“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.