Page 52 of Filthy Rich

“Hmm. Then why aren’t I more scared of you?”

Arrested, I just stare at her and wonder how she always knows the right thing to say to get me back on track. It’s an unanswerable question. I know that. But something inside me cracks open, just a little, and that’s enough for now.

“I don’t know. I hope you never are.” I take her hand and lead her toward the dock, determined to salvage the rest of the day and the trip before anything worse happens. “Come on. I promised to take you to the beach.”

“Okay,” she says, ducking her head and wiping her eye again.

She pretends she’s not still upset over me. And I pretend to not know that she is.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TAMSYN

“What do you think?” Lucien says.

I circle today’s convertible supercar, running my fingertips along the gleaming gunmetal body and taking my time about answering. It’s a great distraction from the strange scene we just had, so I focus all my attention on it. Another fabulous vehicle, no question. The car’s fluid lines suggest motion even at rest, and I get the feeling she hates sitting still long enough for us to climb inside.

“A Ferrari Portofino,” I say casually, as though I see one of these babies every time I walk to the subway.

A gleam of admiration from him. “That’s right.”

He watches me over the hood, smug as always. Arrogant. Supremely confident. I’ve been dealing with these traits for nearly two weeks now and still can’t decide whether I love them or hate them. Probably some twisted combination of both.

“It’s not red, though,” I say, just to burst his bubble a tiny bit. “Too bad.”

Those devilish dimples of his make a fleeting appearance. “I prefer gray. And don’t think you’re going to drive this one.”

I feel a surge of relief about this directive, especially when I see the car’s pedals and gearshift. Hard to believe this racing machine is street legal and belongs on the same roads as the average Fiat. I’m sure the slightest tap of the accelerator will kick her up to two hundred miles an hour before my next blink.

“You don’t trust me behind the wheel?”

“Of this beast? Absolutely not.”

With that, we get in and set off on our tour around the island, the same thing we’ve done on every other stop on our vacation.

Except that some of the shine has worn off the day.

It’s not the scenery, that’s for sure. Everything is vibrant and blazingly beautiful, with lush greenery and craggy cliffs that don’t quite reach mountain status before dropping into the sea. Soft focus reigns supreme here, and the pastel-colored buildings seem to have been dabbed into the hillside by Monet’s paintbrush. It’s all too ethereal to belong to the real world. No, Corfu is glorious, but the ache in my chest has less to do with its allure and more to do with what just happened between us on the gangway.

I think about the line from one of my favorite P!nk songs, something about being bent rather than broken. Lucien and I don’t have enough of a relationship to bend, much less break. I don’t know what we are. And whatever it is will probably end in the next few days anyway. But some of the dazzling shine has been scraped off today. And it doesn’t take us long to descend into the sort of awkward silence we experienced at the beginning of our flight together.

Back when I didn’t know anything about him.

I laugh inwardly, and it’s a hollow laugh. Bitter.

I still don’t know anything about him. I’m only fooling myself if I think I do. Actually, I do know one thing: that he doesn’t really want to push me away. Why would I believe him when he always stares too long and stands too close every chance he gets? Sheesh. There I go with songs again. Thank you, Bonnie Raitt. But it’s true. He fucks me hard and holds me tight when I’m in his cabin, then protests when I leave. He caters to me when we’re not in his cabin, giving me everything before my heart can even think to desire it. He notices my every expression.

Why would I believe that he suddenly wants distance?

And…isn’t it worse that he actively tried to push me away?

What sort of twisted reasoning made him think that was a good plan?

I have no idea, and my brain hurts from trying to think of one.

I find myself becoming glum as I stare out at the water, but then I get sick of myself. What’s going on here? I’m in the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. May ever see. And am I enjoying the sea breeze? Relishing the sun’s heat on my face?

No. I’m obsessing over a boy, the same thing I did back in junior high school, when I didn’t know better.

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