Page 60 of Filthy Rich

He laughs before kissing me, and all is right with my world once again. Just like that.

“Come on,” he says, standing once we’ve finished our gelato. “Let’s get you to a mask shop so you can see all the cheesy souvenirs Venice has to offer. Then we can buy you a snow globe and a refrigerator magnet. Your day will be a complete success.”

“Sounds perfect.”

It doesn’t take us long to find a likely place. Mask shops are like the Venetian version of Starbucks, with one on every corner. But they are things of wonder, with ornate and brightly painted papier-mâché masks lining the shelves and walls and dangling from the ceiling. I stand and gawk for a moment, not quite sure where to look. There’s a whole section of blank white masks that cover only the top half of your face, like the Phantom of the Opera. Then there are masks with cat ears and other features, all ornately painted, that look as though they escaped from the local theater company’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I see a brushed gold R2-D2 mask. They all strike me as vaguely creepy with their hollowed-out eye spaces. I’m not sure I want one at all until…

“Oh, wow,” I say, grabbing one that’s a fiery orange half mask that runs vertically down the face and includes wavy sun’s rays along the edge. It’s also got beautiful flowers painted along the edges, along with leafy vines and greenery. It’s feminine and striking and beautiful. I hold it up to my face. “What do you think?”

Lucien, who’s been admiring a stark white mask with a long-hooked bird’s beak—the kind of thing medieval doctors wore when they wanted to scare the plague out of their patients—turns and gives me a thorough once-over.

“Perfect.”

“You think?” I say, particularly pleased with my selection.

“Absolutely,” he says, coming in for a quick kiss. “You bring the sunshine with you wherever you go.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, beaming as I lower the mask and he returns to his own mask perusal. It’s a delicious moment.

Until a movement over Lucien’s shoulder catches my attention and I look up to see Mrs. Hooper standing there watching us with Juniper in tow.

I don’t know which one of us is more shocked. Her wide eyes and dropped jaw reflect exactly the kind of horror I’m feeling to be caught like this. I haven’t been lying to her exactly, but I sure haven’t been honest. And I see that hint of betrayal in her expression. Most painful is the unveiled pity, as though she knows that young women like me are their own worst enemies because they never make the right choices when it comes to men.

I recover first. “Mrs. Hooper. Hi.”

“Hello, honey,” she says, snapping out of it and managing a wry smile. “Looks like you’ve been enjoying your vacation much more than I thought you had.”

Lucien hears our voices, glances around and immediately stands in front of me. It’s a protective gesture that touches me more than I can say, even though I know that I’ve made this bed of nails with Mrs. Hooper and now need to lie in it.

“Mrs. Hooper,” he says, reaching out to scratch Juniper’s ears. “Are you enjoying Venice?”

“I certainly am,” she says, brightening for his benefit even though her speculative gaze continues to swing back and forth between the two of us. “It’s my birthday today. I thought I’d grab myself a little mask.”

“Happy birthday,” he says.

“Don’t forget my surprise party tonight. My kids are all flying in.” She leans closer, her conspiratorial air firmly in place. “I’ve been working on my surprised face. I expect you to make an appearance. You can’t say no. Not to an old lady on her eightieth birthday.”

He nods. “Wouldn’t miss it. So…everything’s okay with you and Tamsyn?”

Mrs. Hooper’s gaze shoots over his shoulder to me. “Never better,” she says with relish. “I’ve got a whole new respect for Ms. Tamsyn. I’ll see you to back on the ship.”

With that, she waves and sets off toward her friends—who, I notice for the first time, are all standing over by the register with their various mask selections.

“Well, that was a nightmare,” I say when she’s gone. “She’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“As long as she doesn’t take it out on you somehow.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m only with her through the end of the summer, anyway. And she already teases me about you. Now she has a little more ammunition.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You don’t look sorry. You look smug. As always.”

He flashes the grin that still makes my knees go wobbly every time. “I’m not sorry. I regret nothing?—”

He freezes, the color leaching from his face as he suddenly fixates on something behind me. To say that he looks as though he’s seen a ghost would be the understatement of the century. I almost think that he’s in pain.

“What is it?” I say, reaching for him, but he jerks away and brushes past me, already on a trajectory that I cannot stop.

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