Page 3 of Filthy Rich

“His tip?” I echo, the words slow to come because I feel as though I’m emerging from a daze. But who could blame me? You just don’t meet a man like that every day.

“His. Tip.”

“Oh! His Tip. Right. And I also need to grab a wheelchair for you, Mrs. Hooper.”

“I don’t need a wheelchair, Tam. I’m fine.”

“Absolutely not.” I don’t put my foot down very often, but I win on all medical issues, and she knows it. “I don’t want you to do too much on this trip. Between your asthma and your heart issues, we need to watch out for wheezing.”

“Whatever you say, Mary Poppins,” she says fondly, patting my cheek the way she sometimes does. “You always look out for me with good cheer, don’t you?”

“I try,” I say, blushing.

“I don’t make it easy, do I?”

“You do not,” I say, thinking about the party-sized bag of Cheetos she somehow smuggled into the apartment a couple of weeks ago.

With that, I take care of the driver—the poor guy’s been standing there politely this whole time—and dash off to find some assistance.

“I knew I’d meet Lucien Winter sooner or later,” Mrs. Hooper resumes once she’s settled in a wheelchair with Juniper on her lap, calling past the airport employee pushing her and the other airport employee pushing her overloaded luggage cart while I hurry behind them, stumbling over my own feet with my rolling carry-on.

“You did?”

“Of course. We travel in the same circles back in the city. Well, we would. If he were still married. He’s a widower, you know.”

My ears perk up at this information. “He is?”

“Yes. His wife, Ravenna, was quite the social butterfly. But there was a terrible boating accident near their home several years ago. Her body was never recovered.”

“That’s terrible,” I say.

“It was. It was all over the news for a while. It really broke him. They had a great love. Such a tragedy. It was all anyone talked about for months.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I say, meaning it.

“He became a recluse, from what I understand. Spends most of his time at his estate in Great Neck out on Long Island. Ackerley, it’s called. Quite the showpiece. Right on the water.”

I absorb all this information with great interest as we check our bags and head to security. I find myself scanning the crowd, eager to see his tall frame and dark head again. Any sign of his continued existence.

But there’s nothing.

I wonder about his destination. He only carried a briefcase with him. No luggage that I saw. So I imagine he was on his way to some power meeting nearby. Philadelphia or D.C., maybe. Back before nightfall.

Regardless of where he went, I’ll never see him again.

The thought does not fill me with glee.

“I didn’t expect Lucien Winter to be so shy, though,” Mrs. Hooper adds thoughtfully once we find seats at the gate and dismiss her wheelchair assistant. “A man like that, with all his wealth and power. Shy. Can you believe it?”

“Shy?” I say with a poorly repressed snort. If that man is shy, then I’m Selena Gomez in disguise.

“Yes, shy. You saw it yourself—Shh,” she says suddenly, gripping my forearm and cocking her head. “Don’t you hear that? The gate agent just paged you.”

“I heard,” I say, glancing around with a sinking heart. “Am I in trouble? Did I get bumped?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” she says. “I’m sure you forgot to click some final button when you checked us in this morning. You’d better take me with you so I can see what’s going on.”

“I’ll just come right back, Mrs. Hooper.”

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