Page 5 of Filthy Rich

There’s a pause. I get the feeling he’s analyzing me.

“You never know.” He levels that piercing gaze on my face. “I’ve been understanding a lot of stuff for years now. And I have things that are special to me.”

“Like what?” I demand.

“My first car. A classic Mustang. Which my fool brother accidentally scratched with his coat zipper one time.”

I laugh because I can just imagine how badly that went over.

“Not funny,” he says with a fleeting appearance of a dimple at one side of his mouth. “You can never laugh at special things. So tell me what’s going on.”

Part of me is tempted to tell him. But then it occurs to me that his shoes probably cost at least a thousand dollars if they cost a dime, and a pair of smudged fifty-dollar sneakers hardly equates to a scratched car worth probably fifty grand. So I decide to keep the sappy details of my minor footwear tragedy to myself.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

A beat or two passes, then he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I watch as he gets comfortable by removing his tie, sliding it into his pocket and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. Seeing Corporate Titan perform this small domestic task throws me off-kilter, as does a faint whiff of his cologne. It’s something clean and woodsy but sophisticated and compelling. Something that the boys back at college could never have pulled off. My agitation grows.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I say.

“From all appearances, I’m flying to Barcelona on the same flight you are,” he says, one corner of his mouth turning down and one brow going up. “Is that a problem?”

Yes. Yes, it’s a huge problem. I don’t want him sitting next to me for eight hours. I feel far too jittery in his presence. And having been temporarily separated from Mrs. Hooper’s endless chattering, I planned on relaxing for the duration.

Now this.

“No. Of course not. It’s just that I noticed you only have a briefcase,” I say, wondering why I’m so determined for him not to think that I’m a complete idiot. “Most people have luggage or at least an overnight bag when they fly to Europe. I didn’t see you with one when you were checking your car at the curb.”

Something skims across his expression. A flicker of amusement, maybe. I get the feeling he’s laughing at one of us, and I’m positive it’s not him.

“I had a, ah, last-minute change of plans.”

“Oh.”

This explanation doesn’t quite scratch the itch of curiosity inside my brain, but it’s none of my business anyway. Luckily, the flight attendant’s arrival saves me from having to say anything further.

“I’m Cara. I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I start you off with some champagne?”

I hesitate, my head full of calculations about what Mrs. Hooper will and will not pay for. I have no idea what’s free and what’s not in first class?—

“Champagne for her,” Lucien Winter says when I take too long. “Scotch neat for me.”

“Perfect,” Cara says. “And would you prefer the cheese plate or the caviar, miss?”

My brain blanks out again. I’ve always wanted to try caviar, but what if I hate it and end up starving before they serve dinner? Cheese is probably the safer option?—

“We’ll have both,” he says with that air of authority and a tinge of impatience. “Why choose?”

“Very good,” the flight attendant says, striding off and leaving me to stare at him, feeling increasingly unsettled.

There’s something about his commanding demeanor that’s both comforting and a little jarring. I have the feeling that the captain could announce a need for a medical professional and/or someone to land the plane due to an emergency and Lucien Winter would be the perfect candidate for both scenarios.

On the other hand, as someone whose every action has been dictated for her by Mrs. Hooper for the last two weeks, I’m not certain how I feel about being managed.

Plus, are they about to charge me for all that? I’ve got a little bit of fun money set aside for this trip, and I don’t want to spend it all before we even get off the plane. Not that I plan to highlight my financial challenges to a billionaire.

“I’m a lactose-intolerant vegan,” I say. “And I’m sober. Now what?”

---