"If that's what he wants you for." Marchant snorts. "He just paid millions for you, honey. I'd say he f**king wants you." He gives me a pointed look, like he's expecting some explanation as to why his friend would do this. When I just blink at him, he rolls his eyes. "Well here's the deets. He wants to host you at his ranch. Tonight.” He exams my face, which is bug-eyed, and shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to say. “He’s willing to pay an extra two million if you have any objections."
An extra two million to get me to his house tonight? I rub my lips together, freaking the F out and trying not to hyperventilate. "Okay," I whisper. I can do this. Oh God, can I?
"You gonna charge him the extra, or you want to amend the contract and settle with what he paid already?"
"Ten million dollars." It just can't be real.
But Marchant nods, those brown eyes holding mine, like he's looking for something. I sit up straighter, hell-bent on keeping him from finding it.
I take a deep breath, so I can speak without my voice shaking. "I'll do it without charging two million, unless there's something else to this. I mean, he doesn't want me for a threesome or something, right?"
"A threesome?" He laughs. "That’s more my speed."
I remember the story about Priscilla Heat filmed an orgy scene with Marchant. The thought disgusts me. Makes me cold. I wrap the robe more tightly around my body and nod. "Well okay then. I'll go…tonight."
"I’ll have Jeff ride with you if West wants to take his own wheels."
I smooth the robe over my knee. "I don't think I need him. Thank you, though."
He arches his brows—same color as his distinctive auburn hair—and sticks his hands into the pockets of his suit. "I'm sorry you're unhappy with the outcome of the bidding."
I try to smirk, but my mouth just ends up quivering, so I press my lips together. "I don't really believe you. You're his best friend. Everybody knows that."
"Guilty as charged. Hunter's a good guy, Scarlett. He won't hurt you. He..." Marchant looks like he's going to confide in me about something, but then he shakes his head. "Hunter's a good guy," he says.
He glances down at his iPhone, then back up into my eyes. "Are you okay to talk with him? He'd like to see you now."
Right now? I look down at myself. I can't talk to Hunter in this. Then it hits me, for the first time fully, that Hunter is the winner.
I feel tears of panic pooling in my eyes. Hunter West. Not some stranger I can forget. My Hunter. Except he isn't mine—and now he knows I sold my V-card. I didn't want anyone to know!
I bite my lip so the tears dry, and I straighten my posture, determined to master my emotions. Marchant's mouth is puckered into a curious expression, but before he can throw any more of his questions at me, I nod briskly, in a way I hope looks professional. "I'll talk to him."
He turns to go, but he turns back around to me before he reaches the door. "Scarlett?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know what's going on with you two, but I want you to know: Hunter's my boy. He's a good dude, and he's got a lot on his plate. I mean a three-course meal of bullshit. So just make sure whatever happens tonight doesn’t turn into something else for him to deal with, okay?”
I'm so stunned, I can't even nod. I just sit there with my mouth hanging halfway open, and after giving me a smile that looks almost sad, Marchant turns and leaves.
Holy cow.
I fold my arms around myself, trembling slightly. What is Hunter playing at? I just don't understand. I can't believe he paid so much money for me. Why did he do it? And 'three-course meal of bullshit'? Does Marchant mean the Sarabelle thing? Hunter's not a suspect, is he? I tell myself obviously Marchant's a drama king. Look at his job. Showmanship. Drama. I'm sure it's nothing.
Still, I ball my hands into fists and bite my lip until I taste blood mingled in with the dull tang of my lipstick.
Pull it together, Elizabeth.
I can do this. I can keep my heart intact, have no-strings, virginity-losing sex with Hunter, and go back home to Suri and Cross. I take a few deep breaths and start to feel a little better. Even a little angry. Marchant doesn't know what he's talking about. There's nothing vulnerable about Hunter. I'm the one who doesn't need any extra bullshit. Hunter is invincible. Capable of eating me for breakfast in one big CHOMP.
I drop my head into my hands, feeling like I'm being tugged in ten directions. A few more deep breaths, and I remember that I just can't care. This is a one-night thing. Nothing more.
I'll be glad to get rid of my V-card. And holy belly bats, am I grateful for the money.
As for everything else…I don't know why Hunter bid on me, and I don't care. I don't have to. All I have to do is screw him.
I stand up, my black robe whirling around my ankles. I run my fingers through my long, loose hair and slide a tube of lipstick from the robe's pocket. I can do this.
And I believe that—right until the moment the door swings open and Hunter strides inside.
He looks rough, his smooth skin pale, his mouth pinched tight. And God—that body. His massive shoulders draw my eyes, and my gaze falls down his flawless abs, visible through the tight, black t-shirt that is his trademark poker outfit. Poker outfit? I look down at his pants, and yep. They're the black jeans he always wears, along with big, black boots. He’s Stetson-less, though, and his pretty golden hair is messy. His eyes, now fixed on me, are slightly red. I wonder if he's doing cocaine. I've heard he used to. My stomach twists. He looks me over, same as I did him, and I realize with a jolt that he looks genuinely angry.
His mouth pinches a little more, and he nods briskly at the door. "I've got my ride at the side entrance. Marchant says you’re ready."
I lick my lips, looking into his face and searching for any hint of what he’s thinking. But he’s got a hell of a poker face. "That's it?"
"What do you mean, that's it? Are you expecting something more? A corsage?" he asks dryly.
I flinch. "No, of course not. I just mean...you look upset or something."
He stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Not so much upset as pissed."
"At me?"
"Just pissed," he says, folding his arms like he's daring me to challenge him. I couldn't if I wanted to. I have no idea what he's talking about. But I have a strong gut feeling that it's directed at me.
"I don't want go off with someone who's angry at me."
His face goes from stony to downright hard. Those gorgeous green eyes are like nails. "Then reject my offer."