In Bed with the Beast (Naughty Princess Club 2)

Ariel and I step outside, and I yank the door closed behind me with a loud slam.

As she helps me down the stairs and over the cobblestone walkway to her car parked in the driveway, I pause by the passenger door and turn my anger on her.

“And YOU! What the hell? You couldn’t have stuck up for me back there? I expected a minimum of thirteen curse words when he asked what the fuck you did to me!” I yell.

Ariel reaches around me and opens the passenger door, giving me a pat on the shoulder and leaning into the open doorway when I get myself seated.

“You did such a fine job of standing up to your dad today, I figured I’d let you handle the beast on your own as well. It was a beautiful thing to watch, my little grasshopper. What you failed to notice during that entire exchange was how he couldn’t take his eyes off you, especially your tits popping out of that dress. You’re welcome, by the way,” she adds with a wink. “I’m sure you also missed the impressive tent in his jeans when you pushed away from him. Lucky for you I spend a lot of time staring at men’s crotches. Next time, drop a few f-bombs and give him the finger, and he probably really will club you over the head like a caveman and drag you back to his bedroom by your hair.”

With that, she shuts the car door, and for the first time since I walked out of the bathroom, a huge smile brightens my face.

Chapter 11: Gus Tone

“And then for my thirtieth birthday I received a hefty inheritance from my grandparents. I took a trip to Barbados and splurged on the BMW you liked so much.”

I never actually said I liked his car. As soon as we stepped up to where it was parked outside the library, he told me how much it cost. I smiled uncomfortably and got into it without saying a word.

Just like I’ve done all evening since we got into his car, and all through dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant in town where he’s done nothing but talk about himself, I nod politely at my date, Gus. Or as he introduced himself when he picked me up from the library, “Tone. Gus Tone.” Like he’s James Bond or something.

At least he’s relatively attractive to look at from across the table in the dimly lit restaurant, with the flicker of a candle between us. If you like the whole slicked-back-hair, clean-shaven, suit-wearing type. He’s got jet black hair and very nice blue eyes, and he fills out his suit quite nicely. He’s not busting out of it like Vincent would be, but I can tell he keeps himself in good shape, so at least he was honest about that in his Match Made in Heaven profile.

“Anyway, I’ve done pretty well for myself, being really smart about investments over the years. My father thinks it’s time for me to settle down, so I thought I’d try my hand at this online dating thing. Anything’s better than the gold diggers I’ve hooked up with the last couple of years. They take one look at me and see dollar signs and a cushy future.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulls out a small compact, opening it up and checking his reflection in the mirror, smoothing back his hair and running his tongue over his teeth. I immediately lose my appetite when he makes a disgusting sucking sound, trying to get whatever bits of food might be stuck in between those things. Setting my fork down on the white-linen-covered table, I push my half-eaten plate of pasta carbonara away.

“What’s your portfolio look like? How much do you have in mutual funds right now? I’m assuming you have a nice money market account,” he says with a chuckle, snapping the compact closed and putting it back in his pocket. “Only an idiot wouldn’t have a money market account at your age.”

“I . . . I’m . . . uh . . .”

As I stumble over my words trying to come up with some way to tell him I have a checking account that is nearly overdrawn and a savings account with thirty-five cents in it—while also making sure he knows I am nowhere near being a gold digger—he looks away from me and snaps his fingers at our passing waitress.

“Hey, sweetheart. A check would be nice. Make it snappy and I’ll bump your tip up from ten percent to fifteen, how’s that sound?”

The poor woman glances over at me, and I give her an apologetic look before she rolls her eyes and hurries away from our table.

“So, what do you do for a living? I assume you have a job?” Gus asks, picking up his cell phone from the table and typing furiously on it instead of looking at me.