Page 64 of Gilt

I wave my hand. “She probably thought it was a spare Porsche that Hans keeps around. I mean, who would notice this?”

“Get in, Duchess,” he says, swinging open the door. As I climb into the seat, he bends over and kisses me full on the lips. He circles around the back, and I realize there’s so much I have to tell him about what happened that night, about what I heard, and more than anything, he needs to know about the Instagram account before his picture pops up on it.

“Jameson, there are things you need to know,” I begin.

He hits the ignition switch. “We’ll get to that. First, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Before I can protest his trumping of my news, he twists in his seat to face me. “They haven’t dropped the charges against me.”

“Then why are you here?” I ask. “This is a different state.” I look around as if police helicopters and a SWAT team might appear over the mountains.

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Don’t worry about that?” I shriek. “Are you out on bail?”

“I am,” he confirms coolly.

“Then why did you come here? They just released you.”

“To bring you home,” he says.

“I want to come back,” I tell him, “but maybe my mom is right. Maybe distance is the best thing right now.”

“You won’t have distance for very long.” A cloud passes over the sun as he speaks, momentarily casting us in shadow.

“What does that mean?” I demand.

“They’re questioning your alibi.”

“My alibi? Don’t you mean your alibi?”

“Our alibi. Emma, they’re building a case against both of us.”

“Case?” I repeat in confusion. The reality of what he’s telling me refuses to sink in or maybe I’m not allowing it to.

“They want to charge us both with my father’s murder,” he clarifies. Reaching out, he takes my hand. “But I’m not going to let that happen.”

“What are we going to do?” I breathe.

Dropping my hand, he takes a pair of silver aviators from the console and slides them on. Then he leans over, bringing his lips to my neck. He drops a soft kiss and a moment later I feel the seat belt snake over my shoulder. “Buckle up, Duchess.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I should be surprised when Jameson pulls into the driveway of a mid-century, mini-mansion—the kind Palm Springs is famous for. I stare him down expectantly, as he waits for the privacy gate to open.

“It’s not mine,” he assures me.

“Good, because you don’t have to buy real estate in every city you visit.”

“Believe me, if I was going to buy a house here, Duchess, it’d be next door to you.” He pushes his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and winks at me. “Easier to sneak through your window that way.”

And into my panties. “If you can get past Hans’ security, go for it, otherwise I suggest walking in through the front door.”

He laughs as he hits the gas and speeds into the driveway. Apparently, the Porsche doesn’t do slow. The grounds of the house are as immaculate as the lines characteristic of the time period—sharp and neatly edged. Large, orange blooms cascade over the retaining wall that surrounds the house. It’s smaller than my stepfather’s place but it gives off a retro-hip vibe that I can’t help but admire.

“So whose place is this anyway?” I ask as I climb out of the car. Jameson is at my side instantly, shutting the door behind me.

“A friend’s,” he says like this is an answer before he throws his arm around my shoulders and leads me toward the front entrance.