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Scarlett froze, the fight response she’d been about to give in to fading as her breath escaped her mouth in a sudden whoosh of air. Camden? Shock infused her cells. But how? Why? It couldn’t be . . . but . . . she knew his voice, remembered the feel of his body over hers, knew the particular scent of his skin, though she’d only smelled him this close on one other occasion. Oh yes, it was him. She’d thought she’d seen him in the lobby, had recognized the particular way he held himself and she’d been right. Despite herself, despite the fear and the confusion of this situation, every part that made her a woman responded to the man pressed against her. And something even deeper than that, experienced a soft wave of relief at his presence. She shoved the feelings down. All of them. She couldn’t trust herself because she couldn’t trust him.
Why was he here? In LA? At a Hollywood party with call girls? Her stomach soured. He was a liar and dammit she’d liked him. She’d liked him more than she wanted to admit. “I’m not working this party if that’s what you think. I came here to see if I could find Royce and ask him some questions about Haddie,” she admitted. “My outfit gained me admittance, nothing else.” Dammit, why was she explaining herself to him?
His head came back, eyes intense. “I didn’t think you were working this party.” He paused. “Did you? Find him?” He looked over her shoulder as if searching the party for the man.
She nodded, her expression crumbling slightly before she gathered herself. “Yes. I did. He was drunk and high. Useless. It was a bad idea. Now what are you doing here?”
His eyes scrutinized her face and something gentled in his expression. He reached up and dragged a thumb under her eye. “Scarlett. What happened?”
More tears threatened. She was sad and mad and deeply confused and she just wanted to get out of there. “Why are you here, Camden?” she repeated.
A muscle ticked in his jaw and he glanced up and around. “I followed you . . . I’m trying to protect you.”
Protect her? “From what?”
His gaze darted around behind her. “I can’t tell you. Not here.”
A sound of frustration came up her throat. Enough of these useless men who couldn’t or wouldn’t help her with the basic truth. “God. I’ve had enough of your protection. Let me leave.”
He pressed his lips together and then nodded to two more men standing by the elevator. “I’ll cover you.”
Scarlett paused but she really didn’t want to risk being seen or questioned by anyone, so she moved under his arm when he lifted it, and leaned her head into him as though they were having an intimate conversation. They walked together to the elevator where Johnny gave him a nod, barely sparing her a glance. Obviously, she and the other women there were nothing more than entertainment, no more important than if he’d had a beer bottle in his hand.
Three minutes later they were stepping out of the elevator and walking through the lobby. Scarlett had never wanted to get farther away from a place more than she did at that moment. Rain splashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows as she picked up her pace, moving through the revolving door and stepping out into the warm, rainy night.
“Scarlett.”
At the sound of her name, she picked up her pace, her heels clicking on the sidewalk as she jogged as fast as she could in shoes not meant for jogging, coming out from under the covering that shielded the valet stand and drop-off lanes and continuing up the deserted side street, the rain mixing with the tears sliding down her cheeks. The rain picked up, coming down in sheets, drenching her immediately. She heard her name again but didn’t turn.
She felt him right behind her, easily keeping her pace, and after another minute, she turned, their bodies practically colliding as he came up short. His clothes stuck to his body, showcasing the definition of his muscles and the lean lines of his masculine form. His eyelashes were studded with raindrops, his hair slicked back from his face . . . and he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life. He looked positively tortured, and some ridiculous part of her wanted to comfort him, but from what she had no idea, and the only why she could think of was that she was certifiably insane. And partially buzzed, though that was—unfortunately—wearing off.
She’d been thinking about him as she sat alone at that bar though, the wine aiding in breaking through her hurt so that she might look at his actions more rationally. Or drunkenly. That was possible too; she couldn’t be sure.
She swore loudly into the quiet street, her voice rising above the slowing downpour.
