Page 2 of Filthy Rich

A crisp nod from him. “Agreed. That’s why I bought it.”

“All set, sir,” says his valet as he comes up behind him and offers him his ticket.

“You’ve heard about the wrath of God?” Corporate Titan says to the valet, exchanging what looks like a $100 bill for the ticket.

“Yes, sir…?”

“Forget God. It’s me you need to worry about if that car turns up with a scratch.”

Mrs. Hooper and I exchange an oh, shit! look as the valet winces.

“Got it,” the valet says, now looking significantly paler as he hurries off, gets in the driver’s seat and pulls away with the roar of a powerful engine.

The noise triggers Juniper the Yorkie, who bristles from the Chanel and commences one of her yapping sessions. As always with Juniper, who’s not the brightest, any nearby target will do. I’ve seen her bark at a chair that was too high for her to jump into and a dead fly on the floor, among other things. Now she focuses her ire on Corporate Titan and shows him her teeth.

“Stop it, Juniper,” Mrs. Hooper says, her face pinkening as she shoots him an apologetic look wrapped around her most winning smile. Her booming voice pitches higher, which only agitates the dog. “We haven’t even introduced ourselves to the nice man, you foolish creature. Stop embarrassing Mama, Juniper, I’m begging you?—”

“Quiet,” he tells Juniper, stooping just enough to get in her little teddy-bear face.

His mild tone cuts through all the other noise, silencing both woman and dog, much to mine and Mrs. Hooper’s mutual astonishment. He watches the dog for another beat or two, making sure she resettles into her luxury cocoon and causes no further problems. Once Juniper’s furry head goes back down, he immediately turns back to me and opens his mouth.

“Well, if that isn’t a fine display of dog whispering, then I don’t know what is,” Mrs. Hooper says with a tinge of girlish laughter. The one she employs when a handsome man or someone richer than her is nearby and always makes me cringe. Then she extends her hand. “I’m Lucinda Hooper, by the way. And I certainly know who you are, Mr. Lucien Winter. I read all about you in Forbes the other month.”

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a faint tightening around his mouth. Then he shakes with all the enthusiasm of a man feeding his hand into the neighborhood butcher’s meat grinder.

“Pleasure.” He drops her hand and turns to me again, generating a flurry of butterflies in my belly. “And you are…?”

“Oh, that’s just my nurse, Tamsyn,” Mrs. Hooper interjects, adding that gratuitous hand flap she always uses to demonstrate my unimportance. “She’s coming with me to Barcelona. I need some help managing this old ticker of mine.”

There’s a pause while he reverts his attention to her.

“Last name?” he finally says.

“It’s Scott, but I can’t think why you’d need to know it,” Mrs. Hooper says before I can answer, now rummaging in the side pocket of her bag and withdrawing one of her little business cards. She presents it to him with the same sort of gravity you’d see displayed by the footmen serving at a state dinner at Buckingham Palace. “Now, here’s my card.”

He stares down at the thing. “Your…card?”

“Yes, you silly man,” she says with another tinkle of that annoying laughter, throwing in a winning arm squeeze as well. He stiffens, filling me with the wild urge to shout out a warning to her about one of his lightning bolts, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. Mrs. Hooper is impervious to social cues. “I want you to call me when we all get back to the city. I’m always having dinner parties and brunches for my special friends. I’ve got my annual July Fourth barbecue in the Hamptons. All the holiday celebrations here in the city, of course. I’d love to have you. Oh, and I know several eligible young ladies I’d love to introduce you to. And…come to think of it, do you golf? I’ve got my late husband’s golf clubs and none of my sons golf, sadly.”

One corner of his mouth does this spasming thing that may demonstrate amusement. Impossible to tell.

“I’m all set for golf clubs,” he says, finally taking the card. “But if your husband left a polo pony lying around somewhere, let me know.”

“I certainly will,” she says, beaming at him.

A burble of laughter zooms up my throat and is most of the way out before I catch myself and disguise it as a delicate cough. He faces me again, his back firmly to Mrs. Hooper.

“Tamsyn Scott,” he says, offering his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

We shake. His grip is strong. Warm. Electrifying.

Socially acceptable, yet wildly unsettling.

“And you,” I say, and I’m sure my gratitude for his skillful handling of Mrs. Hooper’s social awkwardness shines through in my smile.

He hesitates as though there’s something further, but there’s not. Then he drops my hand, turns and strides off through the sliding glass doors and into the airport without another word, leaving my palm and fingers to tingle as we stare after him.

“Well, well, well,” Mrs. Hooper says as soon as he disappears, her face aglow. “There goes the wealthiest person I’ve ever met. Certainly, the wealthiest person you’ll ever meet, honey. And I’m not talking about a little new-money millions like my husband’s family made with their oil fields, either. I’m talking old money. Great Gatsby money. His family was rich back before they ever came over from England in the 1800s, according to Forbes. Frankly, I’m surprised he flies commercial. I’m positive he’s got a Dassault Falcon. Actually, now that I think about it, some private jets do fly through LaGuardia, so who knows? And he’s so handsome. Back in the day, my friends back in Houston and I would eat him up like a pork barbecue smothered in sauce—give the driver his tip, honey. Don’t just stand there trying to look cute with your hair blowing in the breeze. You’ll make us miss our flight at this rate.”

---