Page 26 of Tempting Frankie (Lust & Luxury #1)

Francesca

I fidget with the delicate gold chain around my neck, trying not to choke on the suffocating cloud of expensive perfume and even more expensive bullshit. My Valentino dress isn’t even putting me in a good mood.

Alexander's hand rests on the small of my back. I catch his attention, and he gives me a reassuring smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He's been on edge since his encounter with Cameron earlier this week, and I can practically feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

“You look ravishing,” he murmurs, leaning close.

I plaster on my best fake smile as another couple approaches. The woman's face is so tight it looks like it might shatter if she attempts a genuine expression.

“Alexander, darling!” she trills, air-kissing his cheeks. Her gaze slides to me, sharp and assessing. “And who's this lovely young thing?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I'm twenty-five, not twelve.

“This is Francesca DeLuca,” Alexander says smoothly. His hand tightens possessively on my waist. “Francesca, meet Linda and Harold Frogmore. Linda sits on the board of the children's hospital we're fundraising for tonight.”

I extend my hand, channeling every ounce of poise I can muster. “It's a pleasure to meet you both.”

Harold's handshake lingers a bit too long, his watery eyes roving over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. Linda’s smile is more of a grimace as she says, “How wonderful. Alexander, you must tell me where you find these dates of yours. They get younger and prettier every time I see you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting blood.

The implication is clear. I'm just the flavor of the month, another pretty face to hang on Alexander's arm.

Part of me wants to tell her exactly where he found me—on an escort service and his son's ex, thank you very much.

If only just to see the shock on her plastic face.

But I'm not here as Francesca the escort. I'm here as Francesca DeLuca, Mr. Steele’s girlfriend. I swallow my pride and my sarcasm and say, “I assure you, Mrs. Frogmore, my qualifications extend far beyond my appearance.”

“And what is it that you do, Miss DeLuca?”

“I'm in marketing,” I say, proud that my voice doesn't shake. “I recently joined the team at Steele Enterprises.”

Mrs. Frogmore’s perfectly plucked eyebrows rise a fraction. “Oh? How…interesting. And how did you come to work for Alexander's company?”

The implication is clear as day. She might as well have asked, “So, how long have you been fucking the boss?”

I plaster on my sweetest smile. “Well, I applied to an open job listing of course. Alexander had no idea and as you should know, CEOs don’t do the hiring of low-level positions.”

The Frogmores finally excuse themselves, leaving me feeling like I need a shower to wash off their judgmental stares. I turn to Alexander, my voice low and urgent.

“This was a mistake,” I hiss. “I can't do this. Everyone here is looking at me like I'm a piece of meat you picked up at the market. Did you see how that Harold creep was eyeing me? I half expected him to ask how much I cost per hour.”

“Well compared to Linda, you’re the first pretty thing he’s seen in twenty years,” He supplies, his green eyes twinkling with amusement.

“It's not funny,” I hiss, glancing around nervously. “They're all going to gossip. I can practically hear the whispers already. 'Oh, look at Steele's latest conquest. Wonder how long this one will last?'”

Alexander's hand slides from my back to my hip, pulling me closer. His touch sends a shiver down my spine, despite my frustration. “Their opinion means nothing,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.

I pull back, fixing him with an exasperated glare. “Easy for you to say. You're not the one being sized up like a prized cow at auction.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich. “Darling, if you were livestock, you'd be the most exquisite addition to a farm I've ever seen.”

“Oh my God,” I groan, fighting back a reluctant smile. “You're impossible, and I’m trying to be mad here.”

“And you're overthinking this,” he counters, reaching up to tuck a stray curl behind my ear.

His fingers linger on my cheek, and I hate how easily my body responds to his touch.

“You've more than proved yourself to Miranda, and she's a goddamn viper. If you can handle her, you can handle these socialites.”

I snort, thinking of my fierce, take-no-prisoners boss. “Miranda would eat these botoxed bitches for breakfast.”

“Exactly,” Alexander says, grinning. “And so can you. You're brilliant, Francesca. Don't let anyone make you doubt that.”

I want to believe him, I really do. But as another group of impeccably dressed guests sweeps by, their gazes lingering on us a beat too long, I feel my anxiety spike again.

“I just…I feel like an imposter,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “Like any second now, someone's going to realize I don't belong here and throw me out on my ass.”

Alexander's expression softens, and he cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You belong wherever you damn well please,” he says fiercely. “And right now, you belong here, with me. Anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves.”

His words, crude as they are, make me laugh. It's a genuine sound, bubbling up from deep in my chest, and I feel some of the tension leave my body.

“There's my girl,” Alexander murmurs, his thumb tracing my lower lip.

An hour and three glasses of champagne later, I'm starting to feel a little more at ease.

The alcohol has taken the edge off my anxiety, and I've managed to navigate a few more conversations without completely embarrassing myself or Alexander.

I'm leaning against a marble pillar, watching Alexander chat with some stuffy-looking businessman across the room, when a familiar voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't my used goods.”

I whirl around to find Cameron standing way too close, his breath reeking of expensive scotch. My stomach lurches, and it's not just from the champagne.

“Jesus, Cameron,” I hiss, pressing a hand to my racing heart. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He smirks, green eyes glinting with malice. “It's a charity event, sweetheart. I was invited.”

“Right,” I mutter. “Because you're such a philanthropist.”

Cameron's gaze rakes over me, lingering on the way my dress hugs my curves. His lip curls in a sneer. “Damn, Frankie. That dress is doing you no favors. I can see why my dad’s into you, though. He always did have a thing for thick girls.”

I feel the blood drain from my face, replaced by a hot flush of anger and humiliation. I want to slap that smug look right off his face, but I'm acutely aware of our surroundings. Instead, I plaster on a saccharine smile.

“Wow, Cameron. And here I thought you couldn't possibly be a bigger asshole than you were when we dated. Glad to see you're still exceeding expectations in at least one area of your life.”

His eyes narrow, but before he can respond, he glances around furtively and leans in closer. The smell of alcohol on his breath makes me gag.

“Speaking of exceeding expectations,” he drawls, “how's the Infinity app treating you these days? Still getting plenty of bookings?”

I freeze, my blood turning to ice in my veins. How the fuck does he know about that?

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I say, but my voice wavers, betraying me.

Cameron's grin is predatory. “Oh, come on, Frankie. Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you. I know all about your little job. Tell me, does my dad know he's just another John to you?”

I feel like I'm going to be sick. The room spins around me, faces blurring into a sea of judgment and disdain. I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out.

“What's the matter?” Cameron taunts. “Cat got your tongue. Or are you just calculating how much you can charge me for old time's sake?”

“That's none of your fucking business,” I hiss, glancing around frantically to make sure no one's overheard. “What do you want, Cam?”

His smirk widens, and I realize with dawning horror that this is exactly what he wanted. To get under my skin. To make me squirm.

Cameron's words hit me like a punch to the gut. “Oh, I don't want anything,” he drawls, “except for you to fuck off and to cause you and my father pain. I can feel myself getting a chubby from it already.”

I recoil, bile rising in my throat. The champagne churns in my stomach as disgust and fury war for dominance. My hands shake as I clench them into fists, nails digging crescents into my palms.

“You're fucking sick,” I spit, fighting to keep my voice low. The glittering crowd swirls around us, oblivious to the venom being spewed. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Cameron's eyes glitter with malice as he leans in closer, his breath hot and sour against my cheek.

“I get bored easily,” he drawls. “Chalk it up to my daddy issues.” His gaze rakes over me once more, lingering on the curves I've spent years learning to love.

“Have a good fucking night, chubby Chessie.”

I swallow hard, choking back the tears that threaten to spill over. Fuck Cameron. Fuck him and his cruel words and his pathetic attempts to get under my skin. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

With shaking hands, I smooth down my dress and take a deep breath. The room spins slightly as I make my way across the glittering expanse of marble floor.

I focus on Alexander, willing my legs to carry me to him without buckling. He's deep in conversation with some silver-haired man in an impeccably tailored tuxedo, but the moment he catches sight of me, his brow furrows with concern.

“If you'll excuse me,” he says smoothly, cutting off whatever the other man was saying mid-sentence. In two long strides, he's at my side, his hand warm and steady on the small of my back.

“Francesca?” he murmurs, ducking his head to meet my eyes. “What's wrong?”

I lean into him, drinking in the familiar scent of his cologne. It grounds me. “Can we leave?” I whisper, hating how small and pathetic my voice sounds. “Please?”

Alexander's jaw tightens, his eyes scanning the room. “Did something happen?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. If I open my mouth, I might scream or burst into tears or both. Neither option seems particularly appealing in a room full of sharks circling for blood.

“Okay,” he says softly, pulling me closer before guiding right out of this cesspool of assholes.