Read Online Unmaking Marchant by Ella James - Free Book Online Page B

doing something outside my usual norm, and I’d like to keep that to myself.
Because you screwed around with a pimp .
I quiet the judging voice inside my head by insisting that it could have been any guy. Mr. Love Inc. was simply at the right place at the right time. It isn’t as if I’m attracted to him in particular.
The guys are at the top of the stairs by the time Lizzy and I reach the bottom. By the time we step into the plane, they are, thankfully, out of sight. Hunter’s flight attendant waves us past a curtain separating the cockpit from the cabin, and we step into a mod space done in black and gray and cream—the kind of space that screams ‘I had this specially designed but didn’t give the interior designer much creative leeway or any instructions.’ There’s not much of it, either: just a couch, a recliner, and a table, along with eight plush leather seats arranged in two rows of four along the right side of the plane. The rows face each other, like the benches of a restaurant booth.
When I don’t see Hunter or Marchant at first glance, I allow myself to hope that maybe they’ve closed themselves into the plane’s office. Then I realize that, unlike several of my dad’s planes—the Boeing 767 and Gulfstream—this one doesn’t look big enough to have an office.
Damn.
My hopes come crashing down when I spot them seated across from each other in the rearmost cluster of seats. Hunter’s in a window seat, facing the front of the plane, with Marchant across from him in the seat beside the window seat. I divert my eyes from the back of that red-brown-blond head and am trying to decide if I can invent a reason to go into the plane’s bedroom when Lizzy takes my elbow.
“C’mon, Suri. Let’s sit down.”
It’s clear from Lizzy’s distracted, slightly tired-seeming expression that she has no idea I’m tied in knots. If I run off now, she’ll know for sure, and—my cheeks heat up—Marchant Radcliffe might tell them what happened.
Would he do that?
Of course he would! He’s a pimp. Bragging about his sexual conquests is probably as natural to him as breathing air.
I gulp a big breath back, then paste a neutral expression on my face and smooth my blouse. I can do this. I can act natural. I need to get into that seat beside him and set a tone of normalcy. Strict normalcy.
As for his part, he’s probably already forgotten me. Hoping that’s true (and hoping it’s not), I follow Lizzy with my head held high and my shoulders loose.
When we come into their space, Hunter’s eyes sweep Liz like he wants to take her to the bedroom. In the moment they’re eye-screwing each other, I brave my first glance at Marchant Radcliffe. He looks…different. And also the same. Now that I know who he is, I can see details I hadn’t noticed before: like how he’s wearing a flashy, platinum watch I’m pretty sure is IWC—the kind of timepiece that would be deemed totally excessive by a man like dad, but suits a brothel owner perfectly. His tux, originally nothing but a blood-spattered barrier to the body below, is in fact Brioni—the brand favored by James Bond. His light beard is impeccably trimmed, his mane of blond-brown-red hair impeccably cut, impeccably styled. Even his shoes look flawless—and that’s after kicking someone’s ass.
The boy-girl gods must be looking out for me, because while I ogle the pimp, he’s looking down into a drink he’s clutching. Something with orange juice—possibly a screwdriver?
I blink at him, waiting for him to look up. Waiting to set the tone between us. A jab of humiliated panic stings my chest, but I ignore it. When did I become so concerned about what other people think of me?
Lizzy takes a seat beside Hunter, and that’s when Marchant snaps out of his daze. His eyes slide over me, and then he does a double take, his eyebrows shooting up into his hair.
 “It’s you,” he says, in that soft, deep, sexy voice. My body reacts with goose bumps and a roller-coaster