Page 6 of Filthy Rich

He doesn’t smile at my little joke. I doubt he ever smiles. But something softens around all the harsh lines of his face, making him look somewhat less forbidding. “More for me.”

I feel the slow prickle of heat rising over my face and decide it’s a good thing he never smiles. I’m sure it’s an awesome sight indeed, not that I’ll ever know.

Flustered now, I decide to ignore him and get busy organizing my space, checking out all the controls and pockets. I have my own little lamp with a shade and everything! Oh, and a lovely little pillow and comforter rather than that scratchy dog’s blanket they give you back in coach. Plus, my little amenities kit includes fancy socks, a sleeping mask and several luxury toiletries. And the kit itself is a beautiful floral wash bag that would be great as a makeup bag.

Relaxing and ignoring the envious glares of the other passengers as they file back to the peon section of the plane, I adjust my seat, relishing the freedom to do so without worrying about hitting someone’s knees behind me. Then I take a quick look at my screen and the available entertainment, deciding I’m in the mood for a nice horror movie to start. Oh, and there’s Insidious. Yay! After that I can watch?—

“First time in first class?” he says, startling me.

I take a minute to compose a semi-serene response. He’s got me teetering way too close to behaving like an absolute fool every time he glances my way.

“Does it show?” I ask, but it’s a dumb question. Everything about me shows that I don’t belong in this world, and I know it.

“I haven’t seen anyone this excited about a long flight in years.”

Part of me wants to play it cool, but why pretend?

“I just hope Cara comes back with my champagne before someone realizes there’s been a mix-up and they escort me to the back where I belong,” I say, grinning.

He opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it and nods sharply instead, shifting his attention to something across the aisle that’s evidently way more interesting than I am. Then he drums his fingers on his armrest. His hand is big, with well-kept nails, I notice, sturdy enough to, say, lift weights at the gym, but not bone crushers. Those long fingers probably know how to find all the secret, sensitive spots along a woman’s body?—

Hang on. Where did that come from?

I shift uncomfortably because I know where it came from.

First, he’s crazy handsome.

Second, he smells so good.

Third, and this is the biggie, I’m a virgin. And my hormonal young body is feeling the strain of lack of sex.

Improbable, I know. I’m not really sure how I managed to keep my V-card all through college. Certainly, none of my friends did. I know because I had to listen to various roommates’ nocturnal activities over the years. That was fun. For me, the years passed in such a blur of classes, labs, part-time jobs and internships. Plus, the selection of guys available on campus and my dating apps ran the gamut from idiots to snakes. Then my father got sick, and I was too overwhelmed to think about dating. So, between the lack of options and the general exhaustion, here I am.

Oh, I’ve got a couple vibrators that do the trick when push comes to shove.

But I know that’s not the same thing as, say, finding myself wedged beneath the thrusting weight of a man like Lucien Winter as he does his thing.

I’ll bet Lucien Winter knows exactly how to make a woman lose her fucking mind, says that sly voice inside my head again.

I shift again and try to focus on my screen…my tray table…my ventilation settings…my menu with its five-star meal selections…anything but those restless fingers of Lucien Winter.

What did I think? That he’d exchange more than a polite word or two with me and we’d wind up talking the whole flight? Sure, Tamsyn. He’s impatient, of course. A man like him is impatient with a twenty-something girl like me, a long flight and probably anything else that doesn’t add to his fortune by generating a million dollars an hour.

So, anyway…

That’s it for conversation, I guess, trying to ignore my tiny pang of disappointment. I pull out my headphones and set them on my little shelf as standby for now. Putting them on feels so final. What if he feels like talking again?

Geez, Tamsyn. Idiot much?

Luckily, the plane pushes back from the gate just then, generating the sort of distraction I need. I watch the takeoff with the relentless focus of Serena Williams during a Wimbledon final. Anything to distract me from him.

Cara returns with her tray as soon as we reach cruising altitude.

“Champagne for the lady,” she says, passing me a crystal flute. Real crystal! “And a scotch neat for the gentleman. Enjoy. I’ll bring your snacks in a second. And just check your menus and let me know what you’d like for dinner and when you’d like it.”

“Great. Thanks, Cara,” I say.

I pause, then glance his way again. Just to be polite.

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