Selling Scarlett

  “Jesus, Libby. This is so damn hot.”

  He slides a finger in and I'm clinging to his shoulders as he rocks his hips into my thigh. I can feel his swollen length, and I want it inside me.

  “Hunter,” I pant. I want to tell him what I need but I can't find my voice.

  *

  ~HUNTER~

  I shouldn't take this any further, but her mouth on mine is so soft, it's like a vindication. Her hands, reaching for my cock and stroking through my jeans, are so damn tender. I can't resist this woman. I lean down and taste her salty sweetness with my lips and tongue, showing her just how hungry I am.

  When she cums, she screams, then pushes herself up on one arm, leaning her forehead against my shoulder. I'm astonished when I realize she's not leaning on me; she's trying to reach past my torso.

  “Why are you doing this?” I grate out as she works my zipper.

  “I don't know.” She laughs. “I'm crazy, I think. Every time I see you, I...”

  “You what.” I grab her chin, because I want to hear this, and I want to see her eyes when she says it.

  “Every time I see you I want you,” she whispers. “Ever since I was sixteen.”

  “The Porsche?”

  She nods, and I kiss her mouth. She kisses me back with all her might. She ends up on top of me, pulling my jeans off like a sexy-crazed nymph. The denim rubs my cock and I'm at full-mast, pushed painfully into my boxer-briefs. She yanks them off, pops me into her mouth, and I groan. I want to ask her if she's sure, but my ass is rising off the floor and I can't keep from pumping my hips. Her hands are...God. “Yes, there!” She's gliding over my balls and pumping my cock and licking my head and—

  I come fast and hard, pulling out of her mouth only just in time.

  She grins, and I push my tired self up to kiss her lips.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ~ELIZABETH~

  I don't think I've ever seen anything hotter than Hunter's face as he comes. But in the seconds after he finishes, I'm worried again. He grabs a towel off a bench and cleans us up, and then he pulls me to my feet and hands me my clothes—and he's gentle, with his eyes on me as we both dress, clearly concerned about whether I enjoyed myself.

  I look into his eyes and tell him, “That was wonderful.”

  “Good,” he says. But the little smile he gives me doesn't reach his eyes at all. He looks distracted. Worried, even. Like maybe he regrets what happened. And why wouldn't he, says a little voice inside my head. He told you to leave, Lizzy—and you didn't.

  I'm staring at the floor, trying to decide what to do next without making all this ten times more awkward, when he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Want to go upstairs?”

  “Of course.”

  There's no smile from him, no sign at first that he's relived or happy that I'm still around. But after we step off the elevator onto the main floor, he wraps his arm around my shoulder as we walk toward the staircase. Every time our sides and hips bump, I feel a bolt of lightning jolt my body.

  He loosens his grip on me a little as we take the stares, but we're still close. His eyes glide over me. He looks pensive. “I want you to get a shower.”

  Oh no. He's sending me away now.

  I swallow, because I don’t trust myself not to make embarrassing noises. If he wants me to leave, I need to go.

  “Okay,” I say quietly.

  He holds out his hand, and for a second, I'm confused. “I didn't think about this when I touched you, but my hands are bloody.”

  Panic flashes through me. “Are you positive for something?”

  “No. I'm not. Just…I thought you might like to clean it off.”

  He says nothing more as we make our way through his room into and his massive bathroom, done in sleek whites and grays.

  There's a shower, which I figure he will turn on, but instead he reaches over the square gardener's tub and turns the knob. He turns around and pulls some bottles from a cabinet, squirting something from one of them into the tub as it fills.

  “Take as long as you want,” he tells me. He sits a towel and a wash cloth on the tub's edge, and then he disappears, closing the door behind him.

  What the heck? I strip out of my clothes and hop into the bath only as a courtesy to Hunter. I don't feel dirty, and I don't want to sit in here by myself, curious about what's going on inside his head, but maybe he has a thing about cleanliness.

  I take the world's shortest soak bath, and as I reach for my towel, I notice the mess of fluffy, black terrycloth isn't all towel. There's a robe there, too.

  I bring it to my nose and a quick sniff reveals it's Hunter's. It smells like shaving cream, deodorant, and Hunter. As I slide it on my damp body, I actually shiver.

  Holy wow.

  After only a moment's deliberation, I use a comb on the counter to brush my hair and then I gather my dirty clothes into a bundle and walk into Hunter's bedroom. It's been entirely put to rights—by Hunter while I bathed, or by a housekeeper, I'm not sure; I was so focused on Hunter I didn’t pay attention to the room when we passed through it before.

  I don't see Hunter, but then he taps me on the shoulder, and I realize I passed him. He's sitting with his back against the wall, just outside the bathroom.

  “Hi.” Despite the weirdness of our circumstances, I can't help but smile.

  “Hi.” He returns the smile, but his is weary. I jerk my thumb toward the still-steaming bathroom. “You should shower, too.” He's sweaty and his hands are still bloody. “I bet you'd feel better.”

  He shakes his head and pushes up off the floor. His green eyes meet mine and hold. “Libby, I'm worried about you. Priscilla is used to getting what she wants, and she won't like it that you're here. Will you please go?” For the first time, I can tell he doesn't want me to. When he asks me to leave, he's frowning, and there's a crease between his eyebrows. His body is tense, like he's waiting for a blow.

  “So you know Priscilla came by?”

  Something flickers over his face, but I'm not sure what it is. “Hal told me. I'm sorry you had to deal with that. It's bullshit. Just another reason now would be a good time for you to leave.”

  “I want to stay. Just one night with you.” I pause only for a minute before pinning my heart right to my sleeve. “Consider it my fantasy come true.”

  The lines between his brows deepen, and he gives me a questioning look, but that's it. No words. My Lord, this man is pensive.

  I grab his forearm and tug lightly. “Come into the bathroom with me. I want to help you wash your hands.”

  “I can do it,” he says softly.

  I run my fingers over his. “You need to put some gauze on them.”

  I catch a flicker of something on his face that I think might be embarrassment, but it's gone just as fast, and for a long moment as he gets a First Aid kit from a cabinet, he's Hunter West, the enigma/fantasy/unattainable.

  When he's back in range, I put my hands on his smooth shoulders and urge him onto the side of the tub. “Sit.” I grab a chair from behind me and pop open the kit.

  Cleaning his fists is surprisingly intimate. It makes my belly clench, not because he's beautiful—and he is, especially with his torso bare—but because I feel so much for him.

  I run a damp towel over his right hand, and I'm hit with the memory of Loveless telling me about the Hunter she found in Sarabelle's room that night. “Don't look at me...” I frown. Didn't she say he was holding his cheek? His words from the conversation with his father ring in my mind. “I'm not the one who hit a little fucking kid!”

  My stomach clenches. I have so many questions, but I have to wait until the right moment. He still seems edgy, uncomfortable, as I wrap gauze around his palm, so I want to keep it light for now. I briefly meet his gaze. “When's your next tournament?”

  “Supposed to be in two weeks.”

  “Do you split your time pretty evenly between here and your vineyard?”

  He shakes his head. “I pref
er the vineyard. When I can be there.”

  Which I hope is a lot. I’m practically gleeful when I think of him being so close.

  I glance up at him as I switch hands, and I find him looking down at me through long, dark eye-lashes. His face looks so handsome, it’s hard to think about anything else. take a deep breath as I tie off the gauze around his left wrist. “I was wondering...how do you think Sarabelle ended up with your cufflink?”

  He locks his jaw. “Do you really want to hear this?”

  Still sitting on a chair in front of him, I nod. “I know that you're not guilty, Hunter. Not only do I not think you would do something like this, but you didn’t sound guilty on the phone, and no one at Love Inc. thinks you are. Those three things are good enough for me.”

  He rubs a hand back through his hair. “I don't want to drag you into this.”

  “Is it because you don't trust me?”

  “No. It's because I'm worried for you.” He doesn't meet my eyes, but he does take my hand and lead me next door. On the way, he grabs an undershirt from his drawer and slides it on.

  When we get into my room, he says, “Let me help you pack. I don't know who might show up here. It's not a good place for you to be right now.” He presses a kiss on my cheek. “Libby, you've done enough, and I appreciate it. What I'd like best is for you to go home and don't worry about me.”

  “I'll go tomorrow if you still think I should. But for tonight let's just talk, or...I don't know. Watch movies or something.”

  He gives me a skeptical sort of look. “Watch movies?”

  “I bet you have a hell of a home studio somewhere in here.”

  “And if the cops show up and take me off in handcuffs?”

  “I'll post your bail.” I smirk a little. “I have the money.”

  I start to fold and organize my clothes, which are laid out by outfit all over the room, and Hunter leans against the bed. It's a little awkward, but also kind of companionable. “I'm surprised you went to a brothel for sex,” I say after a few minutes.

  “Are you?” he smiles a little ruefully.

  “You could get it on your own.”

  “True. But I'm emotionally detached. Women don't like that.”

  “Do you really think so?” I don't see him that way at all.

  He shrugs. “They want more. Most people do.”

  “No, I meant why do you see yourself that way?”

  He shrugs. “Nurture shaping nature.” One eyebrow lifts when he sees my face. “You look surprised.”

  “I am,” I say, sticking the last of my stray outfits into my suitcase. “I don't see you that way at all.”

  He presses his lips together in an expression I can't read. “That's because I'm not, with you.”

  I link my arm through his, and we take the elevator up to the third floor. and make our way into his movie room. He's still got my hand laced through his arm, but when we get into the vast room with its rows of black leather recliners, he lets go of me and waves at the cabinets on the wall. “You pick something. I need to call Marchant, okay?”

  I nod. “I need to make a call, too.”

  We go into separate corners. Suri tells me Cross is calmer now, wants to see me, and insists he's right about someone trying to kill him that night at Hunter's party. I tell her I'll be back tomorrow.

  Hunter walks over to me, his hands in his pockets. “Something...um, happened. Having to do with the situation you heard my father mention. If they don't get it straightened, I might have to go out and help.”

  “Who's they?”

  “Marchant and I have a team of private investigators, looking into what happened to Sarabelle.”

  I nod slowly. “I see.” Before I can ask him another question, he arches his brows and asks, “What did you pick?”

  “The Notebook.”

  The horrified look on his face is priceless.

  I laugh, pulling the DVD out from behind my back. “What about The Princess Bride?”

  “Now that'll work.”

  “I want to watch this and have fun. But tell me one thing first. Was it all fake? You and Priscilla?”

  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.
br />   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.”