Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
My stomach dips like I’m riding a roller coaster.
Not Hunter. Another woman.
I notice she’s wearing a prim black dress and a crisp white apron. Not another lover. She gives me a shy smile and as she steps forward, I can see that her blonde-brown hair is tucked into a tidy bun.
“Miss DeVille?” she says softly.
“That’s me,” I say, trying not to look all bug-eyed/weirded out.
She nods at the tub. “Would you like a bathe?”
Her accent is French, I think. “A bath?” I correct her automatically and then feel guilty; it’s the soon-to-be professor in me.
“Yes…this.” She nods vigorously. “Would you like to get into the bath?”
I narrow my eyes at the massive, square tub, realizing slowly that she must have been sent here by Hunter. “Um, that’s not necessary.” I frown, not at all sure what to say.
I decide to be blunt. “Where is Hunter?”
“Mister West is tending to some business.”
Oh, I just bet he is.
“Did he send you to offer me a bath?”
The girl hesitates, and then nods.
“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll take a few minutes in here by myself and I’ll be gone.”
I step closer to the mirror, smoothing my hair to fill the awkward moment, and the woman turns back toward me. “There is one more thing,” she says, her voice now softer.
I wait, brows arched.
“He does not make this a habit. He says 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 is Hunter West’s damage control. Ouch. I swallow, telling myself at least it’s not an NDA. Then I give the woman a 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 none of this is necessary. I wasn’t looking to get married, either.”
She nods and I lock the door behind her. I pull my gown up and work carefully to restore myself to my pre-Hunter state. I also give myself a mental shake.
Don’t be a drama llama. 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.
I try to believe my own propaganda as I tuck stray hairs away, then reapply my lipstick and stuff the Hunter-scented cravat deeper into my clutch. I look perfectly respectable—and I am. I had a pleasant experience, 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 physical intimacy.
After a few 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 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 ass that it takes me a second to notice what he’s doing with his left hand.
It’s pushed against Priscilla’s throat. She moans like it hurts, and I gasp. 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 bedroom as fast as I can move.
I’M DASHING THROUGH the hall, heading toward the foyer, and I guess I must be freaking out because I don’t even notice Cross until he and I collide.
“Whoa.” 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?” His voice is low, and I can smell the vodka on his warm breath.
“Is something wrong?” He moves his hand up to my face and cups my cheek. “You look upset.”
Without waiting for my answer, he hugs me to him. With my body pressed against his, I realize I’m shaking. I hope he doesn’t notice.
“I’m okay,” I manage. 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 motorcycle, hot enough to be a model if I’m honest.
“What’s got you all worked up?” he asks. “I know these parties, and they’re—” Cross inhales deeply, his nose in my hair, and then pushes me away, his eyes wide with shock. “Seriously? You didn’t.”