The Worst Best Man(33)
“Is no problem,” Flor said, straightening Frankie’s collar. “That man is an ass. I’m happy to help.”
“Do you know if there’s anyone else staying in the room with him?” Frankie asked as her new friends hustled her down a back hallway.
“He’s got an assistant who hovers around. Big man,” Bianca told her. “But he stays in a different room.”
Okay, so hopefully only one potential hired gun to get around. Frankie pressed a hand to her stomach as Wilma punched the call button for the elevator. She was either going to die today or pull off the greatest wedding day miracle of all time. And she was really hoping she wasn’t about to die. Not without slapping the shit out of Aiden Kilbourn first.
They got off the elevator in the basement. Flor played lookout while the other two stocked a room service cart with liquor.
“Just tell Mr. Hasselhoff you’re there to restock the bar,” Bianca instructed.
Hasselhoff. At least the kidnapper had a sense of humor.
“And don’t make eye contact with him. He hates that,” Wilma suggested.
They returned to the elevator with a white sheeted cart and half a dozen bottles of liquor.
“Keep your head down to avoid the cameras,” Flor said, ushering them back into the elevator car. “And if you need help hiding the body, call 101 from the room phone and say you’d like to order room service.”
“Cameras. Body. Room service. Got it,” Frankie said. Her heart was thudding in her ears like the bass in her high school boyfriend’s Chevy Cavalier.
Was she doing the right thing? Should she have trusted Aiden to handle it? Would she at least see Chip before she was gunned down in the prime of her life?
It was the longest elevator ride of her life, and that was counting the one with the guy who was breaking up with his girlfriend on speakerphone. The longest elevator ride was followed by the longest, creepiest walk down a hotel hallway. 302, 304, 306. As the room numbers counted up, Frankie’s heart started pulsing in her head. She should have written up a will before this trip.
What if her brothers fought over her NHL memorabilia collection? She could see Gio and Marco coming to blows over her signed Kreider jockstrap. She hoped whoever took her apartment would be a good neighbor to the Chus across the hall. Mr. Chu was constantly losing his glasses, and Mrs. Chu thanked Frankie for finding them with gift cards to their Korean restaurant around the block. She’d never again get to taste their bulgogi.
Tears swam in her eyes as 314 loomed in front of her. She took a deep breath. She was doing this for Pru. Her best friend deserved her happily ever after. And she’d totally get over the death of her best friend.
She was lousy at pep talks. Frankie raised her knuckles to knock and hesitated for a second. “You can do this,” she whispered to herself. “You can go in there and show him that nobody kidnaps your friends and gets away with it.”
Her pep talk was interrupted by the questioning glances of a hungover couple dressed to the elevens. The nines were so last year.
“She looks a little like that reality star that threw Kennedy in the koi pond last night,” the woman said in a stage whisper.
Frankie put her head down and, eyes clenched shut, knocked.
The door wrenched open. “Can you read the ‘Do Not Disturb’? Or are you all illiterate and stupid?”
All rich assholes tended to look the same. And this guy was no exception. He was medium build, medium height, spray tanned complexion with medium brown, carefully coiffed hair.
“I am here to restock dee barrr.” God, her fake accent sounded more pirate than Bajan. Only an idiot would fall for it.
“It’s about damn time. I called hours ago,” the idiot said.
He ushered her inside, making annoying flapping motions like a chicken trying to take flight. “Come on. I don’t have all day.”
The suite was dark, heavy curtains closing out the tropical sunshine outside. It looked as though he was trying to make the room resemble a bad guy’s lair. But there was too much mess—room service trays, empty liquor bottles—marring the luxury. It looked like a crew of trust fund babies had gotten together on daddy’s dime to trash a hotel suite, not execute an abduction.
Kidnapping Asshole didn’t look much better than the room itself. His hair was messed up like he’d been shoving nervous hands through it. His tie was loosened. Who the hell wore a tie to lounge around a hotel room in Barbados, anyway?
She headed into the main living space of the suite and did her best to guess where the bar was hidden. She guessed wrong, finding the TV sequestered in a cabinet. Wealthy people didn’t like to stare at blank screens.
Kidnapping Asshole snapped his fingers. “The bar is over there. What, are you new here?”
She was saved from having to bite back a response by the man’s phone ringing.
“Christ. What’s taking so long? Just get back here. He’s going to be here any minute, and I’m not doing this without backup.” He stormed out of the living room and into one of the bedrooms, slamming the door behind him.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god,” Frankie chanted. She surveyed the room and ran for the next closed door. It was a bathroom. The next one was a freaking walk-in closet. Finally, she spotted another closed door on the far side of the room. When she jiggled the handle she found it locked.