I steal another glance at him. He’s standing by a massive stone fireplace, surrounded by some of California’s most eligible bachelorettes. I recognize a few of them from Hargrove Day School: Honey Neighton, a former cheerleader who missed senior year due to some kind of Ambien addiction; Brina Lulle, a pretty, petite figure skater who once qualified for the Olympic team but broke her ankle and didn’t go; Mary Baldwin Greese, the painfully shy daughter of one of L.A.’s most powerful talent agents. There are more of them, decked out in designer gowns every color of the fall and winter fabric palette.
Hunter is more than a head taller than most of them. His wide shoulders are almost triple the width of tiny Brina. He’s nodding at something she’s saying, the look on his face politely solicitous, but I tell myself that underneath, he’s mind-numbingly bored.
Honey Neighton fans herself with her hand, drawing attention to her breasts, and I smirk down at my gown. It’s like a bad regency romance: Everyone gathers at the nobleman’s estate for a hunt and the unmarried ladies fawn all over the awkward and ornery—but charming!—duke.
Hunter West isn’t a brooding romance novel hero, though. He has too much breeding to be awkward and he’s too straightforward to play at anything—although he is hard to get.
I watch him produce a convincing and absolutely gorgeous grin for Brina before he turns to Mary Baldwin, ruffling her chin-length hair and laughing with his blond head thrown back. This earns him a small smile, which, coming from Brina, is like a lap dance.
Suddenly, Hunter turns and looks over his shoulder, and I can see his eyebrows arch. Marchant Radcliffe, one of Hunter’s hell-raising friends, tosses a glass bottle over the heads of a cluster of guests, and Hunter catches it with one hand, saying something that makes his admirers smile before turning to the wet bar behind him and opening a cabinet.
He pours as his ladies wait. Even filling shot glasses, he seems completely in command of himself and what’s around him. I’ve moved in or near his circle for a while, despite our seven year age difference, and I’ve never seen him not look like that. Like a man at the helm of the universe.
It’s kind of surprising, considering he spends most of his time in Vegas, playing poker, man-whoring, and tossing back his family’s infamous Louisiana bourbon. That was his great-grandfather, Willard West’s legacy. Hunter’s father, Conrad West, a long-time politician, is currently Secretary of State.
He disapproves of Hunter’s lifestyle, or so I’ve heard. I’ve only actually seen Conrad West in person twice, and both times from a distance, so I don’t know much about him, but I wish I did. I collect Hunter details like my best friend Suri collects Hermès jewelry.
Watching Hunter turn around with a platter of tall shots balanced on his big hand and a sly smile on his face, I can’t help imaging him lying on the Egyptian cotton sheets I know hug all the mattresses here at his Napa estate.
It wouldn’t start there, though. As he tosses back his shot, I envision him backed against a wall, his shoulders bare and round and wide, that plump lower lip just begging to be bitten. Something about him makes me want to bite. If I was anybody else, maybe I would try to arrange that.
As it is, I’m Elizabeth DeVille, super spy and resident poor girl, and watching him out of the corner of my eye will have to do.
I nod at something my best friend Suri is saying to me, and then feel bad because I’m not really listening.
“I’m surprised she’s wearing Oscar because I heard she’s not modeling for them anymore,” she says.
“Oh really,” I reply, hoping that’s the right response.
“Maybe someone on the design team is a friend of hers, because otherwise I don’t know how she would get her hands on it.”
Hunter leans against the fireplace, fingering a flask that sticks out of his pants pocket. I catch him run a hand back through his slightly wavy hair as his groupies shift their attention to a curvy black-haired girl who’s gesturing wildly about something. For half a second, Hunter’s gaze lifts. I think it rests on me, but then a blonde bombshell in a wispy red gown steps around me, and I’m sure his attention is meant for her.
I’m watching him more brazenly than ever now, curious to see how he reacts to the goddess stalking his way. I’m surprised