Page 46 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“A bit much in what way?” Clark asks.

“Every way,” I say.

Tabitha looks down at herself. “I thought it was pretty.”

“It is,” Clark says. “It’s elegant and tasteful.”

They’re both looking at me like I’m the bad guy now.

The fog clears from my head long enough to realize that, objectively, it’s not too much. Can she at least wear a shawl over it? Or better yet, an XXL Irish fisherman’s sweater?

I force my gaze away from her dress and her graceful neck and her fucking breast globe meet-up and back to the Tokyo charts. “Very elegant and tasteful,” I say.

“Well, dinner’s in like ten minutes,” she says.

“I can get dressed in two,” I grumble.

Clark says, “You really do look nice.”

“Thanks!” I can hear the grin in her voice. I can just hear it.

In a dark mood, I head to my room to change into my tux.

A few minutes later, I have Tabitha’s arm, and I’m trying not to look at her. She’s a prop, nothing more.

I have to admit, though, she’s been doing a good job. She did handle the launch party well.

We follow Clark along the fourth-level walkway. On one side of the walkway are the guest suites; on the other is a railing separating us from the tedious expanse of ocean. The moon reflects in a splotch of light that everybody will be taking pictures of soon. Pictures they will never look at again.

“I’m glad every dinner isn’t black tie,” Tabitha says. “The shopper definitely didn’t have me bring enough fancy dresses.”

“The first dinner is often black tie,” I explain. “It’s about setting a tone for the trip. The last one’ll be black tie, too. It’s how Gail’s set rolls.”

“Gail’s set?” Clark turns to walk backwards in front of us. “I hate to break it to you, but Gail’s set is your set.” He turns back around and continues on.

“Hardly,” I say. “Once I have her portfolio locked up, maybe then.”

“No, it’s your set right now,” Clark says over his shoulder.

“Not when I’m not here by choice.”

Again Clark walks backwards, and this time he addresses Tabitha. “Rex is all about the hunt. He’s obsessed with bringing down prey, and once he does, it’s on to the next thing. He never relaxes. Never stops.”

Tabitha looks up at me, gauging my reaction.

“Always moving the goalposts on himself,” Clark adds.

“It’s not true,” I grumble.

We start down the stairway. Instead of heading to the third-floor deck, we keep going, following a red carpet that coils around into the interior of the ship and then opens out into a grand marble staircase that leads down to a large, candlelit dining area.

Tabitha stops at the top of the staircase. “Oh, my!”

I follow her gaze down to the dining area, trying to see it from her eyes. Gleaming marble tile, triple crown moldings, potted palms, ornate woodwork, soft lights glowing from wall sconces. In short, the place is bathed in candlelight and ostentatiousness, pretty much everything you’d expect from a yacht built for minor royalty.

A harpist and a cellist do a soft duet from a discreet corner; fine china and silver settings gleam on white-cloth-covered tables that are arranged across the vast floor.

“It’s magical,” she says.

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