Page 157 of Gilt

He shakes his head.

“I could have sworn you worked up an appetite last night.”

He laughs, but his eyes remain distant. Swallowing my last bite, I slam the fork down on the table. “Out with it.”

“It’s on the cover of every major daily newspaper,” he says in a steady voice.

“If you’re trying to keep me calm, it’s not working.” My imagination has already kicked into overdrive. Do they have pictures of the proposal? Or, I gulp at the thought, something more personal. Maybe our late-night rendezvous on the patio last night was a bad idea.

“The FBI has arrested Hans on multiple counts of abuse, molestation, and child pornography.”

The list of allegations especially the last one make my stomach flip over. Child pornography. If that’s true, then he has pictures of Becca, and maybe even ...

I don’t finish the thought before I’m running for the bathroom. Jameson follows and kneels besides me as I wretch up breakfast.

“Maybe food was a bad idea,” he says apologetically. “I thought it would be better if you ate before.”

I shake my head to try to tell him this isn’t his fault but the next round of vomiting sends another message. When everything is up, I sit on my heels and wipe my mouth. My knees shake as Jameson helps me to my feet. He oversees the appearance of a toothbrush and a glass of water.

“What else? I rasp out, my throat scratchy from vomiting.

“I’m having my people look into it, but otherwise it’s the usual stuff.”

“Usual stuff?” I raise an eyebrow. What’s usual to Jameson West is prime tabloid fodder for the rest of us.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.” I plant my hands on my hips, refusing to follow him into the bedroom.

“The press got wind of us being here together and they might have jumped to conclusions.”

“What kind of conclusions?” I ask slowly as I sort through the questions the paparazzi yelled at me.

“You’ve seen the cover of Us Weekly.”

I have actually seen the cover of Us Weekly. My whole life I’ve been staring at it in the line at the grocery store or gas station. It’s always plastered with news of celebrity divorces, marriages, births, and various scandals.

“Let me guess,” I say, “not only did I murder your father, I’m also pregnant with your baby.”

It takes me a second to realize that he isn’t laughing because I’m actually right.

“Oh my God, are they saying I’m pregnant? We just had sex.”

“I’ll be sure to tell them that,” he promises me dryly. “I don’t think they’re interested in the facts.”

“Give me my phone.” I hold out my hand.

“Duchess, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Give me my phone, West.” He relinquishes it reluctantly.

“It’s only rumors. We know that.” I ignore him and google my name along with his, only to discover a whole fresh crop of ridiculousness has been fed to the gossip rags in the last few days.

“They think we got married?” I shout as I scroll through. “Oh my God, does it look like I have a baby bump?” I run a hand over the plane of my abdomen as I stare at a photo that’s headline news on TMZ.

“You do not have a baby bump. It’s called Photoshop.” Jameson gently pries the phone from my fingers before I can find the next horror story. “They’ve been running stories about us for months.”

“Not like this.” Conjecture has turned into rampant, imaginative bullshit. “I should call my mom, my dad, and I don’t know… the New York Times? Somebody needs to set this record straight.”