Page 4 of Filthy Rich

“Not a chance. Let’s go.”

I get up again and somehow manage to roll her, the dog and my carry-on over to the gate agent. “I’m Tamsyn Scott. You paged me?”

The man smiles and passes me a boarding pass.

“I did. You’ve got a new seat assignment.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved. “Okay. Thanks. I was afraid I got bumped— Hang on. This ticket is for first class. There must be some mistake.”

“There’s absolutely a mistake,” Mrs. Hooper says, reaching up and snatching the boarding pass for me so she can see for herself. “Tamsyn’s in business class right behind me. Within shouting distance if I need her. That’s what we booked. I’m not paying for this. You can just take it back and change it to the way it was.”

She thrusts the boarding pass back at the gate agent, but he holds his hands up.

“There’s no charge, ma’am. Just a simple upgrade. The computer spits them out sometimes. Probably something to do with the weight distribution on the flight.”

“Hmph,” she says, but it’s all I can do to repress a whoop of triumph.

“Don’t you get too big for your britches, Missy,” she adds darkly as they begin the boarding process, and we head to the front of the line because of her mobility issues. “This is probably the last time you’ll be flying first class. That’s the last thing I need. Another spoiled employee.”

“I won’t,” I say.

But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a new spring in my step as we head down the gangway. I’m on my way to my very first trip to Europe. In first class, where they have those luxurious captain’s chairs arranged two by two in egg-shaped semi-pods. I want to clap with glee.

I get her settled first (I’m still a couple of rows behind her, well within shouting or waving distance), then stow my carry-on and discover a lovely little bundle of goodies in my seat. In my excitement, I promptly drop it into the aisle as I sit. I stifle a curse and bend to retrieve it, determined not to block incoming traffic or commit any other snafus on my first and only outing in first class. That’s when I discover the one thing that could possibly put a damper on my mood:

A giant black smudge, probably from the wheel of my own stupid carry-on, across the outside of my brand-new left sneaker. The one I splurged on when I graduated from nursing school.

“Oh, no,” I cry with a vigorous and fruitless attempt to wipe it off with my fingers just as a pair of highly polished cognac men’s dress shoes come into my line of sight. “Oh, no.”

“What’s the problem?” says a man’s crisp voice above me.

I freeze with sudden shock because I recognize that velvety baritone and I know, even before I look up, that it’s Lucien Winter.

CHAPTER TWO

TAMSYN

I recover quickly, thank God. We both lean in to grab my bundle of luxury supplies, our hands brushing. The position is close and awkward and gives me the opportunity to notice two important things.

First, that he’s no longer wearing his sunglasses.

Second, that I profoundly wish he was.

His eyes are a silvery-gray color with a lot of blue thrown in, the kind of crystalline shade that makes you think of Mariah Carey’s jewelry collection. He’s got a heavy fringe of black eyelashes and slashing black eyebrows that make him even more intimidating. Worse, his expression sparks with annoyance as he grabs my bag before I can.

I congratulate myself on blowing through my one opportunity to prove useful or interesting to him so quickly. Well done, Tamsyn. There’s a lightning bolt in my very near future at this rate.

“Well?” he says as he grabs his own bundle, drops into the seat beside me and passes me my bundle. “What’s going on?”

“It’s no big deal,” I say hastily, ducking my head. “It’s just that I got a smudge on my shoe.”

“A smudge? Why are you acting like someone died?” He leans forward as he puts on his seatbelt and gets a better look at the offending smudge. “They’re just shoes. That smudge will come out. I hope you’re not going to cry about it all the way to Barcelona.”

“I’m not crying,” I say, stung. It’s now a real struggle to remember why I ever found him intriguing and thought I’d like to see him again.

“Good.”

“And they’re special to me. Not that I’d expect you to understand.”

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