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

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  A small smile crossed her face and gleamed in the near darkness. “My hero!” she said lightly, then led the way to her apartment, unlocking the door and flipping on the entry hall light. On a nearby hook, she hung her baseball cap.

  Brett halted, blinking. “Franny?” For an instant, he thought he’d followed the wrong woman home.

  He could see her clearly now. The dark hair that had been in a ponytail earlier in the day now brushed her shoulders. The stuff’s shine was so glossy he thought maybe he could see his reflection. More glossiness, wispy layers of it, framed a face that was so like he remembered—and yet so different.

  Her half smile faltered. “It’s me. A new hairstyle today, but me.”

  But it wasn’t. The Franny that Brett held in his memory had been a little squirt with big dark eyes and a baby nose. This Franny—Francesca—still had the big dark eyes. She still had the cute little nose. But now she had cheekbones and warm golden skin and a mouth with full, lush lips that looked ripe and ready for kissing.

  Damn. He stood there, arms full of packages, and couldn’t think of one rational thing to say.

  She saved him by turning away and leading him toward the living room. He preferred this view of her. In loose jeans and a T-shirt she looked like the girl he remembered.

  She threw him a quick look over her shoulder and cleared her throat. “I never really welcomed you back today, did I?”

  No, she’d hightailed it out of her father’s kitchen nearly the moment he’d entered it. “You said you had someplace to go.”

  She gestured toward an easy chair and he dropped the bags he’d been carrying onto its seat.

  “I had some work to do,” she said. “Shopping.”

  He almost smiled. Few women would think of shopping as “work.” Then he figured she was working on winning that bet.

  He didn’t like how that bothered him. Hadn’t he decided not to get involved? “I better head out,” he said abruptly, taking a step toward the front door.

  His quick movement upset the pile of packages on the easy chair. A wide-mouthed shopping bag slid off the top, spilling several tissue-wrapped items and a small box onto the floor.

  They both bent to gather them up. She looked at him over the disarray of clothes, a little smile playing over that brand-new mouth of hers. “Remember the time you took me to the mall?”

  And suddenly he did. She’d wanted something new to wear to her first sixth-grade dance. Her brothers had groaned and moaned until Brett had volunteered to give her a ride. And then somehow she’d coerced him into actually shopping, in claustrophobia-inducing stores that smelled like bubblegum and hairspray. What a sucker he’d been for her.

  Now she stood, rubbing her hands against her pants in a nervous gesture. “Do you, uh, have something important to do right now?”

  Caution made him shuffle back a step. “I need to go. I’m supposed to—” Looking into her big brown eyes, he couldn’t think of anything he was supposed to do except continue looking.

  Her eyebrows rose toward her fringe of bangs. “Really? Darn. I was hoping I could show you what I bought today. Get your opinion. I made a major dent in my credit card and I’m a little nervous about it.”

  Brett nearly groaned. He was supposed to be keeping his distance. “Why me?”

  She smiled. “Because you’re perfect. An interested, disinterested party.”

  He shook his head as if to clear it. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

  “That I can persuade you to stay, and when I ask if you like something, no matter what you think you’ll say yes.” That smile of hers widened into a grin.

  Something hot shot through Brett. “Maybe I should get Carlo.” For both their sakes. “Or Nicky. I think he’s still at your dad’s. Or all three of them.”

  Franny frowned. “If even one of the men in my family had an ounce of good taste, do you think I’d look like this?”

  She held her arms away from her body, and as instructed, Brett looked. As he’d noticed before, she wore jeans and a T-shirt.

  “What? You look fine.” He tried to find an apt word. “Useful.”

  “Useful,” she repeated. She turned her back and began restacking her purchases. “Like I could change a tire if I had to?”

  She was pretty small for torquing lug nuts off a hub, but he didn’t want to insult her. “Ready to go bowling, maybe.”

  She groaned. “That bad?”

  Brett realized he’d said something wrong. Franny must not like to bowl anymore, though she’d gone dozens of times with them when she was a kid. “A tire,” he said hastily. “You look like you could definitely change a tire.”

  Franny sighed. “I think I’m convinced every penny was worth it.”

  Though he hadn’t wanted to get involved, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings, either. “I’ll go now,” he said, taking a few more steps back.

  She was already unwrapping the tissue from the first item on the stack. With a flick of her wrist, something skimpy and soft unfurled. Before he made it to the doorway, she turned and held it up against her. “What do you think of this?”

  He froze. Plastered against Franny’s body was a sleeveless sweater of some sort of soft rose-colored knit fabric.

  “Cashmere,” she said. “Do you like the color?”

  It matched the color in her cheeks, and her lips were shaded just one tone darker. She pressed her palm against her stomach, pinning the little thing even closer to her form, showing the sweet curve of her breasts and accenting the slimness of her waist.

  Franny had a top half that was two handfuls of temptation.

  Brett immediately wanted to kick himself. This was Franny. He regarded her as a sister.

  Not anymore, a little devil inside him whispered.

  Yes, he insisted in return. After Patricia’s death he wasn’t in the running for anything else.

  Franny must have taken his silence as approval, because she started dropping bags to the floor and tossing new clothes across the couch. Short skirts and tight tops in a rainbow of pinks and blues.

  The last bag floated to the floor. “Well?” she said.

  Well, he wished he’d left twenty minutes ago.

  “Wait! Wait! Don’t say anything yet!” She dug through one last bag to pull out a perfume atomizer. One spritz filled the room with a scent that was light but seductive. Spicy and sweet. He imagined it warmed by Franny’s smooth skin.

  “What do you think? As a man, I mean? Does it, uh, entice you?”

  “Entice me?” The thought had a dangerous appeal.

  She flushed. “Not you, of course. I didn’t mean—I’m sorry if that offended you. I know that Patricia’s death—that you—”

  “It’s okay.”

  The color on her cheeks receded. “What I’m asking is what you think. I’m usually a jeans-and-sweatshirt kind of woman. Will I look good in this stuff?”

  He knew she was really asking if, wearing it, she’d find a man—some man who could win her that bet. And after what must be major wear and tear to her credit card’s magnetic strip, she probably hadn’t enough left to come up with Carlo’s hundred bucks. Still, Brett didn’t like the idea of Franny shedding her jeans and putting on a skirt for anyone but—

  For anyone.

  The whole thing was none of his business, though.

  And sure, Carlo was a jerk for pulling the stunt, but Franny looked more than a little excited by the whole bet idea.

  He didn’t like that, either.

  “Well?” she said impatiently. “Give it to me straight.”

  He shook his head, eyeing the cavalcade of sexiness strewn across the couch cushions. “I’m just sorry for whoever you unleash this on.”

  Her smile was brilliant. “Thank you, Brett. Thank you.” Her expression turned impish. “You can witness it for yourself tomorrow night.”

  Oh, no. The last thing he wanted to do was that. He was staying out of the Milano family business. Franny’s business.

  “W
e’re going out together. Carlo, Nicky, all of us. David Lee and Elise, too.”

  She would have her brothers there to watch over her. “I don’t think—”

  “I’m going to wear this.” She plucked a skimpy, stretchy dress out of the pile. It was violet. Something that winked like stars dotted the fabric. The short skirt swung as she held it up.

  Of course, it had been one of her brothers who had started this whole, dangerous mess. “Tomorrow night I—”

  “Haven’t another thing to do. Come on. It’ll be good for you to go out, Brett.”

  “N—”

  She touched his arm. He couldn’t think for a moment. It had been so long since a woman had touched him. More than eighteen months and four days.

  “Come with me,” Franny said.

  She should have said “us,” he thought. Then he could have refused. But the “me” made him think of her out alone at night in the violet-and-stars dress that would mold her breasts and swish around her thighs.

  “Yes,” he said.

  2

  STALLED by the large crowd filtering through the entry to the country club’s banquet room, Francesca tried to separate the notes of the light rock pouring out the door from those of the country band playing on a nearby patio. Then the logjam ahead broke up and she followed the rest of her group inside. The charity fund-raiser—sponsored by two radio stations and some local businesses including the accounting firm Elise’s David worked for—was packed, and Francesca was instantly separated from the others. On tiptoe to see over the shoulders of those around her, she finally located her brothers Nicky and Joe, who had already commandeered a couple of tables for the eight in their party.

  Francesca skirted the dance floor and took the last seat available, squeezing herself in between Brett and Carlo. Judging by their stiff expressions, they weren’t going to be the cheeriest of table mates.

  She sighed. Carlo’s mood mystified her, but she took some responsibility for Brett’s. From all reports, he continued to deeply mourn his fiancée and longtime love, Patricia, who had died so tragically. Maybe twisting his arm to come along tonight hadn’t been such a good idea.

  Elise’s fiancé, David, and Nicky were grousing about the lack of cocktail waitresses. From the other table Elise sent Francesca a significant look and then rolled her eyes in the direction of a group of men by the bar that was set up on the other side of the room.

  Right. She wasn’t here to fix Brett, but to fix herself up with a man who could win her that bet at the end of the month.

  Elise had suggested going to this event as a way to launch Francesca into circulation. In case she felt insecure wearing a new dress, makeup and high heels, she had family and friends as a comfortable homebase. Leaning forward, Francesca put her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand to survey the guys Elise had pointed out.

  The right age and not drunk. Two excellent starting points.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Brett’s voice made her start. “We’ve given up on the waitress.”

  “Oh, um, sure. A glass of red wine would be great,” Francesca said, reaching for her purse.

  Brett grinned, his sudden smile startling her. “Don’t worry about it. Carlo’s buying.”

  She smiled back as both men stood. Carlo had a list of drink orders scribbled on a crumpled cocktail napkin.

  Brett followed Carlo, and Francesca peered through the crowd to watch the two as they waited at the bar. Carlo had the dark Italian good looks shared by all the Milano brothers, a handsomeness completely familiar to Francesca. But Brett was like a different species. He was over six feet, lean and hard looking. His hair was dark blond, his face high-cheekboned. He wore soft jeans and a short-sleeved sports shirt. Its searing color matched the Scandinavian blue of his eyes.

  “Mooning over somebody already?” Elise had slipped into the seat vacated by Carlo. “Which one?”

  “The least likely candidate,” Francesca murmured.

  “Huh?” Elise leaned closer. “Who?”

  Francesca decided against confessing. “I’m not mooning, I’m moaning. Pantyhose.”

  The return of Carlo and Brett spared Francesca any more probing. After ordering her to “Get to work,” Elise returned to her fiancé. Francesca nodded and obediently shifted her attention to the single men beyond the confines of their tables.

  It took half a glass of wine to realize she had something else to moan about, though. As one of only two women with six guys, and wedged between the two most forbidding, Francesca realized single men didn’t seem much inclined to approach her.

  The chairs were half-mooned around the tables to face the band. When her brother Nicky left his seat to grab another beer, Francesca squeezed out of her chair and took Nicky’s. At one end of the moon shape, Nicky’s spot put her closer to the dance floor and without anyone on her left. Two tables away, a cute guy in khaki pants caught her eye. A thrill zinged through Francesca. She smiled quickly then looked away, hoping he’d come over to chat or ask her to dance.

  Maybe this finding a date stuff wasn’t so hard!

  She focused on her wineglass, but from the corner of her eye kept tabs on Khaki Pants. He pushed out his chair and slowly stood. Francesca’s heart started beating faster. And faster, when his tasseled loafers turned in her direction.

  Should she look up? Smile? Pretend she didn’t see him until he was right in front of her?

  “Here you go, Brett.” Nicky had returned, a beer in each hand. Brett rose to take the beer and they remained standing on either side of her, hovering like skyscrapers blocking the sun. Between their imposing bodies, Francesca caught sight of the tasseled loafers turning away.

  Nicky bent down. “I think I just saved you from dancing with a dweeb. A guy was heading in this direction.”

  Francesca glared at him. “I can say no to my own dweebs, thank you very much.”

  Nicky blinked. “Not on my watch, little sister.”

  Francesca frowned and thought she saw satisfaction cross Brett’s face. Certainly that was a thumb’s-up Joe sent Nicky’s way.

  Francesca gritted her teeth. Her brothers’ interference was a problem she hadn’t anticipated. But they were not going to cause her to lose this bet or this chance to get a life. Catching sight of Khaki Pants in line at the bar, Francesca left the table and determinedly headed that way herself. She would order a diet cola and hope for a chance to speak to the potential dwee—date.

  As she threaded through the tables, the headline band was introduced and the audience went from rockin’ to raucous. A pulsing bass line buzzed through the soles of her feet, and a renewed determination infused Francesca. She wanted to dance with Khaki.

  The bartender filled her order and she moved close to the dance floor, sipping her drink. Her gaze slid toward Khaki Pants, and he smiled at her. Heart starting to flutter, she smiled back. He sidled closer. The band was so loud he’d have to get very close to begin a conversation.

  He was still three steps away when her brothers Joe and Tony pounced. Joe took her glass from her hand. Tony pulled her onto the dance floor and immediately spun her to the corner farthest from Khaki. Francesca gave the stranger a mournful, squiggly fingered farewell. He’d already turned away.

  When the dance ended, Tony linked his arm with hers and dragged her back to their tables. “I’m not fifteen, Tony,” she said through clenched teeth. “Cut me some slack.”

  Tony pretended he didn’t hear and from somewhere dredged up enough gentlemanly manners to pull out a chair and insert her at the table—once again between Carlo and Brett.

  If weeping wouldn’t have run her brand-new mascara, Francesca might have resorted to it.

  Instead, she stared morosely at her half-full glass of wine and barely touched cola. She might as well give up and go home. Once out of the stretchy knit dress and into comfy sweats, she’d pop a satisfying bag of Orville’s finest in her microwave.

  Of course, her habit of doing that had led her to this very, datel
ess moment.

  Irritation rose, and she glanced around at her handsome and complacent siblings. Maybe she should just tell her brothers to lay off!

  Right. If they listened to her, Joe wouldn’t have bought his last girlfriend a car tune-up for Christmas, and Tony wouldn’t be permanently tattooed with the name of the woman he’d loved, then lost.

  Then there was the possibility of enlisting their help.

  She sighed. As if that wouldn’t be a total disaster. Consider the one mushy Valentine she’d received in the third grade. Her brothers’ idea of fostering a budding romance had been to glower at poor Wesley Burdett for two months and to tease her unmercifully for two years.

  Only Brett had been able to shut them—

  Brett.

  Beside her, his beer hit the tabletop with a clack. Francesca looked at him—a plan instantly crystallizing.

  “I want to dance,” she announced loudly across their two tables.

  With matching grimaces, her brothers looked at each other expectantly, obviously hoping another would volunteer for sister duty. Only Tony, who had already sacrificed himself, appeared unmoved by her request.

  “To country,” she added.

  All four Milano men groaned in pain, as if she’d stated there’d be no cheesecake for Sunday night dessert. They hated country music.

  Perfect.

  She looked over at Brett. “You will dance with me, won’t you?”

  She restrained the smile breaking over her face. He didn’t have any choice but to agree, as all four of her brothers sighed with relief, the saps.

  Francesca’s smile widened. With Brett as escort, she’d make a break for the potential-man-crowded patio where she could conduct her search in sibling-free peace.

  A TWINGE OF GUILT pinged Francesca as Brett followed her through the packed room. He probably didn’t feel much like dancing, and she’d had no opportunity yet to let him in on her little plan. Of course, she wouldn’t tell him the humiliating truth—that she’d made a bet with her big brother to force herself out of the house to look for a man—but she’d make it clear that she only needed his help to escape the overprotective Milanos.