I start to fold and organize my clothes, which are laid out by outfit all over the room, and Hunter leans against the bed. It's a little awkward, but also kind of companionable. “I'm surprised you went to a brothel for sex,” I say after a few minutes.
“Are you?” he smiles a little ruefully.
“You could get it on your own.”
“True. But I'm emotionally detached. Women don't like that.”
“Do you really think so?” I don't see him that way at all.
He shrugs. “They want more. Most people do.”
“No, I meant why do you see yourself that way?”
He shrugs. “Nurture shaping nature.” One eyebrow lifts when he sees my face. “You look surprised.”
“I am,” I say, sticking the last of my stray outfits into my suitcase. “I don't see you that way at all.”
He presses his lips together in an expression I can't read. “That's because I'm not, with you.”
I link my arm through his, and we take the elevator up to the third floor. and make our way into his movie room. He's still got my hand laced through his arm, but when we get into the vast room with its rows of black leather recliners, he lets go of me and waves at the cabinets on the wall. “You pick something. I need to call Marchant, okay?”
I nod. “I need to make a call, too.”
We go into separate corners. Suri tells me Cross is calmer now, wants to see me, and insists he's right about someone trying to kill him that night at Hunter's party. I tell her I'll be back tomorrow.
Hunter walks over to me, his hands in his pockets. “Something...um, happened. Having to do with the situation you heard my father mention. If they don't get it straightened, I might have to go out and help.”
“Who's they?”
“Marchant and I have a team of private investigators, looking into what happened to Sarabelle.”
I nod slowly. “I see.” Before I can ask him another question, he arches his brows and asks, “What did you pick?”
“The Notebook.”
The horrified look on his face is priceless.
I laugh, pulling the DVD out from behind my back. “What about The Princess Bride?”
“Now that'll work.”
“I want to watch this and have fun. But tell me one thing first. Was it all fake? You and Priscilla?”
He nods, and I can't help myself. “So she's framing you. Blackmailing you or something.”
He starts the movie and pulls me into his lap, in one of the recliners. I'm surprised, but I adore the closeness. “Don't worry about me,” he says as I settle against his chest. “And please, don't ever be afraid of me. You know...I still remember the first night I ever saw you.”
“You had a woman over.”
“An escort.”
I frown, wondering about his mother. She was an escort, or so his father said. “Do you only like escorts? Is that why you're not having sex with me?”
“I have sex with escorts because they don't want anything. Remember? I'm a no strings attached kind of guy.”
“You seem like you would make a good boyfriend,” I say, stroking his arm. Not that I can really say, having even less experience in relationship matters. “I mean, if you found the right person.”
He’s silent for a second, and I kick myself for being so obvious.
Eventually, he says, “I think ultimately I just can't take that risk.”
He kisses my temple. I snuggle up to him as the movie starts to play, and want to cry.
*
~HUNTER~
Libby falls asleep against my chest sometime before the credits roll, and I carry her to my bed. Then I discuss the Priscilla incident with Hal, who doubles as my driver as well as my head of security. It seems at some point Priscilla—or one of her friends—rewrote my system’s security protocols to admit her 24/7. Hal has reset the system, and he’s called in his brothers, Jake and Gilly. I have him post both outside my door.
As I dress, I think about everything that's transpired between Libby and I. Everything that's been said. And I wish, for the first time, that I was a free man. Really free. I wish that I could have her. Not just for a night. She's not that kind of woman. And the crazy thing is, when I'm with her, I'm not that kind of guy.
I think about all the food I cooked for her for breakfast. I never cook. I never want to. But I want to feed Libby. I think about how I let her touch me with her eyes open. I let her look at me, and I didn't feel anxious like I do with other women. In fact, it's the opposite; I like looking into her blue eyes. I think about her up there in my bed, and I'd give anything to be there with her. Kiss her. Fuck her. Fly around the world with her. I'd like to take her to New Zealand. The Alps. Some place that's as beautiful as she is.
Instead, I get my gun and call Marchant to see if any of our people have a lead on Priscilla’s location. He tells me no one has she's still M.I.A.—so I head out to try to find her. I check out with Hal and open my front door, already thinking about how I'll get the little recorder stashed in my glove box and put it in my pocket, just in case I actually find Priscilla and can get her talking.
I lock the door, turn around, and jump as a slender arm encircles my waist.
“Hunter.”
Priscilla! Now that's a surprise. She’s standing in the nook where a huge potted palm blooms, right beside my door. The porch light is on, and in the amber glow, her hair looks white, her eyes almost black.
“Priscilla,” I growl. I want to throttle her right here and now, but I need the recorder to make any of this worth while. I push her against the side of the house, pressing my palm against her ribcage, and look into her coy face. “You and I need to go talk. Somewhere not here.”
I guess she sees the rage twisting my face, because her eyes widen, and she arches up against the stone wall. “I didn't pick you, Hunter,” she says quickly. I try not to let my surprise show as she leaps right into a confession. “Not for anything but sex. I wanted you beside me on screen. We look great together. That’s all I cared about.”
“So it was all Lockwood?” I murmur.
She leans up to kiss me, but I move my hand from her chest to her throat. “Don't try that shit,” I hiss.
She sticks her hands up like I'm holding her at gunpoint. She’s worried, and I’ve never seen her worried. Is this a game? Why is she here? Why is she talking? “He knew I had drugged you that night, and he wanted to f**k Sarabelle. She never took him as a client. He didn't like that.”
“So he—what? What did he do to her?” I need to know, but I don’t want to know, and that just stokes my anger. I wrap my fist around Priscilla's blouse and tug her down the stairs, toward my truck. She slips and falls, but I'm not thinking clearly. I don't care if she gets scraped up. I jerk her forward.