Selling Scarlett (32 page)

"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.

Chapter Twenty-Nine
~HUNTER~

This is a fucking mess.

I
am a fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking virgin. I knew she felt tight when I had my fingers inside her pussy, 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 fucking framed, but I'm not telling Dave that.

"Fuck."

"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. Fucking 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.