Page 56 of The Worst Best Man

“I told you I didn’t want to involve you.”

“I could have held your coat while you kicked in the door, punched your brother in the face, and dragged Chip out.”

His lips curved. That was probably the way Frankie would prefer to conduct business.

“That’s not how Kilbourns react to threats.”

“Let me guess,” Frankie said, tapping a finger to her chin. “You came back to the hotel, did a little digging, and found out why this Boris guy is so important to your brother so you could use it against him.”

He nodded again. “Essentially. You’re not running away screaming yet,” Aiden pointed out.

She shrugged. “It’s no kicking in a door and punching him in the face, but at least you were willing to do something vindictive. However, you werealsowilling to leave my friend at the hands of an idiot kidnapper for more hours than necessary. What if Elliot had hurt him?”

Aiden shook his head. “That’s not Elliot’s MO. He doesn’t get his hands dirty. You saw the setup. Chip was locked in a room and fed.”

“But you couldn’t know that for sure,” Frankie reminded him. “People go crazy all the time.”

“Chip dabbled in mixed martial arts after college. I think he could take a sniveling idiot like Elliot without breaking a sweat.”

She stepped closer. Her chin came up defiantly. “Your brother could and did hire other people to do his dirty work. You shouldn’t have assumed that they would have qualms about harming a rich, drunk American. You were so cocky in your assessment, you left my friend in a potentially dangerous situation and me in the dark. That’s not how you treat people, Aiden.”

He frowned, her words striking a direct hit. “There’s no point in reviewing ‘what-ifs.’ I was confident that Elliot wouldn’t harm Chip, and he didn’t.”

“You were willing to risk it.”

“I got where I am today by listening to my instincts.”

“Please. You got to where you are today because your daddy gave you a position and a big, fat trust fund. Maybe you’ve worked hard since then. Maybe you’re good at what you do. But you fucked up here. Chip could have been hurt while you and your brother were playing human chess. This wedding might not have happened, and a whole lot of other people would have gotten hurt.”

“But it didn’t happen that way,” Aiden pointed out, his frustration rising. He wasn’t used to being lectured by anyone other than his father.

“You were careless with other people, Kilbourn. That’s a pretty damning character flaw. I don’t go to bed with people who treat me or anyone else like shit.”

“Franchesca,” he began. Defending himself was getting him nowhere. Time to change tactics. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was careless and cocky, and my decision could have hurt people.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?”

“Aide, you tell me you’re a champion manipulator, and then you go and give me the perfect apology? Please. I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. I know how far a man will go to get in my bed.”

He didn’t particularly care for being called out for his tactics or having to think about any other man lucky enough to land in Frankie’s bed.

“You wanted answers, you wanted an apology. And none of that’s good enough. What more do you want from me, Franchesca?” he demanded, crossing his arms.

“I want you to be real. Don’t play games. Don’t paint me a picture. Be honest. Don’t try to strategize your way between my legs.” She turned and started back toward the party and then paused. “Oh, and you owe Chip and Pru a pretty massive apology. Make it a good one.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Frankie marched back to the reception ready for a good, stiff drink. She was exhausted. Chip was safe, Pru was married, and she’d knocked the great and powerful Aiden Kilbourn down a peg or two. Her work here was done.

She was flying back in the morning. Back to normal life. Work, school, her insane mother. And as far as she was concerned, she’d be just fine if she never saw Aiden again.

“There you are!” One of the photographer’s lackeys grabbed Frankie’s wrist just as she was reaching for a glass of something cold and alcoholic. “Time for portraits,” the woman said cheerily, dragging her away.

“But, but tequila!”

“I’ll have a hot cocktail waiter spoon feed you tequila if it means you’ll run, not walk,” the woman said through gritted teeth.