Page 147 of Gilt

“You don’t have to take it.”

I don’t tell him that I’ve already used some for a good cause: looking into our case with a private investigator. After his miraculous feat, hiring a P.I. hardly seems like a groundbreaking contribution.

“I won’t.” I leave it at that. “I’ll donate it. With global warming, there’s always some new disaster relief fund that needs money.”

“Be serious for just a second,” he advises, kissing the tip of my nose.

“I am. I can’t think of a better way to spend his bribe than to erase some of the bad from the world with some good.”

“Whatever you think is best. Besides we don’t need money.”

“We?” I repeat. “When did we sign up for a joint checking account?”

It’s meant as a joke but Jameson shows no signs of laughing.

“You get serious,” I say, smacking his shoulder. Although all signs point to the fact that he is serious—very serious.

“Wests don’t joke about money.” He doesn’t clarify further. Before I can push the topic, because it seems pretty important that he know I don’t want his money, Maddox joins us. He’s carrying a small birthday cake blazing with so many candles I half expect that he’ll start a cabin fire. Without a flight attendant, I’m not certain if oxygen masks will drop down in that event.

“You don’t look like a stewardess,” I say when he places the cake on the table in front of Jameson and I.

“I left my pantyhose at home,” he says dryly.

I don’t complain when they insist on singing happy birthday to me. I turn to face the cake but remain on Jameson’s lap. He sings the words softly into my left ear, and when he finishes he whispers, “Make a wish.”

I don’t have to, because it’s already come true.

When the candles are all blown out, Maddox ducks back into the crew quarters to give us some privacy. I twist in Jameson’s arms until I’m staring into his stormy eyes.

“What did you wish for, Duchess?”

“You.” Then I seal my mouth to his.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

It’s a few hours before dawn when we arrive at the West Hotel in New York City. Perched at the top of Wall Street, it’s a haven for business travelers and the elite who value privacy and luxury over nightlife. It may be the city that never sleeps but I doze in and out to the sound of trash trucks and delivery vans preparing for the busy day ahead. Despite my best attempts I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to take in much of the city. Sight-seeing will have to come later. Right now the only sight I want to see is a pillow.

Our car pulls up to the valet station and a weary looking bellhop rushes out to meet us. I wonder if he’s starting his shift or nearing the end of it. Either way I feel his pain.

“You look dead on your feet,” Jameson notes as he helps me out of the Lincoln Continental that’s delivered us to his family’s local hotel-away-from-home.

“I’m fine.” But the veracity of my claim is undermined when I immediately punctuate it with a yawn. The trouble is that I don’t want to be tired. Not here. Not since Jameson and I are finally together again. “I just need some coffee.”

Jameson casts a doubtful look at me. As we step inside, he pulls me close. The lobby is nearly empty save for a few staff members milling about dusting and polishing the floors. It’s unlike the West Resort and Casino in Las Vegas. This hotel is that hotel’s big brother: grown up, sophisticated, and aiming for partner at his law firm. Its elegance is understated, relying on subtle, but expensive décor choices. I drink in the leather club chair dotting the periphery and the black veined marble I can only assume has been imported from somewhere so far away that it cost twice as much to ship as it did buy. The West New York whispers wealth while its casino brother screams debauchery.

Whatever travel arrangements Jameson has made seem to be in order. Maddox and our driver bypass waiting with us at the front desk and go straight to the elevators.

“It will only be a minute,” Jameson promises me, “and then I can get you into bed.”

Bed.

The word jolts me awake faster than a triple espresso. We’re going to bed. Together. And I’m eighteen.

A middle-aged man in an expensive three-piece scuttles out from the door marked private access and zeros in on us. His hands steeple together and he bobs his head as if bowing to a patriarch.

I’ll never get used to these reactions. Jameson has my respect, because he’s earned it. Everywhere else we go the deference he receives is born of his family name. He takes the man proffered hands smoothly, accepting the introduction while I zone out. The two can feign business talk, I have other things on my mind.

I can’t help but be preoccupied what with words like bed being casually tossed about. This time when Jameson and I go to bed together there will be no push and pull. I won’t peer pressure, and he won’t say no. I’ve been planning to sleep with Jameson for months. Why am I getting so nervous now?