“Just squeezing in a quick nine with a client.”
It was bullshit, but Aiden didn’t have the energy to call him on it. The fact was running his family’s company and extensive holdings was falling more and more on his shoulders as their father seemed to be taking a step back. Elliot could only be roused to care about business when it was something that affected him personally. He hadn’t figured out Elliot’s connection to the thieving, cheating Donaldson, but Aiden wasn’t about to step aside and let his brother name the next CFO of Kilbourn Holdings.
“My vote stands. No on Donaldson. I have to go.” He disconnected before his brother could object and then turned his phone off to avoid the inevitable barrage of calls and texts.
“Business drama?” Frankie asked without looking in his direction.
“Family drama with a side of business.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t do business with your family.”
He shot her a glance. She had her face lifted toward the sun, a sly curve to her lips.
“It’s not that easy.”
She deigned to look at him now, lowering her sunglasses. “Nothing worthwhile is.”
* * *
The resort was walled in against the ocean behind soft yellow stone walls and a gate. He’d paid little attention to it when he’d arrived last night. But watching Frankie ooh and aah over the lush landscape and the curving drive, he tuned in and let himself forget about his family, his business. The hotel rose up three stories of stucco and stone, two wings joined by a two-story, open-aired lobby. The greenery continued inside, colorful pots clustered around a stone fountain. There was a bar on either end of the lobby and a straight through view to the water.
“Wow,” Franchesca whispered behind him.
The woman behind the desk with the cheerful knotted scarf in canary yellow looked up from her computer. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay, Mr. Kilbourn,” she said with the subtle accent of the island adding music to her words.
“Of course,” he assured her. “Ms. Baranski is checking in.”
“Yes, of course. Welcome, Ms. Baranski.”
“Thank you. Your resort is beautiful,” Frankie said with an easy smile she’d never given him.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, Frankie turned to him. She looked him up and down and arched an eyebrow. “Thank you for the ride. You can go now.”
He gave her a slow, dangerous smile. Franchesca Baranski had no idea who she was taunting. He wasn’t a man who was dismissed. He stepped closer to her, crowding her against the desk, and saw the surprise, the concern in those big eyes. There was something else too. A little flare, a spark of desire.
Aiden reached for her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips.
“The pleasure was all mine.” He saw the goosebumps that rose on her arm and grinned.
“I’m sure it usually is,” she shot back, yanking her hand free and turning her back on him.
Chapter Five
Aiden left Frankie at the desk and followed the sound of the waves. He paused at the bar, debated, and then changed his mind and continued outside.
He’d been drinking too much. A medication of sorts for the chronic stress that plagued him. His family seemed hell-bent on making every bad decision they could with regards to the business. He’d ignored it for far too long, preferring to focus on his own responsibilities. But now he needed to be present. He’d be damned if he let anyone—family included—destroy what had been three generations in the making.
Hands in the pockets of his shorts, he strolled across the coral stone terrace, his shirt fluttering in the breeze. The infinity edge pool sparkled under the sun to his right. A handful of mid-afternoon guests enjoyed ceviche and champagne at the outdoor seafood restaurant to his left.
He followed the path down the stairs and to the right where it meandered between beach and vegetation. Pruitt’s father might not think much of Chip as a son-in-law, but he wasn’t going to let that stand in the way of spending lavishly. He’d been willing to rent out the cordoned off section of the resort to ensure his princess had a special and private day.
Aiden found the bride and groom sunning themselves at the edge of a freeform lagoon overlooking the beach and ocean. The bridesmaids—bridesmonsters, he corrected himself with amusement—were lounging in studied positions of perfection that best accented their appeal. He noticed the straightening of shoulders, the jutting of chests when they spotted him. They were always on the hunt.
But he was no one’s quarry.
He dropped down at the end of Chip’s lounger, his back to the monsters. “Your maid of honor has been delivered,” he announced.
Pru peeked up at him from under the brim of a ridiculous sun hat. “Aiden! I scheduled a car to pick up Ms. I’ll-Just-Take-a-Taxi.”
“I canceled it,” he said with a shrug. “I was already heading in that direction.”
“He’s just trying to get back into Frankie’s good graces,” Chip said loyally. His friend waved his empty glass at a passing pool server and circled his finger signaling a round. It looked like Aiden would be getting that drink after all.
“Uh-huh.” Pruitt wasn’t believing either of them. Not for a second.
“Did you pick up my genius best friend to pick on her? Because if you did, I’m not going to be happy with you, Aiden Kilbourn,” Pruitt said, jabbing a finger into his arm.
“Pick on her? What is this? Second grade?” Aiden teased.
“What exactly did you say to her at the engagement party?” Pruitt demanded.
“She didn’t tell you?” Aiden was surprised. He thought Frankie would have run tattling.
“My beautiful best friend doesn’t want me to worry about a thing. And apparently that includes whatever idiotic thing you said or did at the party.”
Aiden shared a look with Chip. Neither of them were enthusiastic about repeating the insult.
Pruitt snapped her fingers. “Oh, no! Uh-uh! Don’t you look at him, Chip. Spill it right now.”
Chip’s resolve crumbled faster than a cookie in the sticky hands of a toddler. “Aiden may have mentioned that Frankie danced like she had experience on the pole.”
“You called her a stripper?” Pruitt’s screech could probably be heard by the catamaran five-hundred yards off the coast.
Aiden winced. “In my defense—”
“There’s no defense! Damn it, Aiden. She’s one of my favorite people. You can’t treat her like she’s nothing.”
“I understand, and I apologized, and I tried to make amends by picking her up today.”
Pru cracked a slight smile. “Tried to, huh? She wasn’t amenable?” she asked innocently.
“Not exactly,” Aiden admitted. Not at all, really.
Chip slapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. Our Frankie’s not the most forgiving person in the world.”
“So one slip up, and that’s it?”
Pruitt peered at him over her sunglasses. “Why? Are you interested in her?”
“As she so astutely pointed out, I’m no more her type than she is mine,” Aiden said, side-stepping the question. He wasn’t interested in Frankie. He was intrigued by her, but that was different.
“Why couldn’t you have been nice and polite or, God forbid, friendly?” Pruitt sighed.
“I don’t want to be friendly. I don’t have time for friendly.”
Pruitt flopped back on her lounger pouting. “And now we have a maid of honor and best man who hate each other.”
“We should have eloped,” Chip said, squeezing her thigh with affection.
“We are eloping. We just took everyone with us.”
Aiden bit back a quip about knowing better for next time. Thanks to him, there almost hadn’t been a first time.
The server returned with a tray of pink frothy drinks with umbrellas and enough fruit to build a salad. “Mr. Randolph,” he said with a flourish. Chip grinned and passed out the drinks. “Hatfield, you’re the man.” He slid a twenty onto the tray.
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Aiden took a sip of his drink, winced, and set the glass down on the table next to the chair.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. and almost Mrs. Randolph.”
Pru squealed and jumped out of her chair. “You’re here!” She threw her arms around Franchesca.
She’d changed, he noted. Gone were the very small white shorts and entertainingly tight tank. In their place was a flowy cover up with a deep v that showed an eyeful of breathtaking cleavage and a hint of the black bikini beneath. Her hair was still piled atop her head. She looked exotic, curvy. And if he wasn’t careful, he’d have a hard-on like a teenager in a moment.
There was nothing subtle about Franchesca.
“I made it,” she said, grinning down at Pru.
“How was your flight? Do you want a drink?”
“Here.” Aiden pressed his pink concoction into her hand.
She stared at the glass with suspicion.
“Oh, for God’s sake. It’s not poisoned. Just drink the damn thing,” he ordered.
“Remember what we were talking about, Aiden?” Pru warned him. “Friendly?”
“You’re in trouble,” Frankie sang under her breath so only he could hear. She took a sip of the drink. Her full lips closed over the straw where his had been only moments ago. “Don’t you worry about Aide and me. No drama. Scout’s honor. Even if he did cockblock me from a sexy surfer at the airport.”
Pru linked her arm through Frankie’s and led her away, shooting him a dirty look over her shoulder. “Come on, Frankie. Let’s go spend some time with the girls. Now, tell me about the surfer.”
Aiden and Chip watched them go.
“Surfer, huh?” Chip asked.
“Shut up.”
Chip laughed. “Come on. Let’s play some volleyball.”
Chapter Six
“Ladies, our maid of honor has arrived,” Pruitt announced cheerily to the reclining goddesses.
“Yay,” Margeaux said without looking up from her phone. Her blonde hair was rolled in a chic chignon at the base of her neck. She looked regal, even in a bikini.
Pruitt dragged Frankie toward a pair of sun loungers. She took another sip of the pink frozen tartness. It tasted vaguely of grapefruit and vodka. But it would do.
“Now, sit. And spill,” Pru ordered. “The story, not the drink.”
Frankie handed over the glass with a sigh. She stepped out of her sandals and pulled the cover up over her head.
She felt a heated gaze on her skin and turned to see Aiden standing in the sand looking at her. He flashed her a cocky grin and shucked his shirt. He wasn’t lean like the rest of the groomsmen. He was bigger, more muscled. His chest alone made her mouth water. They stared admiringly at each other.
“Staaaalling,” Pru sang, drawing her attention.
“Ugh. Fine.” She turned her back on the beach, on Aiden. “What do you want to know?”
“How did your ride in from the airport go with Aiden?”
Margeaux dropped her phone and her jaw. Taffany, who had been busy swilling tequila straight from the bottle in a one-piece with less fabric than Frankie’s bikini, sat up.
“You and the very good-looking best man?” Cressida wondered, her accent seeming to shift between Austrian and Russian. Frankie couldn’t stop staring at the woman’s breasts that seemed hell-bent on escaping the scrap of fabric masquerading as a bandeau top.
Self-consciously, Frankie reached up to adjust the ties of her own suit to make sure her girls didn’t escape.
A chorus of “Ooooohs” rose from the volleyball court, and the girls craned their necks to see what had happened. Aiden, still spectacularly shirtless and ripped, was holding a hand over his eye.
“What did I tell you guys?” Pru yelled.
“No bruises!” they parroted back to her.
“No bruises, no cuts, no scrapes, no freak hair accidents. I need your faces perfect for pictures,” the bride reminded them.
“Sorry,” they said as one.
“Aiden was distracted,” Chip added with a wink.
Aiden gave Frankie a long look, and she dropped her hands from where they were fiddling with the strings of her suit. Had he been watching her?
“Can’t you guys just sit and read?” Pru begged.
“No more overhand serves,” Davenport, the peacemaker and resident drunk, offered.
“Ugh. Fine. But keep your attention on the ball, Aiden.” Pru sat back down. “It’s like herding kindergartners at a candy factory. Now, sit down Frankie before Aiden loses an eye checking you out.”
All attention on her, Frankie sank down on the chair and stretched her legs out in front of her. “He picked me up at the airport,” she said. She wasn’t a fan of gossip in general and feeding anything to these hellhounds was a bad, bad idea.
“Why?” Margeaux asked, wrinkling her nose. “Was there a mix up?”
In Margeaux’s beautiful, pristine, gold-dipped world, that was the only plausible reason why Aiden Kilbourn would offer a ride to someone so lowly. Riled now, Frankie gave a lazy one-shoulder shrug as she plucked at the ties of her top. “Nope. He was waiting for me when I got off the plane.”
“He canceled the car I had scheduled to pick her up,” Pru added.
Taffany picked up the tequila again but handed it to Frankie. “Way to go, Francine.”
“Frankie.”
“Whatever.”
“I don’t understand,” Margeaux announced. She took her sunglasses off and arranged herself on her side, a model taking directions from an invisible photographer. “Why would Aiden go out of his way for you?”
“Hey, why don’t we leave the cat claws at home, Margeaux?” Pru warned the woman.
“Do not listen to this angry woman,” Cressida said, pointing in Margeaux’s direction. “She has bet she can fuck Aiden this weekend.”
“Fuck you, Cressida,” Margeaux spat out.
“That was not the bet,” Cressida insisted, frowning. Frankie couldn’t tell if she was purposely poking at Margeaux or if the language barrier made for accidental insults.
“Ladies,” Pru sighed. She rubbed absently at her forehead.
No drama, Frankie reminded herself. She was here to make sure Pru had her perfect day. She took a drink straight from the bottle. “Not to worry, Margie. Your odds are still excellent for luring him into your Venus Fly Trap vag. He was just being nice. There’s no interest on either side,” Frankie promised.
“Aiden isn’t nice,” Margeaux argued, ignoring the slam on her vagina.
“Then why do you want to bang him?” Frankie asked in frustration.
Taffany launched into a fit of giggles and hiccups. She reached for the bottle. “Hello. He’s gorg and rich. What else is there? A prenup from him would set a girl up at least into her fifties.”
“I have heard that he is quite excellent in bed,” Cressida added. “His children would be prime specimens.”
These women were from a different planet. Planet Crazy Bitch.
Frankie’s parents got married because they fell in love in high school and got pregnant on prom night. They fought about toilet paper and which one of them was supposed to call the accountant. That was normal. That was love.
This? This was what happened with too much inbreeding amongst Manhattan’s wealthy.
“Don’t you want to meet a guy and fall in love?” Frankie asked the group in general.
The blondes shared a baffled look and broke out into a delightful cultured laughter—plus hiccups from Taffany.
“That is so poor people,” Taffany announced. “Poor people have to look for love because they can’t have money.”
“So, money is better than love?” Frankie reiterated the point.
“Duh. And what’s better than money?” Taffany chirped, taking the tequila back.
“More money,” Margeaux and Cressida chimed in.
“To trophy wives,” Taffany said, holding the bottle aloft. Margeaux and Cressida raised their glasses and Pru, looking slight
ly embarrassed, raised hers.
“To trophy wives,” they echoed.
“Well, I’ve been doing this all wrong then,” Frankie announced cheerfully. “Teach me your ways.”
Margeaux slid her sunglasses back on. “Sweetie, no amount of education can make this,” she circled the palm of her hand in Frankie’s direction, “trophy. You’re more participation medal. Anyone can have one.”
Fucking asshole. Frankie hoped Margeaux would get backed over by her own limo.
Frankie smiled sweetly. “When you marry husband number two, does the prenup state that you have to have that giant stick removed from your ass, or does that get to stay?”
Taffany choked and sprayed Margeaux with a fine cloud of tequila.
“You fucking idiot!” Margeaux sprang to her feet. She grabbed the bottle out of Taffany’s hand and tossed it into the pool.
“Hey!” Taffany reacted as if Margeaux had thrown her teacup Chihuahua off an overpass. She lowered her shoulder and charged, sending them both into the water.
Cressida said something that sounded like a derisive four-letter word in German and stalked off.
“How do you know these clowns again?” Frankie asked as Margeaux grabbed a handful of Taffany’s hair.
“Don’t fuck with my extensions!” Taffany screamed.
“Oh. Shit. Here we go again,” Pru muttered. She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. The sand volleyball game came to a screeching halt as Chip called a timeout.
“Babe?” he called from the beach.
“They’re fighting in the pool again,” Pru called back and pointed.
The groomsmen, ever the gentlemen, sprang into action echoing gleeful shouts of “cat fight.”
Davenport, tall and skinny, took up position on a lounger and pulled out his phone. “Okay, I’m recording!” Digby, the shorter blond with eight-pack abs that he was constantly showing off dove into the water like an Olympian with Ford—Bradford on his birth certificate—hot on his heels. Ford let out a war whoop and cannonballed into the fray.
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