Page 10 of Gilt

“Minion isn’t a compliment,” I say flatly. He might want to be playful, but I’m not in the mood. “Of course, I don’t think you go to Belle Mère, and Las Palmas kids don’t shop Caesar’s.” I don’t bother to add that I don’t, either. If the forum shops weren’t filled with miles of the most expensive retailers in the world, I’d probably still want to avoid the cheesy Americanization of the ancient world. Although it’s debatable if Caesar would be with me on that. No, it was a milestone for nouveau riche tourists, but merely a mall to most of my classmates where Spago is the food court.

“Maybe I stole this. You did catch me where I wasn’t supposed to be, remember?” His tongue flicks across his full lower lip. “What would you say then?”

“Did you?” I breathe. “Grand larceny isn’t really a turn-on.”

He winks before nodding toward the door. “Well, I’m not a student at Belle Mère or Las Palmas.”

Does the help here have sticky fingers? That seems doubtful, especially given the confidence that oozes from him. He was probably a boyfriend from out of town who slipped away from arm candy duty. It would definitely explain his entitled attitude. I watch as he slips out the door, heading back to the party or seeking more treasure to loot. It’s hard to decide which way I hope he’s heading—back to the Housers or to play Robin Hood.

Away from his presence, I remember where I am. Hanging out in Nathaniel West’s study is a surefire way to get an up-close and personal look at the West’s security. Still, someone should appreciate this view. I linger for a few minutes and drink it in. My impression of the man my father hates so vehemently feels justified standing here. Does he look out over the valley below and see the rest of us bustling about like worker ants building his kingdom? No computer. No pictures. There doesn’t seem to be much else to do here but play god. That is the difference between a man like West and my dad. One bleeds, and the other doesn’t.

Pivoting on my heels, I stride out of the office. But before I can act on my instinct to get out of here, with or without Josie, a shadowy figure on the stairs catches my eye. I freeze in place, realizing with dread that it’s no longer moving either.

Busted.

CHAPTER FIVE

This isn’t one of those moments when your life flashes before your eyes. Nope, a vision of the next twenty-four hours in a jail cell, waiting for my dad to wake up from a bender, does instead. With any luck, Monroe or Hugo will get a couple of great shots of the security hauling me off. By morning, news of my poor judgment will have spread like a pandemic through most of Belle Mère. Oh well. My Instagram feed could use the boost. But when I get the courage to peel my eyes off the floor, I discover the shadow is attached to my new best friend.

“Are you following me?” he asks.

“N-n-no,” I stumble over my denial. What is it about this guy that has me tongue-tied? Whatever it is, I can’t say that I like it. I plant a hand on my hip in challenge. “Are you following me?”

This earns me a smile. The kind that drops defenses and charms parents. I thought I’d built an immunity to guys like him, but here I am coming down with a bad case of wet panties.

He extends his hand and looks at me expectantly. I shake my head. My judgment isn’t completely shot.

“I don’t bite.”

That’s disappointing.

“You suck at introductions. I don’t even know your name,” I point out.

“Is that all that’s stopping you?”

That and a few shreds of common sense that he hasn’t obliterated yet. What if he tells me his name? Will I take his hand? What if he doesn’t? I’m just as likely to follow him, which means I’m in big trouble. Damn Josie for disappearing on me. Usually, I’m the one bailing her out of jams. Tonight I wish she’d return the favor. When I find her, I’m revoking her BFF card.

“It must be something terrible,” I tease. “Maybe Howard? Or Bert?”

“Bert?” he repeats with a deep laugh. “Two can play this game, you know.”

I barely process that we’ve begun walking deeper into the penthouse. Score one for my self-preservation skills.

“Ingrid?” he guesses. “Helga?”

“What am I? An old German woman?”

He pauses unexpectedly, and I run directly into him. His hands grip my upper arms, steadying me before I can stumble. His touch does strange things to my body – stuff usually reserved for romance novels.

“Definitely not.” His answer scrapes up his throat. Maybe I’m not the only one affected by skin-to-skin contact. “Jameson. My family calls me Jamie..”

Jamie. That feels far too normal a name for him. Familiar. Comfortable. It doesn’t fit how he makes me feel. But Jameson does.

“Your turn,” he prompts.

“Oh, is that how this works, Jameson? I thought we were playing coy.” At least I can pretend like I have some dignity left.

“We can keep playing, Duchess, but I’m beginning to feel like my opponent deserves formal recognition.” The arrogance that’s marked his tone since we met softens a bit as he speaks.