by Ella James
“So he—what? What did he do to her?” I need to know, but I don’t want to know, and that just stokes my anger. I wrap my fist around Priscilla's blouse and tug her down the stairs, toward my truck. She slips and falls, but I'm not thinking clearly. I don't care if she gets scraped up. I jerk her forward.
“Hunter, stop!” She shrieks, and it's loud enough to wake the fucking dead. “Listen to me! Listen to me!” She wraps her arms around a rock that's in the flower bed by the bottom stair and looks up at me with her mouth hanging half open. “I can't control what he does, Hunter!”
“What did he do?” I growl.
“He slipped into the room. She was asleep and you were out. I think he knocked her out and then he—” She swallows. “It's disgusting—I know it is, but I had nothing to do with it!”
“And then what?” “You can't expect me to tell you anything extra,” she says, haughty again. “You've made your bed, and now you'll have to lie in it. You took her out to the car and put her in! I asked you to, and you did it without question!”
“No I didn't.” That's ridiculous. “I would never do anything like that! You're a goddamned liar.”
“You did it,” she snaps.
“Because I was fucking drugged!” I lunge down and grab her by the wrists, dragging her toward my truck.
“I recorded you on my camera phone, and I’ve already delivered a copy of the file to Lisa from the FBI. She has your cuff link, too! Did you know that? And your real mother? Roxanne the escort? The Los Angeles Times knows about her, too. In fact, about now they should be learning a lot about you, Hunter West. I came upon a whole stockpile of your history.”
“You bitch.” I want to slap her, but I'm so shocked, my hands stop working and I let her go.
She dances out of reach, blonde hair flying around her face. “It was so easy,” she laughs. “What I told you was true—we didn’t plan this. But Lockwood has a cousin on the police force. Once he heard that they were really going to make a case out of this, he remembered how you helped us that night and he reached out to me. At that point I was pissed off.” She gestures at her body, laughing shrilly. “If you think you're too good for me, I'm too good to help you, so I helped him set you up.”
I lunge forward, grabbing her wrist, and she shrieks again as I drag her toward my truck. “Let me go!”
I fumble with the “unlock” button on my key as I try to keep her talking. “I still don’t understand why you’re helping him at all.”
“Who?”
“Lockwood! Are you in love with him?” I know she's not before she snorts, and I'm correct that the ridiculous question will elicit an elaboration.
“In love with that disgusting boar? Of course not!”
I swing the door open, tightening my grip around Priscilla's forearm. I'm going to get this shit recorded if it kills me.
“So it's the governor,” I murmur as I jerk her toward the cabin.
She shrieks and starts to go ape-shit, kicking at my crotch and biting at my arm. “LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!”
“No,” I growl. I throw her skinny ass into the front seat and Priscilla starts to claw at me. As I try to climb in behind her, planning to hold onto her arm until we take off driving, she pulls a can of Mase and sticks it in my face. I move so fast I'm out of the car before Priscilla can get her balance back; she tumbles out into the dirt.
As she gets to her feet, I try to grab her again, but she slaps me in the face, and I go reeling back.
“You can't win this, you stupid motherfucker. It's got roots you can't imagine, and you're the FBI's suspect number one. That's what I came to tell you!” She takes off into the lawn, her hair trailing behind her as she dashes to her Camaro. She stops mid-way. “You know, I am a little sorry, Hunter. Good men don't belong in prison.” She shrugs. “Guess that's what happens when you fuck hookers. Even virgin ones.”
“If you touch her, I will kill you slowly,” I warn.
She laughs, throwing back her head. “What a great idea.” She waves, and she's walking around her car—gone, and my opportunity is lost.
Chapter Thirty-Six
~ELIZABETH~
I wake up the next morning feeling like something is missing. I roll over in my cozy bed, and that's when I notice where I am. Holy crabcakes, I'm in Hunter's room! That makes me grin into the pillows. My smile slips a little when I realized I’m in it alone, and it goes away completely when I remember that today's the day I promised I would leave.
And I’m leaving a virgin.
I don’t want to leave, and not just because I still have my V-card. I don’t want to leave Hunter. He needs me right now—I feel certain he does. I roll over in the sheets, inhaling his scent, and I have to swallow back a sob. If I leave now, we might never spend this kind of time together again. And what about the trouble Hunter's in? Who's going to help him?
I go into my room, check to see if there's a text from Suri—there's not—and then I slide into a red dress and pin my hair back with red barrettes. I check my phone again, not quite ready to leave the room and set this day in motion. The clothes I slept in still smell like Hunter, so I bring them to my nose. How am I ever going to get over him? How will I forget any of this? Not just the experience with Hunter, but the dark story weaving itself around him. Sarabelle, Priscilla, the governor? I want to know more—for Cross's sake, and for Hunter’s—but I can’t ask.
I leave the room without zipping my bags. I inhale deeply when I reach the stairs, praying I'll smell breakfast—but there is nothing in the air except the smell of cleaner and hardwood. Where is Hunter? Is he even here?
I'm headed to his study, not sure exactly what I'll find. As soon as I reach the first floor, the doorbell rings. Doorbells at odd times remind me of the accidents my mom has had—accidents or incidents in which the cops showed up at our house. So hearing it now stops me in my tracks.
I look around.
It rings again.
I step over to the hallway that leads to Hunter's study. “Hunter?” I call. Surely a house like this has speakers in most rooms; in fact, I think I've seen them.
The doorbell rings again, and I step slowly to the glass panes surrounding the doors. Against my better judgment, I peek out. I'm shocked to find the person on the porch is Dr. Bernard. I clutch my stomach as my panic soars. She can only be here for me. Did something happen to my mother?
Without a second thought, I unlock the door and pull it open.
I'm holding my breath, bracing myself for her news, when she reaches her hand out to me like she wants to shake mine. Her face is curious, not grave.
“I'm surprised to find you here, Elizabeth. How are you?”
“I'm surprised to find you here,” I manage. I suck a deep breath in. “Are you here to see me?”
“Actually I'm not.” She smiles, a little awkward, but friendly. “Would you mind letting Hunter know I'm here?”
My stomach clenches—maybe because I can’t imagine why she’s here. “Uh…one second.” I shut the door in her face without even thinking of asking her in. As soon as I turn around, Hunter is there. He's wearing black jeans and a brown shirt, and he looks pissed off. Behind him are four other men, all beefy, with guns on their belts. They definitely don’t look like cops.
“Is that Elizabeth Bernard?” he asks, frowning.
“Yes. She says she wants to see you.”
He nods, looking kind of dazed. “I was in a meeting. I thought you would be sleeping.”
One of the men—they are all still standing in a row beside the stairs—tips a baseball cap at me, and I say, “That's okay. I only answered because I thought she was here for me.”
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 dr
ops, 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 m
y 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.
