Selling Scarlett

chapter Twenty-Eight

~HUNTER~

I've gone and done it now. Lost my f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cks 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 f*cks 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 f*cking a porn star—not too easy, either. You're riding an awful f*cking 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 f*cking 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?"

"No, not right now." I'm too nervous for that.

He nods. "Then follow me."

I'm all eyes as he leads me down a wide hallway with a marble, checkerboard floor and gorgeous wood walls. It's very masculine, elegantly understated, with few frou-frou decorations.

We pass a huge, lit painting of a bird dog prancing and a Gothic, shotgun home, and I say, "You're from New Orleans, right?"

He nods, but doesn't speak, and I feel kind of foolish for acting like we just met.

Really, our relationship—if you can call it that—has been pretty much the same since that night at his party. Nothing personal, just physical. Which, again, makes me wonder why he paid so much for this. I wonder if it's possible he really likes the idea of being the first man in between my legs. It's a little crude, so I push the thought away.

I follow him into a comfortable men's parlor with two plush, soft couches, a recliner, and a fireplace, plus an emerald marble bar and shelves filled with old, hardback books. His laptop, a sleek, black Mac, sits on an end table, half cracked. I can't help the buzz inside my chest that comes from being in his personal space.

"Have a seat," he tells me, motioning to the couches.

He strides over to the bar and pours two drinks. Bourbon, of course. Mine is shallow, his is larger. He sits across from me in a wing-backed chair, one ankle propped on his knee, and I feel the belly bats again. He looks so serious, and even more imposing than usual, here in his own home.

"I have a proposition for you, Scarlett."

Belly bats DIVE!

I swallow hard, feeling like I might throw up. "Okay."

"You stay for a week, and sex is optional. Initiated only by you. If, by week's end, you haven't done so, you can return home to Napa."

My mouth falls open. That's how shocked I am. I can feel my face redden as I falter, "I-I don't understand."

"Take it at face value," he advises.

I shake my head, feeling shocked and...kind of stung. "I just don't get...why did you do this? Why pay so much tonight if you don't want to... If you don't want this. Does this have to do with Priscilla Heat?" It doesn’t seem logical, but then again, nothing about him does. Maybe bidding on me was just a means to an end. A bet or something. Maybe he wants me to be in a film. I rub my lips together, feeling vulnerable and disappointed.

"Priscilla and I are not an item,” he says wearily. “Trust me.”

I have no reason too, as he’s already pointed out, but even if I did, that still doesn't explain why he just paid millions of dollars to take my virginity, only to now tell offer me this bizarre…I don’t even know what to call it.

Then I have a terrible thought. What if he’s decided he doesn’t want me anymore, and this is the best way he can think of to let me down gently. I swallow back my humiliation.

"Have some of your drink, Libby. Hal will have your luggage in soon and I'll show you to your room." He rubs a hand through his blond hair.

"You look tired."

One eyebrow arches, a similar expression to the one that Marchant Radcliffe makes. When it's clear he's not answering, and the ensuing silence has stolen all my bolder questions, I decide to ask about that. "You and Marchant have been friends since college, right?”

He nods.

"Tulane?”

"Right." He takes a swallow of his bourbon. "I'm surprised you know."

I know I have to be red as an apple, but I try to cover. "You're kind of famous."

"It's the television," he says. "People watch you play poker, they feel like they know you."

That hits a little close to home, and I smirk to cover my nervousness. “Do you consider yourself easy to get to know?”

He regards me over the rim of his glass, looking like a grumpy bear. “What do you think?”

I lift an eyebrow. “I think our relationship is...weird. Our interactions, rather. I'm not sure I'm in a position to say.”

He stares at me—almost through me—for a second before bringing his glass back to his mouth. I get the feeling he wants to say something, but he doesn't. He just sits there, looking tense and tired, and I’m talking again.

"Did you play tonight? You're wearing black."

"I did," he says gruffly.

"Did you win?"

"No."

"You didn't win?"

He looks grave—but maybe he's just giving me his poker face. "Shocking, isn't it?"

I press my lips together. "I thought you hadn't lost in almost a year."

"I haven't."

"Oh. Well I'm sorry to hear that."

He snorts. "I don't give a shit."

He looks behind my head, in the direction of a clock I hear ticking, and stands, leaving his glass on one of the shelves. "Come with me. I'll show you to your room."

I follow him, feeling like I've somehow lost any hold I had on this situation, and I'm not even sure when or how. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he leads me back down the elegant hallway, toward the foyer and its staircase.

"What will it be?" He asks gruffly, after a moment of silence, in which all I hear is the swishing of our clothes and the soft pad of our shoes. "Would you rather wait a week or get the deed done now?"

We round a corner to the entry hall, and I ball my hands into fists. Why did I ever think I could handle this? My heart is pounding and my knees feel weak. I'm so confused; I want to run. With a deep breath, I remind myself how many times I've played it cool around people who made me uncomfortable.

I manage to flash Hunter a nonchalant look. "You're the winning bidder. It's your choice," I say as we reach the stairs.

"Then we'll wait."

It takes a few seconds for the shock of that to sink in. Hunter doesn't want to have sex with me? Or maybe he wants me around longer. I swallow hard. "If you're doing this for my benefit, please don't. You get what you want. You paid enough."

"I'll keep that in mind."

I'm going to ask him more about his week-long plan when I notice how carefully he's moving up the stairs. I think about his back again, which reminds me of Priscilla and how wrong it is that I'm here, in his house, but still, I feel a swell of sympathy for him.

"How is your back? Are you feeling any better?"

“Are you always so solicitous, or is it my charm that brings that side of you out?"

I think he's teasing, but I don't realize that until after I've spoken honestly. "I'm not sure.” Then I add this little gem: “I've never had a boyfriend.”

It was relevant in my head; whatever this is with Hunter is the closest I’ve ever come to Romantic Relationship Land. But he didn’t need to know that.

He sounds strangled when he asks, "Never?", and I want to die. My hand actually comes to cover my mouth. I jerk it down, so frazzled I actually stop my ascent. I look into his surprised face, feeling like an idiot.

"I don't mean I've never done...anything ever. Never dated, I mean. I just mean, it was nothing serious." I clench and unclench my fists as we walk onto the second floor, done in vibrant navy blue, pale green, and gold.

I run a hand back through my hair, now sweaty, and Hunter looks at me like I've grown horns. "Are you a lesbian?"

"Do I seem like one?" I ask him pointedly.

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.