Page 33 of Filthy Rich

“Somewhere else.”

She stands, slips her feet into her flip-flops and frowns down at me, silently daring me to try to stop her. I get the feeling that I’d be safer trying to find a great white shark to swim with than I would be if I, say, reached out and touched her hand right now.

Interesting. Ms. Scott has something of a temper.

As with everything else about her, it fascinates me. Thrills me.

“I thought we could spend some time together,” I say.

I have no idea where this came from. Not ten minutes ago, I’d decided that my best plan of action was to avoid her for a bit. My plans therefore did not include spending time with her today, or anytime soon.

But here we are, and I don’t plan to take it back.

“Why would I want to spend time with someone who can’t even be polite to me in social settings?” she says.

Having no decent answer to this question, I decide to ignore it.

“We reach Monte Carlo tomorrow,” I say instead, giving myself credit for suggesting something for tomorrow rather than for right now or tonight, which is what I really want. “Do you have plans?”

“Of course I have plans. Who do you think is going to usher Mrs. Hooper around the city?”

Shit. Good ole Mrs. Hooper. A thorn in everyone’s side.

“Try not to be a dick to anyone else for the rest of the day,” she says, turning and presenting me with that perfect, perfect peach of an ass in her bikini bottoms. “It’ll be hard, but I know you can do it.”

I let that go as she walks off, too engrossed in the view and too busy hatching new plans for us to spend time together as soon as possible to work up a comeback.

CHAPTER NINE

TAMSYN

“Well, well, well.” Mrs. Hooper surveys the scene with a low whistle, Juniper back in her Chanel and securely anchored in the crook of her arm. “Have you ever seen such a commotion?”

“I don’t think I have,” I say.

The two of us stay on the fringes of the buzzing and excited crowd and try to get our bearings as we watch the organized early morning chaos on the gangway.

After our day at sea yesterday, everyone’s excited to disembark and start the fun in Monte Carlo. Lots of people are leaving to explore on their own, but I’ve signed us up for one of the leisurely guided tours at each port of call. I think that’s safest, given Mrs. Hooper’s advanced age and health issues. Now we just need to find our group.

It looks like several ship employees have put on their tour guide hats and are organizing their passengers under various flags. The blue flag seems to be for people who want to visit the beach club. The yellow flag is for people who want to go straight to the shopping. There are lots of people under the yellow flag, I notice. And the green flag?—

“Tamsyn?” calls a female voice somewhere to the left of us. “Tamsyn! Over here.”

Mrs. Hooper and I glance around and discover her gaggle of friends on the outskirts of the crowd, huddled together with their colorful floral dresses, straw hats and straw bags firmly in place. Mrs. Webster waves us over, grinning madly.

“Thank God you’re here, Tamsyn,” she says. “We can’t figure out where our tour group is.”

“I keep telling you, it’s the woman over there with the purple flag,” says Mrs. Johnson. “I don’t know why you girls never listen to me.”

“We don’t listen to you because the lettering on the purple sign plainly says parasailing. If you’d brought your glasses, like I reminded you to, you’d be able to read the sign,” says Mrs. Barker.

“I think our group might be the one over there with the white flag,” I say, shifting into my role as negotiator for the group. While they generally get along well, you just never know with a group of elderly ladies. Bickering can break out at any time. Memories fail. Confusion periodically reigns. I’ve been with Mrs. Hooper long enough now to know that it’s far better to head these little disagreements off at the pass before they get going. “Why don’t we go over there before they leave without us?”

“I don’t think the white flag is our tour group,” Mrs. Johnson says, frowning in that direction. “And I don’t want to walk all the way over there only to find out that?—”

“Mrs. Hooper?” calls a ship employee with a crisp white uniform and clipboard. She hurries over, looking very official. “Mrs. Hooper? I’m looking for a Mrs. Lucinda Hooper.”

“That’s me,” Mrs. Hooper says, raising her hand.

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