Burning Down the Spouse Part 12

His next question was one asked in solemn tones, and Frankie couldn't decide why he was asking it, or whether she should even wonder if there was a point to it at all-maybe he was just making conversation to pa.s.s the time until Simon ran out of Jasmine fuel. "Do you miss Mitch?"

Her breath hitched at such an intimate inquiry. It made her fight the ridiculous notion that Jasmine was right, and Nikos really was interested in her. "N . . . wait, I want to say this the right way. No. I don't miss Mitch. I miss the idea he represented. I miss the hours in my day his needs filled to keep me occupied. I miss what's familiar, and I'm scared witless of the unknown. I miss the feeling that I was part of something important-even if I was just a background player. But by the end of our marriage, anything intimate or warm and fuzzy was long gone. We had more of a working relations.h.i.+p than anything else. Now I know why." Those words were like shedding a skin, one that had become too tight and so constrictive, she could barely breathe.

Yet, Nikos didn't appear daunted by her admission. He leaned in, his cologne, tangy and woodsy, filled her nostrils, his stunningly handsome face showed apparent interest. "You mean because of Bamby?"

Her cheeks flushed, but in some bizarre way, saying it out loud, letting her personal introspection become not so private, somehow felt right. "Our marriage was over long before Bamby, I think. I don't know why I didn't see it then as clearly as I do now. I guess we got into one of those ruts everyone talks about. Everything became about Mitch and his career, doing whatever it took to keep him on the celebrity chef winning streak he was on. I was just his cheerleaderslash-gofer. Looking back, Bamby shouldn't have been the sucker punch she was. I should have seen the signs."

Nikos's beautifully chiseled face flashed an expression she didn't understand regarding her words, but would definitely pinpoint as relief. "It was a s.h.i.+tty thing to do. s.h.i.+ttier still that he left you with nothing. It isn't like he couldn't spare a dime."

Frankie heard his scorn, and she wanted to buy into it. So wanted. Instead, she nodded with a vague smile. "Established. But the nothing portion of this mess is entirely my fault. Mitch asked me to sign a prenup in the beginning of our marriage, and I did so willingly to prove my love wasn't about his wealth. I guess I just never thought our marriage would be reduced to numbers. But who does, right? In fact, I didn't think about the prenup at all until it was too late, making me not so bright and s.h.i.+ny."

"No, Frankie. It just makes you trusting. You were young when you married, right?"

"Too young. I was twenty."

"Jesus," he commented with a wry grin. "I was still having keg parties and hazing freshman."

"You went to college?"

He smiled that incredible smile. "I know. A guy who works in a diner with a college degree. Crazy that."

Frankie's face flamed again. "I didn't mean it like that . . ."

He put his hand on hers, warm and so large it completely covered Frankie's. "Joking. I was joking. Yes. I went to college. I have a degree in accounting, which I put to good use at the diner in ways I never imagined."

Frankie cupped her chin on her knuckles, refusing to move the hand Nikos covered with his even if her Nissan Versa depended on it. It brought with it more than just a scintillating tingle. It sparked something new, fanning an ember of need in her she couldn't remember having felt before. "Did you start working at the diner right out of college?"

"Nope. I had a high-powered job and a ridiculously expensive apartment in Manhattan. In fact, my job was how I met Simon-who'd be living in a one-bedroom walk-up in Hoboken if not for me and my genius with numbers. Instead, he has ten thousand square feet in Ma.n.a.lapan with an indoor pool and a bowling alley."

"You mean he doesn't just sniff out hot women with his uber-powerful nose. He bowls, too? I'm impressed."

Nikos laughed. "He does. It's a little out of control, but if you give him enough direction, he's a solid sixty-five. Blind hasn't stopped Simon, as you can see."

Frankie glanced at Simon and a Jasmine who didn't appear nearly as uptight as she'd been when Simon first approached her. In fact, Frankie heard a soft, albeit maybe a little reluctant giggle from their corner of the table.

But she forgot about Simon and Jasmine when she considered the reasons a man like Nikos would leave his career to come run the family business. He intrigued her. Okay. He did a lot of things to her, but right now, her hormones were in behavior modification mode, and she wanted to learn more about this man she had a ludicrous crush on. "So tell me more about this job you had in Manhattan. Why'd you leave?"

It was as though she'd asked him how many inches his man bits were. Nikos's face changed, and he didn't bother to hide the displeasure inching around the tightening of his lips. "Personal reasons."

Oh, Frankie. Booyah, for finding the touchiest issue you possibly could and asking about it. Leave it to her to take the one stab in the dark that actually hit the jugular. Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable.

As dark almost always turns into light, so did Nikos's face. "Sorry. I guess I have my touchy issues, too. I worked long, crazy hours at the firm. I didn't have much of a life. I hardly ever got home to see Mama and Papa. If you know just a little about them by now, you know they're all about family."

Frankie let out a relieved breath of air followed by a smile. Voula and Barnabas were indeed all about family. It was one of many reasons she was growing so fond of them "I know when your father mutters what a meddling brat you are as he hovers behind me while I wield seven inches of razor-sharp steel, he means it with big love."

He grinned with fondness. "Yeah. That's Papa for you." Then Nikos frowned. "He's not taking it out on you, is he? I told him he'd better behave when he's around you, or I'd take away his Judge Judy privileges."

Frankie shook her head with a chuckle. "Only in the way of long, dramatic sighs and the occasional snort of displeasure when he sees me chopping something in a way he wouldn't do it. Though last week, he only snorted like twice in a day between commercial breaks for Regis and Kelly. I think I'm growing on him," she joked, leaning into Nikos before she could catch herself, fighting the utter luxury having such a solid, delicious man in such close proximity brought.

The candle glowed between them, giving Nikos's eyes a seductive glint that sent a s.h.i.+ver along her spine. "You've grown on a lot of people, Frankie." He tilted his winegla.s.s in her direction.

Swooning wouldn't be out of the question if it weren't for Jasmine tugging on her arm, totally hars.h.i.+ng her Nikos vibe. "You look like a girl who needs to use the ladies' room, Frankie," she said with a suggestive tone, sending another girlfriend signal that screamed she was using the facilities whether she wanted to or not.

Frankie pointed to the left of Nikos with an apologetic smile. "I think I have to go to the bathroom. Excuse me." Slipping past him, she held her breath when he rose, allowing her room to s.h.i.+mmy out of her chair.

Once free of the confines of the table, Jasmine dragged her in the direction of the bathroom. "That man is infuriating," Jasmine muttered under her breath.

"Infuriatingly hot for you," Frankie teased. "I don't see the problem."

Jasmine stopped dead in her tracks, pulling Frankie to an alcove by the restaurant's bar. Her face a mask of hard anger, she hissed her words. "You know what the problem is, Francis? The problem is Simon's just like Ashton."

Frankie frowned at her friend, unsure where her sudden anger stemmed from. "Simon does tires, too?"

Jasmine shook her head with a sharp bob, placing the heel of her hand against her forehead. "No. Simon's an ex-NFL football player."

"Ohhhh, I don't know anything about football players. Just food. So Ashton played pro football, too? Before or after tires?"

Jasmine's beautiful eyes rolled upward. "No, Frankie."

"Then I'm lost. Take my hand-guide me to wherever this crisis you're having is. I'll follow."

"Simon's rich."

Frankie held up her knuckles, facing Jasmine. "Niiiice coup, my friend. You and Gary'll be moving out of that studio apartment in no time flat."

"No! Don't you get it? That's the problem, Frankie. He's rich. I don't want to ever become involved with another man who has boatloads of money to burn. When you can have whatever you want, when nothing's un.o.btainable, you lose perspective. The people around you become disposable. Not to mention, Simon's ten years younger than I am."

"He is not," Frankie scoffed. "You two could be the fabulous twins for all the blonde hair and good looks between you. If the two of you had children, no one would be able to bear looking at them for the s.h.i.+ny."

"He's thirty-six, for Christ's sake." Jasmine's lush lips thinned in disapproval.

"So?"

"So I'm not!"

Frankie rocked back on her heels. "Still don't see the problem. He's rich, attractive, has a great sense of humor, and he very obviously wants to date you. If only we all had those problems. Boo to the hoo for poor, gorgeous Jasmine."

"I'm forty-six years old, Frankie. That's too old to date some kid I could have almost given birth to."

Frankie's mouth fell open in surprise, but she managed to snap it shut. "You are not forty-six," she said with a shake of her head. "Jesus, I can't believe how unfair this is. You didn't just hit the gene pool lottery for the dazzling; the guy upstairs decided you should bathe in the Fountain of Youth, too? Do I need to remind you just how lucky you are? And another thing-if you could've given birth to Simon, I call we hunt your mother down and have her locked up for neglect. You're ten years older than he is, Jasmine. Not a hundred."

"It doesn't matter. Obscenely rich men are all the same. They just want eye candy-trinkets to wear on their arms. Ashton told everyone I was his most prized possession. Well, until I wasn't."

"So now wouldn't be the time to remind you Simon's eyes can't see your candy? That might sound incredibly insensitive, but that's Simon's reality. I'd say it's obvious he thinks there's more to you than big hooters and an a.s.s you could crack a walnut on," Frankie joked.

But Jasmine wasn't laughing. "I'm never going to be someone's toy again."

Frankie c.o.c.ked her head, her smile sympathetic. "Wow, and people have the nerve to call me sensitive. I get it, Jasmine. I do. I was someone's toy, too. Okay, granted, I wasn't as s.h.i.+ny a toy as you are. I'm still not, and I'm almost ten years younger than you, too, okay, eight, whatever, but you just met Simon. How do you know he's just like Ashton? Even I, pathetic, jacked-up, beaten-down divorcee, know you shouldn't judge the poor guy before he's given you a reason to." Oh, dear G.o.d. Maxine's crazy-a.s.sed philosophies and cutesy euphemisms were in her head now, claws deep.

Jasmine's finger waved under her nose. "I know rich men, Frankie. They all just want young playthings, and when the young plaything gets old, they don't want her anymore."

"Yeah. I think you've said that four times now. Your argument's less effective when you use the same one repeatedly. Lest ye forget, I know rich men, too, and I don't want to be the one to smack you with the actuality of the situation here, Jasmine, but you're not a young plaything anymore."

"Score."

Frankie curtsied. "Okay then. Not that you aren't fabulous, and a whole h.e.l.luva lot more so since I found out you're freakin' forty-six, but if we're playing by the numbers, only eighty-year-old men would consider you a plaything."

Jasmine threw up her hands with a wry smile. "Okay. Touche. I get it. The horse is beaten."

Frankie gave her a thoughtful glance. "So I guess we wouldn't be having this conversation if you didn't like him and might be considering dating him, right?"

Jasmine slumped against the textured wall, tucking her purse under her arms in front of her like a petulant child. "I don't want to like him."

"I don't want to have a zero balance in my bank account either while I sponge off my Aunt Gail. There are a b.u.t.tload of things I don't want. Sometimes life hands you what you don't want. I can think of far worse things than liking Simon to not want. So knock it off and be grateful for the endless gifts the Big Kahuna seems to keep sending you while he neglects the rest of us to stew in our mediocrity."

Jasmine giggled, nudging Frankie with her shoulder. "You just told me to suck it up."

Frankie grinned, rather proud her mentality was slowly changing. "Yeah, I guess I did. So, ahem-in the esteemed words of our fearless, ex-trophy wife leader, Maxine Barker-suck it up, princess."

Jasmine laughed once more, squaring her shoulders with a groan. "I can't believe I'm being so whiny. Let's go to the bathroom so I can stare my lily-livered reflection down."

Frankie followed beside her with a snicker. "And do me a favor. Don't do that again, okay? I was the one in control of your freak. That should never, ever happen for as long as we're friends. Got that? I don't like you insecure. If you're insecure, then I'm surely suicidal. So while we're in there, make sure you hike up your spine. I might need to borrow it."

Jasmine's cackle rang through the restaurant, making Frankie laugh, too, distracting her for a moment from the hand that snaked out of another small alcove, grabbing her with an iron grip. "Are you Frankie Bennett?" a male voice slurred.

Jasmine was instantly between Frankie and the tall, lean man who had her arm, placing her hand on his wide shoulder to give it a light shove. "Hey! Back off, pal."

He gave Jasmine a wobbly nudge, pus.h.i.+ng her out of the way and redirecting his glare at Frankie. A glare filled with distinct malice. "I said, are you Frankie Bennett?" His words washed over her in an alcohol-soaked breath so sharp, Frankie had to fight to keep from gagging.

Her head shot back as she took in the face looming before her. A nice enough face attached to a man whose red and black striped tie was askew and whose rumpled brown suit looked like it had forgotten dry cleaners weren't extinct.

Paparazzi maybe? d.a.m.n them. Her first night out of the cave, and already someone had found her. How was it possible in nowhere Riverbend? Frankie stared up into the stranger's bleary, aquamarine eyes lined with red rims, and fought to keep her calm.

She held up a warning hand in Jasmine's direction when her feet shuffled toward them. "Look, if you're hoping to dig up some gossip on me so you can write a story that's almost ninety percent bulls.h.i.+t, blow, buddy. There's nothing here to see, and if you don't let go of me, I'll pull a Mitch in the Kitchen repeat performance, the likes of which you've never seen!" Frankie tried to re-create that out-of-control lunacy she'd experienced when she'd trashed Mitch's set. The one that made her eyes wide and buggy.

But to no avail. Clearly her threats meant nothing to him. Instead, he gathered her up by her shoulders, his long fingers digging into her flesh and asked again, "Are you Frankie Bennett?"

"That's it!" Jasmine yelled, winding up her arm to clock him in his curly head of dark brown hair. She hit the perp's head with such force, the snap of Jasmine's plether bag made a thwacking noise.

The man's head snapped back, but he didn't let Frankie go. Rather, he dragged her backward with him, toppling chairs to the tune of yelping, astonished customers and the shattering of gla.s.s.

Just as Frankie saw the floor rus.h.i.+ng toward her face, another hand reached from behind her, grabbing her around the waist to haul her upward and push her out of the way while the man fell to the floor as though a lumberjack had taken him out at the knees, his back hitting the tile with a crack of bones and the raucous skitter of chairs.

"Marco! What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" Nikos roared, pus.h.i.+ng his way through the toppled bar stools to hover over him.

A small, round man with a black dinner jacket scurried toward the group, but Nikos held up his hand. "I got it, Anthony. Just give me a minute, and send me the bill, okay?"

The man bowed out in quiet submission, his moon-shaped face full of concern, as though this kind of thing happened with Nikos and whoever Marco was all the time.

Frankie pushed her tousled hair out of her eyes, gasping for breath as Jasmine rushed up behind her, pulling her back away from the debris.

Simon was right behind Jasmine, finding her elbow with his hand. "Marco? What the h.e.l.l are you doing? Has he been drinking, Nikos?" His nostrils flared. "Never mind. I can smell the Jack on him from here. Marco, my friend, you know what this means, don't you? Intervention, pal."

Nikos hauled Marco up off the floor with a rough jerk, setting him hard against the bar. The two standing but an inch apart in height, Nikos grabbed his jaw, giving his cheek a light cuff with the back of his hand. "Marco? What are you doing here? I thought you were in Botswana where they don't have phones or running water?"

"Who the h.e.l.l is he?" Jasmine whispered to Simon.

"Tha.s.s her, Nik. Tha.s.s her, G.o.d d.a.m.n it!" Marco shouted, his words blending together when he pointed an accusatory finger in Frankie's direction, slamming his forearm into Nikos's shoulder to break free of his grip.

Frankie cringed. Indeed. It was her. She was never sorrier it was her than she was right now. She turned to Simon when she caught her breath. "You know him?"

Simon clucked his tongue in Marco's direction while Nikos fought to keep him in check. "Yeahhhh. We know him. That's our other best friend, Dr. Marco Sabatini, DDS."

Jasmine snorted with a dry comment. "What a trio you men make. The obnoxious, the drunk, and the Greek. Nice manners, too. Kudos."

Marco began to barrel toward Frankie again, his eyes filled with not only the gla.s.sy effects of the booze he'd so undoubtedly consumed, but also something else she couldn't get a feel for. If she had to guess, she'd call it sorrow, deep and cutting. "Okay, so if he's not the paparazzi fis.h.i.+ng for a story, how does he know me? I mean, I've had a rude comment or two from the male persuasion in Mitch's defense, calling me a ball buster for threatening his . . . well, his-"

"Junk," Jasmine offered with a snicker.

Frankie nodded her agreement. "Right. Junk. But no one's ever reacted like this. He's really a little over-the-top outraged on behalf of men caught cheating, don't you think?"

Simon blew out a breath of air. "Oh, if you only knew. Excuse me while I go put myself in the line of fire, ladies. Marco would never hit a blind man. I hope," he muttered, using his cane to find his way to the bar, narrowly avoiding a shattered brandy gla.s.s.

"Marco, my man! S'up, buddy?"

Marco reached upward to cup Simon's face. "Tha.s.s her, Simon. I seed-saaaw her in the paper. I haf to talk to her," he shouted on a wobble of very large feet.

Simon poked him in the stomach with his cane. "You'll do no such thing, pal. You leave Frankie alone and come home with me. Gimme your keys, and don't make me fish in your pants for 'em. People'll talk."

Marco shook his head with vigor, the curls on his head violently shuddering. "No. No. No. I haf to know if she's seen Carrie. I'm no-not leafin' 'til she tellss me."

"Marco-if you don't take your a.s.s outta here, I'll haul you out myself," Nikos grated with a harsh growl. "Carrie's back where she belongs. In Idaho with her family. Frankie doesn't even know Carrie. Now knock this s.h.i.+t off now and go home with Simon."

Nikos pulled his cell phone from his pocket with a snap, using his thumb to scroll through it until he located the number he needed. "Win? It's Nik. Sorry to interrupt, but we need reinforcements." He frowned while he listened and nodded his head. "No, no. It's okay. We'll figure it out. Stay where you are. I'll call you."

By now Marco had slumped against Simon's shoulder, his mouth open and slack against the burgundy sweater Simon wore. Simon hoisted him up, letting his friend lean his back into the bar for support.

Frankie finally found her words. Who was Carrie and why did this Marco think she knew her? Her eyes narrowed when she approached Nikos and tapped him on the shoulder. "Who's Carrie?"

"Marco's ex-wife," he muttered, avoiding meeting her gaze by focusing on Simon's back.

Aha. "And why would I know her?"

"He's drunk, Frankie," was the impatient answer. "When he's drunk, he thinks everyone knows where Carrie is."

"Well, then maybe you might consider AA so he doesn't accost the wrong person on his hunt for the elusive Carrie?"

Marco's head reared up at the sound of her voice. "Your husband . . . He stoled my wife!"