The Worst Best Man(3)

“How about Cressida?” Chip offered, pointing his glass at yet another blonde. This one’s breasts couldn’t be bothered to stay within the confines of her couture corset. The rest of her was a tan skeleton. She was frowning fiercely and pacing in a short six-foot radius as she yelled into her cellphone in German.

“She seems nice,” Aiden observed sarcastically.

“She seems like she’d cut your balls off and then ransom you for them,” Chip said cheerfully.

“How about Frankie?” Aiden asked, warming to the game. His gaze flicked to her on the dance floor. Her hair was dark, thick, heavy with curls. Her body was lushly curved as highlighted by the simple gold slip gown she wore. Her wide mouth was curved in a generous smile as she laughed at something Pruitt said.

“Oh, she’s too good for you,” Chip said. “She’s smart and sarcastic. She’d be too much work for you.”

“I see what you’re doing,” Aiden said. He flagged down a server and ordered a Macallan. One wouldn’t hurt. One might take the edge off a bit.

“What am I doing? I’m trying to save you from a woman who clearly isn’t your type.”

“What’s my type?” Aiden asked, already regretting it.

“Tall, painfully thin. Doesn’t smile or speak too much. Someone looking to add you to her bedroom portfolio to make her more attractive to the next potential husband.”

“That’s not necessarily my type,” Aiden argued. “That’s just who doesn’t take offense to the arrangement.”

“Frankie would take offense,” Chip predicted. “But I think she might also make you regret temporary. She’s a hell of a girl, Aiden.”

Aiden watched the woman in question as she shimmied and strutted in unison with Pruitt. She moved like a goddess, tempting mortals with her sinful body. In his experience, women tended to highlight their appeal either across the dining table or in the bedroom. And Franchesca was all bedroom.

He turned his back on the dance floor.

“When are you going to give up on dragging me into monogamous bliss?” he asked Chip.

His friend grinned. “When you find someone who makes you feel the way I do about Pru.”

“I’m a Kilbourn. We’re not capable of feelings. Only beneficial mergers.”

“That’s a sad statement to make,” Chip said, slapping him on the shoulder. The server, a slip of a girl with a navy streak in her dark hair, hurried to his side. A glass of scotch clutched in her hand.

“Here you go, Mr. Kilbourn,” she said in a breathless whisper.

“Thank you… Jana,” he said, eyes flicking to her name tag.

Her mouth dropped open, and she backed away with stars in her eyes.

“See. Why don’t you work some of that charm on Frankie?”

“I’m not interested in something that…”

“Fun? Smart? Sexy?” Chip supplied.

“Flashy,” Aiden corrected. “She dances like she’s got experience on the pole. And she’d probably take that as a compliment.”

“No. She wouldn’t,” a husky voice behind him announced.

Fuck.

Chip, ever the tension diffuser, slapped an innocent grin on his face. “Frankie! Aiden didn’t see you there,” he said pointedly.

“Aiden doesn’t seem like the type to notice much of anyone under a certain tax bracket. Why waste his time?” Franchesca announced.

She didn’t hesitate to make eye contact. No, she used those blue-green eyes to bore holes into him. He’d been an ass. Usually he was much more careful about voicing his opinions in venues where they could be overheard, misconstrued. He blamed the headache, the three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.

“Pru asked if you’d get her a drink and save her from the Danby twins. They’ve got her cornered by the stairs.” Frankie pointed to the opposite end of the room.

“If you two will excuse me, I’ve got to go rescue my fiancée. No bloodshed,” Chip ordered, pointing a stern finger at Frankie.

“No promises,” she called after him. She turned back to him, eyes flashing with temper. “Well, if you’ll excuse me—which I don’t give a flying fuck if you do—I don’t want to spend my evening looking at you.”

She dismissed him, turning on her heel and whipping that curtain of hair over her shoulder.

“Hang on,” he said it quietly, fingers closing around her wrist.

“Hands off, Kilbourn, or you’ll be Deadbourn by the time I’m done with you.”

He released her but stepped into her path. “Let me apologize.”

“Let you?” Franchesca crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to talking to servants and underlings, but a word of advice? Don’t demand that someone listen to your shit show of an apology. Got it?”

The headache was throbbing behind his eyes. No one talked to him that way. Not even his oldest friends.

“Please allow me to apologize,” he said, his jaw clenching. He cupped her elbow in his hand and guided her toward an alcove behind a heavy gold curtain.

The darkness made the pain in his head ease just a bit, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the rest of it away.

“How about I save us both some time?” Franchesca suggested. “You don’t bother apologizing because we both know you meant to be a dick, and I won’t bother pretending to forgive you because I don’t give a shit what you think about me. Fair enough?”