and find out what she smells like. I can still remember how she tastes, but that night, I had Priscilla's noxious perfume in my nose.

I rub the bridge of it now, like maybe that'll make the memory go away.

"Really, I'm good here." She's got her hands on her hips, and I notice she's closer to the parlor door than she was when I looked away. For a fraction of a second, I allow myself to play out a fantasy. Libby runs and I bolt after her, capturing her upper arms and whirling her to face me. I plant my mouth over hers and press her gorgeous body against mine.

I can't contain a hungry smile, and Libby side-steps, now even closer to the parlor.

I arch a brow. "I make you nervous?"

She smiles smugly, and the nervousness I thought I saw looks more like impatience. "I have my black belt in Judo. Do you?"

A grin blossoms on my face, but my lips aren't sure what to do with it. It falls right off my face, and I press my mouth into a more familiar solemn line. I adjust the bill of my ball cap, feeling the weight of the last few months. "You'd be right to be nervous. That's a good thing. You never know whose room you could be wandering into."

"So that was your room.”

More statement than question, but I say, “Who’s asking?”

She looks at me strangely, and I realize I've become too paranoid.

"Sorry." I rub my brow, feeling frustrated and tired. "It's been a long...long week.”

I'm shuffling my feet, headed for the parlor, when her mouth does something soft. I want to kiss it. My cock twitches as she nods, like she's looking in a crystal ball and seeing every sleepless night and fucked up, dead end day that's led me here, to her kitchen. I'm trying to play superhero and it's just so stupid. I feel revulsion rise in my chest. Then she says, "I believe it." Her words are soft silk, and when they leave her ruby-colored lips, her radiant eyes are on me, gentle and perceptive.

It makes my throat tighten. I remember her that night at the party—the warmth of her, the weight of her. I need to leave, but I’m rooted to the kitchen floor.

Libby's eyes flicker to my clenched fists, and I imagine what I must look like: two-hundred-twenty pounds of head-fucked male, product of an escort and a professional asshole. But instead of bolting for the Mace, she tilts her head, regarding me like she would a puzzle. "Do you stay at the vineyard often?" she asks quietly.

"Sometimes." I'm not sure why she cares.

The corner of her mouth lifts, a lovely little half-smile that makes me wonder if she has any idea what effect she is having on me. "I'm sure you don't remember this, but you helped me fix my car once, years ago."

I nod, but I don't return her smile. Even then, when she was just a kid, I felt a pull, and the memory puts me off-balance.

She turns and walks into the parlor, and I follow her into the spacious room, decorated in dark browns and reds. She looks over her shoulder as she grabs her keys from a Victorian card table.

I can tell she's thinking about something. She hesitates before casting a troubled look into my eyes. "Did you do that to your room?”

"Do what?" I frown, annoyed at how I can't seem to make myself leave.

"At the party," she says. "Your room was a wreck."

I flinch at the memory, debating only briefly whether to be honest. "I was very angry that night." My voice is ultra-deep; husky. As I drink in Libby, I go back there.

I remember the sensation of choking—a sensation Priscilla sometimes likes to experience with a collar, or—so much worse—my hands around her neck.

I'm holding Libby's stare, hoping she'll see these things inside me and tell me to get going. I notice I'm holding my breath, waiting for her wary dismissal. Instead, her mouth softens again. I wait for her expression to morph into pity or sadness, but she looks serene. "I think there are two sides to you," she says quietly.

She must think one of my sides is a psychopath. At least she won't be disappointed if I ever become an official suspect in the escort disappearances.

Thinking of that, while looking at her delicate face, makes my heart pound uncomfortably, and I realize how afraid I am that it might come to that. I’m completely innocent, I remind myself, but I know better. There’s a common perception, partially true, that rich people are above the law. It’s true for a lot of us, but I have a feeling my notoriety could work against me. I’m the kind of guy prosecutors like to stick a case to. And I've got a dirty past.

Libby can read my mind. I think she can. Her eyes are latched to mine, and I can see my heaviness reflected on her face. She slides her hands into her pockets, stepping closer as she speaks. “What I mean is, most people only see what you want them to see. Like the night my mom’s Porsche broke down."

I remember that night. It was back when I was fucking an escort from Los Angeles. The sex was explosive, but I always felt like shit after, and I'd been relieved when my security manager interrupted over the intercom. A few minutes later, after pulling on some pants, I'd gotten my first glimpse of Elizabeth DeVille. She'd had her hair in a pony-tail that stuck up off the side of her head, and she'd been wearing short red shorts and a light blue tank top with a whale on it.

“You like whales?” I'd asked her when I finished with the car.

Her face had gone all soft and pretty, making me feel more like one-hundred-and-three than the twenty-three I was, and she'd shrugged. “Yeah, but not a lot more than any other animal. I just like saving things.”

The car was a piece of junk that likely wouldn't make it a hundred more miles, so I convinced her to spend the night in my guest house. After Marietta went to sleep I found myself sitting out by the swimming pool, hoping Elizabeth might wake up and come outside. It was ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. When I fell asleep in one of the plastic chairs, I dreamed of Libby DeVille holding my hand.

She's inches from me now, and she's reaching toward my face.

For a second, I feel a thrill of fear I haven’t felt since I was a boy. It settles deep inside my stomach, and I steel myself. Then her hand touches my shoulder, and I start to sweat from every pore.

Her free hand grabs one of mine, and she tugs me closer to her, closing the distance between our bodies with a gentle tug. I lean closer to her, moving in small jerks. I'm getting seriously dizzy, as her thumb touches me between my brows.

"I see a frown mark, though," she whispers, "right here." I blink, surprised to find the soft sensation makes my eyelids heavy.

"I thought you were upset that night," she murmurs as she strokes. "After..." She colors, and I blink my heavy lids.

"I could see you at the foot of the bed, and I was kind of worried for you. I don't know why, but something about you..." That frown is back, visible through my lashes, and someone is scooping out my insides. I feel gutless and emptied, like I might dissolve into a puddle at this woman's feet.

"Something about you just seems sad. I don't know what about poker-playing would make a man sad, but I'm watching these," she says, gently thumbing my frown lines one more time. "Try not to let them get any deeper."

I nod at her, feeling like I'm in a dream. As I'm walking out the door, I turn again, fighting a vision I have of kissing her mouth.

I take her porch stairs two at a time, and my knees ache from my misadventures with Priscilla. I swing into my F-250 and before I can get a handle on myself, my phone buzzes. Priscilla. Seeing her name on the screen is like jumping into icy water.

I hit the button to answer, but I can't bring myself to say 'hello'.

I can hear the static on the other end, static and the clinking sound of hooker heels. "Hunter?" she says; it sounds like the lash of a whip. "Where are you? I'm waiting."

"Keep waiting," I spit out.

"Believe me, I will. But you'll pay for this."

I grip the steering wheel and wonder if Sarabelle is dead already. I tell myself I’m playing this fucked up game for her. My past doesn't matter. If my father doesn't want word to get out—if he's worried about people finding out what happened to Rita—that's his problem. Christ knows it always has been.

I can hear Rita's low voice, a whisper in my memory where it should have been a scream, and for the briefest moment I can feel the sticky sweat I used to get when she was mad. I can hear her say, “You're trash, just like your mother.”

And I can see her crumpled in my arms, as her too-thin face turns white.

I lower the phone and I am punching the 'end call' button when I hear Priscilla on the line. Her voice is low and sultry, but it's wicked all the same, giving me flashbacks of being beholden to another evil bitch.

"I know where you are," she says. "And I don't like it."

Chapter Seven
~ELIZABETH~

I leave my mom's house feeling like a changed woman. It's dangerous for me, because it involves Hunter. I can't imagine what gave me the courage to be as candid with him as I was. It's true I'm not exactly shy, but this is Hunter, golden god, my oldest, only crush.

Maybe it was because he was intruding, technically; maybe it was that he heard me with dad and obviously got it. Regardless, in one fleeting interaction he went from Hunter West Fantasy to Hunter West Real Person, and the bad thing is, I like him more now.

I remember the sympathy in his tone when he asked about my dad. He cared that I was upset; at least that's the feeling I had in my gut. I could be wrong.

But not about the end, when we were in the parlor and he told me he'd been angry that night at the vineyard. I know I'm not wrong about that, and while I admit maybe I'm being self-indulgent, I feel like I can say almost for sure that what I saw wasn't really what was going on. Hunter seemed disgusted with himself when he looked at me. And tonight... He seemed protective. Kind. Not at all the kind of guy who gets off strangling porn stars.

I can hear Cross's voice in my head, telling me I don't know anything about Hunter, and I admit maybe I'm star struck. But I just don't think so.

I remember how he stilled under my fingers when I touched his face tonight. I remember the kiss he gave me that night, after…

If he's only a playboy, would he have been as nice as he was to me tonight?

Yes, idiot
. That's what puts the 'play' in playboy.

I sigh, because I can't heed my own warning, and all I can think about as I park in front of Crestwood Place is when I'll see Hunter again.

*

Saturday morning, I wake up early and drive into Los Angeles. I could have asked Arnold to take me, but seeing Cross for the first time at this new place is something I want to do alone. I've still got Hunter on the brain, so as I fly through the city, my mind is a tangle of feelings. Worry for Cross. Fear for how I'm going to get him out of this. Longing for his friendship. Hope that maybe when I get there, he'll be magically awake again.