by Geneva Lee
The truth is that the baby and wedding rumors are easy to face compared to what’s going on with my stepfather. I can’t bring myself to ask more about Hans. If I call my mother, will she want to talk about it?
“Wait,” I say as realization dawns on me. “What do you know about the charges against Hans?”
If he already has people working on the fallout, it must be bad.
“We don’t need to think about that right now.”
“Now is a pretty good time. There’s no food in my stomach. I’m less likely to throw up all over you.”
“That’s not it,” he hedges. “I need confirmation before ...”
“Before what?” My eyes narrow and I advance on him. If Jameson West thinks he’s going to keep a secret from me right now, he’s very much mistaken.
“I can’t say this with absolute certainty,” he says as I continue to corner him, “but the information we’ve gotten so far suggests your mother turned him into the FBI.”
If Jameson thought this was going to upset me, he’s wrong.
“She did?” I ask, awestruck.
“It’s not confirmed, but it seems like it.”
It hardly seems possible that I could ask so much. First, my dad showed up at the cemetery, remembering my birthday. Now, my mother has put aside her selfish fear of embarrassment and done the right thing.
“My parents are finally growing up,” I whisper. I just had to show them how. Jameson doesn’t respond. He simply wraps two strong arms around my shoulders and draws me close.
We stay like that for a long moment, gathering strength from one other. Then we walk out of this hotel. There will be more scandals to face, more questions, more scrutiny, but at least we’ll face them together this time. It’s a comforting thought.
Jameson’s cell phone begins to buzz in his pocket. “Sorry, Duchess.”
He kisses me quickly before he answers it. He remains silent so long that I begin to question if there’s anyone on the other line. But I know from the way his face goes blank that he’s listening.
“I understand. I can assure you that’s not the case,” he says in a clipped tone. “Of course, we’ll see you soon.”
“What was that about?” I ask as he pockets his phone.
“Time to pack. We’ve been called to a family meeting.”
Chapter 13
My dreams of joining the Mile-High Club are dashed by the perpetual influx of calls Jameson takes on the way back to Las Vegas. Considering the shock numbing my body, it’s probably for the best.
The entire cabin of the West private jet has been turned into a miniature war room. The stack of newspapers waiting on the table when we boarded has been strewn across its entire surface. Each of the headlines is a glimpse into the situation awaiting us at home, and the picture it paints is bleak. Not only are the allegations against Hans as sickening as expected, but the reporters are doing an admirable job of tying all of the summer scandals into one big story.
Nathaniel West’s murder has nothing to do with Hans van Essen but the fact that my former step-father had been planning to make a movie based on his death has encouraged journalists to jump to bizarre conclusions. The coincidence might have been left at that if it weren’t for one common denominator between the two stories: me.
The milder features and editorials are in reputable newspapers. But the stack of gossip magazines delivered fresh from the presses take a bad situation and turn it into a nightmare. I’d been kidding when I joked earlier that the tabloids were reporting that I murdered Nathaniel West and was pregnant with Jameson’s baby. Apparently, I have a knack for creative journalism, but the tales the tabloids spun of treachery and twisted family loyalties were beyond my scope of imagination.
Jameson takes another call and I sneak one of the gossip rags off the table and begin to read the cover story.
Summer arrived with murder in Belle Mère, Nevada, Las Vegas’s most exclusive enclave. In a crime that shocked the nation, real estate mogul Nathaniel West was found murdered in his home atop the West Casino and Resort on the Las Vegas Strip. The discovery was made after his daughter, former reality star Monroe West, threw an end of the year party for her classmates at Belle Mère Prep.
The bizarre story doesn’t end there. Initial investigation seemed to be directed at Nathaniel’s son, heir to the West real estate empire. But what young billionaire is going to get his own hands dirty? Sources close to the investigation say that Emma Southerly, a friend of West’s sister and a party-goer that fateful night, was so lovesick over Jameson that she agreed to carry out his plans for Nathaniel’s murder.
What’s in it for her? Newly released pictures have us speculating that she’s providing Jameson West with more than an alibi. Is that a baby bump we spot? The two were seen canoodling in a New York eatery this weekend. According to a friend of Southerly, the couple was in New York to quietly elope. Has Emma Southerly seduced Jameson West or is this simply an attempt to secure their love child’s future claim to the West fortune?
Regardless, Jameson West better watch his back where Ms. Southerly is concerned. According to a friend of the couple, the eighteen-year-old prep-school senior has major daddy issues and might have been one of her step-father, Hans van Essen’s many victims.
If the two are looking for honeymoon suggestions, might we suggest a brief trip to couple’s therapy?
I reach the end of the page and a strange emotion begins to bubble inside me. A few seconds later, I’m laughing. Jameson steps back into the main cabin, eying me with concern as he finishes his latest phone call.
“No one will believe that,” he informs me, taking the magazine from my hands and dumping it ceremoniously into a nearby trashcan.
“People will believe it,” I tell him. “They’re always going to believe these things about me. I’m just a gold-digger desperate to get my claws into you, after all.”
Jameson’s jaw twitches. “If that’s the case, I take it I finally have my answer.”
It takes me a minute to realize he’s referring to his proposal. The gossip rags might take away my dignity, but they won’t take my freedom. I shake my head. “I’m not going to make life decisions based on tabloids. But you’re right. I have made my decision.”
“And?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“No,” I tell him softly. He begins to turn away before I add, “And yes.”
“That’s not an answer, Duchess,” he warns me in a cold voice.
“Let me clarify.” I stand up just as we hit a pocket of turbulence, and I’m thrown forward. Jameson catches me. I half expect him not to, given the chilling distance he’s demonstrating.
“Not right now. In five years, when I’m done with college, or my first parole has been granted”—at the rate we’re going, either seems equally possible—“then yes, I will marry you…if you still want me.”
“I will always want you.” His promise takes my breath away. There’s an absolute certainty to it that not even I can doubt.
“But I’m not marrying you to solidify an alibi or to legally prevent you from having to testify against me.” I need to be clear in this, especially as we jump into the fray at home.
“I don’t want you to marry me for those reasons. I want you to marry me because you love me,” he says sharply. “I didn’t ask you as a means of strategy. I asked you because you ran away and I thought I’d lost you. I never want to lose you again.”
“You won’t. But you don’t have to put a ring on it to keep me from running away again.”
“But you ran the first time,” he reminds me. A note of accusation in his tone.
“I had a reason to then.”
“There is never a reason to run from me, Duchess,” he growls. I want to point out that he’s completely wrong about that, or at least I thought he was. “Promise me you won’t run again.”
“I won’t run again,” I vow, starring up into his eyes. His arms tighten around my waist possessively.
“What d
oes it matter if we get married young?”
“You aren’t going to let this go, are you, West?” I push onto my tiptoes and give him a soft kiss.
“That wasn’t an answer.” Before we can continue to debate our relationship in philosophical terms, his phone rings again.
“Go on and take it,” I urge him. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”
He hesitates long enough that the phone goes to voicemail.
“Just one thing.” His arms fall away from me, and, a moment later, he retrieves something from his pocket.
“Technically you said yes, Duchess,” he says as he pops open the ring box.
“Listen,” I say, pulling away. “Your mom demanded we come home, probably because she wants to make sure we didn’t go to New York to elope. I don’t want to give her a heart attack.”
“Believe me. My mother has endured far worse shocks than this.” He ignores my protest and slips the platinum band onto my ring finger.
“The tabloids are going to have a field day with this,” I warn him.
“Let them.” And for the first time today, a genuine grin brightens his handsome face. “I want the world to know you belong to me.”
“Belong, huh? They think I’m a blood-thirsty, psychopathic gold-digger. I think the world assumes you belong to me.”
His laughter dissipates the tension in the air. “Then they’ll know you’re my psychopathic gold-digger.”
Chapter 14
Monroe’s nails click on the polished mahogany top of the dining room table. If being under the scrutiny on tabloid surveillance teams is awkward, this is unbearable.
“He’ll be out in just a minute,” I say apologetically for the tenth time. Later tonight I’m going to have to talk to Jameson about abandoning me to the mercy of his mother and sister in the middle of a crisis. Maybe it’s unfair given that he’s probably on the phone trying to handle the situation, but his absence only gives them more time to sharpen their claws.
Monroe runs her tongue along her teeth across the table from me.
She’s going to eat you alive, a tiny voice warns me. Tell me something I don’t know.
Evelyn, Jameson’s mother, has been eerily silent since our arrival. Usually she’s the warmest member of the family, having gone out of her way to make me feel welcome, despite the circumstances under which Jameson and I met. Tonight, she seems to have taken a page out of her son’s book, keeping her thoughts and emotions under wraps.
She sits at the head of the table; her black silk blouse a stark contract against the creamy white of her throat. A string of pearls nestles against her collarbone. From all outward appearances, this woman is in mourning. Knowing what I know about the nature of the West family, her show of grief is less about actual sadness and more about propriety—a topic I have a feeling I’m about to get a lecture in.
“Mother. Monroe.” Jameson greets his family as he strides into the dining room. It feels like ages since we’ve both been in his Mount Charleston home. Can it really only have been a few days? The boy who brought me here a few months ago has been replaced by a man in a white oxford and suit pants with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his tie unknotted at his neck. I miss the t-shirt and jeans. I miss the picnic basket with crunchy peanut butter sandwiches, but most of all I regret that he’s given it all up to protect me.
Monroe clears her throat. “Can we get going with this? I have plans this evening.”
I shoot her a look that suggests I suspect what those plans might be, but she maintains her studied indifference as she inspects her manicure.
“Of course we can—now that we’re all here,” Evelyn West says in a benevolent tone. Jameson takes the seat at the opposite end of the table, and the tension between them is palpable. On one end, his mother still reeling from the murder of his father, has been left to parent two children who took the Autobahn into adulthood. On the other end sits her son, who has risen to power in the absence of his father. I’m glad I’m not battling for which end is up, but being stuck in the middle sucks.
“Well, you called this meeting,” Jameson prompts.
“We’re sorry to interrupt your little holiday in New York,” Monroe sneers, “but you left a mess behind yourselves.”
I grip the edge of the table, trying to maintain some sense of decorum. Considering that my relationship with Monroe has primarily consisted of flipping the bird to each other behind the backs of teachers for the last three years, this is harder than it sounds.
“Monroe.” Her mother’s voice is rich with admonishment. “I asked us all to be here because this concerns all of us.”
“I don’t see how what her stepfather did…”
I’m halfway out of my seat when Jameson cuts her off.
“Shut up, Monroe.”
“You can’t speak to me like that.”
“I don’t know why you think I can’t,” he growls.
“You will both be quiet.” Evelyn’s fist pounds the table. “Neither of your names have been dragged through the mud half so much as poor Emma’s, and you don’t see her starting fights.”
I shrink further into my chair, thankful that she doesn’t realize how close I’d been to lunging across the table for Monroe’s throat. Jameson takes the heat for me, squaring his shoulders and meeting his mother’s gaze with defiance.
“Is this a family meeting or a lecture?”
“It seems you are in need of both, my son.” Their eyes stay locked on each other, providing Monroe and I with some common ground as we glance at them nervously.
I hadn’t expected a play for power between the two of them, but then again, I never expected to find myself in this situation at all.
“I called this meeting to clarify some points of interest,” his mother explains.
“Then why is she here?” Monroe asks.
“Because she is a part of this family,” Jameson informs her tersely. Meanwhile, I twist the engagement ring he insists I wear around to hide the diamond, stealing a glance at my hands and my lap. I wonder if it would be better to change it to the other hand. There’s something blatant about wearing it on this one.
“Is it true?” Monroe demands. “Is that why she’s hiding that rock she showed up wearing? You can take it out from under the table. You aren’t fooling anyone.”
So much for that plan. Evelyn keeps her eyes trained on her son.
“Of course Emma is welcome as a member of this family. You’ve made your feelings about her quite clear, and while I can respect that, I would like to know if congratulations are in order.”
I open my mouth, my cheeks turning a lovely shade of candy apple red, but Jameson beats me to the punch.
“Do you believe everything you read on the Internet, Mother?” he asks dismissively.
“No, I don’t.” She folds her hands in front of her. “But, as your sister pointed out, and as my accountants informed me, your girlfriend is wearing a stunning, million-dollar engagement ring.”
“Holy shit,” I blurt out. I’d expected the ring cost bank, but not the actually contents of a small bank.
“Don’t get practical now, gold-digger,” Monroe says.
“You will not call her that,” her mother informs her as Jameson gets to his feet.
“None of this is any of your concern.”
“On the contrary”—Evelyn gestures for him to sit back down—“given the concerns Agent Mackey and the FBI have presented to me, and the speculations of the media, it’s very much my concern.”
“I’ve already addressed those concerns,” he says through gritted teeth.
“I’m not here to be part of a cover-up,” Monroe interjects.
“Maybe I should go,” I say nervously. The West family has enough to deal with without being overly concerned with my problems.
“Nonsense, this concerns you. I simply want to know if you two are married.”
“No,” I cry out, overwhelming Jameson’s more calm denial. He might not care about what his mo
ther thinks of me, but I do. “And we’re not getting married.”
“Is that a placeholder, then?” Monroe asks.
“I told him he has to wait. I’m not marrying him to get the FBI to back off, and I’m not not marrying him to avoid the scandal. I just told him that I would marry him in a couple of years if we still want to get married.”
“That sounds very practical.” Evelyn’s lips twitch, but she keeps smile to herself. “I’m glad one of you is thinking clearly.”
“I’m old enough to get married,” Jameson reminds his mother.
“Yes,” she admits, “but your girlfriend it not. I’m glad you finally found someone to ground you in reality. Lord knows, I’ve never been able to.”
“Well, now that that’s out of the way.” Jameson’s voice is cold, showing neither the embarrassment I feel or the amusement his mother is hiding. “We should be going.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There are other matters to consider.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I jump in, wondering if she’s concerned over that particular headline as well.
“I didn’t think you were, given that Jameson and I had an understanding.” She gives him a pointed look. “It would be quite miraculous if you were. Of course, now that you’re eighteen, I would ask that you wait a few years before you make me a grandmother.”
I flush. She knows exactly why he took me to New York.
“I think we need to discuss other situations, particularly the allegations your father is facing.”
“Stepfather,” I corrected her. Monroe rolls her eyes across the table. I don’t care if it seems like a petty difference to her, it’s a huge difference to me.
“Stepfather,” Evelyn grants me. “I have a few questions.”
I gulp, feeling a hard knot forming in my throat. “Of course.”
“You don’t have to talk about anything unless you want to, Duchess,” Jameson calls from the other end of the table, but I hold up my hand.