Selling Scarlett

chapter Six

~HUNTER~

Her face is blotchy, like she's been stung by a bunch of bees. I can tell she might cry because her sea blue eyes are glowing brilliantly, and she's got them wide open, the way girls do when they don't want tears to spill and smear up their mascara.

Her wavy, dark brown hair is messy, hanging just above her shoulders, and I want to run my fingers through it.

Shit.

I shouldn't even be here.

I saw the gate open and I threw on my superhero cape. Then I saw the unfamiliar car with the San Francisco plates and found the door unlocked. I know nobody's living here. I keep an eye on the place, because I want to buy it soon; its acreage backs against my bird-hunting lodge, which is where I was heading when I made this detour.

Batman or not, I've screwed up. I shouldn’t be in Libby DeVille's childhood home, standing in this massive, outdated kitchen with her, just like I shouldn't have crept close enough to hear her talk to her father.

I tell myself that I should turn and go—after all, Priscilla's waiting for me—but my feet have other plans. I take a small step closer, my eyes never leaving hers, even as she looks me over, Lakers cap to boots.

"A*shole father?" In the tomb-like silence of the house, I'm surprised at how deep my voice is.

I can see her shoulders rise and fall; she's trying to control herself. Judging by the bit I heard, it makes sense that she would be worked up. If his reputation is anything to go on, Benjamin DeVille didn't do much for his wife or daughter when he was with them, and does even less now that he’s left town.

Libby quickly smooths the pained look from her face and crosses her arms. "How much did you hear?" she asks me with a wary wince.

"Enough to know you're probably not the one in need of therapy."

She squeezes her eyes shut, running a hand through that silky hair. "Wow, well that's embarrassing."

If only she could be a fly on the wall at the family home in NOLA back when I lived there with Dad, Rita, and my half-sister, Amber. This wouldn't even register on our drama-meter. I want to tell her that, but I've got no clue how. Besides, the best way to keep a secret—that Rita is not my real mother, for instance—is to avoid mentioning anything to anyone that even comes close to the truth.

Libby chews her succulent lower lip, and it's my turn to stare her down. I’ve only seen her once, from a distance, since the night of the party, and I’m surprised by how much weight she’s lost. I wonder if it’s intentional, or if she’s stressed, and I’m surprised to find I actually kind of give a damn.

She plays with the ends of her hair, and I let my gaze linger, from her low-cut royal blue sweater down her loose jeans to her suede shoes—some kind of moccasins. She looks cute. Casual. I feel a pleasant tingle, just from being near her.

Finally her eyes flick up to mine, like she's waiting for me to say something. So I do. "What do you need money for?"

Her mouth draws up like she's sucking on a lemon. I like this face on her. The you-should-be-ashamed-of-yourself face; it's kind of sexy mistress. To top it off, she arches her eyebrows primly. "That's not really your business, Hunter West."

Maybe not, but I have a pretty fair idea. "Is it the Carlson boy? The governor’s son?"

Her eyes flash, dark blue now. "The son the governor cut off and sent to a shitty state hospital because he's a dickhead who deserves to be ridden out of California on a rail?" Her cheeks flush. "You probably shouldn't ask me about that right now." I watch her delicate eyebrows meet as her sea blue eyes narrow to slits. "What are you even doing here?"

Her eyes wander the expanse of my chest and I know she's taking in the size of me. I saw the Mace on her key chain in the parlor, and I wonder if she's thinking about running in there for it.

I nod toward the back of the house, relaxing my shoulders so maybe I look a little friendlier. "I saw the gate open and wanted to check in on things. I own the property behind you."

Her furrowed brows crease more deeply. "The old retreat?"

I nod. "Bought it off the Anglican church a few years back. Turned it into a quail hunt." She still looks wary, so I give her a little more. "Just being neighborly."

Her face is blank, and I can't tell what she's thinking. I wonder the odds of her having heard about my connection to Sarabelle's disappearance, and decide they're nil.

Next I think about that night on my bed: her head pressed into my pillow, her hair spread out around her face. The memory of it makes me hard, but then I remember how it ended, with Libby seeing me with Priscilla. Impotent rage washes over me, but I'm still hard as a damn diamond. I shift my weight; that makes it worse.

Libby's eyes are on mine, thankfully. "Well I'm okay," she tells me, tucking some hair behind her ear. A tiny pearl gleams from her earlobe, and I have the odd thought that I could buy her something so much bigger.

"I appreciate you stopping in to check on things, and I'm sorry you got an earful of my business." She waves at the kitchen doorway. “You're free to go.”

I don’t want to go. It’s that same strange draw I always feel toward this girl. For half a second, I want to put my arms around her and stroke that silky-looking hair and find out what she smells like. I can still remember how she tastes, but that night, I had Priscilla's noxious perfume in my nose.

I rub the bridge of it now, like maybe that'll make the memory go away.

"Really, I'm good here." She's got her hands on her hips, and I notice she's closer to the parlor door than she was when I looked away. For a fraction of a second, I allow myself to play out a fantasy. Libby runs and I bolt after her, capturing her upper arms and whirling her to face me. I plant my mouth over hers and press her gorgeous body against mine.

I can't contain a hungry smile, and Libby side-steps, now even closer to the parlor.

I arch a brow. "I make you nervous?"

She smiles smugly, and the nervousness I thought I saw looks more like impatience. "I have my black belt in Judo. Do you?"

A grin blossoms on my face, but my lips aren't sure what to do with it. It falls right off my face, and I press my mouth into a more familiar solemn line. I adjust the bill of my ball cap, feeling the weight of the last few months. "You'd be right to be nervous. That's a good thing. You never know whose room you could be wandering into."

"So that was your room.”

More statement than question, but I say, “Who’s asking?”

She looks at me strangely, and I realize I've become too paranoid.

"Sorry." I rub my brow, feeling frustrated and tired. "It's been a long...long week.”

I'm shuffling my feet, headed for the parlor, when her mouth does something soft. I want to kiss it. My cock twitches as she nods, like she's looking in a crystal ball and seeing every sleepless night and f*cked up, dead end day that's led me here, to her kitchen. I'm trying to play superhero and it's just so stupid. I feel revulsion rise in my chest. Then she says, "I believe it." Her words are soft silk, and when they leave her ruby-colored lips, her radiant eyes are on me, gentle and perceptive.

It makes my throat tighten. I remember her that night at the party—the warmth of her, the weight of her. I need to leave, but I’m rooted to the kitchen floor.

Libby's eyes flicker to my clenched fists, and I imagine what I must look like: two-hundred-twenty pounds of head-f*cked male, product of an escort and a professional a*shole. But instead of bolting for the Mace, she tilts her head, regarding me like she would a puzzle. "Do you stay at the vineyard often?" she asks quietly.

"Sometimes." I'm not sure why she cares.

The corner of her mouth lifts, a lovely little half-smile that makes me wonder if she has any idea what effect she is having on me. "I'm sure you don't remember this, but you helped me fix my car once, years ago."

I nod, but I don't return her smile. Even then, when she was just a kid, I felt a pull, and the memory puts me off-balance.

She turns and walks into the parlor, and I follow her into the spacious room, decorated in dark browns and reds. She looks over her shoulder as she grabs her keys from a Victorian card table.

I can tell she's thinking about something. She hesitates before casting a troubled look into my eyes. "Did you do that to your room?”

"Do what?" I frown, annoyed at how I can't seem to make myself leave.

"At the party," she says. "Your room was a wreck."

I flinch at the memory, debating only briefly whether to be honest. "I was very angry that night." My voice is ultra-deep; husky. As I drink in Libby, I go back there.

I remember the sensation of choking—a sensation Priscilla sometimes likes to experience with a collar, or—so much worse—my hands around her neck.

I'm holding Libby's stare, hoping she'll see these things inside me and tell me to get going. I notice I'm holding my breath, waiting for her wary dismissal. Instead, her mouth softens again. I wait for her expression to morph into pity or sadness, but she looks serene. "I think there are two sides to you," she says quietly.

She must think one of my sides is a psychopath. At least she won't be disappointed if I ever become an official suspect in the escort disappearances.

Thinking of that, while looking at her delicate face, makes my heart pound uncomfortably, and I realize how afraid I am that it might come to that. I’m completely innocent, I remind myself, but I know better. There’s a common perception, partially true, that rich people are above the law. It’s true for a lot of us, but I have a feeling my notoriety could work against me. I’m the kind of guy prosecutors like to stick a case to. And I've got a dirty past.

Libby can read my mind. I think she can. Her eyes are latched to mine, and I can see my heaviness reflected on her face. She slides her hands into her pockets, stepping closer as she speaks. “What I mean is, most people only see what you want them to see. Like the night my mom’s Porsche broke down."

I remember that night. It was back when I was f*cking an escort from Los Angeles. The sex was explosive, but I always felt like shit after, and I'd been relieved when my security manager interrupted over the intercom. A few minutes later, after pulling on some pants, I'd gotten my first glimpse of Elizabeth DeVille. She'd had her hair in a pony-tail that stuck up off the side of her head, and she'd been wearing short red shorts and a light blue tank top with a whale on it.

“You like whales?” I'd asked her when I finished with the car.

Her face had gone all soft and pretty, making me feel more like one-hundred-and-three than the twenty-three I was, and she'd shrugged. “Yeah, but not a lot more than any other animal. I just like saving things.”

The car was a piece of junk that likely wouldn't make it a hundred more miles, so I convinced her to spend the night in my guest house. After Marietta went to sleep I found myself sitting out by the swimming pool, hoping Elizabeth might wake up and come outside. It was ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. When I fell asleep in one of the plastic chairs, I dreamed of Libby DeVille holding my hand.

She's inches from me now, and she's reaching toward my face.

For a second, I feel a thrill of fear I haven’t felt since I was a boy. It settles deep inside my stomach, and I steel myself. Then her hand touches my shoulder, and I start to sweat from every pore.

Her free hand grabs one of mine, and she tugs me closer to her, closing the distance between our bodies with a gentle tug. I lean closer to her, moving in small jerks. I'm getting seriously dizzy, as her thumb touches me between my brows.

"I see a frown mark, though," she whispers, "right here." I blink, surprised to find the soft sensation makes my eyelids heavy.

"I thought you were upset that night," she murmurs as she strokes. "After..." She colors, and I blink my heavy lids.

"I could see you at the foot of the bed, and I was kind of worried for you. I don't know why, but something about you..." That frown is back, visible through my lashes, and someone is scooping out my insides. I feel gutless and emptied, like I might dissolve into a puddle at this woman's feet.

"Something about you just seems sad. I don't know what about poker-playing would make a man sad, but I'm watching these," she says, gently thumbing my frown lines one more time. "Try not to let them get any deeper."

I nod at her, feeling like I'm in a dream. As I'm walking out the door, I turn again, fighting a vision I have of kissing her mouth.

I take her porch stairs two at a time, and my knees ache from my misadventures with Priscilla. I swing into my F-250 and before I can get a handle on myself, my phone buzzes. Priscilla. Seeing her name on the screen is like jumping into icy water.

I hit the button to answer, but I can't bring myself to say 'hello'.

I can hear the static on the other end, static and the clinking sound of hooker heels. "Hunter?" she says; it sounds like the lash of a whip. "Where are you? I'm waiting."

"Keep waiting," I spit out.

"Believe me, I will. But you'll pay for this."

I grip the steering wheel and wonder if Sarabelle is dead already. I tell myself I’m playing this f*cked up game for her. My past doesn't matter. If my father doesn't want word to get out—if he's worried about people finding out what happened to Rita—that's his problem. Christ knows it always has been.

I can hear Rita's low voice, a whisper in my memory where it should have been a scream, and for the briefest moment I can feel the sticky sweat I used to get when she was mad. I can hear her say, “You're trash, just like your mother.”

And I can see her crumpled in my arms, as her too-thin face turns white.

I lower the phone and I am punching the 'end call' button when I hear Priscilla on the line. Her voice is low and sultry, but it's wicked all the same, giving me flashbacks of being beholden to another evil bitch.

"I know where you are," she says. "And I don't like it."