Page 35 of Filthy Rich

I watch them go, feeling unexpectedly forlorn. By now, a large part of the crowd has dispersed. Everyone heading down the gangway seems to be part of a happy group. I see several couples—newlyweds, I’m guessing—walk off holding hands or with their arms wrapped around each other. One elderly couple in wheelchairs holds hands as their handlers take them away. One young girl of about seven or eight hops and claps while her frazzled-looking father tries to corral her back to their family group. There’s even a woman wearing one of those party veils and a bride-to-be banner as she’s accompanied by her group of friends.

I feel an unwelcome pang of loneliness.

I think about my college friends who are now engaged. I think about Dad.

I know my father’s always with me in spirit, but days like this really make me miss his physical presence. He’d love it here. He always wanted to travel but never had the time or the money. Then he got sick and never had the chance. And I’ll never see him again?—

Stop it, Tamsyn.

I listen to my inner voice, hold my head up high and try to be a little more of my father’s daughter. He never stood around feeling sorry for himself, did he? No, he did not. And if he were here, he’d tell me to spend less time moping and more time figuring out my plan of attack for Monte Carlo. So I grab my phone and?—

“What’s wrong?” comes a new voice.

I stiffen while my heart rate predictably thunders into overdrive. And that’s all before I turn and see Lucien standing there. He’s appeared out of nowhere and looks ready for a full day of tourist activities, wearing a navy linen shirt, white linen pants and loafers. With his sunglasses on and his hands in his pockets, he looks good enough to eat and smells even better. Something about his clean and woodsy scent combines with the sea air to make an intoxicating pheromone. That being the case, it takes me longer than it should to remember both that he’s in my doghouse both for his overbearing behavior yesterday with Brett and for slipping so easily into my every thought, becoming my obsession as though it’s his birthright.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say.

“Good. Where’s Mrs. Hooper?”

“She got chosen for some VIP tour,” I say, feeling a renewed wave of loss at my unceremonious abandonment. “She just left with all her friends.”

“And the dog?”

I can’t hold back a laugh at the bitter irony that my Yorkie nemesis is a VIP, but I am not. “Yep. The dog got invited.”

“Oh. What about you?”

“There wasn’t room for me,” I say.

“Ah. Too bad. So, what now?”

“I hadn’t gotten that far,” I tell him, gesturing at my phone. “I was just trying to figure out a plan of attack.”

He nods thoughtfully. “You could come with me. I know Monte Carlo. And I rented a car.”

I glance up at him, unwillingly tempted by the offer. The idea has a lot of merit, I’m not going to lie. I don’t feel like being alone, and I can think of worse companions than the most intriguing man I’ve ever met.

Even if I do recognize that he’s bad for my equilibrium.

On the other hand, I still have some semblance of self-protectiveness left. And it screams at me that spending more time with him will only lead to increasing heartache.

“No thanks,” I finally say.

“Suit yourself,” he says, shrugging as he sets off again. “I thought you might want to see my Mercedes cabrio, and I’m in the mood for fun after putting in several hours of work in my cabin yesterday but…up to you.”

I freeze. “Hang on,” I call after him. “A Mercedes cabrio, did you say?”

“Latest model,” he says over his shoulder, still walking.

There follows an intense private battle inside me. The smart half of me warns not to set foot in any sort of car and go anywhere with him, while the hopelessly stupid half of me backhands the other half into silent submission. And with that, the decision is made.

“Wait,” I call, hurrying after him. “I’m coming with you.”

A wave of something crosses his expression as I catch up to him. I want to call it satisfaction, if not outright triumph, but it’s gone too quickly for me to analyze. And of course I’m no good at reading him anyway. But it seems to be something good. So I’m surprised when he hesitates, frowning, and pulls me off to one side, away from the remaining people still disembarking.

“Hang on. We can’t have you ruin a fun vacation day with moping. Why were you so sad just now? It’s not because you didn’t get to spend the whole day with Mrs. Hooper and her octogenarian friends.” He glances down at my freshly washed footwear. “And it’s not because you smudged your shoes. I see they’re fully restored to their former glory.”

“It’s nothing,” I hastily say, not wanting to get into it. He’s right. On a day like today, in a place like Monte Carlo, there’s no room for sad thoughts.

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