Page 163 of Gilt

“I thought it in poor taste, given ...” I trail away. I can’t bring myself to say it.

“That you’re a West now?” she finishes for me.

“I guess,” I say with a shrug, hoping that I appear nonchalant, even as my heart speeds up.

“Why do you think I advised you to stay here this summer?” Monroe asks. “There’s a lot you have to learn about this family.”

I glance toward the study doors, which have been shut behind mother and son. “You’re telling me.”

“Just to clarify, we’re not best friends or anything,” Monroe says.

“Agreed. So long as you tell me you’re not planning to sabotage me at the first opportunity.”

“Do you think I wouldn’t sabotage my friends?” She laughs as though the suggestion of her loyalty is preposterous.

“Remember how you told me you needed to teach me how to be a West?” I ask her. “I think maybe it’s time for me to teach you how to be a decent human being.”

“Too late for that, I’m not interested.” If my barb stings, she doesn’t show it. “But rest assured, you’re better off being my family than my friend.”

My eyebrow arches. “And why is that?”

“Because this family protects each other. No matter what.”

“So I’m one of you then?”

“You could have delivered me to my mother. You could have told her the truth about what you know. She’ll find out eventually, of course. It’s an inevitability in my plan, but it wouldn’t have done you any good with her or with me. You’ve proved yourself to be a West with your loyalty.”

“I’m not even sure what that means,” I admit.

“It means you know how to keep a secret, and it means you’ll protect us, no matter what you know.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

That I’m dating a real estate mogul’s heir has never seemed more important than when Jameson unlocks the door to a penthouse suite in an off-the-strip property. The idea of going anywhere that people might recognize us makes me want to vomit and after tonight’s awkward family meeting, I need a little distance from the rest of the Wests. If I’d thought that being labeled as a prime suspect in a murder trial was going to be my worst memory of summer vacation, I know now that I was wrong.

As if facing the impending storm of questions from my parents and friends isn’t bad enough, Jameson hadn’t said one word to me since we left Mount Charleston. Whatever his mother had spoken to him about in private hangs between us, dampening the mood.

“This is nice,” I say conversationally, but he only shrugs. The resort he’s brought us to is one of those luxury joints masquerading as a haven from the bright lights and business of Las Vegas. Judging from the info I’d skimmed while Jameson did his bit to shake hands and make nice with the management, it’s a timeshare for gambling addicts that have the good sense to keep some mileage between their wallet and the craps table.

The suite is decorated in subdued hues of beige, perfect for whoever might call it home for a week at a time. It’s more nondescript and a lot less stylish than the other West resorts I’ve seen, but the leather couch still shines with furniture polish and the pillows on the gigantic bed remain fluffed.

I eye it and realize that I have one weapon in this cold war we’re silently battling. As I slip my sundress over my head, catching Jameson’s attention, I realize how fortunate I am to be a female. The low back of my dress and its tiny straps made wearing a bra impossible. Yes, it’s completely unfair to flaunt my body to get my boyfriend to talk to me, and some might argue I’m setting women back like a hundred years, but personally, I’ve never been so happy to have boobs.

“Not going to work, Duchess,” he calls from the living room as I drop onto the bed.

Arranging myself artfully like the chick in Titanic, I respond. “I can’t hear you. Come closer.”

“I said you are infuriating,” he growls as he steps into the bedroom. But the annoyance in his words can’t mask the ways his eyes linger on me.

“What big eyes you have, Mr. West.”

“I’m not playing around here.” He grabs a robe from the back of the door and tosses it to me.

I shrug it on angrily. So much for my irresistible feminine wiles. “I’m not either, but I’ll do what I have to if it means you’ll talk to me.”

“Why don’t you try talking to me?” he suggests in a flat voice.

That hadn’t occurred to me, but I’m not letting go of my bruised ego so easily. “I’ve been talking to you.”