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"Okay." He trails his hand down my arm and squeezes my fingers, so gentle it almost takes my breath away. Then he kisses my cheek and starts to back out of the kitchen. "One V-card," he says, holding up his hand, "claimed."
Chapter Thirty-Two
~HUNTER~
I feel like I'm living in a dream: part nightmare, part fantasy. The fantasy is easy enough to dwell on. I've got Libby in my house, and soon I'll have her in my bed, underneath me, with those long legs spread and her hot pussy just waiting for my dick . It's a good feeling. One I could dwell on for hours. But I don’t have hours, because this also a nightmare.
I walk into my study, shutting the doors behind me, and go immediately to the bar beside the shelves. If I'm going to call Marchant, I'll need this.
As I toss some back, I try to remember what I did after I heard about her death the night before. I know I drank. I had a dream about Libby, but it almost feels like a memory. I awoke this morning with an awful headache, and even now, after a shower and breakfast, I'm still feeling like shit.
I don’t know whether to tell Libby. It has nothing to do with her, but if I am declared a suspect, I don’t want her to feel duped—like she had sex under false pretenses.
I don't think I'd be found guilty were I to be charged, being that I didn't actually do anything, but I'm not naive. I know my father has his enemies, and so do I, and I also know Governor Carlson is involved in this. Powerful players produce powerful results.
I feel queasy thinking of that, so instead I think of Libby's breasts. How I'll get to kiss them soon. We'll have a good fuck before I send her off, and I'll make it one to remember. One I can re-play over and over, in the dry spell I'm sure I’m about to experience.
I pull my cell phone out. I need to hurry, get upstairs to Libby before she turns on the news. I don't think my name would be on it, but I can't be sure, and I don't want to lose my chance.
I lock the doors of the study dial Marchant. He answers on the second ring.
"Hey, dude. You free?" I frown. Wasn't I the one who called him? "What do you mean, am I free?"
"I'm surprised no one's knocking at your door. I've had someone in a dark suit poking around the penthouse, trying to get past security.”
I frown. "You're not at the ranch?"
"We've closed for a few days for Sarabelle."
"How you holding up?" Sarabelle was one of the women I visited from time to time, but she was Marchant's employee and friend. He feels the responsibility of this even harder than I do.
I can see him clenching that square jaw of his when he says, "If Priscilla Heat did this, I swear I will kill her with my own two hands."
I shut my eyes and rub them. "You and me both. Tell me what you know."
"Dave heard it on the police scanners about ten minutes before I called you last night. He's also got a guy inside the FBI. Says the cufflink has your initials in capital letters. He called me asking if I thought you did it."
Fucking great. "What'd you say?"
"What do you think I said?"
I rub my eyes. "What's going on with her and Lockwood now?"
"Lockwood's been MIA since yesterday. All our people are looking for him."
"And Priscilla?"
"She's at her house. Hasn't moved."
"Sarabelle was...found in San Luis?"
"Yes," Marchant says tightly.
He doesn't tell me where, and I don't ask. It'd be best if I don't know, in case I'm questioned.
I hesitate before asking my next question, because I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. "What color was the cuff link?"
"Color. Uh…I think Dave said that it was black."
