Page 8 of Gilt

“Look, Monroe is all bark and no bite,” he promises, shoving his hands into his pockets. It’s a classic Jonas move. He can’t stand to have anyone feel left out. If Monroe is the poster child for bitchy behavior, he’s the peacemaker. Yet another reason I’ve deemed their union unholy. Now he’s standing here, talking to me, as if I’m just one of the other kids she’s always bullying.

I cross my arms over my chest. He might be able to justify her attitude, but there’s no way I’m willing to play along. “Then put her on a leash.”

“She’s just very particular about her guest list. I’m sure if you—”

“We both know why she doesn’t want me here,” I interrupt him, “but don’t worry. Whatever fit of insanity I suffered earlier is over. I’m leaving.”

“You don’t have to go.” I hate how his voice softens around those words. We stare at each other, and I wonder if this is just him doing his good samaritan act or if he actually wants me to stay. Butterflies stir in my stomach, and I squash the fragile hope before I do or say something stupid. I push past him. “I need to find Josie.”

He forces a wounded smile but lets me leave. When I reach the foyer, I still haven’t found Josie. She isn’t responding to texts. The security guard who pointed us in the direction of the party is gone. It occurs to me then that I’m as lost to her as she is to me.

“You were going to get kicked out anyway,” I say to the empty hall before I take a deep breath and follow in the footsteps of Nathaniel. If I’m lucky, I’ll find her first, but let’s face it, lady luck is a bitch.

CHAPTER FOUR

The West residence goes on forever. There’s wealth, and then there’s extravagance, but this rises to the highest levels of selfishness. The other half of the home has been crowded with warm bodies making it too difficult to see my posh surroundings. The marble floor continues down the hallway, satiny gold papers the wall. I trail my hand along it. The slight texture of the wallpaper vibrates across my fingertips. Overhead a series of miniature chandeliers lights my way, dripping like luxury icicles. Who said Vegas was gauche? Sometimes I wonder if this is where interior design flunkies get sent.

I don’t mean to count the rooms as I pass them, but after the fifth bathroom, I’m shaking my head. They can’t possibly use them all. Maybe they have a rotation going, or they use one for each day of the week. Monday’s bathroom. Tuesday’s bathroom. Wednesday’s bathroom. The maid service should be given the Medal of Honor.

Light creeps through the crack of the slightly ajar door. I pause outside and consider my options. I can keep creeping around counting bathrooms, or I can gamble. Pressing my palm to the door, I realize I have a little Vegas in me after all. It swings open to reveal an empty room. A large glass desk perched on chrome legs sits in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the neon lights of the strip. A pair of high-back leather chairs in glossy black wait in front of it. It’s an office but other than a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and two rocks glasses, it’s devoid of personality. No books. No papers. No art hanging on the walls. Then again, what could compete with the glittering backdrop of sin city?

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here.”

I startle at the sound of the disembodied voice, my hand flying to my chest like a bad actress.

“S-s-sorry,” I stammer as I begin to back out of the room. I’ve been caught sneaking around by Nathaniel West. I guess I’ll finally find out if casino owners really have the power to break someone’s legs or if that’s just an urban legend.

The desk chair spins around, slowly revealing the owner of the voice. As he comes into the light, I know he’s wearing jeans instead of a suit and that the thin T-shirt hugs his biceps. He clutches the arms of the chair with broad, strong hands that bear no signs of age. By the time the light hits his face, I know I haven’t stumbled upon Nathaniel.

“I don’t think you are either, but I won’t…” My words die on my lips as his brutally beautiful face is revealed. I’ve never been the girl who hung pictures of rock stars or actors on my walls. I don’t gush over how hot Hottie McHottie is, and I don’t turn into a blubbery puddle when I meet a cute guy.

But this guy isn’t cute. He isn’t hot. He exists on some other plane of attractiveness altogether. His jawline is sharp, chiseled, and sculpted by genetics far superior to the rest of humanity. There’s a slight crook to his nose that is somehow so perfectly imperfect. A smirk plays at his lips. My gaze lingers there, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. So much for being above all that boy-crazy shit. I’d hang his poster over my bed shamelessly. His tousled brown hair is long enough that I can imagine grabbing it. It’s his eyes, though, that arrest me. In the dim light of the room, they’re deep gray, flashing with dangerous interest. The other half of his face remains in shadow as if I’m only seeing as much of him as he’ll allow me to see.

“You’re correct.” He leans forward, pressing his hands flatly against the glass desktop. He’s completely in the light now, showcasing the wide curve of his mouth. His eyes are bluer now, the color of the sea after a storm. I could drown in those eyes.

Warning bells ring in my head, but my subconscious hits the snooze button. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

“That sounds like a proposition.” His eyes trail over my face, and my cheeks begin to heat under his watchful gaze.

Two minutes alone with this guy, and I’ve shut down all my defenses. That’s the last thing I can allow to happen. “It’s not. It’s merely playing it smart.”

I fold my arms over my chest and tear my eyes from his. He can’t be oblivious to his effect on girls, which is why I won’t give him the satisfaction of toying with me.

“I didn’t mean to offend, Duchess.” He shifts in the chair, crossing his arms behind his head and no longer bothering to hide his cocky grin.

“You didn’t.” I study the top of the replica Eiffel tower a few blocks away.

“Then I didn’t mean to annoy.” He sounds amused, but I refuse to check to see if his smile has widened.

“Do I look annoyed?” I shrug and pivot on my heels toward the door. It’s well past time for me to take my exit. If Josie is in trouble, she’ll call. She always does, but not before making me worry a bit. This time though, I’m out. Getting caught trespassing twice in one night is my quota.

He stays silent as I walk toward the door, but before I reach the hall, he calls out, “You do look ruffled.”

“Ruffled?” I repeat, twirling around to glare at him. “Ruffles are for dresses and potato chips. I don’t ruffle.”

“Oh, you are definitely ruffled.” He brushes a hand over his hair, somehow managing to make it even messier—and sexier. Natural, coppery highlights glint from it as he laughs.

I plant my hands on my hips. When I find Josie, I’m going to kill her. For now, I’d settle for strangling him. “I’m just not interested in playing games.”