Selling Scarlett

chapter Twenty-Nine

~HUNTER~

This is a f*cking mess.

I am a f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking virgin. I knew she felt tight when I had my fingers inside her p-ssy, 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 f*cking framed, but I'm not telling Dave that.

"F*ck."

"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. F*cking 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 f*ck 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."