I step closer to the mirror, frantically smoothing my hair, and the housekeeper turns. "There is one more thing," she says.
I wait, brows arched.
"He does not make a habit. He say he found you, he had been drinking, you were beautiful. If there is any forgiveness to be asked, you will speak with him?"
I frowned, confused until I realize this must be Hunter West's damage control. Ouch. I swallow. Nod. "Yeah, whatever. Sure." She turns again, to go, and I say, "Wait." Her dark eyes meet mine, and I spit it out: "Tell him that's fine. I wasn't looking to get married, either."
After that, I lock the doors, pull my gown up, and work carefully to restore myself to my pre-Hunter state. I also give myself a mental shake.
He didn't use and abuse you, silly girl. You were both in the right place at the right time, and you had the best orgasm ever. If anything, he gave you stud service. It so happened to occur right after he was with another woman, but he didn't design it that way.
Besides, it was a great time. I can't regret that.
I try to believe my own propaganda as I smooth my hair, reapply my lipstick, and stuff the Hunter-scented cravat deeper into my clutch. I look perfectly respectable—and I am. I've had a nice time, and now I'm going back to the party. Maybe Suri will feel I've served my time, and I can go home and finish my reading for class on Monday; the subject is fitting: the morality (or amorality) of sex.
After a few more minutes of deep breaths, I start toward the door the maid went through, but as soon as I do, I can see royal blue and gold curtains. I don't want to come out in another bedroom, and I damn sure don't want to bump into Hunter again, so I turn around and open the door leading back into the emerald room.
What I find on the other side stuns me. Priscilla Heat is naked, lying on her back beside the fireplace, and Hunter is leaning over her. I'm so distracted by his amazing, taut backside, it takes me a second to notice what he's doing with his left hand.
It's pushed against Priscilla's throat. She moans. I gasp and Hunter's head whips my way. The look on his face is horror. I imagine mine is much the same. I fly through the blue room as fast as I can move.
*
I'm dashing through the hall, toward the vacant end that meets the front side of the house, and I guess I must be freaking out because I don't even notice Cross until he and I collide. His hands close on my shoulders as he holds me at arms' length, his blue eyes narrowing and then widening as he realizes I'm me.
"Where have you been, Lizzy? I was looking for you." His voice is low, and I can smell the vodka on his warm breath.
He must have had a lot to drink tonight, because his face has that relaxed look, the one I remember from the other night, out on Mom's lawn. On this rare occasion, Cross is an open door, and as I stand there looking up at him, his fingers press into the flesh of my shoulders.
"Is something wrong?" He moves his hand up to my face and cups my cheek. "You look like something happened."
Without waiting for my answer, he pulls me close. With my body pressed against his hard one, I realize that I'm shaking and I pray he doesn't notice. "I'm okay," I lie. And even though I'm not nurturing romantic feelings for Cross, being so close to him makes me feel warm. I imagine him sitting at his desk with a sketchpad and a pencil, dictating the design of a new Cross Hybrids bike, rough around the edges and pretty damn sexy.
He folds my head under his chin, and his deep voice vibrates through my ribs. "I should never have told you to come back here. I know Hunter West, and he's—" He inhales deeply, his nose in my hair, and then pushes me away, his eyes flying to mine. "Elizabeth, you didn't."
"Didn't what?"
He looks me over, up and down, and when his gaze falls on my left arm, all the color drains out of his face. "Fucking hell," he whispers.
"What?"
He snatches my purse, pulling out Hunter's cravat and waving it around. "Jesus, Lizzy. Really? Hunter West?"
I nod, because I'm not sure what else to do. “What's wrong with—”
I'm going to ask what's so wrong with Hunter West—a rhetorical question whose answer is among the hundreds of scandalous rumors I’ve collected about Hunter over the years. But before I can finish my question, Cross turns around and slams his fist into the wall, striking it hard enough to cause a loud boom.
I jump on him, stunned and appalled. "Cross! What the hell is wrong with you?!"
For half a second, he freezes, and I can feel the pent up rage seethe in him.
Another half a second and it’s gone.
He gently removes my arms and turns to look at me, his expression carefully subdued. "Do you need a ride home, Lizzy? Do you want to talk?"
"I'm fine,” I say, and his mouth twists. He tugs me down the hall, back toward the green bedroom, where I hear slapping again and Hunter's moan. My stomach lurches.
"Don't think that you're the only one," Cross says. His eyes bore into mine, looking for something I can't name. "Did he force you, Liz?"
"No way! Of course he didn't." I grab Cross's hand and drag him back the other way, toward the empty foyer. "Call off the state of emergency. I’ve still got my V-card. Unstamped."
“For how long?” he asks darkly, and I’ve had enough.
“I don’t care how much you’ve been drinking—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Do you really want to be just another f**k?”
I recoil, feeling like I've just been slapped. It takes me a full half-second to gather my thoughts, and when I do, I'm seething. "I could never be 'just another f**k', so don't you say that shit to me. I'll make my own choices and I don't do a bad job, unlike some people who drink themselves stupid and sleep with any warm body that will have them."
He works his jaw, and I know it was a low blow. He’s told me practically all his secrets since we were kids, and I know he uses sex to get affection.
"I'm just trying to be your friend, Lizzy.” But his voice is hard.
I feel steam coming out my ears. I'm judged enough based on my mom, and I don't need Cross adding to it. "Why were you back here?"
The look on his face tells me exactly what I had suspected: he was looking for space for his two redheads.
"I'm not like him," he starts.
"Right," I snap.
I can see the hurt in his eyes. Instantly, I'm gutted.
"Cross, I'm sorry—"
But he's out the front doors in a gust of frigid air, and I can't take back what I've said. I stand there, trembling harder than I was before, feeling angry at him and like a shitty friend.