Page 32 of Gilt

“They’re at work,” I say aloud.

“Does it scare you to be with me?” He asks.

“No,” I whisper. Admitting this to him feels like opening a door that I might not be able to close. I chance a quick peek at him.

His profile is stunning in the moonlight that streams through the windshield, etching him in blunt lines and hard edges. He claimed that he had been away at school in California. The slight sun-kissed tone of his skin that glows faintly in the dim light suggests he’d been somewhere sunny, but he’s not tan. Not like most of the people around here.

“What were you studying?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He turns to me, looking a little surprised but also pleased. “Business. No surprise, right?”

“You look like you didn’t get outside much,” I note.

“That seems a little hypocritical coming from you, Duchess, not that I mind.” I flush at the appreciative tone in his voice, which only proves he’s right.

“I buy stock in SPF 200,” I tell him. “Even at the pool, I’m one of those girls with a hat and sunglasses that pauses her reading to slather as much sunscreen as possible. Skin cancer is a bitch.”

“True enough,” he says with a chuckle.

“I know I don’t fit in here,” I tell him.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs. “You stand out.”

“Is that why you talked to me?” I ask him.

“I spoke to you because it was rude not to acknowledge the fact that you were trespassing.”

“Right.” Embarrassment rolls over me in waves, and I search for the door handle. That’s all the reminder I need that I made a huge mistake wandering into that office, sticking around, getting into his car tonight. How many more huge mistakes would I be allowed before I had to pay the price?

He reaches across and grabs my hand. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you probably didn’t,” I say, “but let’s face it. I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to get to know you.” I stopped trying to open the door and turn on him.

“Why?” If I discount the murder investigation focused on him, then I’m staring at the heir to a multi-billion dollar company who has the sense of humor to charm the panties off whomever he wants and the looks that mean he doesn’t have to. He’s the whole package. Compared to him, I’m nothing.

“Because last night I was more honest with you in the few hours we spent together than I’ve been with anyone my whole life, and since then, all I can think about is spending more time with you. I want to know you. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I think I’ve gotten under your skin, as well. If I’m wrong, tell me to leave, but if you felt even a hint of that last night, don’t push me away.”

“Would you let me?” I breathe. There’s something about him that overwhelms me. I won’t be able to let him into part of my life. He’ll simply consume me whole.

The hand gripping my own drops it, but only so he can reach up and cup my jaw. “Think about it.”

My body leans forward instinctively, but his hand falls away breaking the spell.

“Okay.” It’s the most I can promise him. I throw open the door before he can convince me to change my mind.

“Duchess,” he calls after me. I duck down to the open window. “Check your phone.”

Jogging across my neighbor's yards, I can feel him watching me from the car. He turns on the headlights to guide my path, but I don’t hear the engine roar back to life until I step inside the house. I pause for a moment, catching my breath against the door, then I remember what he said.

My phone is waiting for me on the kitchen counter. Sliding it on, I search through the messages, but there’s nothing there. What is he hoping I’ll find? Then it hits me, and I open my contact list. Skimming through it, I get to ‘J.’ He’s typed in his full name. I select it and find a note written in the contact information. “Call me, Duchess. Please.”

“What have you gotten yourself into?” I say to the empty kitchen for the two-hundredth time today. He’s left what happens next up to me, but I’m not stupid enough to believe I have a choice. I should stay away from him. It’s the smart thing to do. It’s what I’ve always done. Keeping my distance is a safe bet. Too bad I can’t.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Monday, it’s back to routine. I’m switching gears despite my dad’s constant absence from work. Pawn shops thrive on their own in Las Vegas. There’s always someone willing to gamble on their own treasures. Ninety percent of people don’t come back, which means we have an unusual and original stock of junk for tourists to peruse. Nothing thrills a Midwestern farmer more than taking home a Billy Joel tour jacket. I’ve never claimed to understand it, but if it keeps the lights on and my stomach full, I can work with it.