Page 58 of Tempting Frankie
As my son moves to brush past me, I plant my hand firmly on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes widen, a flicker of unease crossing his face.
“Hold it right there,” I say, my voice deceptively calm. “Didn't you just say you were coming to see me? Well, here I am.” I gesture to myself with my free hand, a sardonic smile playing at my lips. “So, where exactly are you going? And what did you want to see me about?”
I can practically see the gears turning in Cameron's head as he scrambles for an excuse. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, no doubt tasting the bitterness of his own lie.
“I, uh...” he stammers, his earlier bravado evaporating like mist in the morning sun. “I just remembered I have a…a lunch meeting. Yeah, that's it. I'll catch you later, Dad.”
I tighten my grip on his shirt, the expensive fabric bunching under my fingers. “A lunch meeting,” I repeat, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “How convenient. And here I thought we could have that little father-son chat you were so eager for.”
“Look, Dad,” he says, attempting to pry my hand off his chest. “Can we not do this here? People are starting to stare.”
I glance around, noticing for the first time the curious looks from passing employees. They quickly avert their gazes, suddenly finding the floor tiles fascinating. But I don't give a damn about their prying eyes. All I care about is the lying, manipulative brat in front of me.
“Oh, now you're concerned about appearances?” I chuckle, the sound devoid of any real humor. “That's rich. You didn’t have that same sentiment when you caused a fucking scene at Le Vernardin.”
Cameron's face flushes, anger and embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “Jesus, Dad, what do you want from me? An itemized list of my day? I'm a grown man; I don't need your permission to?—”
“To what?” I interrupt, leaning in close. “To fuck around in my company? To lie to my face?”
His nostrils flare, a glimpse of that famous Steele temper flashing in his eyes. For a moment, I see myself in him. The arrogance, the entitlement, the belief that rules don't apply to people like us. It's like looking in a funhouse mirror, a distorted reflection of my younger self.
“It's not like you're one to talk about office romances, Dad,” he spits back.
“You need to grow the hell up, Cameron,” I say, my voice low and tired. “You're not a kid anymore. You can't keep skating by on charm and my last name.”
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. The familiar weight of disappointment settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket. How many times have we been here? How many second chances have I given him?
Cameron stands there, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. But then his jaw sets, and he storms off with clenched fists.
He fucking exhausts me.
Chapter 20
Francesca
Ifidget 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 Lindaand 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?”
