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

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Francesca shook her head. “No, we don’t. I asked you for last night. End of story.”

  “End of story?”

  “What?” Carlo yelled through the door. “Are you talking to me?”

  Francesca bit her lip. “I told you I didn’t want forever.” She stepped into her dress and struggled with the zipper.

  Brett started toward her but she waved him off. “Thanks, by the way,” she said.

  Thanks, by the way? “We’ve got to talk.”

  “Then talk to Carlo.” She slipped on her sandals. “Promise me you can keep him occupied at the front here so I can go out your back door and into mine.”

  Brett remembered that Carlo’s apartment was between his and Francesca’s. Thank God he hadn’t thought of it until now. Double thank God that his bedroom was on the other side of the apartment and didn’t share a wall with Carlo.

  “Brett? Are you okay in there?”

  Francesca’s eyes widened. “Tell him yes.”

  But how could he when he wasn’t sure it was true? He needed to talk things over with Francesca. Think things through. Taste her mouth again before she walked away. “Really, Fr—”

  “Shh!” She took a step, frowned, slipped back out of her shoes. “You’re invited to that party for Elise and David tonight, right? We can talk there.”

  “Brett, ol’ buddy. My detective antennae are quivering.” Carlo’s teasing voice came through the door.

  “You got a body in there?”

  Francesca sent Brett a panicked look and then ran barefooted toward his back door. “Let him in and keep him busy for a few minutes,” she whispered one last time.

  In seconds she’d eased out of his apartment. Brett opened the front door, running his hand through his hair and aware it took zero acting skill for him to appear stupid and confused and like a guy who’d just been woken from the middle of a particularly luscious dream.

  “What’s going on?” Carlo said by way of greeting, stepping inside.

  Brett wished he knew.

  FRANCESCA WAS the first guest to arrive at the barbecue Elise’s parents were giving for the almost-married couple. When Elise had lost the battle for a small wedding, her parents had promised an early, more casual celebration for them.

  In a pretty sundress, Elise took one look at Francesca’s khaki pants, plain white blouse tied at the waist and baseball cap, then hauled her out to the far reaches of the backyard beyond anyone’s hearing. “What happened?” she asked. “Besides disaster.”

  Francesca tugged her ball cap lower and shoved her hands in her pockets. “I made a mistake.”

  Elise narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to kill him. Better yet, I’ll tell your brothers and they’ll kill him.”

  “Don’t. It’s my fault and my fault only.”

  Elise sighed. “You’re head-over-heels, aren’t you?”

  “And out of my league.” Francesca scuffed the toe of her thick fisherman’s sandal against the grass. “But it’s over with. I’m going back to stick-in-the-mud Francesca. Out of those stupid dresses and back into my jeans.”

  “That’s not going to mend your heart.”

  “But I’ll be a heck of a lot more comfortable.” Francesca tried pasting on a grin. “C’mon. Take me to your leader. Your mom will find something to distract me.”

  Francesca volunteered for pass duty. Wandering through the party, toting large platters of hors d’oeuvres, gave her a good reason to see everybody and linger long with nobody. Bean dip dabs on round tortilla chips, celery packed with cream cheese and salsa, spicy miniature taquitos, she blessed them all as she chose who to offer them to and what group to avoid.

  When Brett arrived she zipped into the kitchen and spent several minutes refilling the largest platter. After a deep breath she returned to the patio and started circulating again. So what if the group of men Brett was with didn’t get a chance at the appetizers. None of them really appeared very hungry.

  Well, Brett kind of did. He managed to catch her eye as she made a wide circle around him and the others standing beside the cooler filled with microbrewed beers. The expression on his face, intent and determined, made the little hairs on her neck, the ones right beneath the ponytail she’d shoved through her baseball cap, stand up.

  She tugged the brim of her cap lower and ducked in the opposite direction to make another unnecessary platter refill.

  As she came out of the kitchen he was there, though, and caught her arm. She pinned on a bright smile. “Hors d’oeuvre? Taquito?”

  He didn’t look down at her proffered plate. “Talk,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been conscripted to kitchen duty. Can’t really desert until, um, after dessert.”

  He ignored her pun. “When are we going to talk?”

  The touch of his fingers on her upper arm tingled—hot little pinpricks of response that tightened her nipples and made the flesh across her stomach twitch.

  He shook her arm a little. “When, Francesca?”

  Several months. Several years, maybe. Sometime when remembering Brett’s chest under her palms, Brett’s mouth on her breasts, Brett inside her, wouldn’t freeze dry her tongue, making speech nearly impossible.

  “I—” She tried moistening her lips. “Look, couldn’t we just leave it alone?”

  He flattened his mouth. “You mean leave you alone.”

  She didn’t think she should agree. “Do we really need to rehash the event, Brett? I’m fine. You look okay. What more is there?”

  He frowned. “I don’t like this casual attitude of yours.”

  Men. Francesca let out a gusty sigh. “Great, then. When are we getting married?”

  Astonishment widened his eyes and dropped his jaw.

  The full plate of appetizers was getting heavy. “Here,” she said, offering the food again. “Stuff something in that wide mouth of yours.”

  “Francesca—”

  “Please, Brett, give me some credit. I was just kidding. I know exactly where you’re coming from. I’ve lived with men my entire life, okay?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “And what has that experience taught you, O Small-but-wise One?”

  “You males put extremely high value on your piles of dirty socks and your meals of microwave burritos and the freedom to drop everything for beers and billiards with the boys. It requires a kind of atomic explosion to blast you out of bachelorhood.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Atomic explosion?”

  She shrugged. “You tell me.” She nodded her head in the direction of Elise, standing nearby with her fiancé at her side. “With David there, it’s clear. He’s completely besotted and they love each other in a way that’s explosive itself.”

  Brett glanced at the engaged couple. “That might just burn out.”

  “I’ll lay odds that it won’t.”

  Brett’s gaze sharpened. “Francesca, you may think you know—”

  “Franny!” A male Milano voice sounded from across the grass. “We’re hungry over here!”

  Francesca looked over at the knot of brothers beckoning to her. “I do know, Brett. And you, you’re a special case. Rebachelored,” she said flippantly. “A guy like you will be eating out of the microwave for the rest of his life.”

  Or, Francesca thought, he’ll find himself bowled over by some paragon of poised femininity like Patricia. A woman who knew how to dress and how to make love and how not to blubber like a baby when she thought she’d never be held by him again.

  “Franny!” The Milanos yelled as one.

  She pivoted obediently toward the hungry-brother bellow, grateful she had an excuse to get away before she said something really dumb. “I’m done with the subject.”

  Maybe attorneys had to have the last word. Maybe it was men in general. Because Brett called out to her as she walked away.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Because then you’ll just listen when it’s my turn.”

  FULL OF STEAK, salad and corn on the cob,
Brett sat back in a cushioned patio chair and watched Francesca wander over to one corner of the deep backyard. A basketball hoop reigned at one end of a cement half court and she unearthed a basketball from beneath a bordering shrub and started shooting aimless baskets.

  For a short person, and a girl, she was a pretty good shot. She talked a pretty good game, too.

  Bachelors. Rebachelors. He shook his head. She thought she had it all down pat.

  But if he knew what was good for him he’d leave things just as she’d left them. He would feel relieved that she was willing to let their one-night stand, well, stand, and not need to take it any further.

  But his protective instinct wasn’t so easily slayed.

  He’d been trying to kill it all evening.

  Like a mythical beast, though, it rose again and again, prodding him with sharp talons each time she spoke with another man. Each time he heard her laugh.

  And though he cursed himself for all kinds of a fool, while she’d been passing plates around he hadn’t been able to get the image out of his head of Francesca passing herself to another man—now that he’d taken the first bite.

  He suppressed a groan, thinking of her beneath him the night before. She’d cried out when he’d entered her body, but once the pain had left her face, something had infused him, some power that he didn’t dare examine.

  He scraped his hands over his face. There was a fine line between protectiveness and possessiveness and he must keep on the right side of it.

  The vow didn’t keep him from narrowing his gaze at the man who this minute was approaching Francesca. Brett recognized him as the driver who’d dropped her off a few nights before.

  She stopped dribbling. Smiled at the guy.

  The other man said something, grinning, too. He pantomimed making a basket.

  Francesca pulled a face and put one hand on her hip.

  They both laughed.

  Brett could read their next exchange in the body language. A challenge was issued. A challenge was accepted. A little game of one-on-one.

  Innocent. Fun. But still Brett found himself half rising from his chair as Francesca dropped the basketball to start unbuttoning her shirt. He slumped back once he could see the white tank top she wore underneath. Then she completely shed the overshirt to reveal the golden skin of her arms that last night she’d wound around his neck. Brett’s blood began to chug heavily through his body.

  Her shirt was tossed over a nearby shrub. She let the guy take the basketball out first. Brett realized the other man needed the advantage. He was a lousy shot.

  Or maybe just a calculating one. Because he allowed Francesca to control the ball most of their game while he did a foul-worthy job of defending the basket. Chest out, he tried using his bigger size to intimidate her. Or maybe he was using every excuse to brush up against her.

  The game ended quickly, though. His tomboy princess won, and acknowledged her opponent’s congratulations with a curtsy. Brett found himself smiling.

  But then he saw a second challenge being issued and he could tell how easily Francesca rose to the bait. That was her MO, and exactly how Carlo enticed her into that bridesmaid’s bet.

  Blood chugging hot and heavy again, Brett popped out of his seat. He hustled toward the court, ignoring the stiffness already settling in his muscles from his own play with Carlo that morning. That damned bet couldn’t be ignored. And he worried, now that she’d booted him out of the picture, that Francesca would be looking for some way to beat Carlo.

  She liked to win.

  But so did Brett.

  The basketball rested on the cement beside Francesca’s feet. He reached it for it, grabbed it up. She stared at him, blinking.

  “I’m playing the winner,” he announced.

  “We just agreed on another game,” the other guy said. “You’ll be up next.”

  Brett wasn’t in the mood to talk. “My turn,” he told Francesca. “Now.”

  “Hey,” the loser protested. “She just agreed to double or nothing.”

  Brett’s whole body went tight. “What’re the stakes?” he asked Francesca.

  She frowned at him. “I don’t think—”

  “What are the stakes?”

  “For goodness sake, Brett. Pizza. We’re betting pizzas.”

  Yeah, and he could just picture it. An intimate booth in a dark Italian restaurant. Francesca’s cheeks flushed and her lips the color of red wine and this…this…loser sharing a pizza with her and then sharing her bed later.

  “Never gonna happen,” he told the guy.

  “What?”

  “Never gonna happen.” Brett eyed him implacably.

  “This is my game.”

  The guy looked at Brett, looked at Francesca, looked back at Brett again. Then he held up his hands in surrender. “Got it.” With a good-natured grin he headed back to the rest of the party.

  Smart man. Brett liked him better already.

  He turned toward Francesca. Her hands were back on her hips. Her tank top clung damply to her slender rib cage and lush breasts. Lust pierced him like a sword.

  “What’s this all about?” she said, her eyes spitting dark fire at him. “You’re acting very strange.”

  He shook his head. Strange would be letting her get away now. With only a few days left until the wedding, she’d be looking for a way to win that bet. And the only one who was going to help her do that was him.

  He dribbled the ball a few times. “I don’t like playing for pizzas.”

  “Fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ll play for honor.”

  Bomp. Bomp. Bomp. The ball echoed the loud thump of his heartbeat. “No. Something else.” He didn’t want to think about honor right now.

  She frowned. “What then? What’s going on, Brett?”

  A bead of sweat rolled from her temple down her cheek, mesmerizing him. Damn. Tempting him.

  Stepping toward her, he caught the drop on his thumb. Then he brought his thumb to his mouth and licked off her taste.

  Sweet. Salty. Francesca.

  Her eyes widened and she swallowed. “Brett?”

  “We’ll play to eleven,” he said. “When I win, you’ll come back to my bed tonight.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, he thought. It would keep her occupied. It would keep him sane.

  FRANCESCA COULD HAVE refused to play under such outrageous conditions. She could have walked off the court. Instead, she negotiated for a six-point lead.

  She hadn’t been raised to back down.

  But as the game began, she wasn’t sure if winning wasn’t really losing.

  Brett wanted her. It was in the intent look on his face, the harsh intake of his breath, the very real bump he gave her with his hip as she feinted around him.

  Shoot. Swish. One basket and she had seven points to his zero.

  Her lead didn’t faze him. He drove the ball toward the basket, and Francesca tried to move in front of him, her heart banging under the triple threat of adrenaline, confusion, desire.

  He made four points in a row.

  Breathing hard, she still didn’t know who she rooted for—herself or her childhood hero.

  Though he wasn’t playing heroically. Or gentlemanly, either. He grunted when he made another basket and then drilled the ball toward her, a chest pass that stung when it hit her palms.

  His intensity was half scary, half exhilarating. Giddy with excitement, her next shot bounced off the rim, but she was quicker than he was and grabbed the rebound. She dribbled, trying to position herself in that personal sweet spot from which she nearly always made a basket.

  Brett was in front of her. Between the last points, he’d thrown off his shirt, and the sheen of sweat on his chest distracted her. She hesitated, he closed in and she closed her eyes, shooting blindly.

  Swish. Eight to five.

  The play turned even more serious. Brett started a verbal—and titillating—form of distraction.

  “I’m going to have you tonight,”
he said.

  Her shot went wild.

  He picked up the ball and closed the gap in their scores. He had nine. She managed to get her points to ten.

  “And there won’t be any reason to cry,” he said, his eyes glittering blue as she passed him the ball.

  She didn’t like him assuming she would be so easy—to have and to please. Let him work a little harder for both.

  She gritted her teeth and focused on the ball. Get it back, she commanded herself. There was pride involved here. More than pride. Her heart. But he was quick and strong, and too soon it was ten points to ten.

  She missed her next chance. Brett got the ball again, but she shut out everything but the orange orb and used the last of her energy reserves to bat it out of Brett’s hands.

  Sucking in air, she lifted the ball for her shot. This was it. Her confidence surged. She knew she could best him. “You’re gonna owe me pizza,” she said, grinning and sparing him a glance.

  He stood back, silent, until the instant the ball left her hands. “I’m gonna make you scream,” he said.

  Her follow-through failed. The ball sputtered in the air. Brett grabbed it, made his own shot, swift and sure.

  Swish.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re mine, baby.” His eyes glittered again.

  Francesca considered denying it. But she was winded.

  And aroused.

  And he was right.

  Cake was being served when they slipped out a side gate. Under cover of loud laughter, nobody seemed to notice them leaving early. Her wrist wrapped by Brett’s hard hand, Francesca spared one backward glance and didn’t see any member of her family except Carlo, who stood alone, inspecting the melting ice in a cooler.

  A whole bucketful couldn’t reduce the steaming temperature in Brett’s car. Though he flipped on the AC full blast, Francesca knew it wasn’t the air that was so hot, but the desire running between them. His hand moved possessively over her upper thigh.

  A shiver edged up her spine. “Brett—”

  “No talking,” he said. “We’ll be there soon.”

  Her pulse started slamming against her wrists, her throat. She felt it thrumming low in her body, too, in the spot just above Brett’s hand.