by Lucy Score
“Anything for you, miss.”
“Keep the miss and call me Frankie,” she insisted. “Water for everyone, and I’ll be in your debt forever.”
“Look! Frankie’s making friends with the help again,” Margeaux crowed. “It’s cause she is the help.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, why are you such a c-word?” Pruitt demanded from Chip’s lap.
Margeaux apparently had built up quite an immunity to being called the c-word. She was too busy laughing at her own joke to respond and fell off the bench backwards. No one stopped to help her up.
Digby and Davenport materialized out of the crowd and pounced on the food. Davenport was sporting a hickey on his neck. Digby was wearing a hat he hadn’t had ten minutes ago.
Taffany eyed the table with skepticism. She nearly tackled a server who was carting a tray of beers. “Excuse me. Where is the VIP section?”
The server laughed so loud and for so long that Taffany forgot what she’d asked and sat down next to Cressida who was enthusiastically making out with a stranger.
Aiden slid onto the bench beside Frankie, who was so busy shoveling food into her mouth, eyes rolling back in her head in pleasure, that she didn’t even notice him. The moans escaping her mouth were not G-rated, and Aiden felt his blood warm.
“Nice night,” he commented.
“Oh, the best,” Frankie agreed with sarcasm, spearing a piece of grilled fish. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.”
He leaned in, crowding her. “I can.”
Those big, bright eyes looked at him warily. “What? Get mauled by Marge?”
“Not at the top of my list. Not actually anywhere on my list. She’s terrifying.”
Frankie snorted. “Well, at least you’re not completely stupid.”
“Not completely,” he agreed.
Aiden dropped his hand to the sliver of bench between them, his knuckles grazing her bare thigh. Testing. She jumped at the contact but didn’t bite his head off. And what he read in her eyes? It was that quick spark of desire. He wanted to see it again. He wanted to watch it blaze to life.
Testing, he placed his hand on Frankie’s knee under the table. Her skin was smooth, silk-like under his palm. And he wanted more.
She was still watching him. “What’s your game, Kilbourn?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. He moved his hand an inch higher, watching her watch him.
He was hard, not just half-mast but achingly, throbbingly hard, and all he’d touched was her leg. Testing again, he let the tips of his fingers trace small circles up the inside of her thigh.
She reached for her beer and drank deeply but didn’t ask him to stop. Didn’t call him an asshole. He didn’t know what he was doing, what he hoped to gain from it. He just wanted to keep touching her.
Another inch, another circle. Was it his imagination? Was she opening her legs just a little wider? Her knee pressed into his. His food was forgotten in front of him. The laughter and chatter around the table disappeared as his world refined itself down to just Franchesca. The only thing he was aware of was Frankie’s silk-like skin and the hem of her dress, the way her lips were parting as if to draw a breath.
When would she stop him?
“This is stupid,” she whispered, her eyelids heavy.
“So stupid,” Aiden agreed.
“I don’t like you.”
“Yes, you do.”
She dropped her hand to his thigh and squeezed. “I don’t like to be left out.” His cock throbbed painfully an inch from her fingers. He gritted his teeth. He felt like a horny teenager, unable to control his body in the presence of a pretty girl. But Franchesca was more than just pretty. She was a temptress.
He toyed with the hem of her dress. Just another inch higher and he’d catch a glimpse of what she wore underneath. He wanted to stroke his fingers over the lace or silk or cotton whatever she’d covered herself with. Wanted to trace the edge of it until she was begging with her body. Then he’d slip his fingers underneath and trace that wet seam that protected what he wanted most—
“Franchesca, right?”
She jumped a mile, yanking her hand away from his lap. He missed the contact immediately. Aiden could practically hear his dick whimper.
“Oh, my God. Hot Aussie Surfer,” Frankie breathed, shoving Aiden’s hand away from her promised land.
Chapter Eight
Frankie was one second away from spontaneously combusting. Why had she let Aiden Kilbourn take his fingers on a walking tour of her inner thigh? And why had hot surfer guy magically appeared the second that she was going to let Aiden do dirty, evil things to her?
“It’s Brendan, actually,” he told her with a crooked grin. His hair was still messy, his eyes still blue, and his body was still rocking under a t-shirt and worn cargo shorts.
“Still Frankie,” she said, smiling until she felt Aiden’s fingers skim up the back of her thigh.
She slapped at his hand behind her while grinning maniacally up at Brendan. Aiden captured her hand and gave it a hard squeeze. Message received.
“’Scuse me!” Taffany waved and crawled across the picnic table revealing her nether region to all of Uncle George’s. “I’m Taffany,” she announced extending her hand, knuckles up to Brendan.
The surfer shot Frankie a “what the fuck” look before accepting Taffany’s hand.
“Taffany, yeah? That’s an… interesting name.”
“I rebranded myself,” Taffany announced proudly, shoving her hand toward his mouth. “Kiss it!”
Frankie stepped between them and broke Taffany’s hold on the surfer. He shook his hand to get the circulation back.
“Anyway, I’m happy I ran into you. I was hoping I’d see you here.”
“Yeah, me too,” Frankie said. Her brain wasn’t working fast enough. She could feel Aiden glaring holes into her. “You want to dance? Way over there. Away from here?”
He flashed a dimple at her. “Love to.”
Frankie wrestled her hand away from Aiden. “Be back in a few minutes, Pru,” she called to the bride.
“Have fun storming the castle,” Pru sang.
“Feed her and water her,” Frankie ordered Chip as Brendan led her into the crowd.
She’d held hands with two men tonight. One she didn’t like at all and one she’d developed an instacrush on. So why didn’t instacrush give her the pterodactyls in her stomach like Aiden had?
Brendan spun her around, and the crowd flashed by in colors and scents. He pulled her back, and she laughed.
“So, what’s a pretty American like you doing in a place like this?” he asked, dimpling adorably for her.
Frankie felt… nothing. God. Damn. It. A cute, sexy, funny guy who was built to be on some kind of fundraising calendar holding a puppy was swirling her around a dancefloor, and all she could think about was Aiden’s finger prints on her thigh. That son of bitch was ruining her life.
“I’m babysitting several drunk women so everyone will show up for the wedding tomorrow. How about you, surf here often?”
He grinned, and again she felt less than nothing. Aiden Kilbourn was the fucking devil, and she was going to murder his face.
Brendan launched into an explanation of his travel habits, following the surf and whatnot. She should have been charmed, excited, hell, she should have been wet. She must have had some bad rum or beer or fish. It was the only logical explanation.
“Excuse me, Franchesca.” The hand on her shoulder sent a prairie fire racing through her veins. “Pruitt requires your attention,” Aiden announced a bit too smugly for Frankie’s liking.
Cressida, all five foot eleven of her, was peering over his shoulder. “I will dance with you,” she announced, pulling Brendan into her leanly muscled arms.
“Uhhh,” Brendan looked over his shoulder at Frankie as Cressida dragged him into the night.
“What the hell was that?” Frankie hissed.
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Aiden gripped her around the waist. “Exactly what I was wondering. I’m not used to being thrown over, Franchesca.”
“Look, we either had too much to drink, or we’re coming down with food poisoning. Those are the only explanations I can come up with for why—”
He cut her off and pushed her behind a fish stand. She could hear the cooks and servers shouting at each other from the open window above her head. “I thought you said Pru needed me,” she snapped.
He reached out and tucked a wayward curl behind her ear, and there were those fucking pterodactyls. It wasn’t fair.
“Maybe it wasn’t Pru. Maybe it was me.”
“Aiden, this is a terrible idea. And maybe Brendan showing up was the best thing that could have happened. He saved us from making a huge mistake.”
“Don’t fuck him.” He laid down the gauntlet, and despite the lack of pterodactyls where Brendan was concerned, Aiden’s proclamation made the surfer more attractive.
“I fuck who I want, when I want.”
“You want me.”
If Aiden put his hands on her here, there’d be no denying it. She’d be too busy climbing him like a mountain and unzipping his shorts. Distance was her friend. Distance would keep her sane.
She held up her hands. “Let’s not get carried away. We’re here for Pru and Chip and their wedding. That’s it. Not some tropical sexathon.” Though when she put it that way and Aiden was looking at her like she was a popsicle begging to be licked, Frankie had trouble reminding herself why she couldn’t have both.
“Franchesca.” The way he said her name sounded like a threat.
“Aiden,” she shot back.
“Fuck.” He took a step back, rubbing absently at his forehead. “I don’t know why you’re saying no.”
“I’m worth more than a quick bang on the beach. I take sex seriously. I have to like the person I’m fucking.”
There was a tic in his jaw.
“You were seconds away from letting me shove my fingers—”
“Stop!” She cut him off, not mentally prepared to hear what he’d been about to do with those beautiful fingers. “I made a mistake. I got carried away. But I have the right to change my mind at any time whether your dick’s out or not.”
“I would never force you to do anything you didn’t want to do.”
“Damn it, Aiden. Look. Maybe my body wants your body. But if I don’t want the rest of you, then it’s not happening.”
“I don’t do relationships. But what I can offer—”
“Christ, I’m not talking about relationships. I’m talking about liking you as a person.”
“You keep saying you don’t like me, but I think you’re trying to convince yourself.”
“My prerogative. Got it? Bottom line, you’re not getting in my pretty pink thong. I don’t like you enough for that. Now, I need a minute and some air. Do me a favor and check on Pru and the rest of those idiots.”
She turned, ruining her exit by tripping over an empty crate outside the shack’s back door. But she didn’t fall on her face. Picking her way toward the sidewalk, Frankie didn’t relax until she could no longer feel the burning weight of Aiden’s gaze on her.
“What is with that guy?” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t like him, yet she was more than happy to let him meander a trail up her thigh to her happy place. She felt like her blood had turned to electricity, zinging through her veins at impossible speeds. He was cold, judgmental, reserved. Hell, he’d assumed she was a stripper. That alone should banish him from her bed for life.
Frankie picked her way through the crowd on the sidewalk. Cab drivers catcalled fares, and drunken tourists stumbled into ZRs, the island’s minivan transportation. For a buck U.S., you could get pretty much anywhere from Bridgetown to St. Lawrence Gap. A group of local girls dressed to the nines wandered by giggling as a group of boys followed a half step behind.
She spotted Chip ahead, looking around as if he was lost. He was standing on the sidewalk ahead of the cab line weaving like a man who’d ingested nothing but rum for an entire weekend.
She raised her hand to hail him. But before she could call out to him, a dirty white van roared up to the sidewalk, the rear door sliding open before it stopped. Chip leaned in, and that’s when Frankie saw the hands reach out. They dragged him into the van.
“Hey! Chip!” She started running. The driver, a red cap pulled low, looked her way. “Stop! That’s my friend!” Frankie yelled.
“Hey, Mami,” the driver said, tossing her a wave as he floored the accelerator. Tires squealing, the door slammed shut with Chip inside, and the van sped away from the curb.
The groom had just been kidnapped.
Chapter Nine
Aiden was under a full head of steam as he stormed his way through the fish festival crowd. When he found Frankie, he was going to explain that she was being an idiot. Which would probably go over well. Aiden liked having the edge, the advantage in negotiations. And Frankie’s weakness was when she let her emotions off the leash. Mad, turned on, that’s when she was vulnerable to suggestion.
It was callous, calculating. But he was a Kilbourn. It’s what they did.
He spotted her on the sidewalk, and his calculations disappeared as if they’d never been when he saw the fear on her face. She was hailing a cab.
“Franchesca!” he pushed his way to her just as a rusty ZR van clunked to a stop in front of her. There were a half dozen people already on it.
“Aiden!” She grabbed his arm. “Get in!”
Instinctively, he followed her onto the torn-up vinyl of a bench seat.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Where you going?” the driver demanded.
“Follow that car,” Frankie announced, pointing at taillights ahead.
The ZR lurched to a start, and Aiden braced his hand on the seat in front of him. “What in the hell is going on?” he demanded.
“They took Chip.” Her breath was coming in heaves as she peered over the front seat…
“What? Who took Chip?”
“I don’t know. One second he was standing on the sidewalk, and the next, someone was dragging him into a minivan.”
Aiden yanked his phone out. And dialed Chip’s number. There was no answer.
A bell rang and the ZR jerked to a stop in front of a sports bar.
“Why are we stopping?” Frankie asked. “They’re getting away!”
“Lady, this is a Zed-R. We stop for everyone.”
A man dressed in all white with a hand carved cane climbed out of the back and over Frankie to the door. The van sat as he shuffled his way across the street toward the bar.
Aiden reached for his money clip. “How much for no more stops?” he demanded, handing twenties to the remaining passengers.
“I can be late,” a woman with a sleeping toddler in her lap said with a smile stuffing the twenty into her bra.
“WooHoo!” A man in an orange and black Hawaiian shirt with a peeling sunburn on his nose and forehead triumphantly held up his twenty. “I love this country! I’m getting’ paid to take public transportation.”
“Whatever you say, mister,” the driver said, accepting his bill and flooring it.
The minivan was well out of sight and Franchesca was practically vibrating beside him. Aiden slid an arm around her shoulder, anchoring her to his side.
The ZR shuffled forward slowly building speed like a freight train. The driver cranked up the volume of a reggae song and merrily swerved around a trio of potholes. Aiden dialed Chip again. Still nothing.
He swore quietly, his brain turning over the problem. Who would take Chip the night before his wedding, and why?
“Franchesca, tell me everything you remember,” he said, squeezing her shoulder.
“Everything I remember? Our friend was just dragged off the sidewalk into a fucking van!” Conversation in the ZR shut down as everyone leaned in
to listen.
“I got that part already. Now, walk me through everything that you saw.”
She went over it again and then once more as the van careened north. Her body shifting against his around turns.
“The driver—he looked at me when I called for Chip—he had a gold tooth and a dirty red cap. But he had it pulled low over his face. That’s all I saw. I didn’t see who grabbed Chip, but the drunk dumbass stuck his head right in the van. He made it easy for them.”
They careened around a sharp turn, slipping into a traffic circle six inches in front of a city bus. The driver tooted the horn in either a friendly thank you or a fuck off. Aiden couldn’t tell.
Frankie’s hands were white knuckled on the seatback in front of her.
“Are you sure he didn’t get in willingly?” Aiden asked squeezing her arm.
She shook her head. “I didn’t hear him scream or anything, but he didn’t climb into that van by himself. Everyone he knows here is back at the fish stand. Who would do this?”
It was a question Aiden had been asking himself. Chip Rudolph was squeaky clean. No gambling debts, no secret second lives. Just a trust fund kid amiably enjoying his very privileged world. Aiden scrolled through everything he and Chip had discussed in the past few weeks. Had his friend mentioned any issues? Any squabbles in the family? At work?
“You don’t think Pru’s dad would have done this. Do you?” Frankie asked, eyes wide.
“He hates Chip,” Aiden conceded. “But I don’t see R.L. Stockton plotting an abduction. He’d just stick it to Chip in the prenup.”
“Which he did,” Frankie pointed out.
“That he did,” Aiden agreed. He’d cautioned Chip against signing it, but his friend wouldn’t hear of it.
“Still, maybe something Chip did pissed R.L. off?” Franchesca mused.
