Page 88 of Gilt

“So it is,” he says with a yawn. For a second, I’m distracted by the thought of him stretching his magnificent arms over his head, wearing nothing but a sheet.

“I have a problem.” I have to remember to get to the point.

“What’s wrong?” The languid sexiness is gone from his tone, replaced by urgency.

“I’m pretty sure someone’s following me. I think, maybe, it’s The Dealer.” I glance in the mirror to check if he’s still there. He is.

“Well, stay on the phone and come to me.”

“No. I’m trying to think of a way to trap him. Like, maybe I’ll pull into a store and wait, and when he goes to follow me in—”

“Come straight to my house,” Jameson cuts me off before I can rattle off the rest of my half-hatched plan.

“I’m not driving all the way up to Mount Charleston.”

“You’re driving? Whose car?”

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Jameson! Where can I go? I’m not going to Mount Charleston.”

“Our place in Belle Mère,” Jameson corrects me.

“How many freaking houses do you have in this city?” I snap, panic getting the better of me. So much for calm and calculating. Apparently, I’m going straight to uber-bitch.

But he ignores my attitude and begins to rattle off directions.

“I’m not going to remember any of that.”

“Then just stay on the phone and tell me where you are.” It takes me seconds to find the cross streets, but when I do, he heaves a sigh of relief. “Okay, I want you to take your next left.”

He navigates me to his house with saint-like patience. The Monte Carlo follows me the whole way.

“Your gate’s closed,” I tell him when I turn into his drive and see the wrought iron monolith blocking me from safety.

“I just opened it.” As if on cue, the panels begin to slide to the side. I wait just long enough to be certain the Mercedes can fit through before I zoom forward. Any other time, I might waste precious seconds by admiring his house, but the Wests’ real estate portfolio is the last thing on my mind.

Jameson is waiting on the front drive, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. His feet are bare, his abs are on display, and judging from the tousled mess of coppery hair sticking in every direction, he really had been in bed. All I can think about is having those strong arms wrapped tightly around me. I put the car in park, not even bothering to turn off the engine, and run to him. Burying my face in his chest, I breathe in his scent: soap and the remnants of yesterday’s cologne mixed with a little sweat like he’d been tossing and turning in his sleep.

He tips my chin up with his index finger. “Promise me you won’t go around acting like live bait?”

“I just thought—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“It’s not safe, Emma, and I need you to stay safe.”

“Yeah, I’m your alibi,” I mutter, trying to pull away.

Jameson holds me tighter. “You know that’s not why I need you to stay safe, Duchess.”

“I’m sorry ...” But the apology dies on my lips when the Monte Carlo barrels down the driveway.

“You didn’t shut the gate,” I yell at Jameson.

“I need you to stay calm,” he says.

I wrench away from him, instantly realizing that there is more to this situation than he’s letting on. “What did you do?”

“I need you to stay safe,” he repeats himself.

“What did you do, Jameson?” I demand. The driver of the Monte Carlo climbs out of the car and walks towards us. Pausing at my car, he leans in and turns off the engine.