by Lucy Score
Her mouth dropped open, and she backed away with stars in her eyes.
“See. Why don’t you work some of that charm on Frankie?”
“I’m not interested in something that…”
“Fun? Smart? Sexy?” Chip supplied.
“Flashy,” Aiden corrected. “She dances like she’s got experience on the pole. And she’d probably take that as a compliment.”
“No. She wouldn’t,” a husky voice behind him announced.
Fuck.
Chip, ever the tension diffuser, slapped an innocent grin on his face. “Frankie! Aiden didn’t see you there,” he said pointedly.
“Aiden doesn’t seem like the type to notice much of anyone under a certain tax bracket. Why waste his time?” Franchesca announced.
She didn’t hesitate to make eye contact. No, she used those blue-green eyes to bore holes into him. He’d been an ass. Usually he was much more careful about voicing his opinions in venues where they could be overheard, misconstrued. He blamed the headache, the three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.
“Pru asked if you’d get her a drink and save her from the Danby twins. They’ve got her cornered by the stairs.” Frankie pointed to the opposite end of the room.
“If you two will excuse me, I’ve got to go rescue my fiancée. No bloodshed,” Chip ordered, pointing a stern finger at Frankie.
“No promises,” she called after him. She turned back to him, eyes flashing with temper. “Well, if you’ll excuse me—which I don’t give a flying fuck if you do—I don’t want to spend my evening looking at you.”
She dismissed him, turning on her heel and whipping that curtain of hair over her shoulder.
“Hang on,” he said it quietly, fingers closing around her wrist.
“Hands off, Kilbourn, or you’ll be Deadbourn by the time I’m done with you.”
He released her but stepped into her path. “Let me apologize.”
“Let you?” Franchesca crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to talking to servants and underlings, but a word of advice? Don’t demand that someone listen to your shit show of an apology. Got it?”
The headache was throbbing behind his eyes. No one talked to him that way. Not even his oldest friends.
“Please allow me to apologize,” he said, his jaw clenching. He cupped her elbow in his hand and guided her toward an alcove behind a heavy gold curtain.
The darkness made the pain in his head ease just a bit, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the rest of it away.
“How about I save us both some time?” Franchesca suggested. “You don’t bother apologizing because we both know you meant to be a dick, and I won’t bother pretending to forgive you because I don’t give a shit what you think about me. Fair enough?”
There was a cream-colored settee covered in silk, and Aiden sat. The dull throb was making his stomach roll. “Look. I’m not putting my best foot forward, and for that I apologize.”
“Future reference again? ‘I apologize’ doesn’t come across as sincerely as ‘I’m sorry.’ You got a headache?”
The change in subject had his head spinning. He closed his eyes. Nodded.
“Migraine?” she prodded.
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
She mumbled to herself, and he opened his eyes to watch her dig through her clutch. “Here,” she said, offering him two pills. “Prescription.”
“You get them, too?”
“No, but Pru does when she’s stressed. I didn’t want her muddling through her engagement party wanting to puke.”
“That’s very kind and prepared of you.”
“I’m the maid of honor. It’s my job. Now take them like a good little boy.”
He lifted his glass, but she stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “Don’t be a dumbass. Alcohol makes it worse.” She took the glass from him and stuck her head out of the curtain. He heard her give a little whistle, and in a moment, she was thanking someone by name and handing him a glass of ice water.
“You know the catering staff?” he asked, making conversation while he washed down the tablets.
“I am the catering staff. Second job. It’s my night off.” She said it as if she were daring him to find fault with that. “You want me to call you an Uber?” she offered suddenly.
“I have a car downstairs.”
“Of course you do.”
“Why are you being nice to me?” Aiden rubbed a hand over his temple.
“Maybe I’m doing it to rub your face in the fact that you’re an ass. And maybe I just gave you two birth control pills instead of headache meds just to watch you suffer.”
“Maybe I’d deserve it.”
The curtain twitched, and the server with the blue hair poked her head in. “Here’s the soda,” she whispered. Her eyes widened when she spotted him, and she backed out of the alcove.
“I make her nervous,” Aiden observed when the server left.
“It’s a good thing you’re good-looking and rich because you definitely don’t have the personality thing going for you. Here, drink this. The caffeine will help.”
He drank it down and rested his head against the back of the settee. “Thanks.” She was taking care of him after he suggested that she had experience as a stripper. He was an asshole and wondered when that transformation had become complete.
She took the glass from him. “Stay until it kicks in,” she ordered and turned for the curtain.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the party so I can shake my stripper ass at all those eligible bachelors.”
“I’m sorry I’ll miss it.”
“Shut up, Kilbourn.”
Chapter Three
The plane dropped like a stone onto the runway, and the violently applied brakes had everyone in coach jerking forward and back. Frankie couldn’t see much of the tropical paradise outside the window from her middle seat vantage. She was crammed in between a guy who smelled like he hadn’t showered in four days and a little old man who had fallen asleep at twenty thousand feet and slept on her shoulder for an hour.
She had to pee and could have killed for a roast beef sandwich, but at least the flight was over and she only had to fight her way through customs and immigration now. In an hour—two tops—she’d have her toes in the white powdery sand, a drink in her hand, and that sandwich.
Frankie waited for the elderly narcoleptic to stand and then wriggled out into the aisle behind him to help him with his carry-on.
She lugged her own carry-on with her, thankful that Pru had insisted on flying the bridesmaid dresses down on her father’s plane. The rest of the wedding party had arrived on private planes they’d chartered together.
She waddled down the aisle toward the ever-smiling flight crew and the humid breeze. Frankie stepped out onto the rolling staircase and slid her sunglasses on. Eighty-three degrees with a beautiful, balmy breeze. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Even though her hair had just doubled in volume.
She followed the rest of the passengers onto the tarmac and into the long, low building of Grantley Adams International Airport. The line zig-zagged its way between the ropes. Anxious travelers ready to see paradise thumbed over the screens of their phones. But Frankie was content to people watch. The residency line for immigration was short and brutally efficient as Bajan passport holders were welcomed home. To her right was the expedited line where travelers with Louis Vuitton luggage and oversized sun hats were guided through the process by resort staff dispatched to collect them.
Frankie’s line crawled along at a snail’s pace as harried parents tried to juggle official questions and cranky toddlers and young backpackers zoned out on their phones, needing a prod forward every time the line moved.
One such backpacker caught her eye and gave her a smile. “Hi there,” he said softly, pushing a shock of blond hair off his forehead.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, he
was Australian.
“Hi,” she returned.
“Come here often?”
She laughed.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he teased.
“If you can find a bartender in here, yes, you can buy me a drink.”
The line moved and the woman behind him—in a sun visor with flowers on the brim and a Hawaiian shirt—prodded him forward.
“See you around,” he winked.
They caught up again when the lines froze at exactly the right place.
“We meet again. It must be fate.”
“Oh, you’re good. I bet that wouldn’t work as well without your accent,” Frankie told him.
“I like yours,” he confessed.
Boca Raton Grandma gave the Aussie another push. “Sorry, honey. But I got a frozen margarita waitin’ on me,” she said to Frankie as they passed.
Frankie’s immigration officer was an unsmiling girl in her early twenties with YouTube tutorial-level makeup. “Have a nice stay,” she said, shoving Frankie’s passport through the slot in the Plexiglass. Her tone implied she didn’t give a damn whether Frankie’s stay was nice or not. But dealing with three plane loads of grumpy tourists would do that to a person.
Frankie pushed on past baggage claim. With Pru bringing her bridesmaid dress, she’d been able to shove everything else she needed into her carry-on and saved the checked bag fee. A small victory in what had been a year of hemorrhaging money. The two bridal showers, the girls-only engagement party, engagement party, the pre-emptive bachelorette party, and now the destination wedding. She should have taken a third job. But a few more weeks with the caterer, and she’d have the credit card paid off and could stop spending money like it magically appeared replenished in her wallet every morning.
Customs was much faster. A quick scan of her bag, and she was pointed toward the exit. Her phone started ringing in the beach bag she’d dual-purposed as a purse.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Oh thank, God! I thought you were dead.” May Baranski was nothing if not dramatic.
“Not dead, Ma. Just in paradise.” The automatic doors parted and she walked into the heat. It was a covered area rife with tourists who looked lost and cab drivers who looked like buzzards circling carrion.
“Why didn’t you call me when you landed? You said you’d call me.” Her mother had infused normal protective instincts with steroids until she was convinced that all of her children were in constant mortal danger or worse—destined to remain single and childless while the rest of her friends became nanas and grammas.
“I literally just walked through customs, Ma. They don’t let you chit chat on your cell phones while you’re in there.”
Her mother scoffed. The idea that anyone could keep her from a safety report on one of her children was ridiculous to May.
“Tell me all about your flight,” May demanded. Frankie blamed herself. She liked her parents, liked talking to them, and somehow that had evolved into almost daily calls “just to check in” or “catch up.” Hell, half the time she was the one doing the dialing. Her mom was a fount of information on old neighborhood and family gossip.
“It was crowded and long,” Frankie said, squinting at the taxi sign. It listed island destinations and their rates, but she needed to check what parish the resort was in again.
“Your father and I went to the Florida Keys for our honeymoon forty-one years ago,” May announced. “Is it as nice as the Keys?”
Frankie had never been to the Florida Keys, nor had she seen anything of Barbados beyond the tarmac and the cab line. “I’m sure the Keys are beautiful,” she told her mother. “Look, Ma. I gotta go. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just have to grab a cab.”
“Why didn’t Pru send a car for you?” her mother squawked. “You’re just going to get in a car with a stranger?”
“A driver Pru sent would still be a stranger.” Frankie made the point in vain.
“I forbid you to get mugged or molested!”
Frankie bumped into someone and turned to apologize.
“There you are. I was worried that we were star-crossed lovers, destined never to meet again.” The Australian was adjusting the backpack she’d nearly knocked off his shoulder.
“I gotta go, Ma.”
“What now?”
“There’s a cute guy looking at me.”
The Aussie grinned.
“Hang up and flirt with him! Come back engaged!” Her mother disconnected the call to start planning the overdue wedding of her only daughter.
“Sorry,” Frankie said with a soft smile. “I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.”
“You can bump into me anytime you want.” He wasn’t devastatingly handsome. Not like Satan-in-a-Suit Kilbourn. But he was cute and charming and very, very tan. His hair was a bleached-out blond that was in need of a cut. His clothes were wrinkled and comfortable.
“Tell me you’re an Australian surfer,” Frankie sighed. It had been a while since she’d had a second-party-induced orgasm. She’d been lazy in the dating field, and working two jobs hadn’t left her much time for naked fun. Maybe a tropical fling with a sexy surfer would cure her sex blahs?
“As a matter of fact, I am. Tell me you’re into Australian surfers and that we can share a cab so I can charm my way into a date.”
Frankie laughed. Easy, charming, funny. Perfect.
She lowered her lashes. “I’ve never had an Australian surfer before, so I can’t vouch for my preferences in the area.”
His blue eyes, the same color as the sea they’d flown over, widened in appreciation. “Where are you staying?”
“Rockley Sands Resort.”
“Bugger me.” His face fell. “That’s north of Bridgetown. I’m on the other side of the island.”
“Franchesca.”
A good stiff breeze could have knocked Frankie over. It had to be a mirage. She was certain of it. That was not Aiden Kilbourn leaning against a Jeep in shorts and a sexy short-sleeved button down. Boat shoes and Ray-bans. His beard looked a little scruffier than the last time she’d seen him.
“What the f—”
“I take it you’re Franchesca?” the Aussie asked.
“Yeah, but… we’re not together.”
Aiden straightened from the fender and crossed to her. “Let’s go.” He reached for her bag.
Instinctively, Frankie snatched it out of his reach. “I’m taking a cab,” she insisted.
“No, you’re not.”
“Aiden, I told Pru I’d take a cab.”
“And I told her I’d pick you up.”
“Franchesca, it was lovely meeting you, but I’ve got to go,” the Aussie said, backing away.
“Oh, but…”
“Maybe I’ll see you around the island.” He blew her a kiss, dropped a “mate” in Aiden’s direction, and sauntered off in search of a cab.
“Damnit, Aiden. I didn’t even get to give him my number.”
“Pity.” He hefted her bag into the back of the Jeep and secured it with a tie down strap.
“So, what’s this? You’re doing your good deed for the day and giving a poor stripper a ride?” she shot back.
“I already apologized for that.”
“And it was touchingly heartfelt,” Frankie reminded him.
“Get in the damn car.”
Chapter Four
Aiden waited until she was belted in before pulling out onto the main road. He hadn’t exactly told Pruitt that he’d be picking Franchesca up. He’d overheard her talking about the maid of honor’s arrival time the night before. He’d flown down with them to keep an eye on Chip. He’d screwed up Chip and Pruitt’s happiness once before and wasn’t going to let anything happen to them the second time around.
Besides, it gave him an excuse to spend some time alone with Franchesca. He’d thought of her—a lot�
�since the engagement party. She was… interesting. And damned if her headache cure hadn’t worked like a charm.
He needed to do something about those headaches, about the root of them. And he’d decided to use this trip as planning time. Plotting time. It was long past time he did something about the mess.
“Did you have a good flight?” he asked.
“Great. Would have been better if I could have gotten surfer guy’s number.”
“That’s your type?”
“Ah ah ah!” she pointed a finger at him. “You of all people don’t get to comment on my type.”
“Me of all people?” he asked, stepping on the gas to go around the roundabout.
Frankie grabbed on to the handle mounted on the dashboard but didn’t tell him to slow down.
“If we flipped back through some of your latest conquests, we’d see one blonde skeleton after another shopping and smiling and getting her picture taken.”
It was the truth. But that’s what Manhattan had to offer. Hundreds of well-to-do socialites that looked alike, acted alike, and had the same goals in life.
“Conquests. Is that what Hang Ten back there would have been?”
“Shut up.”
Aiden slowed abruptly to slip around a pick-up truck stopping at a roadside coconut stand. He drove rarely in Manhattan and had been delighted to find that traffic laws were more suggestions than actual laws on the island. It took him back to his racing days. The one time in his life that he’d ever really felt carefree.
“Jesus, Aide,” Frankie said, gripping the handle as they entered the next roundabout.
The nickname, freely given, felt strange to him… warm, familiar. “Welcome to Barbados,” he offered, slipping out the other side of the traffic circle.
She let go of the handle to harness her hair that was blowing wildly in all directions. She coiled it on top of her head and secured it with an elastic band. He let his gaze travel down her body. The pink tank top and white cotton shorts showed off the lovely olive tone of her legs. She had Mediterranean in her lineage. He’d bet money on it. No blonde skeleton was Franchesca Baranski.
“Eyes on the road, buddy,” she said dryly.