Page 21 of Filthy Rich

“Don’t worry about it. No one will say anything to you.”

Not unless they want to deal with me, that is.

But she hesitates again as though she fears an imminent arrest. “I have money for the slot machines. But I don’t know what the buy-in is for roulette. It’s giving expensive vibes.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say again with growing bemusement. It’s been a long time since I met a woman who wasn’t eager to spend as much of my fortune that she could in as little time as possible. I’m the money of this operation.”

This doesn’t seem to reassure her.

“Relax,” I add. “We’ll just spend a thousand or so. No big deal.”

“A thousand dollars?” She blushes, drops her voice and leans closer as a few people glance at her. “We can’t waste a thousand dollars on this. That’s real money. And the house always wins. Even I know that.”

“It’s just for entertainment,” I say, incredulous now. Who is this woman? What planet is she from? Does she not know what I’m worth? I’ve probably made several million in the ten seconds it’s taken us to have this discussion. “Like going to a concert or a football game. Same difference.”

But she looks stony now. “Sorry to be a wet blanket, but I’d rather go to a concert. Or give the thousand dollars to a nice animal shelter or something.”

“Are you serious?” I say, deciding not to mention the millions of dollars I give to charity, including animal charities, every year.

“Yeah,” she says, ducking her head. “It’s just that I know how long it takes me to make a thousand dollars. I know how long it took my father to make a thousand dollars. I can’t waste money like that. Even if it’s not my money.”

My brain stalls out as I stare at her, probably because it can’t compute how she manages to be so sweetly naïve when she’s got a spine made of titanium. I have the feeling I’d sooner get her to swim back to Barcelona than entice her to place a bet with me.

I don’t know whether to shake her or kiss her. Both prospects seem equally enticing.

“Remind me never to tell you how much I spent the last time I was in Monte Carlo,” I mutter.

“What?”

“Never mind.” I run a hand across the top of my head, thinking hard. “There’s a salon on the other side of the atrium. We can go for a drink. There was a Spanish guitarist. I assume you have no objection to Spain or guitars?”

She gives me a narrowed look. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Not at all,” I assure her, because I know, even if she doesn’t, that the joke’s entirely on me.

“Yes, you are.”

“Ms. Scott. You’re exhausting.”

A glare-off ensues. The longer it continues, the harder it is for me to hold back my amusement. Eventually, she presses her lips together, but there’s no stopping her smile.

“Were any polar bears or penguins injured in the playing of this music? Is the music played by free-range musicians? Their costumes and instruments weren’t made using child labor, were they?”

I snort back a laugh. “I’m never mentioning my private jet to you. Let’s go.”

We set off, peace restored. She shoots me a sidelong look, dimples on full display as she laughs.

Let’s just say she has my complete and undivided attention when she looks at me like that. “What?”

“It’s just so strange seeing you on a cruise ship. You seem way too restless for something like this. I picture you on safari in the Serengeti or some such.”

She has no idea how right she is. “I have been known to safari.”

“Well, why are you here? Did you lose a bet or something?”

“Not exactly.”

I hoped my crisp vagueness would shut down any further inquiries, but I should have known better.

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