Page 144 of Gilt

“I guess it’s what I’m good at,” he says in a flat voice.

“So you don’t know who did it?” I ask. “Who killed Nathaniel?”

“Not any more than you do.” He shakes his head and I feel myself deflate. So, Jonas thinks I’m innocent, but he has no way to prove it. He also has no idea who is responsible. We’re back to square one.

Hugo stands up, brushing off his jeans, before he hauls Jonas to his feet. We stand awkwardly around each other, none of us certain what to say. After a minute, Jameson tugs at my hand. I step closer and he whispers in my ear, “Let’s give them some space.”

That’s exactly what we should do. The answers aren’t here, and the healing that needs to be done has nothing to do with us. But leaving them here will give Jameson exactly what he wants: me—alone.

A devilish grin curves across his mouth, and I know he has me right where he wants me.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

I wait until we’re out of the school before I lower the boom. “Jameson, I have to go.”

He steps in front of me blocking my exit. There are about twelve ways out of Belle Mère Prep and I know all of them, but somehow I don’t doubt that Jameson will beat me to each exit.

“We need to talk, Duchess, you can’t keep hiding from me.” This time he doesn’t cover the pain in his voice. He allows it to pierce his words and I feel it as acutely as I feel my own pain. “We can work through this.”

I doubt it, but admitting that to him, as well as myself, means facing the truth. I want to talk. I want to explain, but I hesitate, only daring to lift my eyes to his. It’s a mistake. Because what might have been an innocent gesture feels too intimate.

If Mackey’s hunch is correct and Nathaniel West is my father, how can I feel this way about Jameson? More than ever, I want to believe what my mother told me. That whatever moment of insanity led to her conceiving Nathaniel’s daughter, and my sister, didn’t happen twice. But seeing as I’ve been a regular lightening rod this summer, I’m not sure I’ll be that lucky. I want to be Jake Southerly’s daughter. Because that obstacle—a Southerly falling for a West—feels a lot more surmountable than this.

“I know what’s going on,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

“No, you don’t.” I shake my head, trying to clear it and things only grow hazier. Or is that the Jameson effect? I’m not really certain anymore.

“I do know.” This time his tone is firm. There’s no doubt that he is Nathaniel West’s son. Unyielding, commanding, powerful—he got all those traits from his father.

“Jameson, I—”

But he cuts me off. “I’m not your brother.”

You know that old cliché: time stands still? Well, it really fucking can happen. Everything around me grinds to a halt.

Jameson takes my hand, apparently unaffected by this time warp, and snaps me out of my daze.

“How? What? Why?” I stumble, looking for exactly the right question to ask.

Of course, Jameson already knows the answers. “I’m not stupid, Duchess. There are a lot of people willing to be bought in law enforcement. A little information for a lot of money isn’t hard to understand when you’ve seen the pension plan.”

“You bought someone off?” I ask in confusion. He nods, and tightens his grip on my fingers. That’s both disturbing and reassuring. There’s only one problem. “But I haven’t taken the DNA test yet.”

Did he think it would be this easy to trip me up? My anxiety and I have been friends far too long to be so easily soothed.

“I know that. I also know that you arranged to have your blood drawn at the Las Vegas Medical Clinic next Wednesday. That won’t be necessary, by the way.”

Confusion shifts to annoyance. “Jameson West, I am not one of your family’s puppets that can be ordered about. There are no strings attached to me. If you think you’re going to make me dance around, you are completely mistaken.”

“You’re wrong about that.” He takes a step closer, until our bodies are Mère inches apart. Spicy notes of citron and sandalwood tug at latent memories that I’ve been trying hard to forget. “There is a string attached to you. Only one.”

“And you think you can pull it?” I surmise, jutting my chin to show how wrong he is. But who are we kidding? We both know he can pull it anytime he wants. That’s why I’ve been hiding out in my best friend’s bedroom for the better part of a week.

“I’m not trying to pull your strings, Duchess. That string that I’m talking about, can’t you feel it? Running between the two of us?” His thumb traces the back of my wrist, and my pulse speeds up as if he’s willing it to race. “We’re connected. Nothing can change that. Stop being so afraid of it.”

“I’m not afraid of it!” I explode. “I’m afraid that you’re my brother, and that’s really, really creepy.”

“I’m not,” he insists.