Selling Scarlett

by Ella James

  He smirks, and I tell myself to get back on my game. You're okay. You can do this.

  We go about twenty feet down the hallway on the left, and Hunter stops, opening the door to a room that's done in green—just like another room, in another of his homes. "This will be yours."

  "It's lovely."

  He nods once. "It should have everything you need."

  "Thank you.” I'm still confused. I wish I had the nerve to ask more questions. To find out why he wants me hanging around here for a week, and why he’s seems find with the possibility that he might not get what he paid for. We do have chemistry. I know that much. So what gives?

  He looks me over, head to toe, and I feel a blush cover my cheeks. "You can dress however you want." I look at him like he’s crazy, and he adds, “I mean, I don’t want you to feel like you have to walk around the house half-naked .”

  Does he not want to see me?

  "Are you sure you don't want me to just go home? Because I can. If this isn't...you know, working out."

  He puts his hand on the small of my back and pushes me gently into the room. "I'm sure, Libby." He leans on the doorway. "Call for me if you need something. Press one on the phone, and it will ring my cell."

  And that's it. He's gone, and I'm alone in my lingerie and silky robe, feeling more confused than ever.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ~HUNTER~

  This is a fucking mess.

  I am a fucking mess.

  I gave her the room adjoining mine? Really? I drop my head into my hand and use my fingertips to rub my throbbing temples. I haven't slept in days and having Libby next door isn't going to help. Shit is hitting the fan with this Sarabelle situation, which means having Libby here is an even worse idea.

  So why did I do it?

  It's not that hard to figure out. I didn't want anybody else fucking her. And it’s not a caveman thing. I don't want to possess her—I don’t want to possess any woman.

  And yet…she's got some kind of voodoo on my cock and balls, and I sure as shit don't want any other man to have her. Especially if she's a virgin.

  Jesus H.

  Libby DeVille, a fucking virgin. I knew she felt tight when I had my fingers inside her pussy, but I thought she was just inexperienced. Not a goddamned virgin.

  I'm leaning against the hallway wall, hard as a baseball bat and straining against my fly, when I get a call from Dave.

  "What's up, man?"

  "Bad news." My stomach sinks, and I hustle down the hall, hoping to put as much distance as I can between Libby and this shit. "In addition to claiming all Sarabelle's client logs earlier today, the FBI is out at Love Incorporated right now. Went in the back way, across that desert and that patch of grass behind the left manor. They haven't gone inside but one of my sources there says they're asking who won the bid tonight. They're getting hotter on your tail, for lack of a more apt expression.”

  That's because I'm being fucking framed, but I'm not telling Dave that.

  "Fuck."

  "I'd feel the same way if I were in your position."

  I grit my teeth. "Keep me posted, okay?"

  "Sure thing."

  The line goes dead, and I suck a big breath down. Fucking Priscilla. Now that my boner is gone, I practically run down to my office, where I page my head of security, Julian, and give him instructions on how I want this place protected. Then I pull out my .38, stick it in the holster I wear up against my abs, and pull my tight black t-shirt off. I stride to one of the guest rooms, grabbing a white undershirt out of a package I keep in the top drawer for visitors. Then I pull on my ragged-out bomber jacket and go back into my office.

  I pull out my phone and call Priscilla. It rings four times before I'm sent to voice mail.

  Shit.

  It was a stupid move, maybe. I’ve never called her for a booty call before. I hoped that wouldn’t occur to her. I hoped she’s invite me over, and I could confront her ass—get my hands dirty before they get cuffed.

  But I don't get an answer.

  I slump down in my desk chair and pour myself another glass of bourbon. West Bourbon. Truth is, I find the shit a little bitter. How's that for a secret?

  I’m comforted by the familiar warm glow in my belly, and I call Priscilla again. This time I'm sent to voice mail after one ring.

  Shit!

  I'm up and pacing, thinking about Rita. How if everything hits the fan, It could lead to Rita. I know of at least one person who knows the truth—one of them is Libby Bernard, who, considering her new job at Marchant's ranch, might have a more personal reason to want to do me in, if she suspects I hurt Sarabelle—and there may be more. I think my father's kept it quiet, but you just never know.

  I prop my cheek against my palm and try my best to think about something else. But all I can think about is handcuffs. I've been cuffed one time before, for getting into a bar fight at the Wynn a few years ago. I still remember how much I hated the feeling.

  Made me feel small hands around my wrists and fingernails pinching my sides. Which made me feel the sting of getting slapped, hear high-pitched curses in a voice that haunts me still. "Piece of shit! You little bastard!"

  And fuck it, that calls for another glass.

  I'm halfway on the road to plastered when my cell phone rings again. I see Marchant's name and decide to save myself the headache of repeat calls by simply answering the first one.

  "Yello."

  Marchant's voice sounds tight. "How you doing, man?"

  I rub my eyes. "I'm doing. Sleeping beauty's upstairs." I laugh, because I want her so much I'm hard even now, half drunk.

  There's a long pause, during which I expect Marchant to ask about my semi-drunkenness. Instead, he says, "You haven't heard from Dave yet?"

  "Just a little while ago."

  "So you don’t know?"

  "Know what?" Through the haze of liquor, I feel something prickly and cold. There's silence on the other end, and I want to come through the phone and throttle him. "Know what, dickhead?"

  "Sarabelle is dead." His voice cracks. "They found her in San Luis with one of your cuff links in her hand."

  Chapter Thirty

  ~ELIZABETH~

  My phone rings a few minutes after Hunter leaves, and it's Suri—sobbing. The first thing that comes to mind is Cross, so my heart is in my throat when she says, "HE'S AWAKE!"

  "Holy crabcakes! Are you kidding me?!"

  She isn't.

  Cross woke up two and a half hours ago—with Suri in his room. She was holding his hand just before the end of visiting hours and reading him a magazine about vintage motorcycles.

  The news makes me so excited, I actually shriek, then promptly sit down on the bed, because my knees are shaking.

  “Suri, I want every freakin' detail.”

  "The last day or so, he was different,” she says. “I didn't tell you because it wasn't something I could explain, but he was looking around the room some and sometimes he seemed...uncomfortable or something. I would look down at a book and then back up and it seemed like he had shifted. I don't know, it's hard to explain.

  "Then tonight he made this choking noise, and I thought something was wrong so I pushed the nurse button, and as soon as I did he said my name! I was worried it was a fluke, but he's still awake now and they're checking him over. They’re even going to give him orange soda.” Her voice breaks on the word, and I sink down in a chair. “Nanette said he might be asleep by the time I get back, but they were doing some man stuff so I didn't need to be in there and I just had to tell you. Am I interrupting anything?"

  I tell her an abbreviated version of the Hunter saga, and then I steer things back to Cross. He's so much more important than my romantic angst.

  “Suri, did he seem okay? I mean...did he seem the same?”

  I can hear her voice break as she says, “He really does.”

  “I can't believe it,” I breathe. “I mean, after the stroke, I was worried he would...”

  �
�I know,” Suri says, “me, too. But he seems okay. At first glance, anyway.” She laughs a little. “I asked him all the silly TV questions, like did he remember the year and who's president, and he did. He even asked about his bike.”

  I wipe my eyes, grinning like I've won the lottery. “That's just freakin' amazing.” And it really makes the anxiety and drama of tonight seem about a million times more worthwhile.

  “You should feel really proud of yourself for having the guts to do what you did,” Suri tells me. “It wouldn't be a course I would have taken, but you got what you needed, and for Hunter to be the winning bidder...call me crazy, Liz, but I think it's the universe repaying you.”

  I snort. “I'm not so sure about that, but I'm over the moon about Cross. Suri, I want to hear from you soon. I mean very soon. Within hours.”

  "We'll call you, Lizzy! As soon as we can, I promise."

  'We'...

  That sounds strange.

  By the time I hang up the phone, my mind is reeling in three different directions. I take my time in the luxurious, two-person shower attached to my room, then change into a big, old University of San Francisco t-shirt and my favorite pair of comfy, bikini-cut panties—deep red, with a white pattern of Xs and Os. The huge, canopy bed is cold, and the pillow smells strange, like vanilla and lavender, and I can hear the air whooshing through the ducts somewhere nearby.

  It takes me a long time to go to sleep, and I remember the last thought I have before I shut my eyes is 'I hope I sleep through some of the awkwardness of tomorrow', followed by 'I don't want to miss a thing with Cross'.

  So when I find myself staring at a pitch-black bedroom sometime in the wee hours, I feel confused and ill at ease. The curtains are deep green with gold accents. They're thick, so they stand out as black against the creamy wall. I can still hear the air whooshing through the noisy vent somewhere near my head, and I wonder if anyone's ever had the balls to tell Hunter it's annoying.

  Hunter...

  I'm at Hunter's house. And I'm still a virgin.

  I feel so disarmed, I push myself up on my elbow, reaching for the bottle of DeVille bottled water on my night stand, which doubles as a mini-fridge. I take a deep chug, and then I sit there, still as a portrait, listening to the sounds of the house and wondering what woke me. Is it something with Cross? Maybe I got a text.

  I'm reaching for my phone when I hear it: a moan. It's a guttural sound from somewhere deep in Hunter's chest. It sounds like pain...or pleasure. Worry slices through me, but on its heels is dread as I make an educated guess about what's going on.

  It isn't long before shame, anger, and hurt are pounding through me. I feel sick. Disgusted—with myself or him? As I slide from the bed, I wonder why he's doing this. Is he really so awful that he would bring me to his house and then screw Priscilla Heat in the room next door?

  I clutch my chest as I step closer to the door where I can hear another moan. I put one hand over my ear, wishing the noises will stop.

  I want to run. To lock myself away. I need to get a house and two dozen cats, because I'm never trying this again. Never getting this crazy over any man again. Never hoping. Because if getting into fighting shape and offering my maidenhead isn't good enough, then nothing ever will be.

  Tears sting my eyes and start to drip down both my cheeks.

  Another moan, only this time it's more groan than moan. There's no mistaking: this is pain, not pleasure. And for some reason, it makes me crazy furious.

  And maybe I’m just crazy, because I’m not even mad at him. I care for him—for his obvious unsettledness, his hard lifestyle, the lost look in his eyes at the bar the other night, the coldness of this gorgeous home where the only sex that's ever had is messed up sex. Maybe one day I can bring myself to hate him, but for now the light of sympathy still burns. And when I think about Priscilla Heat with him, I want to claw her face off because it's wrong. He deserves better than that. Everyone deserves better than that.

  I pause at the door, but only for a moment. I'm here, and I have nothing left to lose. I lean against the cool, wood door, listening for Priscilla's breathing or her voice, but all I hear is Hunter.

  I try the handle. I'm shocked when it turns. I hesitate again, but then my legs are moving, carrying me forward, into a den of darkness—so dark, I can't even make out shadows. Terror washes over me. Mortification at what I'm doing, but that is quickly steamrolled by the rage I feel at knowing Hunter and Priscilla are somewhere in this room, making a fool of me.

  I'm tense, listening, and just as my eyes start to adjust I hear another low man.

  My eyes fly to a chair on the other side of the room, and there's a person. Hunter...alone. He's hunched over, clutching his head, breathing like someone on the verge of hyperventilating. He's naked except for a pair of boxer-briefs, and sweet Jesus he is beautiful. My eyes can't help appraising him. My body warms. I glide closer, arms stretched out, and when I get within leaping distance of him I can smell liquor.

  Oh no.

  I remember how rough he looked earlier today, and at the bar the other night, and fear and worry twist my gut. Is he an alcoholic?

  "Hunter?" His massive shoulders rise and fall and I can hear his labored breathing, but otherwise he doesn't stir. I glide my palm along his beautiful, thick shoulder, stroking lightly near his nape. "Hunter?" I try again. "Are you okay?"

  He curls over more tightly, clutching his golden hair—too hard. On instinct, I brag his fingers to loosen their grip. He puts a hand over his face and moans again, his body twisting.

  "Hunter?"

  I feel lost. What do I do for him? Did he drink himself into this state? I can't believe he'd do that. On TV, at least, he always seems so in control. Even those times with me, when he'd caved to his desires, he seemed at the wheel. Nothing like this.

  Except something else is going on here. I know a head-screwed drunk when I see one. This seems like something else.

  "Hunter? Are you sick?" He continues breathing hard, almost like he's struggling, and I wonder about the drugs he's said he doesn't do. For some reason, the thought of Hunter doing drugs makes me feel ill.

  Moving slowly, I step closer to him, so I'm standing directly over him. He's still lying back against the chair, so I have full view of his glorious, ripped chest. The way his abs and hips taper down to... Oh, no, Liz. Don't look there.

  With all my self-control, I pull my gaze back to his face. He's got it covered with his hand, but I can see his nose and mouth between his fingers. His lips are twisted. Like he's having a nightmare. His body still seems...asleep.

  Moving hesitantly, I reach for the arm that's lying on his leg to see if I can rouse him, but when I touch his forearm, he jerks back. He moans, and it's an awful sound.

  "It's okay," I whisper. I stand there, aching to comfort him, and the only thing I can think of is to take his hand in mine. I do it quickly, grasping and then squeezing. I sandwich his hand between both of mine, and he leans forward a little. His shoulders relax some, but he's still covering his face with his free hand like whatever's going on inside his mind is more than he can bear.

  "Hunter. It's okay." I trace the surface of his hand, his bruised and scraped knuckles. My mind is racing. Maybe he's feverish, but his hand feels cool.

  "Come to bed," I murmur. I stand, tugging on his hand, and I'm surprised when he rises. The way he walks over to his bed—the dazed look in his eyes and the stiff movements of his body—lets me know he's somewhere else. Not here. He stops beside the beside and I touch the small of his back, where he doesn't have any fresh cuts. When he climbs into bed, I try to get a clear view of his back, but he rolls and collapses, face-up. His eyes are shut, his body slack.

  I rub his shoulder. "Turn onto your side."

  He shifts his hips, and I get full view of his back. It still looks bad, striped with pinkish marks and painful for sure, but not infected. A shudder rolls through him and I put my hand on the firm skin of his side.

  "It's okay, Hunter. Go t
o sleep."

  I step up, near his head, and find his eyes are open. I'm shocked when they roll over my face. "Libby?" He sounds strangled.

  I nod and whisper, "Go to sleep." His eyes drift shut, and I am brave enough to stroke his golden hair. It's soft, so soft and pretty, like his creamy tanned neck and his cute little ear.

  "Go to sleep, Hunter. Everything's okay."

  Finally he's breathing evenly, his body relaxed.

  I bring him the bottle of water from my bedside, and fish some crackers and Advil from my purse. I leave them on the table beside his bed and stroke his hair once more before I go.