Page 34 of Gilt

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” I hear it coming out of my lips while my body screams yes. My self-preservation goddess is working overtime today. I’ll have to give her a bonus.

My answer seems to surprise him. Then again, he probably doesn’t hear no very often.

“I found what you left on my phone.”

“Would you have called?” he asks me.

“Probably not when I saw your last name.”

“And now?” he presses, taking a step towards me until our bodies are hovering mere inches from one another’s. He’s so close that I can smell the spicy notes of his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his body. My own remembers what it’s like to have it pressed against it. An invisible thread seems to tug me in his direction.

I lock my knees and force myself to stay in place. “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.”

“How can I convince you?” He steps closer again, unknowingly doing a lot of the work. The nearer he comes to me, the fuzzier the lines become.

“Maybe you should go,” I suggest.

“If your dad isn’t here, what’s the problem with me being here?” he asks.

“He could show up.” I’m on the defensive, and he doesn’t even know why.

“Does he often not show up? I thought this was his place.”

“Do I want to know how you know that?” I’m beginning to wonder if he’s ordered a full dossier on my entire family. I’m not the one that needs a background check. “Dad hasn’t had the easiest time,” I struggle with what to say. “He has some issues.”

There, that covers a whole range of evils, especially given the multifarious smorgasbord of vice that we reside in.

“Since your sister?” Jameson guesses.

I shake my head, wondering only momentarily if he’s distributed some type of truth serum to me. “Since I can remember,” I admit, “some people handle their booze better than others.”

“I’m prying,” he says, but he doesn’t apologize for it. I suppose, given the amount I now know about his family, it’s only fair.

“I’ve definitely pried into your personal life.”

“Quid pro quo,” he says.

“I thought you were a college dropout,” I mock.

“I learned it from some girl I hooked up with. She was pretty smart.”

“Are you attempting to flirt with me, Mr. West?” I meander past him shamelessly, shaking my ass a little as I go.

“I’ve never claimed to be a saint,” stopping at the water cooler, I pour myself a Dixie cup full and sip it slowly. “Did you check your phone?”

“You’re bypassing my question,” I accuse him.

Refilling the cup I hold it out to him, “No, Duchess. I just asked you a more important one. The answer to your question is obvious,” he takes a drink, careful to place his lips exactly where my lip gloss smudged on the rim. I suspect it’s not a coincidence, and so does my body judging from how a thrill tingles through me, landing with a burst of anticipation between my legs. “Yeah, I checked my phone.”

“Then can we stop dicking around? I gave you my number, would you have called it before…?”

“Maybe if I found it. I suppose they might pull tricks like that in California, but where I come from, it’s still good manners to leave a girl a note. Especially if she’s still in her underwear. It’s also considered polite to wake her up.”

“You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.” It’s a half-ass excuse, and one that does nothing to sway my opinion as to his innocence.

“Where did you go when you left me,” I asked casually. I have to consider that there’s a reason that Jameson is the one the police are focused on. Even if I don’t want to.

“Wrong question again, Duchess. I think what you really meant to ask is: did you kill your father?”