Gilt_ By Invitation Only - Geneva Lee Page 0,23

the table, alerting me to an incoming text, but I ignore it.

“Do you need to get that?” She eyes my bag.

“It can wait.” We’re nearly through with our meal. Then I can go back to my life and she can go back to hers.

“So Hans and I have been discussing your graduation present.” Apparently she hasn’t run out of ideas for small talk yet.

I raise one eyebrow. Is she getting me confused with Becca or does she just want to pawn off her present on me? “Getting a little ahead of yourselves. I have a year left.”

“Well, we think you could use it now, especially because we both want to see more of you.”

“Am I getting a pony?” I ask dryly. It seems fitting for the movie producer step-daddy to buy the affection of his wife’s baggage with every little girl’s dream present.

The smile creeping across her face is a little frightening. Maybe Hans isn’t the only one who wants into my good graces. “Will you settle for a car?

“I don't think that's a good idea,” I say quickly. “It’s easier to cab in Vegas. Parking is so tricky and…” I’m blabbering now, because I know what’s at the heart of my verbal diarrhea. To my surprise, she does, too.

“You weren't behind the wheel that night,” she reminds me gently.

If I had been, we might be sitting here discussing Becca's graduation present. She would have loved a car. I swallow the thought down into the pit of my stomach where I can bury it. “I know.”

“Good!” Her concern vanishes, replaced by satisfaction. “It’s being delivered later this week. Palm Springs is only a four hour drive. I'm always happy to send the jet for you, but if you ever need to run away…”

“I should run to my mommy?”

Her eyes crinkle at the edges and for a split second I’m little again and she’s comforting me. “Yes, honey. You should always run to me.”

Chapter Eight

It’s a typical day in the Southwest—bright with a chance of sunburn. I ask my driver to let me off down the street so I can stop at the mailbox and grab the spam and collection notices that tell me I’m home. I’ve let them pile up for most of the week so I could concentrate on finals. Now ti’s time to face the music, which I suspect will come in the form of a funeral march. The house is dark, which means Dad actually went to the shop: a small miracle that provides me a rare opportunity to open the blinds. Then I grab the empty bottle of whiskey he left on the floor and head toward the kitchen. Dropping the mail on the counter¸ I groan when the doorbell rings. So much for a few blissful moments to myself. It’s high season for Jehovah’s Witnesses in the city of sin. Truthfully, I think they come for the weather. I trudge to the door, bottle in hand. Might as well have some fun.

But the man at the door isn’t in khaki slacks and his badge bears the emblem of the Las Vegas Police Department. He can’t be more than a few years older than me, but he’s obviously put a lot of a time into building his upper body strength to make up for the slight acne scars that mar his skin. His jaw is smooth, his hair cropped short, and he’s sporting a classic pair of aviators.

“Emma Southerly?” The officer at the door nudges his sunglasses down on his nose to study me.

I thrust the bottle behind my back in a sudden fit of self-preservation. “Yes?”

He’s either a saint or the sun temporarily blinded him, because he doesn’t comment on it. “Would it be possible for you to come down to the station?”

“Why?” Apparently I’ve been reduced to simple questions. Up next: who, what, when, where. If I don’t get myself together there’s a breathalyzer in my future.

“We have you on a list of people who attended a party at the West's private residence last night. Is that correct?” His fingers hook into his belt loops as he sways impatiently. He already knows the answer. I doubt the security cameras all over the resort are props.

But since it’s a good idea to cooperate with law enforcement, I nod.

“Have you been home all day?” he asks.

“No. I met my mom for brunch,” I say slowly.

“Then I assume you heard that a body was found this morning at the West Resort,” he continues, helpfully filling in the