Page 172 of Gilt

“Why would you do that?” I’ve watched how critical Evelyn West can be of her daughter’s choices this summer. Letting her mom believe it’s her idea to host a party in the same space where her dad was murdered didn’t seem like the best plan.

“Strategy. Mom wants us to get along, so I told her I was dying to throw you a birthday party.”

“In other words, you lied?” I ask.

“Yes. My mother is a sucker for lies if it paints the picture she wants to see. She’s too eager to watch us bond to cause trouble.”

“So she actually likes me?” Despite the kindness Jameson’s mother has shown me, I had to wonder if her opinion of me had reversed in light of our “engagement.”

“Yes, Pollyanna,” Monroe confirms dryly. “She thinks you hung the moon.”

Armed with this good news, I surrender to Monroe’s request and dismiss myself to dress, which has the added benefit of getting me away from the party planning. The outfit, or lack of it, that she’s picked out for me is laid out on Jameson’s bed.

Band-aids have more surface area than this thing and don’t get me started on the lacy scraps of string that accompany it. The tiny dress is covered in gold sequins that sparkle luminously in the light. When I lift it from the bed, I discover a gorgeous mask hiding underneath. I had planned on wearing the one I picked up at Pawnography, but I can’t help but admire the one Monroe has selected. The mask itself is made of creamy porcelain with subtle facial features painted on in gold. The gilt effect around the eyes looks like long feathers. I hold it up to my face and peer through the openings.

The heat of my breath collects inside it, but there’s something comforting about having the mask on. Behind this, I can be Emma Southerly again instead of Jameson’s girlfriend or murder suspect, or gold digger. With this on, none of those labels seem to stick. There’s liberation in deception.

I place the mask gently onto the nightstand and begin to strip. I’ll have to do something with my hair, but make-up won’t be as important if I stay hidden all night. I hadn’t considered that perk of a masquerade party. Squirming into the dress, I realize that it’s not compatible with my current underwear. My gaze strays to the thong I’ve left on the bed.

“Seriously?” I say to myself.

A soft laugh startles me, and I pivot to find Jameson standing in the doorway.

“Do you knock?” I ask, trying to tug up the stuck zipper.

“It’s my room,” he reminds me. He pushes the door closed behind him.

“I’ll knock next time.” I give up on the zipper and cross my arms over my chest.

“You’re in a mood,” he notes as he comes closer. When he reaches me, he runs the back of his hand down my arm. The effect of his touch is both soothing and exciting.

“This party is a terrible idea,” I admit. “Is it too late to cancel?”

“And disappoint all those people who want to be your friends now?”

Jameson has no idea the real reason that I’ve planned this gathering tonight. The more people who know, the worse are chances are of catching the murderer. But as the party gets closer, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a good idea at all. What if I’m wrong? I’ll be exposing myself and Jonas to even more scrutiny from the police.

A pit opens in my stomach as I consider an even worse possibility. What if I don’t want to know who killed Nathaniel West?

“None of the people coming tonight matter,” he continues, mistaking my silence as hesitance. “If you want to cancel, then we will. Although might I request you wear this dress tonight regardless.”

“I don’t think I can wear this dress, period,” I say absently, picking up the collection of strings I’m pretty certain are supposed to be underwear. “I mean, look at this! Why bother?”

Jameson adjusts his collar with one hand. “You should give them a fair chance.”

“Oh yeah?”

He takes them from me and dangles them off his index finger. “You should definitely give these a chance.”

“Aren’t you worried about me bending over?” I ask.

“I’ll just have to stay behind you all night and keep the view to myself.”

It’s too late to call tonight off, and I can’t freak myself out a second longer, so when Jameson backs me toward his bedroom wall, I don’t resist. His breath is hot on my neck as he trails his lips down to the curve of my shoulder.

“When is this party?” he whispers.

“Who cares?” I breathe.