“Sorry,” it said. “Forgive me?” in a masculine slash.
Brett wanted her to forgive him. Before Francesca could decide if she did or not, the front bell rang again.
“I’ll get it.” Elise ran to the door and in seconds was back. “Another florist,” she said. She thrust a small cool box into Francesca’s hands.
Francesca slipped into a chair and set the white box on the tabletop. Conscious of the impatient Elise, she worked quicker now and opened the lid to find the most beautiful creation inside. More pink roses, one in full bloom and two half-opened blossoms, cunningly set with delicate bows of tulle ribbon and a circle of silver elastic.
“It’s a wrist corsage,” Elise said. “Who is sending you a wrist corsage? And why is someone sending you one?”
A corsage. Francesca touched the edge of the fragile ribbon. She’d never had one before. She’d always wanted one. She’d told Brett.
“Look.” Elise pointed to another tiny card tucked into the box.
No envelope this time. “Be my date tonight?”
Francesca’s heart clenched. The doorbell rang again.
“This is getting good.” Elise ran for the door and was back in seconds. “No flowers this time. Just some generic delivery guy.”
Another box, this one larger and wrapped in silver paper with a big pink bow. Francesca’s palms started to sweat. She pushed it toward Elise. “You open it.”
“No way. Just hurry up.”
Francesca took a breath and tore into the paper. Then opened the lid of the box. And almost suffocated by forgetting to take a second breath.
The box was filled with silver-spangled tissue paper. And cushioned in the middle of it was a rhinestone tiara. The most sparkly, delicate and fantasy-fulfilling crown that Francesca had ever seen.
Even Elise was speechless.
Inside this box was a card too. “Be my princess tonight.”
Both Elise and Francesca reached for a brownie at the same instant. Their eyes met as they both took huge, chocolaty bites.
“This is from Brett,” Elise said around her mouthful.
Francesca nodded.
“Brett whom you’re supposed to be taking The Cure from tonight.”
Francesca nodded again.
Elise looked back at what had just been delivered. Francesca followed her gaze. Flowers, corsage, crown. They sighed together.
“Well?” Elise said, the question in her eyes.
Francesca held up her brownie. “You said it, Elise. Sometimes we just gotta have the worst thing for us.”
BRETT KNOCKED on the Plexiglas shield to signal the limo driver to stop in the apartment parking lot. Then Brett exited the long white car.
He couldn’t let Francesca feel he’d rejected her. God knew he’d caught her at a vulnerable time in her life, what with that stupid bet. He couldn’t let himself pierce her heart when he was the one trying to protect it.
So he had to let her see that she attracted him. As dangerous as it could be, it seemed the right thing was to let her know he thought she was beautiful and desirable.
Tonight the plan was to give her everything she’d yearned for. The corsage, the crown, the ride in the limo. It didn’t take a great intellect to see Francesca thought those were the things that would make her a woman.
Those and a man’s desire.
That was the easy part. Tonight Brett would let her see what she did to him. He wouldn’t go too far, but just far enough for her to know what power she had. And then he’d let her go.
He walked toward Francesca’s apartment, promising himself to get this evening right. At midnight the princess would realize she really was one, and then she could move on to find her future prince.
FRANCESCA FIDGETED, impatient for Brett to pick her up. She inspected the contents of her purse, adjusted the strap of her new sandals, found a tissue to wipe the persistent dampness from her palms. Finally she returned to her bedroom to admire the sparkle of the tiara Brett had sent. It sat upon her pillow, winking at her in the fading light, as if it knew something that she didn’t.
She wanted to get on with the date. Not that she had any idea why she was so anxious for it to begin. Without a clue as to how she wanted to behave toward Brett, or of what she expected or wanted from him, it might be better if their evening out was postponed until she had a plan.
Still, she paced quickly back to the living room. At the front door she went on tiptoe and put one eye to the peephole. No Brett, not yet. Unable to contain her anxiousness, she opened her front door and peeked down the walkway.
He was heading her way.
Francesca whipped back inside and slammed the front door, squeezing shut her eyes.
It didn’t help. God. She could still see him, his image burned upon her retinas. Brett, wearing a black tuxedo that lightened the burnished gold of his hair and made his eyes the blue of the kind of wicked promises a good girl wasn’t supposed to want.
And suddenly, in the wink of a rhinestone, Francesca didn’t want to be a good girl anymore.
Her heart started thrumming against her breastbone.
To put a finer point on it, she wanted to be bad with Brett.
She gulped, stunned by the instant, unwavering certitude. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea that she’d ever had. Maybe not the most logical goal. But the second she’d seen him in that tuxedo, she’d immediately leaped to the idea of lying naked in his arms, and there came a sense, a rightness that she’d never experienced before.
Call it woman’s intuition.
And she’d wanted to feel womanly her entire life.
Her hands started to tremble.
Brett. Her first lover was going to be Brett. It had to be Brett.
She racked her brain for every hint, any scrap of advice she’d ever heard or read. How did she make this happen? How could she make this evening end the way she wanted?
She took one last look in the mirror beside the door, too late rethinking the sweet pink of her dress, the long time she’d spent treading the safe and narrow.
Could Brett be persuaded to walk her over to the wild side?
And did she have the nerve to try?
BRETT BUTTONED the jacket of his tuxedo, then knocked on Francesca’s door. His lips curved as the door swung inward, then the smile dropped away as his jaw fell open.
Damn.
He’d never seen a sight more gorgeous. A woman more arousing.
In a dress of transparent pink layers, Francesca looked like a fairy. Somewhere beneath the filmy stuff was a tight-fitting sheath that accentuated her sculpted body and revealed inches of that cleavage that constantly surprised him.
Her hair was swept up in a dark knot, and one wavy tendril floated over her cheek and pointed in the direction of her pink, wet-looking mouth.
Damn. He thought he was going to die.
Clearing his throat, he tried to get a hold of himself. “Fr—” The sound came out hoarse. “Francesca,” he finally said, clenching his fists to keep from reaching for her.
“Brett,” she said softly, her little smile torture to him.
He tightened his fists again. Then suddenly it hit him. He didn’t need to hold back. Tonight was all about showing her how she made him feel.
How she could make any man feel, he reminded himself.
He reached for her hand. It was warm and soft and the corsage on her wrist made her fingertips smell like roses. He flattened her palm against his cheek. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what?”
That she’d grown up. That she was here with him. That he could make it through tonight without going too far.
That he could ever let her go.
He shook his head to shake loose the thought. “The limo is waiting.”
Her eyes widened. “No!”
He laughed. God, she enchanted him. “Of course. You said you wanted to ride in one.”
She shut the door behind her, then stopped and looked at him suspiciously. “You�
�re not taking me to a senior prom, are you? Because if you are I’ll have to go back in and get my crown.”
He laughed again. “No. That was just a…symbol. I thought we’d go to dinner and go dancing. Maybe ride around in the limo later.”
She sighed dramatically. “A limo.” She went on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Perfect.”
That brief kiss zipped right into his bloodstream like a shot of whisky. He closed his eyes. If looking at her made him breathless, if her lips on his cheek made his blood heat, how would he survive the rest of the evening?
7
BRETT SURVIVED the evening with surprising ease, he discovered. Mostly because, unlike him, Francesca seemed completely unaffected by anything between them, fascinated instead by the limousine’s accoutrements and the limousine driver himself.
She flipped through every TV channel, played several FM stations, inspected the crystal stemware, the appetizers, and refused a glass of chilled champagne. After the five minutes that took, she slid back the partition separating them from the driver and for the rest of the way to the restaurant quizzed the older man on how long he’d driven, whom he’d driven, and if he’d ever gotten lost.
Brett tried not to feel neglected. After all, this evening was about her. And she seemed to be having a good time, though slightly nervous. Through dinner she chattered away, entertaining him with wacky stories about apartment managing and the escapades of their mostly elderly tenants.
The limousine must have been a big hit for her, because after they ate she wanted to ride around in it instead of finding a dance club.
Bemused, Brett agreed. So much for the problems he’d anticipated. Though he’d planned to show her his desire for her, he’d also worried that he might take it too far. As it was, she was treating him like one of the brothers she usually complained about.
She avoided his touch, avoided any kind of personal conversation. Back in the limo, she retreated to the farthest, darkest corner of the long seat. It was left to Brett to dim the interior lights and securely draw down the partition that gave them complete privacy.
Without asking, he poured her a glass of champagne. The limo smoothly rolled forward as he slid down her seat to hold it out to her.
Just as she leaned forward to reach for it, the limo took a quick corner, lurching her toward him.
There wasn’t time for either one of them.
No time for her to catch herself.
No time for him to stop the champagne glass from falling to the carpeted floor.
No time for her to prevent herself from falling across him and no time for him to stop the instant hot reaction he had to Francesca lying across his lap.
He stared down at her dark and mysterious eyes. He watched her breasts rise and fall in a quick, involuntary breath.
And as if a switch had suddenly turned on, a high-voltage, sexual buzz filled the interior of the limo.
NERVOUS AS A DUCK in a pillow factory, all night long Francesca had babbled and forked food in her mouth and more than expressed her interest in the limousine, all because she didn’t know how to let Brett know she wanted him.
That she meant to have him.
Thank goodness for that quick right turn. After a speedy mental promise to slip the limo driver a hefty tip, Francesca sank into the dizzying warmth of Brett’s arms.
Heart accelerating, she tried to smile. “Well, hello.”
There was blue fire in his eyes. “So you noticed I’m here.”
Just every breath. Just every eyelash flutter and every movement of his long, strong fingers. “Yes,” she said simply, still unsure how to proceed.
He pulled her closer against his chest. “Comfortable?” he asked.
She swallowed. No. She was edgy and nervous and she felt like she needed to shed her skin.
One of his forefingers traced the arch of her eyebrow. Heat shot from that single point of contact to radiate down her body.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and there was something new and dark and exciting in his voice. “I want to kiss you.”
“Oh?” she said quickly, her voice squeaking with nerves. Oh? She wanted to slap herself silly. What kind of response was “Oh?”
“What do you say?”
Say yes. Say please. Say take me. But her mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. “I’ve never made out in a car,” she said instead, all squeaky with anxiety again.
“No?” One of his eyebrows shot up, and he seemed calm, cool, collected, even amused. “It’s highly overrated.”
“Coming from one who knows?”
He grinned. “I’ve been a teenager, remember?”
She made a face. “Don’t forget I was one, too.”
His smile faded and he lifted her closer to him. “Francesca, I wish…”
Her heart kicked into the next higher gear. “You wish?”
But he didn’t answer. “What happened?” he said instead. “That tuneups and dresses problem again? Why didn’t you ever make out in a car?”
At her shrug, his grip tightened on her shoulders. He pulled her up so she sat in his lap instead of across his legs. “I hate myself for this,” he said, frowning. “But I’m glad you haven’t.”
The protective comment didn’t rankle. For the first time she didn’t feel she’d missed out, not when she hoped Brett might rectify the situation any instant.
“Brett?”
He was staring into her face. “Mmm?”
“Didn’t you say you wanted to kiss me?”
He groaned. “Francesca…”
Her heart slowed down a bit. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Isn’t knowing I want to enough?”
No. Only all of him would be enough.
“Francesca, don’t look at me like that….” He groaned again, as if he was in real pain.
Francesca’s heart skidded to a halt. She licked her lips. “Is this—is this about Patricia?” she asked hesitantly. Great. Here she’d been only thinking of herself. Was it painful for Brett to be in another woman’s arms?
He shook his head. “This is about you, Francesca. I promise. Only about you.”
“Okay, then.” In relief, she bounced a little against his lap.
“Francesca.” Another long groan.
Uncertain, she froze, but then she thought about what she was feeling beneath her backside. Not just hard male thighs, but…hard male.
Maybe they weren’t so far from the wild side after all.
She swallowed, steeling herself to be as direct as she had to be. As she wanted to be. “Brett,” she said softly. “Thank you. Thank you for tonight. You fulfilled my teenage fantasies.”
He pulled back his head, as if he realized something more was coming. “And? But? Though? However?” he said, looking at her suspiciously.
Francesca drew in a breath. A little do-or-die impulse had been nurtured in her from the day she opened her eyes and met the gazes of her four older brothers. It roared to life now, breathing enough dragon fire to cinderize any princessy qualms.
Just tell him what you want, the impulse prodded. Ask for it. You might not always win, taking on a challenge, but where was the glory in playing it safe?
She wet her lips again and tried looking assured. Whenever you went, um, guts to the wall, you had to be confident. She ran one fingertip across his cheekbone and watched the muscle in his jaw tick in reaction. You could be devious, too, if you needed to.
She smoothed back his hair. “Come on, Brett. Just once. Kiss me.”
He briefly closed his eyes, then gave in. His lips pushed hard against hers and then eased to seduce them soft and open. Her heartbeat slammed against her breast as she felt him enter her mouth with his tongue. Chills shivered down her skin, heat burned deep in her belly.
He lifted his head, his eyes a blazing-hot blue. “You’re a witch,” he said.
Maybe so. Because inside her, confidence built and the dragon roared, adding to the sexual fire that she didn’t bother hiding anymor
e.
She touched his face again, even more determined. “Now that we’ve done the teenage stuff, I thought we could grow up,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady as she laid it straight on the line. “I thought you might make love to me.”
I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT make love to me.
Brett couldn’t get the words out of his head, even though the minute she’d uttered them he’d slid her off his lap and instructed the driver to take them back to the apartment complex pronto.
She looked at him now, eyebrows raised, as if still waiting for him to answer the question.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t even think about it.”
A little smile curved her lips. “If you’re talking to me, it’s way too late.”
She bent over to retrieve the champagne flute that had fallen to the floor and set it in one of the built-in holders. Her hair had half fallen from its knot and trailed down her back. Smooth and silky, it curled against the sheer pink fabric, and he wanted to touch the stuff, then touch her skin, then do to her all the things she didn’t know she was asking for when she’d said, I thought you might make love to me.
She took up a fresh glass. “Some champagne, please?” she said, holding it out to him. The chilled bottle was on his side of the limousine.
“No!” Somebody needed a clear head, and his was more than muddled.
She frowned and reached across him to grasp the bottle herself. “It’s perfectly legal.”
He pressed back against his seat so her arm wouldn’t brush him. “Well you shouldn’t be,” he muttered.
Champagne glug-glugged into her glass. “I heard that,” she said, then lifted her glass in his direction. Her gaze captured his. “To us,” she said.
He couldn’t look away. Like static electricity, sex still crackled in the air, and he called himself every son-of-a-curse he could think of for starting on this path to disaster.
She took a swallow of champagne. It was the kind of swallow that loosened inhibitions, and he edged farther away from her.
“You haven’t answered the question,” she said.
With a Stetson and a Smile & The Bridesmaid’s Bet Page 25