Selling Scarlett (Love Inc 1)

Loveless nods, like she’s thinking this over carefully. She has a pretty good poker face, I realize as she purses her lips. “You know him from back home?”

I nod.

“So you are from Napa Valley?”

“Please don’t tell anyone else. My family would be upset if—”

She reaches across the table, grabbing my hand, which is curled into a nervous fist. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Loveless stands abruptly and leans down. “Will you be okay for a minute by yourself?”

I nod. “Sure.”

Without giving me an explanation, she slips into the crowd. I’m following her as she drifts over to the right, back toward the stairwell, when my gaze snags on Hunter.

He’s leaning against one corner of the smooth, mahogany bar, drinking something out of a glass. Probably West Bourbon. He looks really, really tired, and he’s tensing his left shoulder like it hurts. He’s swaying gently back and forth, and I get the impression he’s looking for someone.

I consider not going over to him, because I don’t know for sure that Priscilla isn’t here. But I can’t stop myself.

I stop right in front of him, and it takes his eyes a second to lock onto my face.

“Libby?” The word is low and almost strangled, and I immediately regret this.

“It’s Elizabeth.” I smile a little ruefully. “But I answer to Libby as long as it’s coming from you.” I look into his eyes, waiting for him to smile, and when he doesn’t—the left corner of his mouth twitches a little, but he can’t seem to summon a smile—I feel a sting of worry again.

I look him over: his damp blond hair, the handsome face that’s bruised along the jaw and around his right eye, the green eyes he’s barely holding open. He’s wearing a faded blue button-up that’s rolled up to his elbows, over black slacks and casual loafers. My eyes make it to his hands and I can’t suppress a gasp. They’re wrapped in white gauze, but the stain of blood is already showing through over the knuckles.

“Holy hell.”

“Lost my gloves,” he murmurs, looking weary and distracted. I remember: He didn’t lose them—he pulled them off, to go at Lockwood with his bare fists.

I step a little closer to him, enticed by the warm, spicy smell of his cologne. “Are you okay? You just look...really tired, and I noticed you were bleeding on your back.”

He blinks, and whatever daze was over him lifts. His eyes narrow, and he’s shrewd Hunter again. He brushes a hand down one of my pig-tails, fingering my brown hair gently. I can see his tired face soften as his eyes search mine. “What are you doing here, Libby? I saw you sitting with Geneese Loveless.”

I shrug, scrambling for a way to play it off. “We’re old friends.”

“So you’re friends, are you?” His tone sounds weird. Almost…too interested. As if. He chews his lip, and I think I just might die of sexy. “Or is it more a study? It’s...anthropology or sociology. Ethics?” he tries.

I grin, irrationally pleased. “How’d you know?”

He shakes his head, bringing the glass of amber liquid to his lips. When he lowers it, he’s smirking. “Lucky guess.”

My heart is probably about three beats away from bursting through my blouse.

But Hunter’s expression darkens. Worry creases his brows, and his full lips meld into a pensive line. “You should be careful with Loveless. She’s...a hard-hitter. So are some of her friends.”

I wonder what he means by this, and then I realize and it takes every ounce of willpower I have to swallow back a laugh. That’s how he describes prostitutes? Hard-hitters? I lick my lips, somehow managing to restrain myself. It’s probably best to play it off. I don’t even crack a smile as I casually say, “Her friends have been nice so far, but I’ll remember that. Although,” I can’t help adding, in defense of my new friend, “Loveless seems pretty level-headed to me.”

“She is.” He leans closer, so I get a whiff of his cologne. With his other hand he’s swirling the liquid in his glass like he’s starting to get edgy. I notice he’s scanning the crowd again.

I edge away from him, and his fingers loosely curl around my hair as his attention boomerangs back to me—his eyes growing soft again. “Just be careful, okay?”

I’m hit with the full force of those green eyes, and there’s no mistaking the concern there. He withdraws his hand from the loose curls of my dressed-up pigtail and grabs onto the bar counter behind him.

“Why do you care?” I whisper. The question comes from some self-destructive place, because I expect him to say, “Well, I don’t, really.” Part of me hopes he will say it.

Okay, crazy, we’ll deal with that later. I smile tightly. “I’m sorry. I appreciate your kindness. I’ll be sure to think on my feet.”

The universe smiles on me for a moment, because as I speak, Hunter is tossing down the rest of his drink—which means I can’t see his face. In the last glimpse I have of him as I turn to go, he’s rubbing his forehead with a pained look on his face.