Chapter 22
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’re 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 things, 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. I’m going to have sex with him! I shiver a little, and Hunter puts his hand on my knee. “You 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 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 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 calloused. 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—” He shakes his head. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”
“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—
My stomach clenches when he drapes an arm around my shoulders. Then we’re walking 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—your place is beautiful.”
I feel a little embarrassed as I say it—a little bourgeoisie—but why be embarrassed now? He’s seen my mom’s 1990s kitchen, and I know he knows about my family’s financial woes. Heck, he’s paying me ten million dollars to be here right now.
His hand around mine tightens. “Decorator.” In the dancing light of the chandelier, his face looks beautiful and hard. “Are you hungry?”
“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 checkerboard marble floor and gorgeous wood walls. It’s very masculine, elegantly understated, with few froufrou decorations.
We pass a huge painting of a bird dog prancing and another of a Gothic, shotgun home, and I say, “You’re from New Orleans, right?”
He nods, but doesn’t speak, and I feel kind of foolish for acting like we just met.
Really, our relationship—if you can call it that—has been pretty much the same since that night at his party. Nothing personal, just physical. Which, again, makes me wonder why he paid so much for this. I wonder if it’s possible he really likes the idea of being the first man in between my legs. It’s a little crude, so I hope not.
I follow him into a comfortable men’s parlor with two plush soft couches, a recliner, and a fireplace, plus an emerald marble bar and shelves filled with a bunch of old, hardback books. His laptop, a sleek Macbook, sits on an end table. I’m filled with the low-level buzz that comes from being in his personal space.
“Have a seat,” he tells me, motioning to the couches.
He strides over to the bar and pours two drinks. Bourbon, of course. Mine is shallow, his is not. He sits across from me in a wing-backed chair, one ankle propped on his knee, and I feel slightly sick from nervousness. He looks so serious, even more imposing than usual here in his own home.
“I have a proposition for you, Scarlett.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“You stay for a week, and sex is optional. Initiated by you. If, by week’s end, you haven’t done so, you can return home to Napa.”