Page 50 of Beautiful Revenge

“Indeed, I will. Chat soon.”

I ring off without saying goodbye because my attention is focused on more important things. Specifically the man who checked himself into my resort under the name Roman Malloy. I watch him on the main feed as he saunters onto the back patio next to the pool overlooking Lake Winslet. He settles himself at a table under an umbrella and opens his laptop.

He’s connected to Turner. That’s enough to push me over the edge any day of the year, but at the moment, the need to bust through the glass walls of the greenhouse to get to him is taking over my fucking brain like a fast-spreading virus.

I zoom in on Malloy. He’s dressed like he’s a spectator at the fucking British Open Polo Championship. But instead of observing a horse race, he’s taking in the heiress to billions—my new roommate.

He slides on a pair of shades, but not before I can tell what he’s really focused on, and it’s not his damn laptop or the cell he pretends to scroll.

It’s Harlow Madison, who’s lounging not far from him next to the pool with a book. She’s wearing a hat so big and round, it even shades her tits from the sun, which is a good choice since there’s hardly anything else covering them. Her bikini is so small, I can barely make out the pattern, and I didn’t skimp when it came to security.

My cameras are top notch.

Though, I didn’t know I’d need them for this reason. I’d never stalk a guest.

That’s fucking creepy but look at me now.

The Madison-Humphries wedding did a number on me, because I’m doing all kinds of shit I don’t recognize.

I might not know who Roman Malloy is, but I do know one thing—I do not like the way he’s leering at Harlow or that he’s in the general vicinity of her.

I don’t want him breathing her air.

I’m going to damn well do something about it.

When I pulled Harlow’s shiny new convertible up to valet, I made an excuse that I had pressing business I needed toaddress, and that I’d catch up with her later. Apparently, I’ve been too much for her, since her only comment was she needed alone time and a day to decompress. I know she meant time away from me, even though she was polite enough to present that between the lines.

Her time alone just ended.

I grab my keys, cell, and shades and plan on doing the exact opposite of what Bella told me to do.

To hell with keeping my head down. That’s not an option. The last thing I’m going to do is hide from this fuckwad.

Not when his sights are set on Harlow.

Harlow

“Harlow Madison, is that you?”

I close my book and peek out from under my hat. Aside from packing, unpacking, Devon Donnelly finding out about my dad, and learning that my favorite place on earth that I plan to make my home is falling apart and ridden with crime scene tape, the day is pretty much perfect. The sun warms my skin as the lapping water from the shore below lulls me into a tranquil moment as I lounge at the pool.

I picked this spot because it was quiet. The shore by the lake is buzzing with activity and has been since we got back from the biggest breakfast I’ve ever had. Even with my obsession with waste, I had less of an issue than normal leaving the food on the table today. I was too overwhelmed to keep up with my own fixations.

I hate that the media has pegged me with the ridiculous label of American Princess. It started after my mother died. A tabloid got a picture of me as a teen ushered by security. No matter how much I fought, cried, and complained that a private detail would cramp my style, Janie insisted. And when Janie sets her mind to something, she gets in my father’s ear, and it happens. I lost that battle and have never been able toshake the nickname. It caught on like wildfire. My skin crawls every time I read it.

I’m used to being recognized from time to time, but that’s what I loved about living in New York City. It’s fast paced and high energy with plenty of celebrities who really are celebrities, unlike me. If someone does recognize me, they don’t care or have the time to point it out.

But I have been approached by enough people to know the difference between an acquaintance and a stranger.

I pull off my shades and have to squint to see the man at a table not too far from me. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

His teeth are as bright as the sun, but his smile is as fake as Janie’s ladies’ night at the country club. “Malloy. Roman Malloy. We met at a philanthropy event a while back. I think it might’ve been two years ago. Time flies.”

I try to place his face and name but fail. Since giving money away is my job, I attend so many fundraisers a year, I lose track. “It does. What event was it?”

“It was in D.C. at a Smithsonian. I was filling in for someone at the last minute from my company. I think it was called the Power of Giving. I’m sure you meet droves of people. I wouldn’t expect you to remember me.”

He’s right on both counts, but the last thing I want to talk about is not remembering him, so I opt for deflection. “I’ve attended that event the last few years. Are you here on vacation?”