Page 32 of Filthy Rich

I’m not sure what’s happening between them. He may be trying to sell her car insurance. That may be her long-lost cousin, for all I know. But I don’t allow room for coincidence or innocent explanations. Not when the issue involves something I want. And make no mistake—I still want Tamsyn.

A red haze descends on me. I would have been less startled to catch a hacker breaking into my investment accounts with his computer and robbing me blind. My reaction to that would be a millionth of my reaction to this. Let me sum it up in a nutshell:

No. Fucking. Way.

I’ll see this entire ship and all its occupants at the bottom of the Mediterranean before I’ll let anything happen between Tamsyn and some other guy right in front of me. Especially that guy. And I know I just said that a woman like Tamsyn should be free to enjoy casual sex with whoever she wants, but fuck that.

She’s mine.

Mine.

Some raw and entirely uncivilized part of my being kicks in, propelling me down the stairs and across the pool deck. The next thing I know, I’m arriving at her lounge chair and watching the joint smiles slip away from her and college bro’s faces.

“Here you are,” I say, whipping my sunglasses off, leaning down, cupping her face and zeroing in for a kiss. A thorough kiss. One that covers every inch of her luscious lips and generates a crooning response from her throat. A kiss that she returns with interest, whether she means to or not, I might add. Then I let her go and straighten to face my would-be opponent. “What did I miss around here?”

They’re both too astonished to answer me right away. Tamsyn, I notice with tremendous satisfaction, turns bright red and presses her hand to her mouth before scowling. I don’t care. I give them a moment to marinate in my message to make sure they truly get it. I find that silence is a powerful tool, whether it’s in a meeting, a board room or a one-on-one situation like this. Especially when that silence is accompanied by the sort of stone-faced glare I’ve perfected over the years. The sort I give College Bro now. My unblinking stare needs no words to communicate a message that every man understands:

Tamsyn Scott is off-limits. I better not catch him so much as sneezing in her direction. My face will live in his nightmares if I do. And he can try me if he wants, but he’d have better luck diving overboard, swimming to the bottom of the Mediterranean and trying to locate the lost city of Atlantis.

Luckily, College Bro turns out to be a fast learner. The guy pales beneath his tan and can’t jump up and grab his towel fast enough.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, his voice cracking on every other syllable, like Peter Brady’s from an old episode of The Brady Bunch. Then he shoves his feet into his flip-flops, nearly tripping himself in the process. “You folks enjoy the cruise.”

“You don’t need to go, Brett,” she says quickly.

Too late. Brett (asshole) zooms off, leaving me free to drop into his seat. A position that puts me squarely in the line of fire from Tamsyn’s own death glare.

Her face is still, her lips flattened. It’s a good thing she’s wearing sunglasses, because otherwise I’d surely be dead by now from the lightning strikes emanating from her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she says, an arctic chill in her voice.

“Saying hi.”

She makes a derisive sound. “You didn’t seem that interested in saying hi when we saw you at breakfast this morning.”

Oh, that.

I forgot to mention that I saw her and Mrs. Hooper a few tables away at breakfast but elected not to approach them. I nodded instead. A stupid move, yeah, but I didn’t trust myself to see Tamsyn again for the first time in front of an avid audience. I felt awkward, and my poker face was sadly AWOL. I didn’t trust myself not to say something inappropriate or stupid. Something X-rated or, worse, something gooey.

Now I’m in Tamsyn’s doghouse. I could mention that she’s in my doghouse because I don’t appreciate the way she’s implanted herself in my thoughts, but I doubt she’d care.

“You wanted space, so I gave you space,” I say.

The glare continues with no sign of abatement. My ears begin to burn.

“That being said, that was rude,” I admit.

“So was the stunt you just pulled,” she says, now sitting up and thrusting her book—it’s one of those historical romances, I note with avid interest, because I’m dying to know everything about her—and her towel into her beach bag.

“Stunt?”

“Kissing me in front of him like a dog marking his territory.”

And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Not that I plan to admit it at this delicate juncture. “I was protecting you.”

Her brows shoot up. “Protecting me? Do you know how many drunk guys I fended off at college parties?”

That mental image brings out the Incredible Hulk in me, so I distract myself with other matters. “Where are you going?”

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