Page 30 of Gilt

“Don’t be cute, Emma. I can’t allow you to run home.”

“Excuse me?” I repeat, not bothering to hide my shock. “Did we just jump through time and wind up in the 1950s? I’m not helpless.”

“It’s not safe,” he ignores me, which only takes my rage from simmering to a full boil. “You shouldn’t be running without a way to call home.”

“And it’s safe to get in the car with you?”

“It’s the safest place in the world for you. I need you alive.”

A shiver races up my spine, but I channel my energy into convincing him to let me walk away. I have no idea what he’s capable of, and I can never forget that. “I’ll be fine if I leave now.”

“We’re not through talking.”

“Listen, I don’t know who you think you are—”

“I’m Jameson West,” he interrupts me.

“That’s so impressive,” I mock him, “but I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

“You mean like staying out all night with men you don’t know?”

“If by men, you mean you, then yes.” Does he have some type of personality disorder? Dr. Jameson and Mr. West. “But it’s not a habit of mine. I must have been suffering a bout of insanity.”

“Then I suppose I was lucky,” he says.

“You have no idea,” I mutter. “You probably should have thrown a quarter in the slots. Luck was on your side.”

“Others might disagree with you.”

Oh, right. Dead dad. Whoops.

“I should go.”

“Emma, you can get in my car or I can follow you in my car. Those are your options.”

My eyes narrow into slits so thin that I can barely see him. “Suit yourself.”

I take off on a full jog before he can respond. Cutting through the gravestones, I narrowly make it to the street before a sleek, black BMW catches up with me. It slows down to match my pace, which would be comical if it wasn’t so infuriating. I speed up my pace, but it’s no use. One, I’m not really much of a runner, so there’s no way I can keep up that speed for long. Two, he’s in a freaking car. By the time he’s been following me for a mile, I dart right and take a side street. I have no idea if I can actually get to my house from here, but I’m willing to chance it. The last streaks of daylight are fading into a milky blue sky as I quicken my pace. The desert is particularly dark at night, and I have no desire to get stuck too far from home, especially with an innocent-until-proven-guilty murderer on my trail. But just as I round a corner, the BMW appears again.

“Do you even know how to get home?” he calls from the rolled-down window.

“Yes.”

“You’re lying,” he accuses. “Get in the car, Duchess.”

“I told you not to call me that!” I yell between panting breaths.

“It seems to really suit your attitude at the moment.” He continues to idle alongside me. “If you get in, I’ll drop you off a few houses down. If not, I’ll be parked in your driveway before you can unlock your front door. Is your father home from work yet?”

I halt in my tracks. His scale of kissability to smackability just tipped heavily in favor of a backhand across his face. But he’s hit the mark: I don’t want to explain him to my dad. Reluctantly I jog around to the passenger side. The interior is sleek if a little bit utilitarian, but it hardly matters since he’s turned the air conditioner on full blast. I want to pretend that I’m overheated from running, but his presence is also a contributing factor. My whole body turns traitor in his midst, remembering how his lips felt as they explored my skin.

But that was before I knew who he was or what he was capable of. If I couldn’t bring myself to be scared of him, I could try to maintain some self-control.

“Buckle up,” he commands me.

I grimace at him, abandoning the glorious chill coming from the vents, and reach for my seatbelt. “I always buckle up.”

“I imagined you’d say that, given…”