Page 31 of Gilt

“Given what?” I press when he leaves his thought hanging between us.

“What happened to your sister,” he finishes as he peels out of the neighborhood.

Yesterday he didn’t know my name. Now he knows how my sister died? Uneasiness mixes with the Molotov cocktail of emotions I’m trying to suppress.

“How the hell do you know about that?”

“Public record,” he answers with a shrug.

“Until today, you had no idea who I was,” I remind him.

“I’ve done a little research. It probably occurred to you today that I might be guilty of my father’s murder. I felt I needed to know who I was dealing with.”

“And something you found led you to believe I could be pushed around?”

“Quite the opposite. As soon as I found out your last name, I assumed you’d be trouble.”

He has no idea. “Look, I told the police the truth, and that’s all I’m going to tell them. I’m not adding to my story.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” He frowns as if the suggestion that I lie is completely unpalatable.

“So you’re just going to follow me now?” I ask him. “And look up news stories about my family and invite yourself into my life?”

“I’m inviting myself?” he repeats. He throws the stick shift into the next gear and speeds up until the engine roars. Now I see why he wanted me to put on my seat belt. “According to my sister, you weren’t even invited last night.”

I should have known this was going to come up, but it hardly seems like he has the right to be calling me out. “Lucky for you, I crashed, I suppose.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He whips around a corner, and I clutch the armrest between us. “You okay, Duchess?”

I shoot daggers at him. “Maybe you should slow down a little.”

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks.

“Really, this is where you want to go with this conversation?” Relief floods through me as we reach my street.

He switches gears, slowing down and coming to a halt a few houses away from my own. “Safely home, as I promised,” he says. “You haven’t answered my question. Do you trust me?”

I don’t think we’re talking about his driving skills anymore. “I don’t know you.”

“That hurts.” The wounded quality in his voice speaks more to actual sincerity than flirtation.

“You let me believe that you were crashing that party, too.”

“You believed what you wanted to believe.” He has a point, but I’m not about to let him know it. He unbuckles his seat belt and twists to face me from the driver’s seat. “I think you can let go now.”

I release my death grip on the armrest, but I don’t relax. His silvery eyes drift across my mouth. I feel them there as acutely as I felt his lips on my own last night. When his gaze finally reaches mine, I find the same questions there that I’ve been asking myself all afternoon. “Maybe I did,” I admit slowly, “but I still didn’t know who you were.”

“I told you my name,” he interrupts me. “You were the one playing coy.”

“And you liked it,” I blurt out.

A wolfish smile creeps onto his face, the wickedness reaching all the way up to those perfect gray eyes. “I did.”

“Glad we’ve settled that.” I tear myself away from his magnetic gaze and focus on the street ahead. Night has fallen. Most of the houses are still dark. Only a few lights twinkle from behind curtains, most of them left on to greet their owners when they arrive home from work or pleasure. People don’t stay in on Saturday nights in Las Vegas. We might be the only ones here right now.

“Looks empty,” Jameson says, following my gaze.

I nod. In some aspects, our worlds aren’t so different. Most of the housers have housemaids substituting for their parents who are too busy on business trips or entertaining clients or jetting off to some exotic vacation without them. It’s the same here, even if it’s on a smaller scale. My neighbors run small restaurants and grocery stores. They manage the casinos off the strip, and in their free time, they pour their take-home back into the Vegas economy.