Frankie smothered a sigh. Despite the fancy “human resources coordinator” title, her job was basically running around and making sure everything went smoothly, even though problems should really be handled by the models’ agents. Even worse, her siblings always came to her, rather than their handlers.
“Let me give Alsace a call and see if we can slide the fitting forward an hour. I’ll arrange a driver, so you won’t have to wait for a taxi.”
“Perfect. Thanks, sis.”
“Sure.”
Birgit sauntered out of the room, her predatory runway strut so much a part of her that she probably couldn’t walk normally at this point. The high heels on her feet brought her height to well over six feet.
Just looking at those shoes hurt. Frankie wiggled her toes. No matter what Mama thought about dressing up and wearing makeup to enhance an image, Frankie stuck to professional, but comfortable. There was a benefit to being in administration rather than on the catwalk.
Before she could start on her lunch, two more models stopped in for advice on dealing with an overly handsy agent.
Then a male model got sent to her office to discuss his temper, which was causing problems with…oh, just about everyone. After a chat, she gave him a card for a therapist who understood the odd stresses of the modeling profession.
He scowled. “This’ll ruin my rep.”
“Hey, this is New York.” Frankie motioned to the skyscrapers outside the window—probably still a great sight to someone from Nebraska. “Everyone’s in therapy.”
His lips curved, and he grinned reluctantly. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Francesca.”
“Sure.”
Before she could snatch a bite, a new model stopped in, an eighteen-year-old who was having problems coping. So young.
Frankie dealt out her usual advice—having friends elsewhere and cultivating hobbies. If a person’s only form of validation came from her career, then any upset in the job world could be devastating. Someone with a variety of interests could shrug off an ugly comment about her appearance by thinking, maybe I messed this up, but I’m a good cook and great with people and can beat anyone at Monopoly.
Once the girl was settled and thinking more clearly, Frankie rearranged schedules and recruited an older model who agreed to serve as mentor.
The office empty again, she glanced at her burger. Cold. Yuck.
Oh, well. Ruined lunch or not, she did enjoy keeping people happy and making things run smoothly. This was what she was good at.
What her family needed from her.
“Baby, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve seen today.” The silky-smooth voice from down the hall was all too recognizable—as was the line. Her ex-husband was trying to con another woman in his quest to get to the top.
Giggles, murmurs.
Wanting to gag, she considered shutting her door. Trying to warn Jaxson’s newest target wouldn’t work—Frankie would simply be considered a vindictive ex. Then again, if he hadn’t had an ironclad contract with Bocelli’s, she really would have asked Mama to show him the door. So, yes, maybe she was a little bit vindictive.
Stopping in the doorway, Jaxson gave her a patronizing smile. He knew he was drop-dead gorgeous and could have any woman in the world.
Except her, at this point.
These days, oh-so-perfect males froze her emotions like a midwinter blizzard.
“Did you need something, Jaxson?”
“Love, Francesca, I need love.” His voice was raised enough for his latest conquest to hear.
She snorted. “I think you’re getting adoration mixed up with love. Buy a dictionary.”
He scowled, then spotted her lunch. “Pitiful. You know, if you’d go on a diet, fix yourself up, you might get a little love—or even adoration. Try it some time.”
“Really?” she cooed in a breathy voice. “You really think so?”
Before he could respond, she gave him a thin smile and turned her attention to her in-basket. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
With a grumble that sounded insulting, he disappeared.
She shook her head. Not your best moment, Frankie. She didn’t usually let his slurs or her family’s obsession with appearance make her feel like the ugly runt of the litter.
No, she wasn’t up to model standards, but she didn’t want to be a model. I’m healthy, pretty, have a lovely, lush body, gorgeous hair and eyes, and even better, a marvelous personality.
Exactly so. Now move on.
Exasperated with herself, she tossed the cold burger and fries into the wastebasket and returned to perusing her mail.
Announcements. Office supplies. Schedule changes. Usually applications and resumes went to Mama, but, currently, Frankie received the business-related ones. If she ever wanted a vacation, she would need an assistant who could take her place, not a shared admin. Right now, anytime she mentioned time off, everyone in her family insisted she couldn’t be spared. That she was needed there, making things work right and smoothing over the entitled-diva messes.
Frowning, she picked up the last piece of mail. Addressed to Francesca Bocelli, care of The Bocelli Agency.
Frankie,
I need help so bad.
I’m trapped. Obadiah joined a militia—the Patriot Zealots—and brought us into their compound. He won’t let me leave. In fact, we moved someplace even more isolated—Rescue, Alaska.
You were right, Frankie; he was such a mistake. He’s getting meaner, and he lets the leaders—
The rest of the sentence was blotted out.
If I don’t make it out, can you try to get Aric away from them? Here are papers I managed to fix up in case you need them.
I know you’ll want to call the police for me, but you mustn’t. One of the Rescue police is a member of the Patriot Zealots. Don’t call the FBI or others. Just don’t.
But…please, Frankie. Get Aric out.
Kit
Frankie realized her palms were pressed together in front of her chest. As if prayer would fix this. Kit, what have you fallen into? She opened the other papers. There was a form, witnessed by a couple of people, giving guardianship of Aric, Frankie’s godson, to her.
It made sense. Aric wasn’t Obadiah’s birth son; the boy was three when Kit fell prey to the creep.
There was also a handwritten list of the reasons why Frankie had been nominated as guardian and why no one else, especially Obadiah, should get oversight of the child.
Pictures of Kit and Aric were enclosed. Frankie picked one up.
Blond, blue-eyed Aric resembled his birth father—a man who’d been in Kit’s life for less than a week. She’d never even learned his last name.
Since the picture of Aric showed him as around two years old, Kit’s first husband had probably taken the photos. Even though Aric wasn’t his, he’d been good to the boy, even when addicted to narcotics. He’d died of an overdose before the marriage was a year old.
Poor Kit had crummy luck with men. While she was still reeling from her husband’s death, Obadiah scooped her up and married her.
Frankie riffled through the photos and found none from this year. The religious fanatic of a spouse probably didn’t believe in cameras.
Aric would be turning four this summer. “Get Aric out.” The little boy was in danger.
Oh, Kit.
As the words on the papers blurred, Frankie realized her hands were trembling. Cazzo. Fuck! She didn’t know what to do—but she had to do something.