Selling Scarlett, Page 2

  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.

  "What is it?" Suri giggles. Suri is always giggling. If she were a party drink, she'd be champagne for sure.

  "There's something here," he says, pointing accusingly from Suri to me. "You're doing one of those girl things where you talk about someone and they don't even know it." He shakes his head. "It's not fair."

  "Well it wasn't about you," Suri says, propping one hand on the hip of her burgundy, silk sheath Valentino gown. She slides her eyes to me, and Adam grins his dimpled grin. "Oh, I see. Miss Elizabeth."

  "No, not Miss Elizabeth." I scowl, because I resent the simpering nickname.

  "She has a hot crush," Suri murmurs, barely containing another trademark giggle behind her wine flute.

  "I do not." My face is flaming. I seriously consider smacking Suri, except I know that would draw even more attention, and I am not a fan of attention.

  "Bet my crush is even hotter," Adam says, taking Suri's hand. He brushes her brown curls out of her face and nods to the doors behind us, most of which have been propped open, letting in the nippy November air. "Want to dance?"

  I roll my eyes at their cheesiness, but truthfully I'm glad Adam got the heat off me.

  "Why of course, my love." Suri curtsies, and I have the wherewithal to flush on her behalf. Someone from Suri’s family should act a lot more cool in public. Suri's like an oblivious nine-year-old.

  I, on the other hand, am absolutely conscious of the eyes pulled to my orbit as Suri and Adam pass through the doors behind me, leaving me alone with my half-empty wine flute. I hate moments like these, where I know what everyone is thinking: Look at Elizabeth DeVille, left alone by the only friend she has. With a mother like hers and hardly any money left, it’s a wonder she has even one.

  Mentally shoving off their judgment, I lift the tail of my green dress in my right hand and gently pick my way through the crowded room, toward a slender hallway just beyond a staircase. I can't resist a glance over my shoulder as I go; I'm looking for Hunter, but he's nowhere in sight.

  Out to my left, beyond a wine-gurgling
fountain and across a vast oriental rug, I spot my friend Cross Carlson with his arms around the red-haired Cole sisters: identical, with matching D-cup racks. He winks, and I give him a genuine smile, hoping the black-haired, blue-eyed devil in the bespoke tux is actually Cross. I really can't see. I curse the loss of my contact, and my own vanity. I have a pair of glasses in my clutch, but I'm too vain to wear them with my emerald satin, mermaid-cut Vera Wang.

  Not that it would change my aesthetics much. With or without glasses, I'm still a fat girl. Not a lot fat. Just regular, eats-too-much-good-food fat. The kind of fat that curls the waist of my blue jeans down and creates an unattractive line of back fat between my pants and my top, just over the butt, when I sit cross-legged, hunched over one of my textbooks.

  Since finishing undergrad—since my mom threw my dad out before having her third nervous breakdown in as many years, and dad went running to another family, complete with two new daughters—I've gained probably fifteen or twenty pounds, and the thing about the new me is, I don't care. I like Phish Food ice cream. I like beer, wine, and whiskey. I like Dove dark chocolate even better than the fancy imported stuff, and my mystery novel fetish is such that the time I don't spend studying for a PhD in Ethics is devoted to figuring out whodunnit.

  With the exception of Hunter West, who's been my own personal porn since that fateful night Mom's Porsche broke down, I don't find that many men attractive. Maybe I am a lesbian, but I don't think so. I’ve never had the hots for another woman. I think most guys are just boring.

  I clutch the tail of my dress a little more tightly as I glide down the hallway just off the great room. The wall on my right has turned from stone to glass, and I realize I'm approaching the atrium: a glass-walled garden in the middle of the octagonal house. Through the glass wall on my right, I see a swatch of starry sky, and I remember three nights ago, at Mom’s house. Cross and I went to the front lawn to watch a meteor shower, and I think he wanted to kiss me.

  He's always been like that when he drinks. Needy. Turned on. Most girls love it, but Cross is one of my oldest friends. I know how closed he is to everyone, how shallow he keeps things, especially with girls he likes, and I can't risk that happening with me. I need our long, deep talks, just about as much as I need his unwavering friendship. Besides, if we hooked up and it went wrong, Cross wouldn't have anywhere to live.

  I let my mind linger on Cross's troubles only for a moment before I hurry past the atrium, knowing everyone standing in the glass-framed garden is probably making out or gossiping in cliques. I don't need their eyes on me.

  My destination, a replica of an old-fashioned powder room, should be just past a serving closet up here on my left. I look at the rug as I walk; it's red, ornate, and old, and it covers most of the hardwood in this hall. My lack of sight in my left eye makes my right eye jump around, taking in the Sanskrit wall-hangings and the glittering, crystal light fixtures on the ceiling—and all the space in-between. I want to be sure I don't run into any company.

  Cross texted the directions to the powder room earlier today when I asked for an escape place if I found myself alone. Mom built room on rqst, 4 his women, Cross told me, adding a winking smilie at the end. Cross's mom, Derinda, is a well-known Hollywood architect, and this octagonal mansion in the spot where the original estate burned is one of her most recent creations.

  The 'smthng brass' Cross had told me would mark the powder room is a brass tiger's head door-knocker mounted on the sleek wood, and I smile when I see it. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a moan. A woman's moan, followed by a man's moan.

  I should move. I know I should, but I just can't. My BCBGs are pasted to the rug as my whole body heats to a boil.

  Hunter is in there. I know that moan.

  He moans again, and I hear a strangled "no" from low down in his throat. My body slumps against the door as my pulse dances. Sweat blooms on every inch of me. I can't swallow or breathe as the woman whispers something in an enticing alto voice, and Hunter's baritone voice purrs, "Such a bitch."

  "You're the bitch," she laughs, and I hear the smack of a hand on skin. She moans like she's turned on, and I imagine Hunter's golden hair around his tiger face, the sexy curve of his lips as another slap rings through the room and the woman laughs again, high-pitched and off-key like the whinny of a horse.

  Holy crap.

  His release is rough, too. I can easily imagine his hips swinging, his ass tightening as he pumps into her from behind. His moan is guttural, almost a grunt. It sounds like pain but I know it must be pleasure.

  “Jesus,” the woman pants. “You're worth the trouble. Really, Hunter...what a fucking stud.”

  I listen with my heart in my throat, but Hunter is silent as the woman makes a little mewling sound. I can hear the shuffling sound of fabric over bodies, but there are no words—just the woman's panting.

  A second later and there's heavy footfall, followed by the low squeal of a closing door.

  "Jesus," the raspy, female voice whispers.

  Looking down at my hand on the doorknob, I realize there's a key hole and I peek through it, getting a fleeting glimpse of Priscilla Heat in her red taffeta gown. Hunter has left her there with swollen lips and wild hair, examining her manicure as she leans on one of the ivy-covered columns framing a sunken tub.

  Hunter—well-mannered, charming Hunter—slapped her ass, bruised her lips, and then he left her there. For some reason, that does crazy things to me: the image of Hunter, pulling down his expensive trousers and taking out his cock. Quick, rough sex, and then he's gone.

  I imagine the bulge in his crotch as he struts out the door of the bathroom, and I'm so turned on I can't think straight.

  I glance behind me and, seeing no one, stumble farther down the hallway. I'm weaving like a drunk, and I am drunk: drunk on pent-up lust and yes, a heady, girlish crush. I stumble past a row of dark wood doors, stopping for a breath when I reach a bend in the hall.

  I lean against the burgundy wallpaper, shocked by the intensity of my arousal. Every breath only steepens my desire. I think about how long it's been since I took care of myself. I've been busy studying for finals, so I guess it's been about a week. As I stand there, aching, I look down the remainder of the hall and notice there are no doors beyond the one I just passed. The hall turns to the right and leads around to the massive foyer, if I'm correct about where I am.

  I glance left and right again. No one is around. I can't even hear the string band playing in the great room, where the party is. I take a deep, shaky breath. Then I grab the handle of the door behind me. It's taller and wider than the others, and to my surprise, it gives when I turn the knob and push.

  Blinded by a haze of lust, I sail into the room, flaps of emerald silk flying around me, my hand already reaching between my legs.

  Through my mental fog, I notice the vastness of the bedroom. My eyes slide over the flames blooming in a marble fireplace and I spot a tasseled pillow tossed haphazardly, inches from the fire. My attention settles on the bed; it's huge, with four mahogany posts and a deep green bedspread that matches my gown almost perfectly. I dimly note a surprising lack of pillows, just before I trip on one. I glance down at my feet, surprised to find I am standing in a sea of pillows. I glance around, still panting, and notice a broken mirror hanging beside a small armoire.

  I'm confused and, for a second, worried, but another glance around the room reveals nothing else out of the ordinary. I assume someone has used the room for a party quickie. That turns me on even more, and I rush back to the door, locking it behind me before striding back to the bed.

  It's ridiculous. I'm still blazing hot. I feel full and restless. Desperate. I know what I need. I've never done this outside my bedroom, but Hunter West does something strange to me, so I'm not entirely surprised—nor am I inclined to stifle my desire. I'm a grown woman, and God knows I'm the only one with a say-so in my sex life. Why not do what I want? Ten minutes, and I'll be back out in the hall, feeling a lot more level-heade
d. It's win-win.

  I grin as I scoot up onto the mattress, inhaling the sweet scent of leather and cologne as I lean back on the only remaining pillow. Sweaty and trembling, I part my legs and reach under my gown. My fingers have just found their mark when a shadow rises from the floor space on the other side of the bed.

  Chapter Two

  ~ELIZABETH~

  Hunter is shirtless and sweat-slicked, with dark eyes and a twisted mouth. He wipes his forehead, squinting, and speaks in a voice that sounds strangely far away. "Is that you, Libby?"

  I can't speak. I can't even move for the longest moment. When I find my voice, I sound like I'm choking. "Libby? N-no."

  Oh dear God, he's beautiful. I am in awe of his shoulders. His pecs. My heart is racing, and under my gown, I quiver in response to—well, it must be pheromones. I have the urge to grab his arms and pull him down beside me on the bed. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut.