Page 12 of Filthy Rich

What can I tell him? The truth? That I caught a glimpse of a young woman in a white dress who knew something about cool cars and my brain has been fucking AWOL ever since? That I tried to walk away from her and only made it twenty feet or so before hatching this entire insane scheme? That I blew off an important meeting in Boston, bought a ticket to Barcelona (thank God I had my passport in my briefcase), upgraded her ticket to Barcelona so she could sit next to me on the flight and essentially became an international stalker so I could spend more time with her? That I tried to walk away from her again once we reached Barcelona, fully intending to hop on the next flight back to the States, only to decide that there was no way I could do that?

No. My brother doesn’t need to know any of that.

Nor does he need to know what the voice in my head told me at the beginning of this whole debacle:

Fuck that meeting. Don’t let her go.

And it said it with level-ten urgency.

I make it a habit to listen when my voice gets that worked up. Not that it normally gets that worked up over a woman. The funny thing is that part of me viewed the flight as her audition to get on my nerves and therefore out of my system. I mean, come on. What person, upon closer examination, is worth this kind of time, attention and effort?

She is, ladies and gentlemen. Much to my uncomfortable surprise.

So here I am, executing my impromptu plan with the same precision and excellence that I do everything in my life. It’s all working perfectly.

But I have no idea what I’m doing.

A woman like Tamsyn (fresh; young; sweet; kind; funny) doesn’t need any part of a jaded asshole like me, for a million different reasons. Starting with the fact that we come from two completely different and non-intersecting worlds. Not to mention the fact that I am thirty-three, which makes me at least ten years older than her. Plus, she’s already been through shit in her life, having lost both of her parents. She doesn’t need a romantic complication, even if it is just for a summer hookup lasting only for the length of time it takes to cruise from one end of the Mediterranean to the other. The topper? She’s emotionally if not physically innocent. I doubt that anyone emerges from college as a virgin these days. And I? I…am not. Emphatically not. I’ve seen everything the world has to offer, and I am not impressed. I will use her up and spit her out. A million times over.

The thing is, I saw her, and I felt…something.

I wasn’t bored. I wasn’t annoyed or indifferent. I felt…

I felt…

Intrigued, maybe. With sides of horny and admiring.

Adding it all up, I felt alive. For the first time in years.

That’s all I want in this world. To feel that again for a while.

I’ve gotta spend my time wanting something, right? I have my fortune and my expensive toys. I’ve traveled. I’m smart and experienced enough to know that romance isn’t for me and never will be again. I’m not much of a people person or a drinker. What’s left that’s worth living for? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t found it yet.

I just want a little summer fun and a break from the oblivion. For once.

Is that make too much to want, folks? To not feel dead all the time?

I don’t think so.

Besides, we’re both consenting adults. She’s not a hostage. She can exercise her free will to say no.

But she won’t. And how do I know that? Because I’ve seen the way she looks at me. And even if she does say no—initially—I plan to persuade her. And, trust me, I can be infinitely persuasive when I set my mind to it. I’ve got the resources, patience and, most importantly, the drive to make things shake out the way I want them to. And the way I want is her naked, flushed and sweaty as she arches beneath me, her nipples hard against my chest and my name pouring out of her mouth as I fuck her into oblivion. She wants it, too. So I plan to use her desires and her girlish fantasies against her. We’ll both have a great time. Hell, her young body will thank me for it. Over and over again.

When the trip ends, we’ll go our separate ways. And if she has a tougher time moving on after our little interlude than I do, well, them’s the breaks.

The bottom line?

She’s got zero chance of resisting me, which seems unfair. It is unfair.

Maybe she’s got a boyfriend. Maybe they’re on the verge of getting engaged. Maybe she’s gay. Maybe she’s, I don’t know, about to enter a convent and make a vow of celibacy for the rest of her life. Who knows?

The thing I do know? I don’t give a fuck. About any of that.

Why the level-ten urgency, though? That’s the thing I really don’t get.

This whole thing could’ve been so simple. I could have done the normal thing when people feel a spark of attraction. I could have grabbed her number and continued on my merry way, boarding my flight to Boston and making my meeting. Then I could have texted her in a few days:

Hey. It’s Lucien. Drinks sometime?

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