Selling Scarlett (2 page)

I try to smile. I swear to God, I really do, but my mouth muscles aren't working. I'm pretty sure I wince instead. This is confirmed by the small notch between her thin, dark, drawn-on brows.

"I've seen some of your films,” I said. “You run a tight ship.”

She bursts out laughing, then grabs my arm and jerks me to the giant, claw-footed dining room table. Tonight, it's piled with h
ors
d'oeuvres and liquor. I'm eying a meatball, thinking how hungry I am, when she grabs my ass and squeezes. "Christ, you're tight."

"Hands off," I growl.

Her left hand comes up and grabs me by the jaw, and as she lowers her mouth to my ear, I know that she'll be trouble. "I do what I want."

She grabs my cock—or tries to. “I don’t know much about your business,” I say as I catch her wrist, “but in my line of work we shake hands.”

"Funny!" Her red smile curves, stretching her face. Applause erupts from all directions, and it's nothing like the polite applause from an audience watching a round of Texas Hold 'Em.

"How would you like to be in an adult film," she croons, "opposite me?"

“I'm busy tonight." I strut over to Marchant, ignoring my giant hard-on, and grab his shoulder. "Sarabelle, my room, now."

I keep my head down as I stride into the hall, shouldering past a smug-looking guy with sunken cheekbones and slick black hair; a short, bespectacled girl holding an enormous camera; and a couple of others I don't see because my eyes are on the carpet. In seconds, I'm at the suite that Marchant built for me, back when we were young and I was snorting blow and drinking and fucking like a demon.

I know Sarabelle is free, because Tuesdays are her nights off. Even if she was working, she would have cleared her schedule. I strip, stashing my clothes in the chifferobe, and slide into a cold, silk robe. By the time Sarabelle arrives, wearing nothing but a blue teddy and wicked grin, I'm sprawled out on the bed, stroking my dick.

"Mr. West," she grins. "How can I help you?"

I eat her pussy, then fuck her. When we’re both satisfied I buy her for the rest of the night, as per our old arrangement. I'm ready to split when Donnie, one of the male escorts, knocks on the door. He’s got a bottle of West bourbon and two glasses already poured over ice.

Under the bottle is a note, scrawled on a receipt:
For being such a good sport. ~P

I toss back one of the glasses, then shove the note into the pocket of my robe.

I tip Donnie with the bottle and the other glass, and by the time he closes the door, the room is spinning.

I hear a woman's voice as I sink to my knees, but I'm not sure which woman. Sarabelle is asleep. At least I thought she was. The voice is high-pitched, kind of like my stepmother's when she's angry at me. I blink at the swirling ceiling. Maybe it's my mother's—but I can't remember that far back. I can't remember...anything.

The next morning, I can't even remember if Sarabelle was ever in my room. All I know for sure is that she's not here now.

Chapter One
~ELIZABETH~

This is what happens when you don't leave your house for weeks on end, trying to prep for grad school finals. For the first time in my life, I'm looking at a man, imagining him naked.

Then again, he’s not any old man. He is my host for the evening, Hunter West. It's objectively true: With tweed pants hugging muscular legs and jacket carelessly unbuttoned so I can see his undershirt and black vest, he screams sex. The kind of sex that's all slick skin and pheromones, bulging biceps and a six pack that ripples as he leans closer to plant kisses all over my face, and I arch up to bite him on the jaw.

The little fantasy makes me blush, but I don't look away from Hunter. We're in the same room for the first time in at least six months, and I'm entranced. I pretend to tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ear as I steal another glance his way. He's standing by a massive stone fireplace, surrounded by California's most eligible bachelorettes. I recognize a few of them from Hargrove Day School: Honey Neighton, a former cheerleader who missed senior year due to some kind of Ambien addiction; Brina Lulle, a pretty, petite figure skater who once qualified for the Olympic team but broke her ankle and didn't go; and Mary Baldwin Greese, the über shy daughter of one of L.A.'s best talent agents. There are more of them, decked out in designer gowns every color of the fall and winter fabric palette.

Hunter is more than a head taller than most of them. His wide shoulders almost triple the width of teenie, tiny Brina Lulle. He's nodding at something she's saying, the look on his face politely solicitous, but I tell myself that underneath, he's brain-killingly bored. Honey Neighton fans herself with her hand, drawing attention to her breasts, and I smirk down at my gown. It's like a bad regency romance: Everyone gathers at the nobleman's estate for a hunt and the unmarried ladies fawn all over the awkward and ornery—but charming!—duke.

Hunter West isn't a brooding romance novel hero, though. He has too much breeding to be awkward and he's too straightforward to play at anything—although he
is
hard to get; he's impossible.

I watch him produce a convincing and completely gorgeous grin for Brina before he turns to Mary Baldwin, ruffling her chin-length hair and laughing with his blond head thrown back. This earns him a small smile, which, coming from Brina, is like a lap dance.

Suddenly, Hunter turns and looks over his shoulder, and I can see his eyebrows arch. Marchant Radcliffe, one of Hunter's hell-raising friends, tosses a glass bottle over the heads of a cluster of middle-aged women, and Hunter catches it with one hand, saying something that makes his admirers smile before turning to the wet bar behind him and opening a cabinet.

He pours liquor, and his ladies wait. Even filling shot glasses, he seems completely in command of himself and what's around him. I've moved in or near his circle for a while, despite our seven year age difference, and I've never seen him
not
look like that. Like a man at the helm of the universe.

It's kind of surprising, considering he spends most of his time in Vegas, playing poker (
professionally
, of all things), man-whoring, and tossing back his family's infamous Louisiana bourbon. That was his great-grandfather, Willard West's legacy. Hunter's father, Conrad West, after a long life in politics, is Secretary of State.

He disapproves of Hunter’s lifestyle, or so I’ve heard. I've only actually seen Conrad West in person twice, and both times from a distance, so I don't know much about him, but I wish I did. I collect Hunter details like my best friend Suri collects Hermès jewelry.

Watching Hunter turn around with a platter of tall shots balanced on his big hand and a sly smile on his face, I can't help imaging him lying on the Egyptian cotton sheets I know hug all the mattresses here at his Napa estate.

It wouldn’t start there, though. As he tosses back his shot, I envision him backed against a wall, his shoulders bare and round and wide, that plump lower lip just begging to be bitten. Something about him makes me want to bite. If I was anybody else, maybe I would try to arrange that.

As it is, I'm Elizabeth DeVille, super spy and resident poor girl, and watching him out of the corner of my eye will have to do.

I nod at something my best friend Suri is saying to me, feeling like a shitty friend because I'm not really listening.

“I'm surprised she's wearing Oscar because I heard she's not modeling anymore,” she says.

“Oh really,” I reply, hoping that's the right response.

“Maybe someone on the design team is a friend of hers, because otherwise I don’t know how she would get her hands on it.”

Hunter leans against the fireplace, fingering a flask that sticks out of his pants pocket. I catch him wipe a hand back through his slightly wavy hair as his groupies shift their attention to a curvy black-haired girl who's gesturing wildly about something. For half a second, Hunter's gaze lifts. I think it rests on me, but then a blonde bombshell in a wispy red gown steps around me, and I'm sure his gaze is on her.

I'm watching him more brazenly than ever now, curious to see how he reacts to the sexpot stalking his way. I'm surprised when his jaw tightens. He almost seems to wince. Then she is close enough to reach for him. He drapes an arm around her shoulder, a gentleman greeting a fond acquaintance, and I realize who she is: Priscilla Heat, resident porn star and my good friend Cross's arch nemesis. I don’t know what went wrong between the two of them—he hasn’t even told me how he knows her—but Cross seriously hates the woman.

I wonder if he's seen her yet.

A soft giggle pulls me back to earth, to Suri, who's standing beside me in front of a wall of glass doors that lead onto a balcony overlooking Hunter’s vineyards. Even as I turn to Suri, I can sense Hunter at the other end of the room, exuding a low-level hum that makes my electrons feel unstable.

"I knew you still wanted to do him," Suri whispers, wiggling her eyebrows like she's trying to attract attention.

"I do not," I hiss.

Squinting my left eye, I look around us, mindful of who is close enough to eavesdrop. I can't see faces clearly because my left contact fell out in Suri's limousine, but I think I spot Carolitta Hamshon in a circle of gowns just beyond the couch in front of me.

I angle my body more toward Suri. "I do not," I whisper, even lower. There's no way I want Carolitta's coven of bitches to hear this. It's embarrassing enough that Suri spotted me.

"Yes you do, girlie. You've wanted him since sweet sixteen."

Suri knows all about the time Mom's Porsche broke down on the winding road that runs past West Vineyard. Hunter came to my rescue at just past midnight, leaving a beautiful brunette in a silky gown watching from his front door as he pushed Mom's Porsche down his long driveway and into his garage. He'd pushed it up a ramp and stripped down to his jeans, then pulled out a rolling body-board, eased his broad torso onto it, and scooted his fine self beneath the belly of the car. He emerged twenty minutes later covered in oil smudges, with grease in his golden hair and a self-satisfied smile on his tiger face, inexplicably smelling slightly of bourbon. He'd insisted I stay the night in his spacious guesthouse. Suri also knows how, the next morning, I'd heard moans coming from the direction of the pool. And how, from that point on, my insides have quivered every time I see him on Moneyline or read about his poker tournaments in a newspaper. It's even worse when the gossip blogs feature him toting a trophy date to this event or that. Every time I read about him with a woman, I feel like scratching her eyeballs out.

I don't like it, but it's something I'm just going to have to live with.

"I'm not lying," I mumble, but Suri's no longer paying attention to me. She's shifted slightly in her silver Manolos, tossing a not-at-all-discreet glance Hunter's way.

"Suri, stop," I hiss.

"His eyes are almost yellow," she murmurs, this time having the tact to lean her head near mine. "You told me they were green, but when he passed by earlier, I swear they looked like cat eyes."

I nod. I think of him as part tiger. He's languid to the point of appearing almost lazy, and yellow or green, those eyes are framed by ridiculous lashes, set in a strong face with prominent cheekbones, full lips, and a sensuous smile.

I hear his chuckle, low and warmer than a gulp of bourbon, and I swear my knees shake under my slip like a debutant on her first night out.

"Elizabeth DeVille, I think you have your first boy crush."

She says boy crush because Suri has a long standing joke-suspicion that I’m gay.

"He's not my crush," I whisper, tight-jawed. I can feel sweat prickling underneath my arms, and the truth is, I'm starting to get a little upset as I worry Hunter will somehow
know
.

"Suuure he's not. Save it for the funnies, girlie-o." Suri winks, and her boyfriend Adam Hamilton is there, smiling at us both and holding two wine flutes. He hands one to me and presses the other into Suri's dainty hand. Looking from Suri to me, he frowns, his eyebrows crinkling.