Blame It on the Bachelor

by Karen Kendall

  “Give or take a couple of hundred bucks,” she repeated. “That’s not exactly chump change.”

  Dev shrugged. “I’m an entrepreneur, not a bean counter.”

  Dear God in Heaven. “Do you have Excel on that computer?” Kylie asked, pointing at his desk.

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  Kylie took a deep breath, then another. “Fine. Is every single receipt you have in those drawers and boxes?”

  “Yeah. I’m real good about that. I pull ’em out of my desk and pockets every day before leaving.”

  “How orderly of you.”

  He shot her a glance full of annoyance, as if he had any right.

  Kylie stared right back at him, her mind spinning furiously. She hadn’t taken herself off the account immediately, as she should have, given her conflict of interest. So it was even more crucial that nothing—not a decimal—be out of order here. Her job at Sol Trust was at stake; not to mention her reputation and the course of her career in banking.

  “I’m taking over your office for as long as I need to straighten out this mess,” she announced, knowing full well that this decision would have a full impact on her other accounts.

  “What about your other responsibilities?”

  “Not your concern.” She’d take a few personal days if she had to; plead a nasty flu. This was too dire a situation to ignore.

  She stood, removed her suit jacket and draped it over his chair. Then she grabbed an armload of receipts and sat, spreading them over his desk and beginning to sort them by category and date.

  “Make yourself at home,” Dev said, his hands on his hips.

  Kylie pointed at the door. “You. If you want my help, then you will get me a coffee with cream and sweetener. Other than that, don’t show your face in here.”

  DEV WAS HALF-TEMPTED to pick her up, chair and all, and toss her out the window. The woman had a nerve, kicking him out of his own friggin’ office and ordering him to fetch her coffee.

  On the other hand, she was saving his ass, and he knew it. He hated the minutiae of paperwork, and hadn’t thought too hard about it before opening Bikini—he’d figured he’d hire someone. But bringing in thirsty customers had been his top priority, and so he’d spent money on scantily clad bikini babes rather than clerical help.

  He’d figured that he’d get around to the paperwork soon enough. But weeks had turned into months, and months into an entire year, and by then the job was so awful and hairy and overwhelming that he’d continued to ignore it.

  Still, she didn’t need to waltz in here and treat him like a derelict or something. He knew he was making a profit. A pretty tidy one. And he was slowly paying down his debt. He owed money to credit cards and several friends. But he made his monthly loan payment to Sol Trust, no problem. And he did keep a running total, monthly, in his head. Whether she believed him or not. Was it down to the exact penny? No. But Dev didn’t operate that anal-retentively, and he never would.

  So Miss Stick-Up-the-Butt in there could insult him all she wanted to—

  Shit. Yeah, sure. It didn’t matter if she insulted him. But it did matter if she refused to authorize the second part of the loan. Because he wouldn’t be able to pay for the build-out of the restaurant, or for the grand opening party. And all those bills were net either thirty or sixty days.

  He could go bankrupt and lose his condo.

  So he, Dev, had better suck it up and get her that coffee, and make sure it was still piping hot when he served it to her.

  Damn it.

  But to save face, he ran the estimates in his head again and scribbled the numbers on a scrap of paper, which he handed to her. “Here. Let me know if these numbers are off by more than a couple hundred. I guarantee you they’re not.”

  22

  THREE DAYS, thirteen designer coffees and a few sandwiches later, Kylie had chronologically and categorically organized, entered and totaled every single receipt and check in Dev’s office. The tequila boxes were empty, their contents neatly stashed in folders in the immaculate file drawers.

  While they’d barked at and taunted each other each time he’d dared to stick his head inside the office, the hostilities had evolved into an almost affectionate banter, and when Dev walked in on Friday morning he found that he missed her.

  She’d insulted his intelligence, his business sense and his complete lack of responsibility or organization, but she’d been kind enough to bail him out of administrative hell. Why, he still didn’t know. All he knew was that he was exceptionally horny, and she’d smacked his hands every time he’d ventured to put them on her.

  Which was truly unfair, since on Tuesday she’d been wearing snug jeans instead of a business suit, and her ass had looked mouthwatering in them. Wednesday it was shorts and he’d drooled over her legs. Yesterday she’d bludgeoned him with a skimpy sundress because the temperature had been in the nineties for the second day in a row.

  He’d crept up behind her and looked down the top of it. She’d either heard or sensed him there and smacked him in the face with a manila file folder.

  “Stop looking down my dress.”

  “Can’t help it,” Dev complained. “It’s small. And well-ventilated.”

  “You’re so juvenile,” she said, busily typing in numbers one-handed and flipping through receipts with the other.

  “You’re so deliciously—and annoyingly—grown-up.” His fingers slithered of their own accord around the back of the chair and under her arm until he held a breast in his ecstatic palm. He heard her breath hitch. Then—

  “Put that down,” she ordered, still ripping through figures on the keyboard.

  “But I’m horny,” Dev whined, sounding even to his own ears like a thwarted child.

  “If you do not remove your hand from my breast, I will lean on the delete key and trash this entire Excel file. Then you can start over with inputting the receipts, Mr. Hunt-and-Peck.”

  “But Kylie, you seem tense,” Dev told her, complying unwillingly and only after he’d deliberately brushed a thumb over her nipple. It popped to attention instantly, he was happy to see. “I can help you with that....”

  She snorted.

  His hands slithered to her neck and shoulders, and he began to massage. She gave in for a couple of moments, rolling her head forward and letting him ease her muscles.

  Yes! He bent forward to inhale the floral scent of her hair.

  “Are you sniffing me? Like a dog?”

  He snapped upright. “Of course not.”

  She turned and looked at him suspiciously. “I think you were.”

  He tried to look as innocent as possible, but was sure he’d failed miserably. Especially when she put a hand in the center of his chest and shoved, stiff-arming him away from her.

  “You need to back off, Dev. I’m trying to do you a favor, here.”

  “Yes, you are, though I’m not sure why. And I’m trying to thank you in the only way I know how.” He aimed a smile at her that was calculated to disarm. It failed.

  “Why?” she repeated, frowning. She sat silent for a moment as if trying to figure it out herself. Then she shrugged. “I’m trying to protect the bank’s investment, that’s all.”

  “This is all about money? About your job?”

  “Of course. Why? What do you think it’s about?”

  “I have a suspicion that you don’t do this for every client of the bank.”

  “You’re right about that. Most clients don’t let their businesses get into this hellacious state.”

  “You sure you’re not giving me some special treatment, here?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you like me. Just a little.”

  “I do not like you,” she said in tones of aggravation. “You’re a disorganized wreck. And you’re a liar.”

  “I’m a fish fabler. You’re the liar. Because you do like me, Kylie. C’mon. Admit it.” He donned his most charming smile and eased closer to her. He bent his head so that his f
ace was angled directly above hers, and she stared into his eyes, uncertainty creeping into hers.

  He kissed her. He couldn’t help himself. Her lips were warm, soft and coffee-flavored. They yielded to his, opened to his. Then her hand shot out again and pushed against his chest. “No, Dev. We’re keeping this just business.”

  He lifted his head reluctantly. “Why?”

  She shook her head mutinously but didn’t answer.

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a serious conflict of interest, here, Dev. I have to make a decision on whether to sign off on a second loan installment to you, and I cannot make that decision while sleeping with you. Why won’t you get that through your skull?”

  He just looked at her.

  “I could get fired,” she said. “I’d be fired if anyone at the bank knew that I’d slept with you while handling your account.”

  “And which way are you leaning?” Dev asked.

  “On the loan installment?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, and massaged her temples as if she had a headache. “On the one hand, I have to tell you that your organizational skills throw up a zillion red flags that you aren’t a responsible businessperson. On the other…”

  “Did you find any discrepancies? Anything that didn’t add up? Did you find that my estimates were within a couple hundred dollars per month, like I told you?”

  She nodded slowly. “I haven’t found anything that doesn’t add up. No expense outlays that don’t make sense. No missing funds. No extra cash, either.”

  Dev felt a quiet sense of triumph. “And what does that tell you, Kylie?”

  “That you’re handling things pretty well, over all.”

  “And what else does it tell you?”

  “That…you’re honest.”

  “Ah. You sound surprised.”

  She shrugged uncomfortably.

  Dev folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her. “You know what, Kylie? I won’t be trying to look down your dress anymore. Because out of all the not-so-nice things you’ve assumed about me and said to me, that hurts the most. Did you come in here for the last three days to help me, really? Or did you come in here so that you could prove to yourself that I was crooked and justify your fear of getting involved with me?”

  Kylie looked stricken. She opened her mouth and then closed it.

  “Yeah. You think about that.” He walked to the door and opened it. “And maybe, when you’re ready to be honest about your own fear of getting hurt again, then you’ll get in touch with me. Until then, don’t you even think about calling me a liar.”

  Dev hadn’t slammed the door behind him. He’d shut it quietly, but with finality.

  KYLIE HAD FINISHED inputting the last numbers into Excel and then ran totals and estimates for future revenue. She studiously refused to think about what Dev had said to her. Instead she compartmentalized it and blocked any emotional reaction to it until she was done with the task at hand.

  The numbers looked good. As long as Dev brought someone in for a few hours a week to keep up with his paperwork—and he could afford someone part-time—she had no reason to deny him the second installment of the loan from Sol Trust.

  That brought her some measure of relief, since the numbers were in black and white—unlike her feelings.

  Kylie cleaned off Dev’s desk and packed up her things, then went looking for him to tell him the good news. But he was nowhere to be seen. The painters were finishing up the final touches on trim in the restaurant space, which was gorgeous.

  The place was all Italian modern, full of elegant curves and warm wood, from the lighting to the free-standing walls to the furniture. It was painted in a palette of soft blues and greens with an occasional splash of bright turquoise. Surprise accents of bright yellow appeared sparingly here and there. Banquettes and chairs were upholstered in deep blue.

  The total effect conjured images of ocean and sunshine, which fit in well with the South Beach location. But the marine theme was only hinted at. It was all subtle and elegant, sexy and imaginative.

  The tables for Saturday were already set up, with white cloths, sparkling glassware and gleaming silver. By then most of the strong paint odor would have faded, though the whole place smelled new. No harm in that.

  Dev had to be a bundle of nerves about the opening, but he hid it well. Kylie stood for a moment longer, then nodded at the painters and went through the door that connected restaurant to bar. She stuck her head into the kitchen, the office again and even braved the giant refrigerator, but there was no sign of Dev.

  So she left. She blinked in the sudden light and heat outside and rounded the corner of the building. And there he was, one shoulder propped up against the wall, sucking hard on a cigarette.

  She suddenly felt shy and didn’t know what to say to him. She hadn’t processed her feelings—they were still in the vault.

  When he saw her, he pulled the cig from his mouth and blew out a gray, toxic cloud. “I really don’t smoke much.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I’m not your mother.”

  “No. You’re the big, bad bank lady.” He lifted a corner of his mouth.

  “Not so big. Not so bad. Everything looks good, Dev. I’ll sign off on the second installment.”

  He nodded, then took a drag on the cigarette and squinted at her before spouting smoke again. “Thanks. Really. I mean it. For everything you’ve done.”

  “You’re welcome. No worries.”

  He let out a short, unamused bark of laughter. Then took another drag and spewed out smoke. “No worries? Yeah, right.”

  “You nervous about Saturday?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s going to be a huge success. And a success you deserve, Dev.”

  His mouth flattened and he gazed off into the distance. “I don’t know about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged.

  And suddenly she knew exactly where his head was. She understood where, in fact, it had been for the past decade. She knew where all the partying, the obnoxiousness, the womanizing and the drinking had come from: a desire to lose himself. To forget who he’d been. Black out his inner torment over his friend’s death.

  He’d wanted, above all, to fall into the cocoon of a coma and emerge fresh, reborn, able to fly away from his guilt.

  “Dev.” Kylie put a hand on his arm. “Look at me. You can’t keep beating yourself up about the past.”

  “Ha,” he said, his dark eyes full of pain. “Somebody has to.”

  “No. That’s not true. You were kids. Stupid ones, maybe. But kids. And Will’s death wasn’t your fault, no matter what his parents said to you in their grief. In fact, they owe you an apology, Devon.”

  Tears gathered in his eyes. “They don’t.”

  “They do. But I’m not going to stand here and argue about it. I think you should send them an invitation to the opening.”

  His mouth dropped open. “Are you high?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you’re crazy.”

  “Send it, Dev. See what happens.”

  He changed the subject abruptly, and she let him. She’d done her best, and now she had to go.

  Kylie reached up and touched his cheek with her hand. “The restaurant looks stunning, Dev. And if the aromas over the past few days are anything to judge by, the food will be incredible.”

  “Let’s hope so. If the chef and the rest of the staff don’t come to blows.”

  She smiled. “Bodvar is a little hyper.” On her way to the ladies’ room, she’d witnessed him pelting Maurizio with bits of onion, apparently because he didn’t like the way it was sliced.

  “A little? Jeez, the guy will be the death of me. Him and Lila, with her temper tantrums and that damned jealous boyfriend of hers.”

  She noticed that the hand holding his cigarette was shaking almost imperceptibly. The other was shoved deep into the poc
ket of his jeans. Sweat beaded at his temples and on his lip.

  “It’s going to be fine, Dev. Really.” She put a hand on his arm.

  “You’re going to be here, right?” His dark eyes held an almost feverish intensity. “No matter what.”

  She’d known the what referred to their earlier conversation and the uncertainty of their relationship. She’d let that remain unresolved, because she simply hadn’t known how to resolve it. “Of course I’ll be here. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  23

  AS EIGHT O’CLOCK approached on Saturday night, Dev told himself that he wasn’t nervous. Everything was going smoothly. His sister Ciara, who worked for a PR firm, had sent out follow-up press releases, gotten him radio spots and even a couple of regional TV spots that had advertised the event, so that they’d draw the curious to the bar side and pique their interest even if they weren’t officially invited to the dinner.

  Ciara had rushed in at six with boxes and boxes full of goody bags for the guests, stuffed with enticing products.

  These currently sat in colorful rows on a table at the rear, and to either side stood a champagne fountain that would be operated by—who else?—two stunning models in bikinis and spike heels.

  While the bar would serve as usual, waiters would circulate the restaurant side with trays of wine, champagne and hors d’oeuvres during the cocktail hour. At nine o’clock, the guests would be asked to take their seats for a multi-course dinner.

  They’d start with a chilled avocado soup followed by tiny crab cakes. Then a salad of baby field greens misted with Bodvar’s signature Bikini dressing.

  The main course was a lobster-stuffed sole with a delicate white-wine sauce, served over a truffle-infused couscous. Those allergic to shell fish were slated for filet mignon with chanterelle-shitaki risotto.

  And dessert? A choice of lemon cheesecake or a light-as-air chocolate-raspberry swirled mousse.

  The restaurant, at capacity, could serve one hundred and sixty diners, and they had RSVPs for almost every seat. The VIP attendees included—but weren’t limited to—the hotel heiress twins and their dates, a huge pop star and her entourage, a bevy of models, a couple of major developers, a senator and his social secretary/mistress, a major magazine publisher, some big retailers, a yacht-builder, a few industry leaders and a former wrestler-turned-film-star known affectionately as the Boulder, whose date was his fourteen-year-old daughter. Last, but not least, they’d invited a couple of newspaper columnists in the hopes of a mention in the Herald or Sun Sentinel.