Gilt: By Invitation Only (Gilt #1) Page 3

  As soon as we’re out of earshot, I fall against a wall. “If Dad knew I was that close to Nathaniel West, he’d kill one of us.”

  Josie nods, still struck dumb by the chance encounter.

  I have to admit that after that a swarm of Housers is a welcome sight. The party is already in full swing and in typical Vegas fashion, there’s a train wreck everywhere we turn. It’s obvious we’re not the only ones who crashed or maybe Hugo invited all his favorite escorts. Judging from the scantily clad girls lounging around him that might be the case. I guide Josie to the outskirts of the room wanting to avoid him.

  “Let’s get a drink!” I suggest. Maybe it will help wash the taste of self-loathing from my mouth.

  Josie only nods.

  “Hey, you okay?” I call over the crowd.

  She nods again. That’s a no. Josie has always craved the attention of the Housers, something I can’t exactly fault her for. She’s had a lot less time getting kicked around by them. I, on the other hand, floated between the worlds. My dad’s business wasn’t exactly brag-worthy, but since all commerce in sin city operated in various shades of vice, that might have been a moot point. His rivalry with Nathaniel was what had destroyed any chance I had at belonging. My mother’s remarriage to a successful movie producer had nearly wiped that slate clean. When I started Belle Mère, I’d been given a shot at being part of the elite. Monroe, herself, wanted to French braid my hair. Until I started dating Jonas. When she stole him away, I lost my boyfriend and the few friends I thought I had outside of Josie and Becca. The accident just put the final nail in my reputation with the Housers and reduced my inner circle by one.

  Josie's never had a cent to her name, though. Knowing me was as close as she came to the in-crowd. She's never had any way to draw attention.

  However, she snagged that all-access pass, this is her chance to make a name for herself. I want to warn her against it, but how do you tell your best friend that her fantasy is actually a nightmare in the making.

  You don’t. That’s why I came inside. Because if this is what Josie wants, I’ll be beside her.

  That also means I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.

  Until then booze is definitely in order. I drag her through the living room to the bar.

  “What will you have?” a kid playing bartender calls over the crowd.

  “Two shots of whiskey.” I hold up my fingers for emphasis. He dribbles on the counter as he pours. He’s going to need a replacement soon. Knowing Monroe, she’ll call someone up from the casino to perform the honors. I hand one to Josie and we down them swiftly.

  “Better?” I ask when she’s recovered from the liquid courage.

  “Yes!” She wiggles away from the bar, her mood shifting instantly.

  We weave through the crowd, a few lightweights are already on the floor I step over a girl, biting my lip, torn over leaving her there. But when I move closer, I don’t see the girl, I see my sister. Stumbling back, the girl’s friend pushes past me. She shoots me a disgusted look.

  “I can’t believe you would just leave her like that.”

  I mutter an apology before whipping around to look for a way outside. Anxiety is a bitch and she’s always crashing the party. By the time I find one I’m sucking desperately for air.

  You didn’t leave her, I remind myself. You didn’t leave her.

  I didn’t leave her, and it didn’t matter.

  It takes a second to catch my breath and then I remember where I am. The rooftop patio contains a collection of cabanas and, even in the dark, it’s obvious they’re occupied. I look away, feeling like a perv only to discover a pool full of my naked classmates. The pool itself extends to the edge of the building. It probably offers a pretty amazing view but right now, the number of boobs on display has temporarily blinded me. This clearly isn’t the sanctuary I’m seeking.

  Josie didn’t follow me outside, which means I’ve lost her to the crowd. I wait a few minutes, hoping she’ll find her way out to me. Despite the HBO level of nudity in progress, it’s still safer here than in there. I count to one hundred before I give up and head into the fray.

  “My favorite conquest!”

  I force a smile as Hugo greets me at the door with his harem. He’s wearing a shirt that proudly proclaims ‘STD free.’

  “That’s false advertising,” I inform him, planting my hands on my hips.

  “You’re welcome to check.” He grins widely, tossing his arms around the girls closest to him.

  “You really should pay them more. They can’t even afford clothes,” I say dryly.

  The blonde on his left’s mouth falls open but the redhead on his right just looks bored.

  “Jealousy isn’t becoming, Emma.” He emphasizes each syllable, the sound of my name on his lips plucks at me.

  I've been ID'ed by Hugo, which means it's time to find Josie and get home. I only get a few steps from him before Monroe lunges at me. Her fingers dig into my arm, and I have to resist the urge to slap her. She studies me with disgust. Apparently the scrap of cloth I’m wearing isn’t as designer as the scrap of cloth she’s wearing. This close I realize she has the same blue eyes as her father. But whereas his blazed, hers are as cold as ice.

  “You’re going to break a nail,” I warn her.

  “Who let you up here?”

  “Nice guy down stairs. Little head, big muscles. Wait, I’m not sure that narrows it down. How many cavemen do you employ here anyway?” I yank away from her.

  Her closest friends flank her, each girl dressed in a slightly different shade of pink. Leighton is blush, and Sabine is bashful. Apparently they’ve not been given the thumbs up to adopt Monroe’s grapefruit hue. Monroe, Leighton and Sabine —the three of them are a veritable spectrum of evil. Leighton is a state-dependent bitch. Get her alone and she’s actually not a terrible human being, but either Monroe flips a switch in her or she’s far too eager to impress the Housers. Monroe is Monroe. Sabine, on the other hand? Click on crazy bitch in Urban Dictionary and you’ll find her picture. Most of the rumors aren’t true. Like the one about her pushing some freshman off the roof of the gym? I sincerely doubt even her parents could cover that up. The rub is that she is totally capable of pushing someone off a roof.

  I guess there’s a little bit of truth in everything.

  “Leighton. Sabine.” I nod in greeting. “I had no idea they were filming a Pepto Bismal ad tonight. Congrats on the gig.”

  “You need to leave.” It’s amazing Monroe actually produces sound given how tightly she’s gritting her teeth.

  “Is that anyway to treat a guest?” Riling her up is a calculated risk but I need to buy time before security escorts me off the premises. But even as I scan the crowd around her, I can’t find Josie. Over half of Belle Mère but no best friend. I check my phone again, but there's no response to my S.O.S.

  Monroe whispers furiously to Leighton. No doubt placing a takeout order. It would be so like her to not even kick me out herself. In the periphery, Jonas moves into view, his gaze flicking from me to Monroe and back again. It’s been a long time since I felt those eyes on me, and I hate how it twists my stomach into knots.

  Coming here was a mistake.

  “Don’t bother,” I interrupt. “I’m going.”

  I don’t bother trying to look graceful as I push my way through the crowd, but I keep my head up. Jonas and I have had a good thing going, each of us pretending the other doesn’t exist. If that unspoken treaty is no longer in effect than I plan to stay as far away from him and Monroe and here as possible. I guess it’s a good sign that seeing him no longer makes me want to cry. I think that’s what they call progress.

  Before I can make it back to the elevators, Jonas intercepts me at the door. His eyes are warm like melted chocolate as he stops. I used to love staring into those eyes. Now I can barely stand to eat a Hershey’s bar. That’s love for you: the destroyer of life’s simple joys.

  “Look Monroe is all bark and no bite,” he promises,
shoving his hands into his pockets. It’s a classic Jonas move. He can’t stand to have anyone feel left out. If Monroe is the poster child for bitchy behavior, he’s the peacemaker. Yet another reason I’ve deemed their union unholy. Now he’s standing here, talking to me, as if I’m just one of the other kids’ she’s always bullying.

  I cross my arms over my chest. He might be able to justify her attitude but there’s no way I’m willing to play along. “Then put her on a leash.”

  “She’s just very particular about her guest list. I’m sure if you—”

  “We both know why she doesn’t want me here,” I interrupt him, “but don’t worry whatever fit of insanity I suffered earlier is over. I’m leaving.”

  “You don’t have to go.” I hate how his voice softens around those words. We stare at each other, and I wonder if this is just him doing his good samaritan act or if he actually wants me to stay. Butterflies stir in my stomach and I squash the fragile hope before I do or say something stupid. I push past him. “I need to find Josie.”

  He forces a wounded smile, but let’s me leave. When I reach the foyer, I still haven’t found Josie. She isn't responding to texts. The security guard who pointed us in the direction of the party is gone. It occurs to me then that I’m as lost to her as she is to me.

  “You were going to get kicked out anyway,” I say to the empty hall before I take a deep breath and follow in the footsteps of Nathaniel. If I’m lucky I’ll find her first, but let’s face it, lady luck is a bitch.

  Chapter Four

  The West residence goes on forever. There’s wealth and then there’s extravagance but this rises to the highest levels of selfishness. The other half of the home has been crowded with warm bodies making it too difficult to see my posh surroundings. The marble floor continues down the hallway, satiny gold papers the wall. I trail my hand along it. The slight texture of the wallpaper vibrates across my fingertips. Overhead a series of miniature chandeliers lights my way, dripping like luxury icicles. Who said Vegas was gauche? Sometimes I wonder if this is where interior design flunkies get sent.

  I don’t mean to count the rooms as I pass them but after the fifth bathroom I’m shaking my head. They can’t possibly use them all. Maybe they have a rotation going or they use one for each day of the week. Monday’s bathroom. Tuesday’s bathroom. Wednesday’s bathroom. The maid service should be given the Medal of Honor.

  Light creeps through the crack of the slightly ajar door. I pause outside and consider my options. I can keep creeping around counting bathrooms or I can gamble. Pressing my palm to the door, I realize I have a little Vegas in me after all. It swings open to reveal an empty room. A large glass desk perched on chrome legs sits in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the neon lights of the strip. A pair of high-back leather chairs in glossy black wait in front of it. It’s an office but other than a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and two rocks glasses, it’s devoid of personality. No books. No papers. No art hanging on the walls. Then again what could compete with the glittering backdrop of sin city?

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here.”

  I startle at the sound of the disembodied voice, my hand flying to my chest like a bad actress.

  “S-s-sorry,” I stammer as I begin to back out of the room. I’ve been caught sneaking around by Nathaniel West. I guess I’ll finally find out if casino owners really have the power to break someone’s legs or if that’s just an urban legend.

  The desk chair spins around slowly revealing the owner of the voice. As he comes into the light I know he’s wearing jeans instead of a suit and that the thin T-shirt hugs his biceps. He clutches the arms of the chair with broad strong hands that bear no signs of age. By the time the light hits his face I know I haven’t stumbled upon Nathaniel.

  “I don’t think you are either, but I won’t…” My words die on my lips as his brutally beautiful face is revealed. I’ve never been the girl who hung pictures of rock stars or actors on my walls. I don’t gush over how hot Hottie McHottie is, and I don’t turn into a blubbery puddle when I meet a cute guy.

  But this guy isn’t cute. He isn’t hot. He exists on some other plane of attractiveness altogether. His jawline is sharp, chiseled and sculpted by genetics far superior to the rest of humanity. There’s a slight crook to his nose that is somehow so perfectly imperfect. A slight smirk plays at his lips. My gaze lingers there wondering what it would be like to kiss him. So much for being above all that boy crazy shit. I’d hang his poster over my bed shamelessly. His tousled brown hair is long enough that I can imagine grabbing it. It’s his eyes, though, that arrest me. In the dim light of the room they’re deep gray, flashing with dangerous interest. The other half of his face remains in shadow as if I’m only seeing as much of him as he’ll allow me to see.

  “You’re correct.” He leans forward pressing his hands flatly against the glass desktop. He’s completely in the light now, showcasing the wide curve of his mouth. His eyes are bluer now, the color of the sea after a storm. I could drown in those eyes.

  Warning bells ring in my head but my subconscious hits the snooze button. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

  “That sounds like a proposition.” His eyes trail over my face and my cheeks begin to heat under his watchful gaze.

  Two minutes alone with this guy and I’ve shut down all my defenses. That’s the last thing I can allow to happen. “It’s not. It’s merely playing it smart.”

  I fold my arms over my chest and tear my eyes from his. He can’t be oblivious to his effect on girls, which is why I won’t give him the satisfaction of toying with me.

  “I didn’t mean to offend, Duchess.” He shifts in the chair crossing his arms behind his head and no longer bothering to hide his cocky grin.

  “You didn’t.” I study the top of the replica Eiffel tower a few blocks away.

  “Then I didn’t mean to annoy.” He sounds amused but I refuse to check to see if his smile has widened.

  “Do I look annoyed?” I shrug and pivot on my heels toward the door. It’s well past time for me to take my exit. If Josie is in trouble she’ll call. She always does, but not before making me worry a bit. This time though, I'm out. Getting caught trespassing twice in one night is my quota.

  He stays silent as I walk toward the door but before I reach the hall, he calls out, “You do look ruffled.”

  “Ruffled?” I repeat, twirling around to glare at him. “Ruffles are for dresses and potato chips. I don’t ruffle.”

  “Oh, you are definitely ruffled.” He brushes a hand over his hair, somehow managing to make it even messier—and sexier. Natural, coppery highlights glint from it as he laughs.

  I plant my hands on my hips. When I find Josie, I’m going to kill her. For now, I’d settle for strangling him. “I’m just not interested in playing games.”

  “Most girls love games,” he says.

  “I’m not most girls.”

  “Of course,” he continues without acknowledging that I’ve spoken, “most girls aren’t very good at playing.”

  “Is that so?” I ask. The flush I feel now has nothing to do with embarrassment.

  “They never seem to win.” He stands and circles the desk, walking toward me with a swagger that sets off my bad boy alarm.

  “Try me.”

  His eyebrow arches up. I’ve got his attention now. “How did you get in here?”

  “I walked,” I answer with a shrug. “This is a terrible game.”

  “I’m just setting the stage, Duchess.”

  I groan, dropping my arms to my sides as my hands ball into fists. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that. Why?”

  “I’m the one asking questions.” He takes a step closer and now I can smell his cologne–leather and spice and sex.

  “You asked your question. I asked mine. Quid pro quo.”

  “Fancy words. I’m going to guess you don’t go to Las Palmas.” A smile twitches at his lips, making him look both
kissable and smackable at the same time.

  I bat my eyelashes a bit too fast as I answer. “Who says I go to school?”

  Hottie McHottie is turning me into a giggling school girl faster than a cheerleader drops her panties on prom night. I step backward instinctively and bump against the door. So much for a graceful exit. My blunder gives him the opportunity to lean over me. He grips the wood frame, hovering dangerously close. I can't help but get the sense that I'm being stalked. Any moment now he might lunge and devour me.

  “The uneducated generally don’t drop Latin idioms, even common ones.” His words dance over my face, leaving a breathy trail of whiskey. “But I’m impressed, so I’ll answer your question on the condition that you answer my early one.”

  I open my mouth to protest but instead I find myself nodding, hypnotized by the magnetic hold of his gaze. Whoever he is, he has more than few tricks up his sleeve. I know because I’m already under his spell.

  His head slants to whisper in my ear. “You look like a Duchess. Regal. Haughty. Untouchable.”

  I tuck that description away. Later I’ll dissect it, fulfilling the biological imperative of femininity. I suspect I’ll be annoyed. Maybe even pissed. For now, though, all I can think is that I don’t want to be untouchable, not with his lips so close to my skin.

  “Your turn,” he prompts, pulling away.

  I swallow hard, immediately relieved to have a little more space between us. “I was looking for a friend. I guess I got lost.”

  “The party is in the other room.” He backs away, completely liberating me from the cage of his arms.

  “No shit.” I stand up straighter. If the predator is going to give his prey a chance to escape, I need to be alert. “It’s not really my scene. I wanted to find her to say goodbye.”

  “I was told this is the party of the year,” he says, “but you’re here against your will.”

  “Not against my will. More like against my moral code. Hanging out with Monroe West and her minions has to be a violation of the Geneva Convention.”