Page 11 of Gilt

“I like the name you’ve given me. You’re right. It’s fitting.”

His mouth twists into a smirk that’s at odds with his strong jawline, making him look devilish. Why are the wicked boys so much more beddable?

“Duchess it is.”

I’ve won this round, and we both know it. It’s an unforeseen victory, but I’ll take it anyway. I take the opportunity to be the one that leads. A few steps deeper into the penthouse and we find ourselves in a kitchen. Being here has me out of sorts. Scattered mail and magazines clutter the black granite countertops. Judging from the oversized Viking range and large steam hood, this is a gourmet kitchen, but the only evidence of food consumption is the dry bits of toast on the plates piled in the sink and an empty yogurt cup.

“I guess the maid has the day off,” I note, instinctively picking up the trash and looking for the wastebasket.

“Are you applying for the job?” Jameson asks, nodding toward the offending yogurt cup.

“Maybe for chef.” I stare longingly at the stove. I can only imagine the ingredients in the subzero fridge. I bet it’s not full of chicken breasts and a half dozen cheap marinades—unlike my house. These people can have whatever they want, and they settle for toast and yogurt. Swallowing hard, I turn away from the gourmet appliances and spot a neatly disguised recycling bin. It’s fitting, really. Trim out your trash with whitewashed paneling, so no one knows that you have any. Who would want the ugliness of the used and discarded blemishing their perfect reality? Not the Wests.

“Chef?” He sounds impressed. It’s completely gross that his approval sends a tingle running from my scalp to my toes. I ignore how that ripple hesitates a little too long between my legs.

I shrug, doing my best to look nonchalant. I’m pretty certain that’s what Cosmo recommends in these situations, pretend like you’re too chill to notice the guy is flirting with you. Except I don’t know if Jameson is flirting with me. My boy skills need a tuneup. “I like to cook. It’s sad the wicked bitch of the West wastes her caloric intake on nonfat Greek yogurt.”

“It’s a good source of protein,” Jameson advises me as he grabs a stool and makes himself at home in the West’s kitchen. “Wicked bitch of the West?”

I cringe inwardly. For all I know, Jameson is Monroe’s childhood buddy. Or, more likely, judging from the pythons of biceps peeking from his T-shirt, her bodyguard. “That’s what everyone calls Monroe West. I have no idea who came up with it. I can’t believe I said that.”

Two truths and a lie.

Wicked bitch of the West. I coined that particular term of endearment for Monroe in ninth-grade not long after our introduction when she was released from captivity, or boarding school as the Housers call it.

“I take it you’re not a fan.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I hedge. “I mean I watched her on Pop Princess like the rest of school.” Monroe’s brief foray into reality television had been the talk of Belle Mère, and it had given me a reason to heckle my screen for a couple weeks. I keep that to myself.

“Then not a friend,” he clarifies. Those stormy eyes pierce through me. It’s not a question. It’s clear he knows the answer, but I can’t resist responding.

“We aren’t planning any slumber parties. You?”

I’m dying for him to tell me how he wound up here. Maybe that’s why I’ve been answering his questions. Of course, it could just be that he’s rattling me. If I’m not careful, I’ll need to make a cold shower my next stop on this unofficial tour of the West estate.

“I wouldn’t call her a friend.” It’s not much information, but judging from the chilly undercurrent in his words, he’s not the president of her fan club.

Good enough for me.

“Cook something,” he says out of nowhere. I shake my head. It’s fairly hard to render me speechless, but Jameson’s just accomplished it.

He snorts at my horrified reaction. “You said it yourself. Someone should appreciate this kitchen. Besides, I’m sure one of the—what did you call them? Minions?—will wreck it before the night’s over.”

He slides off the stool and breaches the subzero fridge, revealing a drawer of artisan cheeses, tins of caviar, and shelves full of perfect organic produce. I have $50 in grocery money to hold me until the end of the month, and they have half a Whole Foods in this kitchen.

“Inspired?” He steps aside, holding open the door for me.

“I shouldn’t.” But now I’m merely feigning a conscience. By this time, most of the partygoers will be far too wasted to remember their own names let alone mine. If we get caught, I can play drunk. I can’t resist the temptation as I pluck a wedge of Gouda from the drawer along with the glass pint of milk. No plastic gallons in this kitchen. Jameson leans against the counter, gripping the edge, as he watches me rummaging through the pantry and fridge for the rest of the ingredients I need. Once I’ve collected the necessities, I fill a Le Creuset stockpot with the special water tap conveniently built into the backsplash over the eight burner gas range. I guess it would have been too much work to use the sink and carry it all the way over. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m starving.” His voice is low and gravelly. My eyes flash to his in time to see his tongue flick over his perfectly white teeth.

The better to eat you with.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Do you cook?” I don’t bother to hide my incredulity at his offer. I can’t help but imagine that he subsists on the sandwiches his conquests deliver to him in bed.

“No,” he admits slowly, and for a moment, his cocky exterior slips allowing me a flash of sheepish Jameson. Dammit, it makes him even hotter. “But I can set a mean table. Shall we dine poolside?”