Bringing Home a Bachelor

by Karen Kendall

  A strangled noise escaped Pete’s throat; he couldn’t hold it back. This was like dancing naked, dangling his meat over a standoff between a cobra and a rattlesnake. Would Jocelyn and Reynaldo strike each other? Or the nearest conveniently placed object?

  “She will have no choice but to hold her events here at Playa Bella,” Reynaldo said complacently, snipping the tip off his cigar with a platinum cutter. “And as for the daughter, make sure that my standard escape clause is in her contracts, eh? If she gets difficult, she can blow me, too.”

  Pete literally saw red at the words. His first impulse was to reach across the desk and seize his boss by the neck, pull him out of his chair and stomp on his face.

  But he made himself count to three. He reminded himself that he was not his father. That there was a lot at stake, here, and more than his own job: Melinda’s future. He’d already helped break her existing lease, and she’d posted the news in her shop.

  Reynaldo squinted at him through a curl of cigar smoke. “You are still here, Pedro. Why is that? Is there something further that we need to discuss?”

  Pete swallowed. He opened his mouth to say it. Melinda is my girlfriend, you rat bastard, so disrespect her again and I will knock your teeth down your throat.

  But again, he reminded himself: it wasn’t only his career that was at stake here, now. It was hers. And the economy was horrendous.

  Keep your mouth closed, man. Just shut the hell up.

  “Ah. How could I have forgotten, Pedro?” His boss got to his feet and crossed the room once again to his humidor.

  Don’t call me Pedro, you son of a bitch.

  “Your revenues—assuming we keep Mrs. Edgeworth’s charity events here—have risen the required twenty percent. So, welcome to the executive team here at Playa Bella. You are the new vice president of business development.”

  And Reynaldo tossed Pete a top of the line Monte Cristo.

  He wanted to let it drop to the floor. He wanted to step on it. But Pete caught it. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Call me Rafi,” Reynaldo said.

  Pete set his jaw. “Thanks, Rafi.”

  * * *

  PETE MADE THE CALLS to other hotels, giving out “Rafi’s” alternate Black Card number with abandon. After all, Jocelyn was the one who’d started playing dirty pool, and so his conscience didn’t really bother him—much.

  But when it came time to sign copies of Mel’s contract at the lawyer’s office, he balked, wishing that the ex-boxer, the piranha attorney he’d dreamed up, really existed. Pete knew damned well that Reynaldo’s invidious “escape” clause was in every legal document his lawyers produced.

  “Melinda, you may want to have your own attorney look over the contract before you sign it,” he suggested over lunch the day before.

  But Mel, his little pickpocket bunny, seemed to have retracted her fangs. She aimed a sunny smile at him. “Oh, Pete. Don’t be silly—you’ve read it, right?”

  He nodded. What else could he do?

  “Well, I trust you completely. Why should I waste hundreds of dollars on another legal opinion?”

  Because I work for an immoral asshole. Pete finally got what his friend Dev was all about. Dev’s morals were somewhat…elastic. But he did have a complete set of them, despite his jokes to the contrary. Dev played pranks.

  Reynaldo, on the other hand, genuinely screwed people for fun—on impulse, and just because he could. Rafi was the very definition of immoral. He’d never met a business or marriage vow he hadn’t broken. In fact, he seemed to find such things amusing.

  And the more Pete’s eyes opened to the truth, the less he wanted Melinda to have anything to do with Reynaldo and Playa Bella. But since he’d brought her in on a platter, how could he tell her that?

  “I just think it makes good business sense to always have your own lawyer,” Pete said.

  “Agreed. But not necessary in this case.” Mel reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, though. I appreciate you being so up-front.”

  Pete groaned inwardly.

  “You’ll come with me to the attorney’s office, right? And we can go celebrate the contract afterward.”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  THE ATTORNEY’S OFFICES were in a big white bank building on Brickell, and they sat at a long conference table, attended by a busy paralegal.

  “Here you are,” she said, pushing three copies of the contract towards Melinda. “Mr. Reynaldo sends his apologies for being unable to attend the meeting. He’s already signed the papers, as you can see. Now you sign, Ms. Edgeworth, where the yellow markers are.”

  It was now or never. Pete swiped the pen that the paralegal held out to Mel. “This is a black pen. Ms. Edgeworth prefers to sign original documents in blue.”

  Mel stared at him. “I do?”

  “Yes,” Pete said decisively. He turned to the paralegal. “Do you mind getting another?”

  “Sure.” The woman left the room.

  Pete darted after her and locked the door. “Mel,” he whispered. “Look at the second to last page. Find the termination clause. Strike it out and initial it. Do the same with the two other copies.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Melinda, just do it. Now.”

  The doorknob jiggled as the paralegal tried to get back into the room. Pete strode to the door, opened it but blocked the entrance with his body, and slid out, closing it behind him.

  “Ms. Edgeworth is on an unexpected emergency call,” she heard him say on from the corridor. “She needs a moment or two of privacy.”

  “Oh. Uh. Okay,” the paralegal stammered. “But I’m required by law to witness her signatures.”

  “No problem. She’ll be off the line in a minute. Thanks so much for your patience.”

  Melinda flipped quickly through the documents and isolated the clause he’d indicated. It was in dense legalese, and seemed innocuous. But she struck through the paragraphs with the black pen, and then quickly initialed the margins next to them. That page, she noted with relief, did not require a signature.

  She smoothed the documents and pulled her cell phone from her purse, placing it on the table. Then she got up, walked to the door and turned the knob. “Thank you,” she said warmly to the paralegal. “I appreciate the privacy. Sorry about that.”

  The woman came back into the room, seemed to find nothing amiss, and Mel calmly signed the contracts with the newly provided blue pen. She put her copy into her purse, shook hands with the paralegal and thanked her again.

  Pete and Melinda walked out of the plush legal offices and rode down the elevator in silence. They emerged from the building into the torpid September air.

  “What was that all about?” Melinda asked.

  “Saving your bacon,” Pete said.

  “And why did my bacon need to be saved, exactly?” Her blue eyes were as serious as Pete had ever seen them.

  He sighed. “Because you didn’t get a lawyer of your own and I felt obligated, even though my loyalty should be to my company, and not to the sheep my boss likes to fleece.”

  “Stop talking about bacon and mutton and speak English, Pete. This isn’t a barnyard.”

  “No, it’s a jungle,” he retorted. “Mel, you’re one hell of a negotiator, but don’t ever, ever, sign a contract again without having a trained legal professional look at it.”

  “I thought I could trust you!”

  “Looks like you were right.” He dragged his hands down his face. “Not that I feel very good about it.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t understand you.”

  “Good. That makes two of us. Now, where do you want to go to celebrate our mutual confusion and your contract?”

  They went to Segofredo and ordered champagne cocktails, which Pete regretted immediately because of the sweetness. After a toast, he pushed his aside and ordered a dirty martini. He knew it was going to be a long night.

  Melinda took a couple of moments
to call Kylie, her aunt, from the bar and tell her the good news. Then she dialed part of another number, but stopped.

  “What’s wrong? Who were you going to call?”

  “My parents,” she said, looking suddenly miserable. “But I don’t even want to talk to my mother.”

  That makes two of us, sweetheart. Pete made a sympathetic noise.

  “She’d only find a way to insult me, somehow, and ruin the moment. I don’t want to go there.” Mel sighed. “I hate not speaking to her, but I hate speaking to her even more. Does that make any sense?”

  He nodded. “Can you call your dad’s cell phone?”

  Mel rolled her champagne glass between her palms. “No. My mother would be insulted, and we’d start a whole new Cold War.”

  “So tell them in a couple of days.”

  She nodded. “And Mark’s busy with the legislative session up in Tallahassee, so I’ll tell him when he gets back.”

  Within a few minutes, her excitement bubbled up again.

  Pete loved the animation in her expression and the sparkle in her eyes. He was happy for her—this was a good deal for her—but he still felt disloyal to his company. Then again, did a man like Reynaldo deserve loyalty?

  Seeming to sense his misgivings, Melinda turned serious again. She took a bracing sip of her drink and then eyed him warily. “Pete, are you saying that Reynaldo is going to try to screw me in our business dealings? What was that clause, exactly?”

  He stabbed at the olives in his martini with a toothpick. “I’m not saying that. What I’m trying to tell you is that he…he normally reserves the right to screw people in his contracts. You know, in case they try to screw him first,” he added lamely.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s only smart business practice,” he continued. Was it the words or the martini that left such a bad taste in his mouth?

  “What I did in there—in the lawyer’s office—was that even legal?”

  He shrugged. “Sure it was. You struck out the clause before you signed, right? So what you did was just as legal as him burying the clause in the contract to begin with.”

  “But the paralegal didn’t see me do it.”

  “That’s her fault, not yours. She left the room. Then she didn’t review the document again after you signed it.”

  “But you set her up. I don’t like this, Pete.”

  “Can we just forget it?”

  Melinda shook her head. “No. But I can say thank you.” She slid off her bar stool and wedged herself between his open knees. She took his face in her hands and kissed him.

  That was when Pete knew he’d done the right thing, even if it had felt incredibly wrong. Her gratitude, her trust, her love—they all meant a lot more to him than Playa Bella’s bottom line.

  Love?

  Really?

  Did Melinda love him? Did he love her? The word was a bit extreme. Pete shied away from it. All he knew for right now was that kissing her felt really good.

  19

  A WEEK LATER, Pete braced himself for the worst.

  Melinda’s Mommie Dearest did her cobra dance again, bobbing her head menacingly and giving him that lipless grimace of hers. Today she wore a snug spring-green suit that looked a half size too large in the jacket, giving her plenty of room to hyperventilate.

  The woman still had phenomenal legs. Her narrow feet were encased in beige leather pumps with dagger heels. And today she carried a bag with little L’s and V’s all over it. As she began her rant, Pete idly calculated what she must spend yearly on handbags alone. It probably equaled, in dollar value, the gross national product of a third world country.

  “I find it deeply suspicious, Pee-ter, that every decent hotel in Miami and South Beach is booked solid on the days of my charity events.”

  “Do you, Mrs. Edgeworth?”

  “Yes.”

  “South Florida is very active during the high season. It’s a top destination for wealthy travelers, ma’am.”

  “Don’t lecture me like the Tourism Bureau, Peter.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Incidentally, I did discuss the matter of deep discounts for your events with Mr. Reynaldo. Unfortunately, we are unable to accommodate you at any less than full price.”

  “That’s outrageous!”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. E.”

  “Don’t force me to have a serious talk with my daughter, young man.”

  “About that, Jocelyn—”

  She bristled at his use of her first name.

  “—are you aware that your daughter is working with Reynaldo to bring a boutique bakery here? And that she’ll have her own cable TV show anchored from it?”

  She froze, giving no reaction except for a long, slow blink. “I haven’t spoken with my daughter in weeks.”

  “Mr. Reynaldo would hate for a deteriorating relationship with you yourself to jeopardize such a deal with your daughter, since it’s very much to her benefit. It will make her a local celebrity and spotlight her business.”

  Score. Jocelyn actually gasped, and he was low enough to enjoy her shock and white rage. Whatever had happened to Peter S. Dale, CEO of Mr. Nice Guy, Inc.? Pete wasn’t sure, but he didn’t really care for this new man who’d taken his place.

  “You bastard.” Her hands shook with suppressed emotion. She reached into her purse and he had the wild thought that perhaps she had a concealed carry permit and was hunting for a gun. But she retrieved a handful of keys, to his relief. “You actually dare to use my daughter and her happiness against me?”

  Pete leaned a hip against his desk and stared her down. “Didn’t you do the very same thing? Turnabout is fair play, Mrs. E.”

  “I bribed you!” she exclaimed. “You’re blackmailing me. That’s different. Worse. Much worse.”

  “Is it?”

  “You. Are. Going. To. Pay. Peter. Start wondering when the other shoe will drop.”

  He nodded. “How like you. Now that you’re not getting your way, you’ll hurt your daughter to exact revenge. You must enjoy being you, Jocelyn.”

  “At least,” she spat, “I’m not using her, stringing her along, all the while planning to destroy her when she learns the truth.”

  “What exactly is the truth, Mrs. E? And why is it so damaging? I think your daughter is an amazing, beautiful, creative, smart, hardworking woman. I love spending time with her. I love going to bed with her. Shit, if she didn’t come pre-packaged with a mother-in-law like you, I’d probably propose to her!”

  “Over my dead body,” Jocelyn hissed, and stormed toward the door.

  “Go stand in front of my car, woman,” Pete growled. “It’s the pale blue BMW Z-4 in the parking lot. Go stand in front of my car as I hit the gas, and I’ll marry Melinda tomorrow.”

  * * *

  SIX WEEKS LATER, an architect had drawn up preliminary plans for Melinda’s boutique bakery in Playa Bella. She was naked in Pete’s bed, and was, in fact, bound by the wrists to Pete’s headboard with one hellaciously ugly pink necktie and one dark red power tie.

  She still wasn’t altogether sure how she’d gotten that way. He’d been stealthy and kept her laughing the whole time while distracting her with his clever mouth.

  Her helpless position made her self-conscious. While she had relaxed a lot around Pete, something about being fully exposed and unable to cover herself made her feel bigger…and almost desperate. But she didn’t want to reveal her psyche any more than she did her large thighs.

  “You have to let me go,” she insisted, casting about for a reason.

  “Why?” He grinned at her with purely male enjoyment.

  “So that I can show you the designs.”

  Pete waggled his eyebrows and bit her lightly on the thigh. “But I have designs of my own, and they involve keeping you right here on this mattress.”

  “Pete!” She tried not to let her distress show.

  “I still haven’t paid you back in full for jerking me around on the deal,” he announced.
>
  “I didn’t jerk you around. I drove a hard bargain.”

  “Yep. And I intend to drive you with something hard, too.” He grinned evilly.

  “Uh-oh…but didn’t we just do that?”

  “Yes, my pretty Melinda, but now you’ve really got it coming. Uh, no pun intended.” Pete got up and strolled, sans clothing, into his small galley kitchen.

  She pulled futilely at the ties that bound her wrists, but couldn’t help being distracted by his taut, muscular buns. Then she went back to tugging.

  Stop it. Either you trust Pete, or you don’t.

  Did she trust him? Could she?

  Were they having fun together, or was he having fun at her expense?

  You let yourself be used, Melinda. Her mother’s voice came back to haunt her. Was she still letting herself be used?

  She heard the refrigerator door open and shut. Then fiendish male laughter, which did nothing to reassure her.

  Pete came back and stood in front of her with something profane in his right hand. Something that was not in her culinary vocabulary. Something she did not recognize, and refused to recognize, as food.

  Insta-Wip.

  “No,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah, baby.” Pete’s smirk widened as he popped off the blue plastic top and shook the can with menace.

  “You are not putting that on my body.”

  “That so?” He advanced upon her.

  “No!” Melinda struggled against the ties restraining her. “I knew I should never have let you do this. I knew it!”

  “Mwah ha ha ha…”

  Pete was definitely having fun at her expense. So why was she laughing, too?

  Mel shrieked as the first obscene whispering sound came from the can. Shhhhhhhhhhh! And fake whipped cream, made with horrifying things like high-fructose corn syrup, partially hydrogenated oils, and cheap man-made chemicals, hit her skin.

  Shhhhhhhhhh! Her epicurean principles were utterly violated.

  Shhhhhhhhhh! Her insistence on purity of ingredients was decimated.

  “I hate you!” she gasped, still laughing in spite of her disgust. “You are a vile, unprincipled, terrible pers—”

  Pete squirted the nasty stuff into her mouth.

  “Aaaaggghh!”