The Worst Best Man Page 8

  Aiden pulled out another bill from his billfold. “You’ve been immeasurably helpful tonight, Antonio.”

  The kid pocketed the money cheerfully. “If you get caught, don’t mention my name.”

  Frankie threw him a salute as she stepped out the door. “Thanks, kid.”

  “Here’s my card.” Antonio shoved a business card out the window at her. “Call me anytime you need anything.”

  Frankie took it and tucked it into her clutch. “That kid is either going to end up running a drug cartel or a small country someday,” she predicted as she watched the taillights recede in the dark.

  “Uh-huh,” Aiden said, noncommittally. “How good are you at climbing walls?”

  It turned out not very. She ended up needing a boost from Aiden, whose hand lingered a lot longer than necessary on her ass. But in the end, she made it up and over, landing hard enough to knock the wind out of her. The sound of snagging chiffon on the way down made her wince. She was still gasping for breath when Aiden nimbly landed beside her, her shoes in his hand.

  “You okay?” he asked, pulling her to her feet.

  “Fine. Totally fine,” she wheezed. She stepped away from the flowering shrub she’d flattened with her comical landing and brushed the dirt off of the skirt of her dress. She’d felt the fabric tear as she flopped over the wall graceful as a humpback whale and hoped she hadn’t done any real damage. Pru would kill her… if there was a wedding to be killed over. “Crap! I tore the skirt. It’s okay. I can fix it.”

  “Come on,” Aiden whispered. He grabbed her hand and led the way into the dark.

  Frankie couldn’t see shit. But Aiden seemed to have night vision, pulling her through the vegetation and around trees in the scant moonlight. The peepers chirped in a loud, never-ending serenade to the night. The air was thick with exotic fragrances. Aiden’s feet were sure beneath him while she tripped over roots and branches and god knew what that weird squishy thing was. All that she could see was the broad shadow of Aiden’s shoulders in front of her as he towed her through the forest.

  They were getting closer to the ocean. She could hear the waves, taste the tang of salt on the air. Aiden stopped in front of her and she walked into his broad back.

  She heard the far-off beat of club music.

  Up ahead, through leafy palm fronds and a smattering of moonlight, Frankie could see lights. Purple and silver flashes seemed to pulse to the thrumming beat of music. Someone had brought L.A.’s hottest club to paradise or at least a very expensive DJ to an heiress’s second wedding.

  “I think we’ve found the party,” Aiden said quietly.

  “Okay, so what are we supposed to do?” Frankie asked. “Roll up out of the shrubs and order a round of shots?”

  “Tequila or whiskey?” he asked.

  “Tequila is always the answer.”

  “Let’s try to get a little closer,” Aiden said. “Then we’ll discuss our bar order.”

  “Wait, what’s our backstory? Who are you? Who am I? How do we know Trell?”

  “Trell?” Aiden asked, his lips quirking on one side.

  “Obviously if we’re her friends we don’t call her Trellenwy.” Duh.

  “Fine. I’m an old friend of Trellenwy, and you’re my date.”

  “Why aren’t I an old friend of Trellenwy?” Frankie demanded. Her foot caught on a thick root and she went sprawling to the ground. “Oh, man! How am I going to get poison berry juice out of this?” she rubbed at the stain from the plant she’d landed on. It looked like the period fairy had just shook her wand over Frankie’s hip. “Crap. Okay. I can fix this. I’ll soak it in… something.”

  Aiden sighed. “Franchesca, what’s more believable? A socialite has an acquaintance with a wealthy New York business owner with a reputation for dating women just like her or the daughter of Brooklyn deli owners?”

  “Excuse me. Are you saying I can’t pass for upper class?” Frankie demanded.

  “Just shut up.”

  He clamped a hand over her wrist and dragged her forward, skirting the lights and music.

  It was nearly one a.m. in paradise, and she had a sexy, crazy rich bachelor who could have made a lucrative career out of being beautiful dragging her around in the dark. Frankie should have been squealing with joy on the inside. Instead? She was pissed. Annoyed at the whole thing. That someone would take Chip. That she couldn’t “pass” for being some dumb socialite with more money than street smarts. That some security guard would potentially believe Aiden would have a better chance of knowing Trellenwy. That they didn’t exist in the same worlds. And she didn’t know why that mattered.

  Sure, she could let Mr. Big Deal Kilbourn put his hands on her. But in the eyes of the entire world, she was the lesser partner here. He had the power, the control. He’d tire of her and move on, just as he had with every other woman in his life.

  The sound of the waves was louder now. The lights and thump of the music was behind them. She could see moonlight dancing on the ocean through the trees that separated them from the beach. There was no more talking now. They were just a billionaire and his nameless date out for a late-night stroll.

  A twig snapped under her foot, and Aiden swore quietly. He turned and pulled Frankie against him. She wanted to tell him to get his damn hands off of her. To go to hell.

  He took her down to the sand in a move so smooth she barely felt the shift in her gravity.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed as he covered her body with his. She shoved at his shoulders and froze when she felt his cock twitch against her as it hardened.

  He didn’t bother answering her before his mouth crushed down on hers. She wasn’t prepared. Couldn’t have prepared. Not for the rush of heat that washed through her, the electricity that coursed through her. His lips were strong and firm, demanding. But Frankie wasn’t one to give up the upper hand. She gripped his lapels and fought for control of the kiss. When he opened his mouth, it was her tongue that surged forward. Aiden growled low in his throat and stroked into her mouth, tasting and toying.

  She felt dizzy with power, with madness.

  His erection was thick and hard against her center, and Frankie opened her legs so he could settle between them. When he grinded against her, Frankie’s world went black. She could come like this, dry-humping a billionaire on a beach.

  She should have been embarrassed, should have had better judgment. But before those thoughts could take hold, Aiden trailed one large, capable hand down over her breast and surged against her again.

  She murmured meaningless words against his mouth. This. Now. Here. She didn’t care.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, before diving back into the kiss. Her blood had gone molten. Lava flowed through her veins now. More was the only word left in her vocabulary.

  Aiden abandoned her breast, and when Frankie moaned her disappointment, he made up for it. That hand was now shoving the skirt of her dress higher. Her body sang to the heavens. If he didn’t shove a part of him inside of her in the next thirty seconds, Frankie knew she’d die a slow and agonizing death.

  He was grinding against her thigh now, prodding her with what felt like a painful erection.

  “More, Aide,” Frankie whispered. Begging. She never begged. But in this second she was happy to plead her way to orgasm.

  “Hang on, baby,” he murmured against her lips. “I want you so fucking bad.”

  This was not the ice-cold man she’d met in the ballroom. Or the game-playing chauffeur from the airport. No, the man whose hand danced over the satin of her thong was a sinful lover, all heat and dark promises.

  “Fuck,” he whispered again when he pressed the tips of his fingers to her center.

  She cried out, softly, brokenly as he started one of those tiny circles he’d worked his way up her thigh with under the table. He knew how to touch her. Whether it was instinct or obscene experience, she didn’t give a good damn.

  “You’re so damn wet, Franc
hesca. So wet for me.”

  Frankie bucked against his hand. “Touch me,” she demanded. When he looped two fingers under the seam of her underwear, when his knuckles brushed her soft folds, she reached for him.

  He grunted his approval when she gripped his hard cock through his pants. “I want your hands on me, your mouth,” he growled.

  “Right back at you, Kilbourn,” Frankie murmured.

  His knuckles brushed her again, and she melted under him.

  “I’m going to fuck you, Franchesca. Not that surfer, not Davenport. Me.”

  Her body thrilled at the words while her mind reeled at the possession in his tone.

  “Shut up and kiss me.”

  His fingers were poised at her entrance, her tongue buried in his mouth when Frankie found herself squinting into a blinding light.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Aiden contemplated killing the security guard with his own two hands. If the man continued to shine his flashlight in the direction of Franchesca’s nipples that were trying to cut their way out of her gown, Aiden was going to break his fucking neck.

  Franchesca stood full of fury, hands on hips. He’d forgotten himself, forgotten where they were and why they were here. He’d heard the guard’s approach and had gone with the lovers out for a romantic stroll-slash-fuck story. Touching her? Tasting her? It had wiped out all instincts besides the need to take her.

  He could tell by the way she refused to look at him that she thought he’d taken advantage of her. And he had, or at least he’d taken advantage of the situation.

  Now, he was going to kill a security guard, and then Franchesca was going to kill him.

  “Look, sir,” Franchesca said, her cheeks still flaming. “We just slipped away from the party and got carried away.

  Aiden stepped in front of her. He couldn’t tell exactly where the guard’s gaze was falling, but he imagined it had to be somewhere around Frankie’s heaving chest.

  “It’s my fault. I got carried away,” he said, offering the man a chagrined smiled. “I’m sure it’s not the worst you’ve seen tonight.”

  The guard stared blankly for another moment. Aiden felt Frankie grab the back of his jacket with both hands.

  “I just caught two girls skinny-dipping in the lobby fountain ten minutes ago,” the guard announced. “Go on back to the party, and keep your clothes on.”

  “Will do,” Aiden promised. Frankie’s eyes were as wide as big screen TVs as they hurried past the guard onto a path that led to the crowded terrace that served as a dancefloor. “Well that was easy,” he said. He reached up and picked a leaf out of Frankie’s hair. He was starting to wonder if he was obsessed with her hair. The thick, dark curtain that fell in curling waves. He wanted to bury his face in it.

  “Easy?” she hissed, slapping his hand away.

  “Well, you didn’t have to flash anyone this time,” Aiden pointed out.

  Her gasp was worth the anticipation.

  “You saw me?”

  “I saw quite a bit of you.” Aiden decided not to mention that he’d been a split second slow in covering Antonio’s eyes.

  Frankie slapped him in the shoulder.

  “What? You’re the one who decided to flash half the island.”

  “Yeah, but that didn’t mean you had to look, too!”

  “I wasn’t about to miss out on that view, Franchesca.” He reached for her, and she held up her hands.

  “Keep your hands off of me, or I’ll break off that hard-on you’ve been sporting all night and slap you in the face with it.”

  How could he not want more of her? How could she believe that he’d leave her alone?

  “Are you trying to draw attention to us?” he asked, pulling her into him. Those blue-green eyes narrowed at him. “We’re on the dance floor. So dance.”

  She glanced around them and seemed to notice for the first time that they were surrounded by the upper echelon of California royalty. Aiden recognized a few faces here and there. A half dozen politicians, a handful of celebrities, but mostly it was a collection of heirs and heiresses to various fortunes who had clearly had more than enough to drink.

  “What’s wrong with these people?” Frankie asked, allowing Aiden to draw her further onto the dance floor. Even the band was trashed, judging by the limping tempo to their song. “Oh, my god. Is that Meltdown?”

  “The band with that song that you hear on the radio every six seconds? It would appear so. And what’s wrong with everyone is they’re wasted.”

  It was like witnessing last call at an all-you-can drink gun raffle. The over-fifty crowd was straight up drunk. One man was projectile vomiting over the stone balustrade. A woman in her mid-sixties was sloppily pouring a homemade champagne fountain, pausing now and again to swig out of the open bottle.

  There was a couple on the dance floor drunkenly leaning in time to the offbeat music and taking their clothes off.

  It appeared that the younger set had graduated from alcohol to something harder. There were four women in couture gowns sitting in the shallow end of the pool laughing like hyenas. Further into the deep end a “who can break their neck first” diving competition was in full swing.

  The bride was standing on the bar mainlining cosmos and shouting “I’m married, bitches!”

  The third cosmo spilled like a waterfall down her bejeweled dress.

  “Classy as fuck,” Frankie whispered to Aiden as they danced and dodged their way toward the hotel. “That’s a twenty-six-thousand-dollar dress.”

  “Wonder where the groom is? Running for the hills?”

  Frankie pointed toward a large potted palm. “I think he’s the one with his tongue down that groomsman’s throat.”

  “Ah.” Aiden said.

  Frankie shook her head. “This is like the Great Gatsby with a drug and alcohol problem.”

  “And you thought Pruitt’s bridesmonsters were horrible,” Aiden teased.

  A finger poked him hard in the shoulder. “Hey! Who arrrre yoooou?”

  Aiden twirled Frankie around so they could face the poker together.

  “I’m Aiden. Who are you?” he asked the woman. She looked to be in her forties and trying desperately to hang on to her twenties. Her lips had been done, badly. The tight skin around her eyes and forehead screamed BOTOX or facelift. One strap of her ivory colored dress was broken. She held a bottle of champagne in one hand. Her hair extensions were coming out of some intricate knot at the back of her head and hung over her eye.

  “I’m Priscilla.” She swayed as she said her own name. “Are you fren of bride or the broom?”

  “We’re friends of the broom,” Frankie said, stepping in smoothly. “I’m Druscilla, and this is my paid escort, Aiden. I met the groom on Season Eight of Trust Funds and Trophy Wives.”

  “’Zat a reality show?” Priscilla asked.

  Frankie nodded. “Oh, yeah. And the exposure was great. It really launched my career as a foot model. I can give you the producer’s number if you’re interested. It was the best eighteen months of my life if you like living on a yacht near the UAE.”

  “Druscilla, we really should be going,” Aiden said, pinching Frankie in the waist.

  “Call me,” Frankie sang as Aiden propelled her past the frowning Priscilla.

  “We’re trying not to get noticed,” he reminded her.

  “Aide, the only thing these people are going to remember tomorrow is a big, fat nothing.”

  He hustled her into the hotel’s open-air lobby. With the ocean and debauchery at their back, the lobby was rather quiet. He made a move toward the front desk but was thwarted by the foot-dragging Frankie.

  “Franchesca, come on. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Sorry. Geez. Does being wealthy require you to ignore awesomeness?” she asked, admiring the thatched ceiling two stories above them. Gold and white statues and heavy potted palms filled in the expanse of stone floor. Her eyes widened as they approached
the front desk. “Is that gold leaf?” She pointed to a grand staircase that winged off into two different directions one level up.

  “We can ask after we find Chip.”

  “Right. Okay. I’m focused,” she promised. “What’s the plan here?” Frankie asked, nodding at the woman behind the desk.

  “Charm first.”

  “Good evening, sir. How may I be of service?” Hilde, according to her name tag, was tall and reed slim. She looked as though nothing in the world could ruffle her.

  “Hello, Hilde. I’m looking for my friend’s room, and I’m embarrassed to say I can’t remember the number.” Frankie, pretending to be bored, wandered away from the desk over to the koi pond and out Hilde’s line of sight.

  “I see. What is your friend’s name, please?”

  Aiden did his best to look chagrined. “My friend’s name is Chip. But the room is registered to someone else. Chip is about this tall. Blonde hair. This is his first night here.”

  Hilde gave him a wan smile. “I’m sorry, sir. But I’m not permitted to divulge guest information. What is your room number, please?”

  Aiden patted his jacket as if he were looking for a room key. “Let me look… Babe, do you have our room key?”

  At that moment, two women, sufficiently intoxicated, stumbled past Frankie. “An’ then I poked a hole in the condom, told him I was on birth control, and vi-ol-a! I’m a millionaire, and he paid to fix my tits.”

  “You’re like the worst human being ever,” the other crowed.

  “I know, right?”

  Frankie’s move was so fast Aiden almost missed it. One moment Millionaire Tits was stumbling across the marble floor, and the next, she was falling face-first into the koi pond.

  The woman’s screeches combined with Frankie’s calls for help had Hilde grabbing a walkie-talkie from behind the desk and scurrying off toward the hub-bub.

  “Hurry up,” Frankie hissed, appearing at his side. “Stand guard.” She shimmied behind the desk and sat in the vacated chair. “Shit. Password protected.”