Page 77 of Gilt

“What about the car?” I ask as he collects our bags from the back seat.

“What about it?”

A one-time-use Porsche? Jameson West is so out of my league.

“You have a pilot available to pick you up at midnight?” I stare at the crew refueling the small private jet.

“That surprises you?”

“No.” I shrug trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. “I mean, the rest of us are stuck search Travelocity and taking red-eyes.”

“I think this qualifies as a red-eye Duchess.”

A man in a pressed uniform approaches us and Jameson hands off our bags. “Are you jealous of my private jet?”

“My mom has one.” Which isn’t exactly true. Hans’s studio does, and there isn’t a shot in hell that I’ll be going aboard Hans’s flight deck anytime soon.

“Then we’re two peas in a private jet pod.”

“Been waiting your whole life for another girl with a private jet?”

He knits his fingers through mine. “Private jets, questionable childhoods, we were made for each other.”

I rest my head on his shoulder thankful that he’s not pressing me for more information about why we’re waiting at a private airstrip in the middle of the night. I might have used up my allotment of normal for the day, but I’m grateful that he’s here cracking jokes. It’s strange that the circumstances surrounding our relationship are so dramatic, given how easy it is to be with him.

“They’re ready for us,” he announces. I follow him on board and immediately remember that there’s West money and what’s left for everyone else on the planet. Apparently, private jets can be divided by class—and Jameson’s is clearly platinum. The seats are upholstered in buttery leather and champagne-gold subtly accents each surface.

“Do you want to get some rest?” he asks hitching a finger toward an open door. I peek inside and find a small but adequate bedroom that might have come in handy if I felt like facing the inevitable onslaught of nightmares about tonight’s events. Instead, I shake my head. I figure there’s two ways to deal with my trauma: self-inflicted insomnia, or dreams Freddy Krueger wouldn’t dare enter.

“I don’t feel like sleeping.” I don’t have to say anything else. Jameson takes the hint and we settle into two leather seats facing one another. A stewardess, who must have trained to be a ninja in another life, appears instantly beside us.

“May I bring you something to drink, Mr. West?”

“A whiskey and soda. Laura, allow me to introduce Ms. Emma Southerly.”

She turns her warm bubblegum pink smile on me. “What can I bring you, Ms. Southerly?”

I refrain from ordering all the booze in the world because that certainly isn’t going to help me stay awake. “Can I have some coffee?”

Caffeine is not only a safe bet but a necessity at this hour.

“Absolutely, I just put a fresh pot on,” she chirps. She scurries out of the private compartment and I wonder how many pots of coffee she’s had. No one should be this alert at this time of night.

Looking back at Jameson, I find him studying me, but he doesn’t speak. The silence stretches through the delivery of our drinks and take-off. When Laura excuses herself after we’ve been in the air for a while, he unbuckles and comes to my side. Kneeling next to me, he takes my hand. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

“Nothing,” I lie because I don’t want to tell him. Repeating what happened between Hans and I means facing the information he gave me, not just what he tried to do. I know how to protect myself against pervs, what self-respecting Vegas girl doesn’t, but nothing can change what he told me.

“Emma,” Jameson prompts when I’m quiet for a few more minutes. “Did Hans hurt you?”

“Yes,” I stammer, and he goes rigid. Scary rigid. Someone’s-getting-murdered-rigid.. “No! Not like you’re thinking.”

But then again, hadn’t he?

“What did he do to you?” His voice is dangerously low, quiet with a rage that anything I tell him will only fan into uncontrollable fury.

“Nothing happened,” I say in a rush, choosing to cling to obliviousness.

“Jesus Christ, Emma.” His grip on my hand tightens. “You’re scaring the shit out of me.”