Page 9 of Gilt

“Most girls love games,” he says.

“I’m not most girls.”

“Of course,” he continues without acknowledging that I’ve spoken, “most girls aren’t very good at playing.”

“Is that so?” I ask. The flush I feel now has nothing to do with embarrassment.

“They never seem to win.” He stands and circles the desk, walking toward me with a swagger that sets off my bad boy alarm.

“Try me.”

His eyebrow arches up. I’ve got his attention now. “How did you get in here?”

“I walked,” I answer with a shrug. “This is a terrible game.”

“I’m just setting the stage, Duchess.”

I groan, dropping my arms to my sides as my hands ball into fists. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that. Why?”

“I’m the one asking questions.” He takes a step closer and now I can smell his cologne–leather and spice and sex.

“You asked your question. I asked mine. Quid pro quo.”

“Fancy words. I’m going to guess you don’t go to Las Palmas.” A smile twitches at his lips, making him look both kissable and smackable at the same time.

I bat my eyelashes a bit too fast as I answer. “Who says I go to school?”

Hottie McHottie is turning me into a giggling schoolgirl faster than a cheerleader drops her panties on prom night. I step backward instinctively and bump against the door. So much for a graceful exit. My blunder gives him the opportunity to lean over me. He grips the wood frame, hovering dangerously close. I can’t help but get the sense that I’m being stalked. Any moment now, he might lunge and devour me.

“The uneducated generally don’t drop Latin idioms, even common ones.” His words dance over my face, leaving a breathy trail of whiskey. “But I’m impressed, so I’ll answer your question on the condition that you answer my early one.”

I open my mouth to protest, but instead, I find myself nodding, hypnotized by the magnetic hold of his gaze. Whoever he is, he has more than a few tricks up his sleeve. I know because I’m already under his spell.

His head slants to whisper in my ear. “You look like a Duchess. Regal. Haughty. Untouchable.”

I tuck that description away. Later I’ll dissect it, fulfilling the biological imperative of femininity. I suspect I’ll be annoyed. Maybe even pissed. For now, though, all I can think is that I don’t want to be untouchable, not with his lips so close to my skin.

“Your turn,” he prompts, pulling away.

I swallow hard, immediately relieved to have a little more space between us. “I was looking for a friend. I guess I got lost.”

“The party is in the other room.” He backs away, completely liberating me from the cage of his arms.

“No shit.” I stand up straighter. If the predator is going to give his prey a chance to escape, I need to be alert. “It’s not really my scene. I wanted to find her to say goodbye.”

“I was told this is the party of the year,” he says, “but you’re here against your will.”

“Not against my will. More like against my moral code. Hanging out with Monroe West and her minions has to be a violation of the Geneva Convention.”

“Minions?” he says with a laugh. “Is that what you call them?”

“Them? Don’t you mean us?” I repeat, tilting my head to size him up. He definitely looks like he belongs in her world. He’s too pretty for the eyes of mere mortals, and his clothes scream upper one percent.

“So I’m classified as a minion? For what do I owe the honor?”

I reach out and run a finger along the neckline of his thin t-shirt. “Gucci,” I guess. “And why not? Who doesn’t want to drop a couple Benjamins to look like he’s not trying? There’s no cheap alcohol lingering in your cologne or on your breath.”

“So my taste earns me the coveted title?”