by Geneva Lee
“I want to. This is a family meeting after all, and apparently, I’m officially a West, married or not.”
“Some of my questions are a trifle delicate,” she warns me, and I nod. “First of all, our lawyers would like to talk with you when you have a moment about the film project your stepfather was involved with regarding my late husband.”
“I’ll tell them what I know about it,” I promise, adding silently, which isn’t much.
“Secondly, Monroe would like to say something.” Evelyn turns her attention to her daughter.
“It’s come to my attention that I allowed a snake to get too close to the family, and she’s struck.”
“Stop talking in riddles,” Jameson demands.
“Sabine,” Monroe clarifies. “Apparently, she was quite smitten with Levi. The two of them have been seeing each other behind my back for a couple of weeks.”
“Christ, Monroe,” Jameson mutters, running his hands through his hair. I don’t need her to continue. I know exactly what this means. Sabine has always been Monroe’s right-hand bitch, which means she knows more about the sordid affairs that go on behind the West family’s closed doors than nearly anyone not sitting at this table.
“I apologize,” Monroe continues, “and I’ll be more judicious in my choice of friends in the future.”
Judicious? It’s more like she’s taking the SAT’s than apologizing, but I keep my mouth shut. Sabine might have seemed like a loyal lapdog; however, their friendship had always been based on fear and control. None of us should be surprised that she took the opportunity to stab Monroe in the back at the first opportunity. Judging from Monroe’s detachment, she even seems a little proud.
“Now that that’s settled.” Evelyn swivels to face me. “I would like to know if the allegation that your stepfather molested you is true.”
“Mother, that is none of your business,” Jameson interrupts her.
“You’ve made your intentions towards Emma clear.”
“So you want to embarrass her?” he asks.
She levels a stare that could probably melt iron at him. “Embarrass? Is that what you think of me? My support, financially and emotionally is entirely behind your girlfriend.”
“Fiancée,” he corrects her, and I wince.
“Let’s let her get used to the idea,” his mother suggests. “I’m asking her, because if it’s true, I’d like to arrange for her to see a therapist.”
“I don’t think,” I begin.
“That’s not your place,” Jameson interjects.
“You’d like this woman to be my daughter,” she points out to him, “so I’m treating her as I would my own daughter. If Monroe were in this situation, I would urge her to do the same.”
I can’t help but stare at Monroe. If Evelyn West had any idea what type of situation she’s in, we’d be having a different conversation right now. Monroe’s facade of disinterest slips, and I see the fear in her eyes. She knows I can burn her, and I have every reason to do so. Particularly, after learning how she’s used Jonas for the last couple of years, but this is a family meeting, and if Evelyn West wants to treat me like a daughter, then I need to treat Monroe like a sister.
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” I explain to Jameson’s mother, “because he didn’t molest me.”
She releases a deep breath. Someday she’ll learn the particulars—that Hans von Essen raped my sister—but, for now, she needn’t know it was his actions towards me that brought him to his knees. No, Evelyn West doesn’t have to worry about me. Hans von Essen didn’t get the better of me.
I destroyed him.
Now that the emotional part is out of the way, she shifts into business mode. “Naturally our lawyers and publicity team have been following the events. They will be at your disposal should you need them when dealing with the authorities or with the press.”
“Of course.” I swallow hard at the thought. Is this what the rest of my life will be if I join this inimitable family? Family meetings and strategy sessions, all designed to dictate how the world sees us. It’s overwhelming to consider.
“Jameson, might I have a minute with you alone?” his mother asks. The two of them step into the study across the hall, leaving Monroe and I to face one another.
“You didn’t rat me out,” she says.
“I thought it in poor taste, given ...” I trail away. I can’t bring myself to say it.
“That you’re a West now?” she finishes for me.
“I guess,” I say with a shrug, hoping that I appear nonchalant, even as my heart speeds up.
“Why do you think I advised you to stay here this summer?” Monroe asks. “There’s a lot you have to learn about this family.”
I glance toward the study doors, which have been shut behind mother and son. “You’re telling me.”
“Just to clarify, we’re not best friends or anything,” Monroe says.
“Agreed. So long as you tell me you’re not planning to sabotage me at the first opportunity.”
“Do you think I wouldn’t sabotage my friends?” She laughs, as though the suggestion of her loyalty is preposterous.
“Remember how you told me you needed to teach me how to be a West?” I ask her. “I think maybe it’s time for me to teach you how to be a decent human being.”
“Too late for that, I’m not interested.” If my barb stings, she doesn’t show it. “But rest assured, you’re better off being my family than my friend.”
My eyebrow arches. “And why is that?”
“Because this family protects each other. No matter what.”
“So I’m one of you then?”
“You could have delivered me to my mother. You could have told her the truth about what you know. She’ll find out eventually, of course. It’s an inevitability in my plan, but it wouldn’t have done you any good with her or with me. You’ve proved yourself to be a West with your loyalty.”
“I’m not even sure what that means,” I admit.
“It means you know how to keep a secret, and it means you’ll protect us, no matter what you know.”
Chapter 15
That I’m dating a real estate mogul’s heir has never seemed more important than when Jameson unlocks the door to a penthouse suite in an off-the-strip property. The idea of going anywhere that people might recognize us makes me want to vomit and after tonight’s awkward family meeting, I need a little distance from the rest of the Wests. If I’d thought that being labeled as a prime suspect in a murder trial was going to be my worst memory of summer vacation, I know now that I was wrong.
As if facing the impending storm of questions from my parents and friends isn’t bad enough, Jameson hadn’t said one word to me since we left Mount Charleston. Whatever his mother had spoken to him about in private hangs between us, dampening the mood.
“This is nice,” I say conversationally, but he only shrugs. The resort he’s brought us to is one of those luxury joints masquerading as a haven from the bright lights and business of Las Vegas. Judging from the info I’d skimmed while Jameson did his bit to shake hands and make nice with the management, it’s a timeshare for gambling addicts that have the good sense to keep some mileage between their wallet and the craps table.
The suite is decorated in subdued hues of beige, perfect for whoever might call it home for a week at a time. It’s more nondescript and a lot less stylish than the other West resorts I’ve seen, but the leather couch still shines with furniture polish and the pillows on the gigantic bed remain fluffed.
I eye it and realize that I have one weapon in this cold war we’re silently battling. As I slip my sundress over my head, catching Jameson’s attention, I realize how fortunate I am to be a female. The low back of my dress and its tiny straps made wearing a bra impossible. Yes, it’s completely unfair to flaunt my body to get my boyfriend to talk to me, and some might argue I’m setting women back like a hundred years, but personally, I’ve never been so happy to have boobs.
“Not going to work, Duchess,
” he calls from the living room as I drop onto the bed.
Arranging myself artfully like the chick in Titanic, I respond. “I can’t hear you. Come closer.”
“I said you are infuriating,” he growls as he steps into the bedroom. But the annoyance in his words can’t mask the ways his eyes linger on me.
“What big eyes you have, Mr. West.”
“I’m not playing around here.” He grabs a robe from the back of the door and tosses it to me.
I shrug it on angrily. So much for my irresistible feminine wiles. “I’m not either, but I’ll do what I have to if it means you’ll talk to me.”
“Why don’t you try talking to me?” he suggests in a flat voice.
That hadn’t occurred to me, but I’m not letting go of my bruised ego so easily. “I’ve been talking to you.”
“Small talk about the decor isn’t a hot conversation starter.”
If he’s trying to up the alert level of my fury, he’s doing a damn good job.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he says in a soft voice.
“Your mom is pissed, isn’t she?” I guess. When he nods, I wish a sinkhole would form and swallow me alive.
“Not at you,” he clarifies when he sees my expression.
“If she’s mad at you, then it’s because of me.”
He doesn’t bother to challenge that assumption. “I knew we would get flack for being engaged. This will pass.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t…” I twist the ring he’s given me around until it reaches my knuckle but he strides over and pushes it back down my finger.
“That’s your birthday present,” he reminds me.
“It’s a whole lot more than a birthday present.” Staring at it, I wonder how such a little thing can mean so much. Then I remember the price tag and the disdainful look in Monroe’s eyes when she called me a gold-digger. “I don’t need a ring. I’m not really the jewelry type.”
I fail to add that every girl I know is the diamond type even if they’ve never owned so much as a friendship bracelet before.
“Duchess, I want you to wear it.” He leans over the bed and tilts my chin up with his finger. “It’s important to me and since you won’t marry me yet, let’s call it a compromise.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He’s not fighting fair. How am I supposed to say no with those silvery-gray eyes gazing into mine? It’s not even a discussion. “I thought we were calling it a present.”
Jameson laughs, slipping his hands under the collar of my robe and gently shucking it free from my shoulders. I allow the sleeves to slide off my arms and the garment falls off, pooling behind me. His eyes stay glued to mine even as his jaw twitches. “I’ve been imagining that ring—and only that ring—on you since I bought it.”
“And aren’t you going to look?” I purr. I’m not entirely certain if I’ve won or lost this argument, but I can’t seem to care.
His gaze sweeps over me, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I drape my arm over my bare hip and put his ring on display. He lingers on it and with each passing second, my pulse ratchets up in speed. Finally, I reach up and grip his shirt, urging him to join me on the bed. As I unbutton it, his face slants down, nuzzling into the curve of my neck.
“It’s not just a present,” he whispers.
My answer catches in my throat. “I know.”
He pulls back and studies me for a moment. “You don’t have to wear it.”
I cup his face with my palm and smile shyly. “I think I want to. I just never expected to have something so…”
Extreme? Expensive? Unexpected? I can’t find the right word.
“It’s a ring fit for a duchess.” But Jameson understands, taking my hand in his, he lays me across the bed. “For my Duchess.”
Biting my lip, I marvel as his body moves against mine, slowly pushing all my doubts away.
* * *
The next morning I’m alone in bed, stretching my muscles. Is everyone this gloriously sore after sex? Or has Jameson West cornered the market on wearing a girl out? Either way, I’m not complaining. I find a note next to a fresh pot of coffee in the living quarters.
Dealing with fall-out. Call me when you’re up.
Love,
Jamie
I take a risqué selfie instead. His response is immediate and I answer the phone as soon as it begins to vibrate.
“Thank god you’re eighteen,” he says gruffly.
“Why are you whispering?” I ask, unintentionally lowering my own voice.
“Because I’m in a boardroom with a bunch of middle-aged men who already drool over my fiancée. I don’t need to give them any more material to fantasize about,” he admits.
“Then you better delete that photo.” I pour a cup of coffee and take a slow sip.
“That photo and I are going to have some alone time together later,” he promises.
“How about you hold out for the real thing?”
“Just promise you’ll stay like that the rest of the day and we have a deal.” I can hear the wicked smile in his voice. “Duchess, I have to go. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I hang up and look around the room. I’m not entirely sure how I’m not floating mid-air right now. Before I can come down from my high, my phone rings again and I answer it immediately.
“Yes, I am naked, but you’re going to have to be patient.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Agent Mackey says dryly. “I guess you didn’t want to wait for your test results—or you didn’t care.”
My temper flares and I have to set my coffee mug down to avoid spilling it all over myself. I’m mad at myself more than her, but that doesn’t mean she’s getting a free pass. Not this time. “We had private testing done. Your lab didn’t seem as concerned with the results as we were.”
“Ah, the royal we. How is the pedestal he’s placed you on?” she asks.
“Did you call for anything else?” I can barely get the words past my gritted teeth.
“Mostly to deliver the good news, but when you have a moment I’d like to get a statement from you regarding your stepfather.”
I swallow against the bile rising in my throat. Mackey is never going to allow me to be happy. She’ll always find a way to disrupt my life. “I have nothing to say about him.”
“That’s interesting. I’d still prefer we talked,” she presses.
“You’re never going to let this go, are you?”
“Let what go, Miss Southerly? Or are you Mrs. West now? It’s hard to keep up with the gossip.”
I bypass the jab and focus on the real issue. “You have your DNA results. You know it wasn’t me. You know it’s not Jameson. When are you going to stop this persecution?”
“Persecution is a strong word,” she warns me. “As far as the FBI is concerned, you’ve been cleared. There’s no evidence to substantiate your involvement.”
“And as far as you’re concerned?”
“I’ll let it go when I know who’s responsible for Nathaniel West’s murder.”
“It wasn’t us!” I’ve completely lost my cool now.
“But it was. Maybe not you or Jameson, but it was one of you. Someone at that party killed Nathaniel West and whoever he or she is, they think they’ve gotten away with it. I’m here to make certain that you can’t go on buying your way out of trouble. Don’t fool yourself. A lot of people wanted him dead, and someone close to you saw that it happened. How well do you know your new family, Emma? How much will they pay to keep the truth locked away?”
“I’ve never bought my way out of trouble,” I say flatly.
“No, but you sold your soul to a man who did.”
* * *
What Jameson doesn’t know can’t hurt him, which is why I don’t tell him I’m leaving the suite. I bribe Maddox to keep quiet with a venti white chocolate mocha, his guilty pleasure. I even allow him to drive me. Given the increased interest in my personal life, having a body guard the size of The Rock around seems like a good idea.
Plus, it’s pretty easy to feed Maddox bullshit.
“I need to run an errand for my dad,” I say. “This guy brought a bogus baseball card into the shop the other day and I have to deliver the bad news that it’s a fake.”
Tucking a little kernel of truth into my lie makes it easier to sell. Don’t say I never taught you anything.
Maddox pulls into a spot in front of Dominic Chamber’s office and I jump out before he can unbuckle his seat belt.
“I’ll only be a minute,” I promise him. He looks unconvinced. Probably because I’ve pulled a few over on him. I take my phone out of my bag and drop the bag on the passenger seat. “Consider this collateral. I’ll be right back.”
Chambers puts out a cigarette as soon as I enter. “Sorry, about the smoke, Miss Southerly.”
“Not going to ask if I’ve changed my name?” I ask dryly. He’ll be the first person I’ve seen since my return to Las Vegas not to.
“Why would I ask that?” His bushy eyebrows knit into one woolly caterpillar over his eyes.
“Nothing. Rumors. Tabloids.” I’m more than happy to not explain.
“Oh that.” He waves a hand. “I never believe that crap.”
I nod in agreement. Finally, a reasonable response.
“Plus, I checked wedding license applications in New York. I know you didn’t get married,” he adds.
“I think that’s a breach of my privacy,” I inform him.
“I am a private eye,” he says as if that absolves him of his nosiness.
“Did you receive my advance?” I’d taken the liberty of PayPal-ing a significant sum through Chamber’s website, hoping it would encourage him.
“I did. Much appreciated. I’m happy to report that I have something for you as well.” He tosses a folder across his desk to me.
“Is this…?”
“Better than a few pictures, huh?” he says with pride.
I’d asked Dominic for a picture or a document that only the police would have. Instead he delivered the mother lode.
“Las Vegas PD is surprisingly easy to bribe,” he continues. “Plus, I think they want to stick it to that FBI agent who thinks she’s running the show.”
