He’d pushed it up a ramp and stripped down to his jeans, then pulled out a rolling body board, eased his broad torso onto it, and scooted his fine self beneath the belly of the car. He emerged twenty minutes later covered in oil smudges, with grease in his golden hair and a self-satisfied smile on his tiger face, inexplicably smelling slightly of bourbon.
After that, he’d insisted I stay the night in his spacious guesthouse. Suri also knows how, the next morning, I’d heard moans coming from the direction of the pool. And how, from that point on, my insides have quivered every time I see him on “Mad Money” or read about his poker tournaments.
It’s even worse when the gossip blogs feature him toting a trophy date to this event or that. Page Six and some of the other gossip rags even call Hunter, Marchant, and their friends the Vegas Royals—I guess in a play on the term “royal flush.” Every time I read about him with a woman, I feel like scratching her eyeballs out.
I don’t like it, but it’s something I’ve resigned myself to living with.
“I’m not lying,” I mumble, but Suri’s no longer paying attention to me. She’s shifted slightly in her silver Manolos, tossing a not-at-all-discreet glance Hunter’s way.
“Suri, stop,” I hiss.
“His eyes are almost yellow,” she murmurs, this time having the tact to lean her head near mine. “You told me they were green, but when he passed by earlier, I swear they looked like cat eyes.”
I nod. I think of him as part tiger. He’s languid to the point of appearing almost lazy, and yellow or green, those eyes are framed by ridiculous lashes, set in a strong face with prominent cheekbones, full lips, and a sensuous smile.
I hear his chuckle, low and warmer than a gulp of bourbon, and I swear my knees shake under my slip like a debutant on her first night out.
“Elizabeth DeVille, I think you have your first boy obsession.”
She says ‘boy’ obsession because Suri has a long standing joke-suspicion that I’m gay.
“He’s not my obsession,” I whisper, tight-jawed. I can feel sweat prickling underneath my arms, and the truth is, I’m starting to get a little upset as I worry Hunter will somehow know.
“Suuure he’s not. Save it for the funnies, girlie.” Suri winks, and then her boyfriend Adam Hamilton pops up, smiling at us both and holding two wine flutes. He hands one to me and presses the other into Suri’s hand. He glances from my face to hers and frowns, his eyebrows scrunching.
“What is it?” Suri giggles. Suri is always giggling. If she were a party drink, she’d be champagne for sure.
“There’s something here,” he says, pointing accusingly from Suri to me. “You’re doing one of those girl things where you talk about someone and they don’t even know it.” He shakes his head. “It’s not fair.”
“Well it wasn’t about you,” Suri says, propping one hand on the hip of her burgundy, silk sheath Valentino gown. She slides her eyes to me, and Adam grins his dimpled grin. “Oh, I see. Miss Elizabeth.”
“No, not Miss Elizabeth.” I scowl, because I resent the simpering nickname.
“She has a hot crush,” Suri murmurs, barely containing another giggle behind her wine flute.
“I do not.” My face is flaming. I seriously consider smacking Suri, except I know that would draw even more attention, and I am not a fan of attention.
“Bet my crush is even hotter,” Adam says, taking Suri’s hand. He brushes her brown curls out of her face and nods to the doors behind us, most of which have been propped open, letting in the nippy November air. “Want to dance?”
I roll my eyes at their cheesiness, but truthfully I’m glad Adam got the heat off me.
“Why of course, my love.” Suri curtsies, and I have the wherewithal to flush on her behalf. Someone from Suri’s family should act a lot more reserved in public. Suri’s like an oblivious 9-year-old.
I, on the other hand, am absolutely conscious of the eyes pulled to my orbit as Suri and Adam pass through the doors behind me, leaving me alone with my half-empty wine flute. I hate moments like these, where I know what everyone is thinking: Look at Elizabeth DeVille, left alone by the only friend she has. With a mother like hers and hardly any money left, it’s a wonder she has even one.
Mentally shoving off their judgment, I lift the tail of my green dress in my right hand and gently pick my way through the crowded room, toward a slender hallway just beyond a staircase. I can’t resist a glance over my shoulder as I go; I’m looking for Hunter, but he’s nowhere in sight.
To my left, beyond a wine-gurgling fountain and across a vast oriental rug, I spot my friend Cross Carlson with his arms around the red-haired Cole twins: identical, including their D-cup racks. He winks, and I give him a genuine smile, hoping the black-haired, blue-eyed devil in the bespoke tux is actually Cross. I really can’t see. I curse the loss of my contact, and my own vanity. I have a pair of glasses in my clutch, but I’m too vain to wear them with my emerald satin, mermaid-cut Vera Wang.