"I hope you didn't bid on me out of some misplaced feeling of responsibility." Her eyes drop, then raise to meet mine, and I can sense a rallying as she squares her shoulders slightly. "Why did you bid on me?"
My answer won't do, so I ignore her question. "Do you realize anyone could have won?"
"Anyone without a criminal record," she corrects. "And yes."
"Do you know who the runner-up was?" The runner up was Alexander Halford, a weasel corporate attorney who's fifty-five and only f**ks women in their '20s.
She lifts her shoulders, staring straight ahead, at the limousine’s divider wall. "I don't care."
"Such trust in the world." Even to my own ears, I sound like a caricature of some cynical old man, but I don't give a shit. Looking her over, imagining Halford's hands on her, I feel another wave of rage.
"Trust or apathy?" She arches a brow. "It's just sex, and it's just one time. I wanted what could be done with the money badly enough that it didn't matter who the winning bidder was."
My dick twitches, and I scoot a little farther away from her. "You're helping your friend, the Carlson boy." Remembering that day in court, I grit my molars. I'm probably about to stick my foot in my damn mouth again, so it's a good thing she cuts me a fed-up look and signs.
"Why I want the money is no one's business but mine."
I snort. "I was in the courthouse that day. Unless you've got something else in the works..."
Her mouth tucks up, the little minx. "Maybe I do."
I turn toward her, wanting her to understand this. I pin her with my eyes and turn my gaze on high. "You can't trust just anyone. And definitely not a man that’s going to pay millions to have sex with you?"
"I have guards," she points out.
"Yeah, and you dismissed them to come with me. How well do you think you know me, Libby?"
She surprises me by reaching out and touching my shoulder. "Well enough to know you're tired and grumpy, and your back's still sore." She sighs. "I know I don't know you very well, but am I really supposed to worry you're some kind of villain?"
“I'm a recovering addict who visits brothels and has a penthouse at a casino. You've seen me f**king a p**n star—not too easy, either. You're riding an awful f**king lot on intuition.”
"And you’re not telling me anything I don’t know," she murmurs. She looks away from me, and guilt grabs me by the throat. Guilt that I've treated her the way I have.
I sigh into my hands. Lift my head. Meet her eyes. "The other night at the Joseph—"
"Doesn't need to be rehashed. Seriously, Hunter," she says calmly. "There was nothing complicated about that, so why make it complicated now?"
Now I do snort. I'd hate to see her version of complicated. I wonder if the mess I'm in up to my ears would qualify. Probably so, I think grimly.
She sits back against the heated seat, and I wonder how anything with us could ever be anything but f**king complicated. I can't help being hard as a rock, sitting this near to her. All that long brown hair, that gorgeous face, the way she smells, like cinnamon and vanilla—delicious.
I'm silent as we roll toward Batshit Ranch. Not counting Priscilla, who comes by uninvited, I've never brought a woman here before.
*
~ELIZABETH~
I feel like I’ve fallen through the rabbit hole.
I’m sitting by Hunter on a plush, heated bench seat inside his stretch Escalade. We are rolling past fortress-like houses and sprawling, landscaped lawns, on our way to his ranch. He's been quizzing me about my choices, like a...well, I'm tempted to say a jealous boyfriend, except I know there's no way Hunter West is jealous over me.
I pull the coat closer around myself and wish I was wearing something different underneath. I think of what I just told him, about how our last encounter was no big deal. I wonder what it means that he wanted to talk about it.
Now that I’ve had some time to digest, I'm incredibly glad it's Hunter I wound up with. I can't account for what he does with other women—especially Priscilla Heat—but he's never been anything but gentle with me, and I can't picture him being different tonight.
I slide a glance his way, admiring his body in those tight, black clothes. My God, he looks amazing. Sex on a stick. I'm going to be having sex with him! I shiver a little, and Hunter puts his hand on my knee. "Cold?"
"I'm okay."
He pushes a button on his door, and I feel more heat coming from the vents.
"Thank you."
He doesn't speak, but he seems to notice that his hand is still on my knee. He lifts his palm up, looking kind of confused, like he's not sure how it got there. We endure a few more minutes of weird silence before the limo passes through massive, iron gates and starts rolling down a long driveway. A few hundred yards later, I see a huge, stone house surrounded by big, lush oak trees. We turn into a circle drive and park between a fountain and the bib-shaped stairs.
Hunter is out before I am, coming around to my side and opening the door before the driver can reach me.
His hand in mine feels warm and rough. He tugs me gently toward the stairs before he stops, cupping my cheek with his other hand, looking contrite. "Libby, I know I've been a dick tonight, but...I don't want you to worry. I'll make sure you're comfortable with our arrangement."
"Thanks." It sounds awkward, but then I am awkward. What does he mean, make sure I'm comfortable? It's sex, not a bikini waxing. Is he talking about how much it hurts the woman when the hymen rips?
My stomach is clenched hard when he tucks an arm around my shoulders, and then we're going up the stairs. He pushes through the double doors and leads me into a massive foyer, with gorgeous, hardwood ribbon stairs curling up to a second-floor, a massive wood-carved chandelier with dancing gas flames, and a marble tabletop with a curved, scroll mirror that rises toward a vaulted ceiling.
"Wow—it's beautiful."
I feel a little embarrassed as I say it—a little bourgeoisie—but this is Hunter; he's seen my mom's 1990s kitchen, and I know he knows about my family's financial woes.
His hand around mine tightens. "Decorator.” In the dancing light of the chandelier, his face looks beautiful and hard. "Are you hungry?"
"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.