Page 63 of Gilt

She stares at him for a moment longer, frozen in place, then she shakes her head as if to clear it. She smiles warmly. “Vivian.”

“Vivian,” he repeats, but whatever spell Jameson has cast over her doesn’t extend to protect me. Turning in my direction, she shoots me a questioning look.

“Mom,” I brace myself for what I’m about to tell her, “This is Jameson West.”

“Ah. The famous Mr. West.” Her voice piques on his name. She doesn’t hold the same animosity toward the Wests that her ex-husband, my father, does, but she’s not welcoming him into the family either.

“I’m afraid my reputation does precede me.” He stands and extends his hand.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says as she shakes it. I flinch because if that’s true, she hasn’t been hearing it from me.

“Mom,” I say in warning.

“I have,” she says with a shrug.

“Yes.” Jameson’s eyes dart to mine. “I believe your husband is currently in negotiations with Paramount to do a film based on my father.”

“I don’t know much about that.” It’s an obvious lie, but one that most would willingly swallow. If she knows about it, she’s kept it from me. Probably to keep the peace this summer.

“Perhaps I’ll discuss it with him, then. I’d like to know more.” The tension in the room has a greenish tinge that threatens to suffocate each of us, but my mother is oblivious.

“I’m sure he would enjoy that. He has quite a few questions about what happened.”

“Don’t we all?” Jameson tilts his head. “Maybe he can tell me how the story ends.”

Now that our bodies are separated, I can think a little more clearly, which means questions are racing through my head. Apparently, I’m not the only one still trying to figure out what happened. If Jameson doesn’t know, the FBI doesn’t either. So how did he get out of police custody?

“I didn’t know you would be visiting us.” Mom walks to the side of the bed and picks up a pillow that’s fallen to the floor, no doubt cataloging every wrinkle in my bedspread to use when she interrogates me about him later.

“I wanted to surprise Emma.”

“And you did,” I jump in. “Maybe we should check out downtown. There’s…”

“Will you be staying long?” Mom interjects. Somehow, I’ve found myself in the middle of a socialite standoff. The weapon of choice? Who can be more polite to the other while slowing bleeding them dry?

“Only as long as it takes to convince Emma to come home.”

“And why would she want to do that?” This time she doesn’t bother to sugarcoat her words.

“Because that’s where she belongs.”

“In Belle Mère?” Mom asks.

“With me,” Jameson corrects.

I step forward, wedging myself between them. “I’m going to take Jameson downtown.”

“You’ll have to bring him back for dinner,” she says, not bothering to tear her eyes away from him.

“Sure,” I agree. Grabbing Jameson’s hand, I drag him out of the room and toward the front door.

“Your mother is…”

“A piece of work?” I offer. I come to a stop when I spot the white Porsche Carrera with its top down, parked in the circle drive. “Is that yours?”

He grins at me, and this time he’s the one leading me away from the house and toward the car.

“If your mom saw my car, she knew she had company,” he says. There’s an undercurrent of annoyance in his voice.