With a Stetson and a Smile & The Bridesmaid’s Bet

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  His tires whined as he whipped into the apartment parking lot. They were out of the car in seconds, and he was pulling her along in the direction of his apartment.

  For a moment, just a moment, it reminded her of the night before, when he’d been so intent on teaching her a lesson. As they reached his front door, her heart leaped into her throat and she coughed.

  He halted, looking down at her. That sparkling glitter hadn’t left his eyes, and his gaze was hot as he ran it over her. “Okay?”

  She wasn’t sure. How bad an idea was it to make love with him again? “I’m—sticky,” she said, by way of stalling.

  His gaze narrowed, and she didn’t think he was going to let her get away so easily. “I have soap and water,” he said.

  Francesca shuffled back, toward her own apartment. “I can—my place—maybe later—”

  He shook his head. “No, Francesca.” Then without letting her go he unlocked his door.

  Still without releasing her, he drew her toward his bedroom. He passed the bed without even glancing at it and pulled her into his bathroom.

  In no time he’d adjusted the shower to a steaming spray. Then he looked at her.

  “I, uh…” She gestured toward the door. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

  He smiled, knowing and certain as his hands grasped the hem of her top. “I’m sure you will.” He whipped the fabric over her head, then reached for the waistband button of her pants.

  As he stripped her of her clothes he also stripped her of her will to resist. Clothes gone, he ran his hands over every bare inch of her, and then, after removing his own clothing, he stepped them into the shower and ran the soap over the very same paths.

  Once her skin squeaked he washed her hair, and she moaned as he massaged her scalp. Then, as the water ran cooler and cooler, he pushed her up against the tiled wall and chased the twin coursing streams of water down her puckering nipples until they became one river at her navel. He navigated that too, following it lower and lower, until, as he’d promised, Francesca did scream.

  And she screamed with pleasure again on his big bed a little while later, with Brett deep inside her and with all her doubts and fears drowned in the entwined carnal and emotional sensations of loving Brett.

  10

  FRANCESCA TRIED not to look gift sex in the mouth. That’s how she thought of it, each time she and Brett came together after the day of the barbecue—a gift. One that she might have to pay for in heartache at some later date, but a present she wasn’t going to regret now.

  She wriggled a bit against Brett’s mattress, burrowing her head more comfortably against his shoulder. When he’d come home from work he’d found her in the parking lot, making a minor repair to the gate leading to the apartments. He had something to show her in his apartment, he’d said. She’d left her tools behind and followed him, only to end up making quick and passionate love the instant they’d locked the door.

  She still had her shoes on and her T-shirt, her bra unhooked beneath it. Frowning, Francesca ran her palm over Brett’s bare chest. “Hey,” she said. “What was it you wanted to show me?”

  He might have dozed off. But then one eye half opened. “What?”

  “You got me out of the parking lot and into your apartment because you said you had something to show me,” she reminded him.

  Both his eyes opened wide. “Francesca. Honey.” His hair brushed against the white pillowcase as he moved his head from side to side in amazement.

  She pulled her brows together. “What?”

  He was shaking his head again. “You are just too cute.”

  “What?”

  “I said that to you because—” He started to laugh. “I thought you knew what I meant.” He laughed harder.

  Francesca was beginning to feel like the butt of a joke. “The only thing I know is that I’m sitting here half-naked and you’re laughing at me!”

  He tried to get serious. She could see him drawing the edges of his mouth together, but then it became too much and he was grinning again. “That’s because I brought you here to show you my, uh, my…etchings.” He hooted again.

  It started to dawn. “Etchings?” she repeated suspiciously.

  He sobered up, but the laughter was still brimming in his annoyingly bright blue eyes. “Etchings. You know. Tools? Jewels?”

  Heat burned Francesca’s cheeks. “I get it now,” she said, moving away from Brett’s side. “I must seem pretty naive to you.” Other women he’d known would have understood his innuendo right away. Gotten the joke.

  He rolled close. “You’re right about pretty.” One finger stroked her cheek. “And naive.”

  She barely registered his touch, instead looking down at herself. Her oversize T-shirt nearly reached her knees, but had a half-dollar-sized rip at her navel. Then there was the matter of the shoes. Other women would have gone to a man’s bed wearing shiny pumps or delicate sandals that could be toed off. She’d broken a lace this morning and had knotted her right sneaker on. In her hurry to be in Brett’s arms she’d merely pulled her shorts and panties right over them.

  All the gaucheness and awkwardness she’d ever felt about men and romance returned with a vengeance, cooling her skin like buckets of cold water. She shivered and rolled farther from Brett, just wanting to get back to her own apartment.

  His hand clamped on her shoulder. “Where are you going?”

  “I…”

  He hauled her back against him. “What’s going on?”

  “I just thought I’d go home now.”

  Brett stroked her hair away from her face. “Did I say or do something to hurt you?”

  Mute, she just shook her head.

  He squinted at her. “I did. You didn’t like me laughing at you.”

  “I am naive,” Francesca found herself whispering.

  He rolled her over on top of him and held her against his body. “Not naive. Just innocent. And don’t think for a moment that I don’t like it,” he said.

  She frowned, and he rubbed at the spot between her brows with his thumb. “Francesca,” he chided her gently. “I do.”

  But what did he think about her scuffed and still-on shoes? What did he think about the rip in her shirt? The unladylike way she could almost beat him at one-on-one? Insecurity tore through her again.

  Not that insecurity was a stranger. Even though she and Brett had been spending every night together, she hadn’t told anyone, not her brothers, not Elise, that they were even the most casual of items. She’d tried telling herself it was because she didn’t want to jinx what felt so right. She’d tried telling herself it was because she didn’t want her brothers to interfere in any way.

  Lies.

  She’d been silent about it because she didn’t know where she stood with him.

  Yes, she loved him. Yes, she’d willingly gone into his arms because even this little taste of Brett seemed worthwhile. But now she wasn’t so sure.

  “Francesca.” He jiggled her in his arms, turning his head to find her gaze. “Talk to me.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t see each other anymore.” The words popped out of her mouth.

  Brett’s eyes narrowed. He sat silent for a moment, staring at her. “Why?” he finally said.

  She shrugged, trying not to think about the breathtaking feel of his heart beating against hers. “I don’t know. I’m going to be busy in the next few days. The rehearsal for Elise’s wedding. The rehearsal dinner. The wedding itself.”

  Steeling herself, she focused on his raised left eyebrow. “You haven’t forgotten I’m a bridesmaid.”

  In the blink of an eye, he reversed their positions. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, his voice almost angry.

  With raw power, Brett pressed her into the mattress and insinuated his hips between her legs. “Exactly what about being a bridesmaid makes you too busy for me?”

  Francesca could barely breathe. Not because of Brett’s weight, but because she wanted him so very much. Wanted him for
ever.

  She swallowed. “I just have…things to do.” Such as protecting my heart. Better late than never.

  “Why can’t we do them together?” he asked. “I’m invited to the wedding.”

  Francesca didn’t know how to answer. Was he suggesting they attend the wedding as a couple? In front of Pop and everybody? “Well, um…”

  “And that rehearsal dinner. Isn’t it usually customary for the members of the wedding party to bring an escort?”

  Francesca wet her lips. “You mean, kind of like a boyfriend—” She stopped herself hastily. “Or a date?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Exactly like a date.”

  Exactly like a date. In front of Pop and everybody.

  She reached up to kiss Brett. If she’d been wearing the rhinestone tiara she couldn’t have felt more like a princess.

  BRETT SHOWED up at the chapel where Elise and David’s wedding would take place three days later. From a side door, he slipped into a pew, taking in that the rehearsal was already underway. David and his four groomsmen, one of whom was Carlo, were lined up beside the white-collared minister. Elise and her attendants were nowhere to be seen.

  The minister nodded to the organist, who began playing something soft and soulful. At the back of the chapel a pretty young woman appeared and then walked in measured steps up the aisle. Clutched in her hands appeared to be a paper plate covered with vari-colored gift bows.

  He must not be the only dense male in the audience—a pew away a woman whispered to another man that it was a pretend bouquet made from the ribbons on the gifts at Elise’s wedding showers. Another young woman started up the aisle with another bow bouquet. Then another woman.

  Then, finally, Francesca.

  Brett slid forward on the wooden seat. Francesca, making one of her rare appearances in a short dress and high heels, was offering a long drink of her bared legs. His heart rocketed—slam—against his chest.

  He followed her with his eyes. She’d taken more careful pains with her appearance, her eyelashes sootier than usual and her lips the same rosy color as the soft fabric of her dress.

  A primitive, caveman urge rose in him. Brett wanted to take her out of everyone else’s sight and take her home. He wanted to peel the dress off her, uncover her golden skin, kiss that rosy mouth and set his blood on fire with the feel and the taste of Francesca.

  Bending her head, she looked down at her bouquet and smiled.

  Instantly the blood in Brett’s veins stopped moving. Something about the sight of Francesca and that bouquet—she held one made up of pure, virginal white ribbons—shut down the pumping ability of his heart. Dizzy, he sucked in a breath.

  Why did that damn bouquet terrify him? Why was he suddenly afraid of Francesca?

  The rest of the rehearsal passed in a haze. Brett slumped against the hard back of the pew and stared at his knuckles and then his palms and then his knuckles again. He didn’t want to watch Francesca. Couldn’t.

  At the end of the rehearsal the bridesmaids and groomsmen were coupled and filed down the aisle. Still stupid with the weird feeling of dread, it took Brett a few minutes to realize they weren’t returning to the main part of the chapel. He finally rose, knowing he had to find Francesca and talk to her.

  She was laughing and talking to Carlo. Her brother had that edgy look about him again, but Francesca didn’t seem to notice it. “You’re going to owe me Saturday, big brother,” she said. “Don’t forget your wallet.”

  They were talking about that damn bet. A hot bubble rose from Brett’s gut. That damn bet was the source of it all. Francesca looking for a man. Francesca in his bed. Francesca walking up an aisle carrying a white bouquet and looking like everything he’d vowed never to be hurt by again.

  Carlo was shaking his head, his mood obviously black. “Give up, Franny. You don’t have a prayer.”

  Her brother’s disregard of her feelings, and her appeal, set a torch to Brett’s already-simmering anger. He reached them in two strides. “Hell, Carlo. You’re the one who should give up. You might as well settle that bet right here and now. I’ll lend you the hundred bucks myself.”

  Two pairs of astonished Italian eyes turned on him. The temperature of Brett’s anger instantly dropped. Uhoh.

  Francesca opened her mouth, closed it, opened her mouth again. “You know about our bet? How do you know about our bet?”

  Brett decided on silence as the best answer.

  Carlo narrowed his eyes. “I remember. You showed up at Pop’s right after the fact.”

  With the weight of Francesca’s gaze on him, Brett tried shrugging casually. “Yeah. Well.”

  Another moment of silence, then Francesca looked at her brother. “Go away, Carlo.”

  His forehead creased. “I don’t—”

  “Go away, Carlo,” she said again.

  With one reluctant backward look, Carlo wandered off.

  She turned back to Brett, and there was a flush on her cheeks. “You overheard us that day?”

  He could hardly deny it at this point. “Yeah.”

  She rubbed at her temple. She’d painted her nails again, and they were done more expertly now. Brett liked it better when she smeared them a bit.

  “You wouldn’t—” Her fingers pressed against her temple again. “You didn’t do all this because…because of the bet, did you?”

  He took a breath. “I couldn’t even bring myself to believe you were old enough to date.”

  She took a step back. “It was because of the bet.”

  “You could get into a lot of trouble out there,” he said, frowning at her and defending his logic. “When you’re looking for a man to win a bet.”

  “Rescuing me again, Brett?”

  He shrugged.

  “Or maybe you felt sorry for me.”

  “No.” He shook his head quickly. “I’ve never felt sorry for you.”

  Her expression hardened to a coolness he’d never seen before. “What would you call it then? How you feel about me.”

  In his pockets, his hands balled into fists. “Francesca—”

  “I want to know.” Still holding that funky bouquet, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me. Or let me try to guess. At first you thought you needed to rescue me. So you asked me out on that date. And then—and then—” She halted. “And then I asked you to make love to me. Practically forced you to.”

  “I wanted you, Francesca,” he said quietly.

  “In your bed,” she added.

  A long silence welled between them. Then Francesca drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, let it out. “So what would you call what you feel for me now?” she asked. “Desire?”

  He hated the bitter note in her voice. It made him angry all over again, because from the very beginning, for her entire life, all he’d wanted to do was protect her. From the very kind of hurt he now saw on her face.

  “Come on, Brett.” Her voice taunted him. “Desire? Or should we just call it plain old lust?”

  Goaded, he snapped back. “Francesca, what did you expect?”

  She blinked. “I thought it might be love,” she said quietly, then paused. “Just like what I feel for you.”

  He thought the top of his head might come off. “What?” he said, dread and anger twining in his belly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She bit her lower lip.

  Deliberately flexing his fingers, he forced himself to calm down. “Francesca,” he said, his voice softer. “You’re confused. What we have together—how good the sex is, that’s not love.”

  He saw her swallow. “So it’s just a physical thing?” she said. “That’s what you think?”

  “I’m certain.” He reached out to touch her, but she backed another step away. “Haven’t I always taken care of you? Taught you things you need to know?”

  Her face was still a stony mask.

  “So let me teach you something else. Don’t be so quick to claim love. Love hurts, Francesca. Don’t go looking for
it.”

  He clenched his teeth, wishing he didn’t need to say it. Wishing she hadn’t wanted to change what they had.

  “We’re through,” she said abruptly.

  Brett ran a hand through his hair. “Francesca.”

  “I don’t want your pity or your protection anymore.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t have to be this way. It doesn’t have to end. We’re good together.”

  “But we’re not in love with each other.”

  He shook his head again.

  “Goodbye, Brett.” As dignified as royalty, she inclined her head in a nod and walked away from him, her back straight and her shoulders square.

  She approached the group of people that included Carlo. Putting her hand through his arm, she drew her brother away. Guilt surged through Brett as he noticed her tight hold on Carlo.

  Damn if he didn’t feel as if he’d just burst the brightest balloon in the sky.

  IN A BOOTH at a cheesy chain coffee shop, Francesca sat across from her brother, nursing a cup of decaf from a thick white mug. “I’m having a romantic crisis,” she said. “And you bring me to a place like this?” Better to complain than to cry.

  Carlo raised his brows. “A latte would make you feel better?”

  Francesca sighed. “Guess not.” She propped her elbow on the plastic tabletop and rested her chin against her fist. “Do you think I did the right thing?” She’d told her brother the entire story, well, not the entire story, but enough for him to get the picture.

  He shrugged. Beside a few grunts, he’d been pretty silent about the whole thing.

  “That’s all you have to say? I’m giving you a chance for an ‘I told you so,’ you know.”

  Carlo smiled ruefully. “If I thought it would make either one of us feel better, I’d say it.”

  She frowned at him. “I’m not a quitter, Carlo, you know that. Yes, I gave Brett the big heave-ho, but if you think there’s a chance, something I could say that would—”

  Carlo was already shaking his head. “Forget it, Francesca.”

  “Forget it?” she echoed. This wasn’t why she’d unloaded her troubles on him. In the time that it took to drive to the coffee place, she decided she’d probably acted too hastily. “You’re supposed to help me!” Carlo had to help her concoct a plan.