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.”
“Minions?” he says with a laugh. “Is that what you call them?”
“Them? Don't you mean us?” I repeat, tilting my head to size him up. He definitely looks like he belongs in her world. He’s too pretty for the eyes of mere mortals and his clothes scream upper one percent.
“So I'm classified as a minion? For what do I owe the honor?”
I reach out and run a finger along the neckline of his thin t-shirt. “Gucci,” I guess. “And why not? Who doesn’t want to drop a couple Benjamins to look like he’s not trying? There’s no cheap alcohol lingering in your cologne or on your breath.”
“So my taste earns me the coveted title?”
“Minion isn’t a compliment,” I say flatly. He might want to be playful but I’m not in the mood. “Of course, I don’t think you go to Belle Mère and Las Palmas kids don’t shop Caesar’s.” I don’t bother to add that I don’t either. If the forum shops weren’t filled with miles of the most expensive retailers in the world, I’d probably still want to avoid the cheesy Americanization of the ancient world. Although it’s debatable if Caesar would be with me on that. No, it was a milestone for nouveau riche tourists, but merely a mall to most of my classmates where Spago is the foodcourt.
“Maybe I stole this. You did catch me where I wasn’t supposed to be, remember?” His tongue flicks across his full, lower lip. “What would you say then?”
“Did you?” I breathe. “Grand larceny isn’t really a turn-on.”
He winks before nodding toward the door. “Well, I’m not a student at Belle Mère or Las Palmas.”
Does the help here have sticky fingers? That seems doubtful, especially given the confidence that oozes from him. He was probably a boyfriend from out of town who slipped away from arm candy duty. It would definitely explain his entitled attitude. I watch as he slips out the door, heading back to the party or seeking more treasure to loot. It’s hard to decide which way I hope he’s heading—back to the Housers or to play Robin Hood.
Away from his presence, I remember where I am. Hanging out in Nathaniel West’s study is a surefire way to get an up-close and personal look at the West’s security. Still someone should appreciate this view. I linger for a few minutes and drink it in. My impression of the man my father hates so vehemently feels justified standing here. Does he look out over the valley below and see the rest of us bustling about like worker ants building his kingdom? No computer. No pictures. There doesn’t seem to be much else to do here but play god. That was the difference between a man like West and my dad. One bled and the other doesn’t.
Pivoting on my heels, I stride out of the office. But before I can act on my instinct to get out of here, with or without Josie, a shadowy figure on the stairs catches my eye. I freeze in place, realizing with dread that it’s no longer moving either.
Busted.
Chapter Five
This isn’t one of those moments when your life flashes before your eyes. Nope, a vision of the next twenty-four hours in a jail cell, waiting for my dad to wake up from a bender, does instead. With any luck Monroe or Hugo will get a couple of great shots of the security hauling me off. By morning, news of my poor judgment will have spread like a pandemic through most of Belle Mère. Oh well. My Instagram feed could use the boost. But when I get the courage to peel my eyes off the floor, I discover the shadow is attached to my new best friend.
“Are you following me?” he asks.
“N-n-no,” I stumble over my denial. What is it about this guy that has me tongue-tied? Whatever it is I can’t say that I like