Page 24 of Filthy Rich

“Tamsyn?” Lucien calls behind me.

I keep my head down, skirt the tables and slip out the bar doors, moving as fast as I can without breaking into an actual run. I am such a fool. Honestly, I could probably make a living as a teenager in some horror movie, the one that goes into the basement by herself without a flashlight.

Like her, I’m far too stupid to live.

“Sorry,” I quickly say as I nearly plow into a couple in my mad race across the atrium. They glare at me as though I’ve lost my mind. Which I clearly have. “My mistake.”

“Tamsyn,” Lucien calls again, closer now.

I don’t look back and don’t break stride. I’m too embarrassed to face him.

To think that I was just in the bathroom fluffing my hair, touching up my lip gloss and admiring my reflection in the mirror. I actually thought, in my misguided little mind, that I looked nice in my secondhand Hermes scarf sarong dress. That the vivid blue made my brown eyes sparkle. Worst of all, somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d begun to put together a scenario where he was interested in me. Where he was attracted to me and sending me sexy vibes just now. Where we might actually enjoy each other while on our Mediterranean interlude.

Ridiculous, right?

I knew it was ridiculous when I was primping in the ladies’ room. But I primped anyway because that’s the kind of fool I am. But when I walked back to the table and saw my competition, everything came crashing down around me.

Except I’m not a competitor. Not for a woman like that.

She looked like some sort of Viking goddess, all legs and shining blond hair. She wore a purple dress in bias satin, the kind that ripples around perfect bodies like hers like a negligee. She had boobs for days, every inch of them pointed in his direction. Diamonds. Heels. The whole nightmare.

All of it screamed sexual availability. And after I’d just scurried into the bathroom because I thought he might be flirting with me and didn’t know how to react.

That is the kind of woman he belongs with. He belongs with her or with a striking beauty like Ravenna. The kind of woman who’s always the most exquisite creature in every room she enters. Not me. Never me.

A great reminder that I needed to remove myself from the situation before I made more of a fool of myself. So I dashed out. Now here I am, trying to make it up the stairs to safety like Cinderella at midnight.

“Tamsyn.” A large hand clamps down around my wrist, stopping me before I get one step further. “Where the hell are you going?”

Trapped, I turn and face him on the step below me, my cheeks flaming. He looks furious, all slashing brows, harsh cheekbones and thinned lips. He’s got way more sharp and forbidding angles than usual, and that’s really saying something. Still, I try to keep my composure. No need to let the man know how he’s got my panties in a bunch. I’m sure he could use the laugh, but I don’t want him laughing at me.

“It’s late. Time for me to go to bed.”

“We were having a drink,” he says.

“Thank you for the drink. Now I’ll get out of your hair.”

His eyes narrow. “Out of my hair?”

“Yes,” I say, trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing. “I appreciate your taking the time to give me a break from Mrs. Hooper. It was very thoughtful of you.”

He leans closer, cocking his head. “Thoughtful?”

“Yes, but I see that you met someone, and you probably want to spend time with her. So I just wanted to save you the awkwardness of getting rid of me while you?—”

“Getting. Rid. Of. You.”

“Yes,” I say, starting to get annoyed with this parrot routine. “I know you were just passing the time with me because you felt sorry for me. But there’s no need. I’m fine. But I’m tired. So I’m going to bed. Good night.”

An endless pause follows. And that’s when it happens.

With no warning whatsoever, he tips back his head and lets out a boom of laughter that freezes me to my spot. I’ve been hungry for his laughter. Curious. Eager. I spent a lot of time rearranging his features in my mind, making his eyes crinkled and those lush lips form this kind of delight in my presence. I thought I’d done a pretty good job imagining what it would look like, but now I see I got it all wrong. The same way an art student goes to a museum, tries to copy the priceless Picasso on the wall and gets it all wrong.

Why? Because this is a pirate’s smile. A pirate’s amusement at my expense.

The way those eyes flash. The way those sexy crow’s-feet reach to his temples. The way the dimples groove down those hard cheeks, framing the straight white teeth.

It’s a startling smile. A stunning laugh.

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