Bringing Home a Bachelor

by Karen Kendall

  But she did hear it. And he sounded sincere.

  Part of her fell just a little bit in love with Pete Dale right then—a silly part of her, maybe. But Melinda could actually feel it unfurling, giving a tiny wave of joy deep down inside her.

  It wasn’t enough to block the hurt entirely, just a small distraction from it…but Mel wanted to kiss him. And then she wondered if that was pathetic.

  She stood there, growing irrationally angry at her gratitude towards Pete, instead of focusing on her anger at Mark.

  She waited, biding her time, until Pete came back out onto his balcony alone. “Melinda?” he called softly. “Mel, where are you?”

  She hesitated. Maybe she should just jump off the damned balcony and run for the nearest convent, so she’d never have to see a man again in her lifetime. But convents had lots of rules, and she’d never been particularly obedient. Or chaste, she thought ruefully.

  “Mel?” Pete called again.

  “Right here.” She leaned out, stretched her arm around the concrete wall dividing the balconies, and waved at him.

  “Jesus,” he said. “How did you get over there?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Wait there,” he ordered. “I have a master key. I’ll let you out the door and you can come back into my room.”

  “Thanks. I think I’d have to take off my dress again in order to make the climb back over.”

  Pete laughed. “I have no problem with you doing that.”

  “Pervert.” Melinda waited until Pete, now clad in only a pair of snug Levi’s jeans, entered the room and unlocked the door to the balcony, sliding it open for her.

  “Madame,” he said, stretching out a hand to help her inside.

  Mel took his hand, then caught a glimpse of herself in the room’s large mirror and grimaced. She might be dressed again, but she looked scary. Her eye makeup was smudged, her lipstick was smeared, she had beard burn around her mouth and her hair…yikes. In disbelief, she put up a hand to touch it, and Pete laughed.

  “You have clearly been having all kinds of wild sex with some bastard who took advantage of you,” he said.

  “No, really?” Mel was still fixated on her horrifying hair. As a result of the salty sea air, the humidity, and the half can of hairspray the salon stylist had used, she resembled an alpaca dragged through an inkwell.

  “Yup. And he’d be happy to continue taking advantage, by the way.” Pete pulled her to him and tried to slip a hand up her skirt.

  “Stop that!” She knocked his hand away and looked around at the belongings of the people staying in the room. Feminine clothing exploded out of a carry-on bag, and a man’s computer case lay open in an armchair. “Let’s get out of here. I feel really strange being in these people’s room.”

  She also felt a little odd being face to chest again with a half-naked Pete. How could she ever have thought of him as a teddy bear? As they snuck out of the room, it seemed impossible. Her inner thighs burned as she walked, scraped raw by his beard bristle. Other things in that area tingled and stung, as well. He’d been so deliciously rough.

  He opened the door and stuck his head into the hallway, peering right and then left. All was evidently clear, since he tugged her out behind him and then into his room again, where she felt trapped instead of relieved.

  Pete was unbelievably, unexpectedly hot. He was hung like a bull and fantastic in bed. He was kind. He liked her naked. And he’d gone and done something funny to her heart by defending her to her brother.

  Now he looked at her with amusement saturating those calm gray eyes of his; enjoying their little conspiracy and inviting her to share the joke on Mark.

  All of this added up to exceptional danger. If she didn’t get away from Peter S. Dale right this minute, she was afraid he’d break her heart—just like every other guy she’d ever known.

  6

  PETE DIDN’T KNOW what to think of Melinda at this point. In the space of a few hours, she’d gone from vulnerable woman to bold seductress, then from shy, self-conscious schoolgirl to passionate lover. And finally from remarkable gymnast—he didn’t think he’d have the guts to climb from one balcony to another on an eighth story—to crazed coward.

  She’d bolted from his room like a horse out of the gate at the Kentucky Derby. Whether she was mortified or petrified, he didn’t know. Maybe somewhere in between the two. But she’d used his comb to attack her hair—without stellar results—and scrubbed at her smudged makeup with a washcloth.

  Then she’d abruptly said, “Gotta go!” And one turn of the knob and slam of the door later, she’d vanished.

  Pete shrugged it off and climbed into the shower, but he couldn’t forget the sight of her face, flushed and beautiful, as he’d entered her…and he’d never, as long as he drew breath, forget those breasts.

  He soaped up and rinsed off, bemused to find himself hard again as he toweled dry. He wanted to see her again, no matter how awkward things might get with Mark. He would see her again.

  As he put his tuxedo pants back on, a second knock came at his door. What the…? It was Grand Central Station around here tonight. Mel must have forgotten something. Pete opened the door, ready to tease her, ready to kiss her again.

  His boss stood there.

  “Peter?”

  “Mr. Reynaldo!” What in the hell was the man doing here on a Saturday night?

  Rafael Reynaldo was in his late fifties, a man of impeccable grooming and great charm. He wore a French-blue tailored shirt and a charcoal-gray suit that complemented the salt-and-pepper of his hair and neat mustache. One of his dark eyebrows rose as he took in Pete’s shirtless, barefoot state. “Are you not attending the Kirschoff/Edgeworth reception downstairs, Peter?”

  “I—I—I can explain, sir. A guest knocked a cup of coffee down the front of my shirt, and…”

  Reynaldo took in the rumpled bed, the champagne bottle and the two glasses, just as Mark had. “I see.” Then he glanced at Pete’s white tuxedo shirt, which lay on the floor next to the nightstand. The not-stained-with-coffee tuxedo shirt. And his nostrils flared as he undoubtedly caught the scent of sex.

  “You do not need to lie to me, Peter,” he said.

  Fire burned its way up Pete’s face. This was so definitely not the path to a vice presidency at Playa Bella, Inc. It was more the path to the unemployment office. “Sir, I’m sorry. I—I was…unexpectedly sidelined…and I’m on my way back downstairs right now.”

  “Was she pretty?” The ghost of a smirk played at the corner of Reynaldo’s mouth.

  Pete opened, then closed his own mouth. “Yes, very,” he croaked at last.

  “You practice safe sex, eh?” Now the smirk emerged full force.

  Would the floor please open up and swallow him whole? Or could a lightning bolt strike him instantaneously? “Of, of course. The safest.”

  Reynaldo nodded. “Well, then. I do suggest a shirt and some shoes before you rejoin our guests.”

  “Right.” Pete swallowed convulsively and tried to ignore the perspiration rolling from his neck down to the small of his back. “Ha, ha!”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” Reynaldo squinted at him with friendly malice.

  “So. Was there something that you needed, sir?”

  “Yes, Peter. Respect. And a grain of intelligence, as well. There are security cameras in Playa Bella. And your key card is electronically trackable, you know. So I suggest that in the future, you are careful about when you engage in, shall we say…recreational activities.”

  Pete knew he’d screwed up, but did the guy have to keep rubbing his nose in the wet spot? He looked at the floor.

  “Sir, I will point out that I am technically not working this evening—I am a guest at the reception—but would you like my resignation?” His stomach lurched. How the hell would he find another decent job in this economy?

  Reynaldo snorted. “No, Peter, I would not. I have hired hundreds, if not thousands of staff over the years, and believe you me, my boy, I’ve seen
much, much worse here in Miami.” He winked. “Besides, you should be in the dirty movies with your slick moves, eh?”

  The back of Pete’s neck prickled, all the tiny hairs there rising. He scanned the room for some kind of hidden camera, but saw nothing. Still he felt like throwing up. Had Reynaldo or security somehow filmed him with Melinda? Horrible visions of the two of them airing on YouTube filled his mind.

  And then grisly images of Mark, tearing him apart and feeding him his extremities.

  Reynaldo’s mocking laugh filled his ears. “I am joking. No, you were not on camera.”

  His knees weak, Pete let the air slowly out of his lungs.

  “How do they say it on that TV show, Peter? That you have been ‘punked’? Is that it?”

  He produced a weak answering laugh. “Yes, that’s what they say.” He wiped his brow. “You got me, sir.”

  “Yes, Peter, I did.” That mocking laugh came again. “You may have got some, but I got you. I learn the American slang, eh? Is good?”

  Pete forced himself to chuckle and nod. After all, he couldn’t exactly tell his boss to go to hell, now could he?

  7

  MELINDA TOOK THE service stairs down the three flights to her room, just to make sure she didn’t run into anyone she knew. She made the mistake of touching her hair again, and it felt like insulation material rolled in tar.

  What she wanted and needed was a nice, hot, relaxing bath—and possibly a lobotomy. That way she wouldn’t obsess about Pete, her forwardness with him, whether or not he would call her, and whether or not she wanted him to.

  She fumbled her key card out of her evening bag and soon she was inside her own hotel room. She kicked off her shoes, wriggled out of her dress and padded barefoot into the bathroom, where she plugged the drain of the tub and started the hot water. Playa Bella had thoughtfully provided shampoo, bath oil and conditioner to their guests, and she wished she had two of the little bottles of shampoo.

  Within minutes, she was sprawled naked in a hot bath and soaking her head—a good thing. The half a can of spray in her hair went from being sticky when dry to being gooey and slimy when wet. Yuck. She sat up and dumped shampoo into her hand, then attacked her scalp. Once she’d rinsed and repeated, she began to feel better.

  Mel drained the tub and refilled it with clean water. She added the entire bottle of bath oil, then lay back again and relaxed, emptying her mind of all criticism, all business worries and all of her secret angst about never getting married, dying alone and being eaten by her little dog.

  She was slipping peacefully into a warm, mellow, Zen state when someone knocked on her door.

  “Melinda?” called her mother’s voice.

  Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

  Mel prayed that she’d just go away. No such luck.

  “Honey?”

  “What?” she hollered rudely.

  “Are you all right?”

  I was before you came along to annoy me. Aloud, she said, “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “May I come in for a moment?”

  “Just a minute.” Her peace destroyed, Melinda got to her feet, stepped out of the tub, and wrapped herself in a terry robe. She sighed, belted it and swaddled her dripping hair in a towel. Then she went to the door and opened it.

  Her aging Barbie of a mother stood there, clearly concerned. “How are you feeling?”

  “Huh?” Melinda had forgotten the lie about stomach troubles she’d told. “Oh…I’m fine now, thank you. I took some antacids.”

  “Mark said he knocked on your door earlier but there was no answer.”

  “I was sleeping.”

  Jocelyn stood there awkwardly for a moment, as if she didn’t know what to say. But that was impossible, because she was a social butterfly and in charge of one of the big Miami charity leagues. She always knew the right thing to say. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sweetheart, we don’t see much of you lately. Your father and I wish you’d come by the house more often.”

  Maybe I would, if you didn’t constantly drop hints about my weight and serve me cucumber rounds and water with lemon in it. Mel sighed.

  “I know you’re busy, though.” Her mother still stood uncomfortably near the door.

  Melinda felt guilty, as usual. Her mother had the ability to make her feel either guilty or furious within two seconds flat. “Mom, what? What’s on your mind? Come in and sit down.”

  Jocelyn brightened immediately at the invitation, and Mel told herself she should be nicer to her. She should have more respect.

  “I noticed that Pete took you some champagne while you were out walking on the beach. Wasn’t that nice?”

  Uh-oh. “Yes, it was very sweet of him.” Did you also notice that I’d already swiped an entire bottle? Mel braced herself for a lecture.

  “He’s grown into quite a good-looking boy. Man, I should say…although it sounds ridiculous when I realize that I’ve known him since he was twelve or thirteen years old.” Jocelyn laughed, the sound genteel and controlled. Had her mother ever let loose with a wild donkey laugh? One of genuine amusement?

  “Don’t you think he’s good-looking?” she pressed Mel.

  “Sure, I guess. I hadn’t really noticed.” Oh, God. Please, please, please don’t tell me that my mother watched me put my hand in his pants!

  “Well, he seemed quite taken with you.”

  “No…I’m sure he was just being polite. He’s Mr. Customer Service, Mom. He works here.”

  “He does have lovely manners, doesn’t he?”

  Mel squirmed, thinking of the things she’d just done naked with Pete.

  “Doesn’t he?” Jocelyn was eyeing her strangely.

  “What? Oh. Yes. Great manners.” Maybe he’d send her a thank-you note.

  “I heard that he’s no longer seeing his girlfriend, so he’s single. How about that?”

  Mel shrugged.

  “You should make an effort to talk to him tomorrow at the wedding breakfast, Melinda. Did you avoid salt tonight? Did you bring a skirt in a dark color?”

  “Mom, please…” Mel sat heavily on the bed and dragged her hands down her face.

  “Single men with good career prospects don’t grow on trees, honey. College is a few years behind you, and you don’t belong to many organizations where you might meet—”

  “Stop!”

  “—someone to settle down with. You don’t belong to a gym…”

  Where I could grab guys, pin them to the floor and make them smell my sweaty armpits?

  “…or a church…”

  Where I could trip them on their way down the aisle to the offering plate?

  “…or an online dating service…”

  As if I have the time.

  “Mom,” Melinda begged, “please stop! You’re being hurtful, okay?”

  Her mother sat on the bed with her, of all things, and tried to take her hands in hers. Mel stuffed them in the pockets of the hotel robe and glared at her.

  Jocelyn smoothed her blonde hair back from her face. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to help you, sweetheart.”

  “Well, you’re making me crazy instead!”

  Her mother’s eyebrows drew together. “Someone has to say these things to you. And since I am your mother, I get the pleasure.”

  “It is a pleasure to you, isn’t it?” Mel’s voice had risen, but she couldn’t help it.

  “That’s not true.”

  “I think it is. You just can’t stand me not being a carbon copy of you. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I want to meet someone who loves me for who I am, not what I look like? Has it ever—”

  Jocelyn’s expression was pitying. “That’s a nice notion, honey, but it’s a fairy tale.”

  “Is it? Let me ask you a question. Are you so insecure in Dad’s love that you can’t let yourself gain a single pound for fear that he might dump you?”

  Her mother froze, shock like ice in her e
yes. The color drained from her face and then her nostrils flared. “How dare you say that to me?”

  Mel was shaking now, but she refused to back down. “How dare you say the things to me that you do?”

  Jocelyn stood abruptly, and then walked to the door on her spindly legs. “You’re impossible.”

  “I’m impossible?”

  “You’re also rude, ungrateful and disrespectful. And if you refuse to change your attitude and your weight, you’ll stay single for the rest of your life.”

  The words knocked the breath from Melinda for a moment. Then a flash of rage ignited her temper, and that triggered her mouth. “Is that right? Well, it may just interest you, then, that I’ve had sex tonight, with the very guy you wanted me to throw myself at! And you know what? He didn’t have any complaints about my body.”

  Her mother didn’t look quite so elegant with her jaw dropped open. Melinda had a moment or two of great satisfaction before Jocelyn snapped it shut again.

  “Of course he didn’t complain,” she said scornfully. “You were easy and available. I’ll bet he told you that you were beautiful, didn’t he? And you took your dress right off for him.” She shook her head as she opened the door and stalked through it. “You let yourself be used, Melinda. And I thought I’d brought my daughter up better than that.”

  The words were pure cruelty, aimed with perfect precision, and they hit their mark. Mel crumpled to the floor as the door closed, her pain so acute that she couldn’t even cry.

  Her body trembled uncontrollably, and she wrapped her arms around herself in a vain attempt to calm down. But the taunts reverberated in her head.

  I’ll bet he told you that you were beautiful, didn’t he? And you took your dress right off for him.

  Her mother was a horrible woman sometimes. But she was also right. He had told her that. Let me look, Mel. I think you’re gorgeous.

  She writhed now in shame. And worse, despite the shame, his words still sent a sexual frisson through her. So did the memory of his fascination with her body…and his mouth.

  Mel somehow found the strength to crawl into the bed and pull the covers over herself, bathrobe, hair towel and all. She wasn’t going to move from this spot until checkout time tomorrow.