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“This is—this is my mother.” I shuddered and squeezed my eyes shut.
Seeming to notice that I couldn’t read anymore, Adam patted me weakly on the shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry. Seems like when people get any kind of fame or fortune, they show their true colors. Are you close?”
“No,” I said emphatically. “We are not close at all. Adam, I barely know her! She walked out on me and my siblings when I was practically a baby. She’s an addict—a drunk who would do anything for a bit of cash. Oh my God, Adam, how could they print this without doing a basic amount of fact checking? I mean, how did they even find her?”
Adam shrugged. “That’s the UK tabloids for you. They get a scent of something interesting, they’re like bloodhounds.”
“But it’s not true!” I practically exploded, drawing curious, disapproving stares around us. I lowered my voice, though it was no less frantic. “Oh my God, but all these people have read this. Did you think that Xavier broke up with me because of this?” I shook my head. “They all think I’m this horrible person who has been tricking Xavier and jilting my mother and—Adam, these are lies!”
I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not. His expression was one I’d seen on people’s faces my whole life. Anytime my mother showed up out of nowhere to claim me or my sisters, usually stinking of bourbon with her hair unwashed and stains littering her clothes. When we would refuse to go to her, she’d scream at us from the sidewalk. And before our teachers, coaches, and babysitters understood the relationship, it was always the same look on their faces: pity. Pity and doubt.
“I swear it,” I said again, quieter now. “Adam, we don’t have a relationship. These are lies.”
“All right, all right,” he said, pulling his phone out of my grasp and tucking it away. “Frankie, I believe you. I do. Come on, have another drink.”
I did as he suggested but couldn’t help noticing the gazes still flickering my way from around the room.
“They’re still looking at me.” My face was flushed. “They’re thinking about that story.”
“None of these people care about theMail. I told you, they’re looking at that dress,” Adam corrected me.
“I’d have to agree.”
At the sound of Xavier’s deep voice, I swung around so fast I nearly spilled champagne all over my chest. Which, I noticed, my handsome duke was now eyeing with an expression between blunt appreciation and possessive irritation.
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a conservative piece of clothing. You find a floor-length red gown under two hundred dollars, that is. While the skirt did, in fact, cover every inch of my lower body, it also had a generous slit up one leg and clung to my legs and backside in a way that didn’t leave a whole lot of my shape to the imagination. The bodice was even more revealing, reaching only halfway up my back and wrapping around the front, where two thin straps led to a V-neckline that draped down to the bottom of my sternum.
Honestly, it showed about as much as an average bikini top. And fine, on a well-endowed woman, it would probably have been completely inappropriate. Indecent, even. But I was small, and everything was covered up just fine. I thought I looked pretty good, especially with the wreath of cubic zirconias around my neck and the long strings of them dangling from my ears. Not diamonds. But they still sparkled almost as bright.
“Francesca,” Xavier said without a word to Adam. “Shall we dance?”
His hand extended toward me, a slip of tattoo extending beyond his wrist, and didn’t waver. It wasn’t really a request.
I nodded to Adam. “Thanks again.”
He was watching Xavier. “Any time. And I do mean any time.”
Xavier bared his teeth in a very good imitation of a panther but said nothing more as he led me to the dance floor, where more than a few couples were enjoying a casual waltz. Mentally, I thanked Nonna for making us all learn basic dance steps when we were little. At nine, it hadn’t seemed practical to be learning the waltz with my grandmother instead of the latest NSYNC choreography, but right now, I was utterly grateful for the lessons.
“You wore red.” Xavier nodded a greeting toward an elderly man a few partners away.
“I did,” I replied, a bit icily. I was still reeling from the article, but I hadn’t forgotten about being stranded outside. “You were supposed to meet me on the curb.”
“I got tied up.” The hand at my waist tightened. “You look unbelievable.”
“Not like a sponge cake anymore?”
“Definitely not. Still something I’d like to devour, though.”
That familiar excitement zipped through me, but for once, I didn’t respond the way he obviously wanted. Instead, I focused on matching his steps, which were much larger than mine.
He tipped his head toward Adam, who had settled on the periphery of the room, watching us over the rim of his glass while he chatted with another attendee. “What’s he doing here?”
I shrugged. “Here with his family, he said.”
“Tosser. He touches you again, he’s a dead man.”
I sighed. “Why do you have to be like that?”
