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Bringing Home a Bachelor
Karen Kendall


In the kitchen, chef Melinda Edgeworth creates pure magic.Too bad that doesn’t translate into her personal life. Luckily for her, Pete Dale has her in his sights. The sizzle between them is almost too intense and Melinda walks away with a definite smile on her face.But their one night won’t stay that way. Working together, their chemistry is interfering with their jobs, and the delicious solution is to get this attraction out of their systems!










“You’re playing with fire…”

Curiously enough, Mel didn’t ask herself if she wanted Pete.

She just exulted in the power of him wanting her.

She had a red-blooded man in a tuxedo who was very happy to be with her right now. And they had a beach all to themselves… Except it wasn’t so private, what with the hundred-odd windows looking down at them from the hotel.

Mel brushed those concerns aside for the moment—she’d just have to get him to his hotel room. For now, she had her hand on the prize. She squeezed him gently through his pants and Pete groaned.

“Mel,” he said hoarsely, “you really shouldn’t be doing that.”

Mel used her other hand to ease down his zipper. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Pete made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “Melinda, you’re killing me!”

She smiled. “I know. But you’ll die happy.”


Dear Reader,

I’m sure you’ve heard the saying: you can’t please all of the people all of the time. And most of us, at some point, have felt that we can’t please anyone, at any time.

I was in a hotel registration line, witnessing a clerk gracefully accept abuse from a woman who clearly thought she was the disrespected empress of her own universe, when I got the idea for Pete Dale’s character. What would it be like to have a job that involved trying to keep people happy all day long?

Pete, the hero of Bringing Home a Bachelor, works at a luxury hotel with very picky customers. His job is to bring in more business, and therefore more money. But trying to please his customers, his boss, his good friend the groom, the woman he loves and her dragon of a mother—all at the same time—is a recipe for disaster!

Poor, professionally polite Pete has to take a stand, and it’s not one he’s comfortable with: no more Mr Nice Guy … at least when it comes to the people who are making his girlfriend Melinda’s life impossible.

I hope you’ll enjoy reading Bringing Home a Bachelor as much as I enjoyed writing it, as well as the two previous books in the All THE GROOM’S MEN series—Borrowing a Bachelor and Blame It on the Bachelor.

All the best,

Karen Kendall




About the Author


KAREN KENDALL is the author of more than twenty novels and novellas for several publishers. She is a recipient of awards such as the Maggie, the Book Buyer’s Best, the Write Touch and RT Book Reviews magazine Top Pick, among others. She grew up in Austin, Texas and has lived in Georgia, New York and Connecticut. She now resides in south Florida with her husband, two greyhounds, a cat … and lots of fictional friends! She claims to have real ones, too. She loves hearing from readers! Please visit her website at www.KarenKendall.com.




Bringing Home

a Bachelor

Karen Kendall





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




1


WHAT A MONDAY. The clock said it was only 9:45 a.m., and Pete Dale, senior account manager for Miami’s Playa Bella Hotel, had already put out three customer-relations fires by the time his office phone rang ominously for the fourth time.

He squinted at the phone suspiciously, rubbed his temples and sighed. Who was calling now? The cantankerous, octogenarian charity-ball chairwoman? The pain-in-the-butt, preppy pro-golfer’s rep? Or the charming, chin-wagging Chilean who loved to chat for hours about every detail of his upcoming fiftieth anniversary dinner for two hundred?

Pete had jumped at the job with Playa Bella two years ago because it enabled him to return to the sun, sand and sea of Miami. But paradise had its price.

He picked up the receiver and held it to his still-burning ear—Playa Bella’s spa had managed to offend a Latin American dictator’s wife, and her secretary had just given him what-for. “Pete Dale. May I help you?”

“Pete!” A voice boomed like a cannon into his brain. But he didn’t mind, because it was the voice of a friend. His oldest friend, to be exact. He’d known Mark since junior high.

“Mark, my man,” Pete said with relief. “How are you?” He grinned and leaned back in his leather chair, letting his head loll to the side. “You ready for this weekend?”

Mark was getting married in five days, and Pete and the rest of the groomsmen had wild plans for him first. There was no bachelor party like a Miami-based bachelor party—they planned to put The Hangover to shame, though without actually losing their groom in the process.

“I’m ready—the question is, is Kendra?” Mark laughed.

“Nobody could be prepared to take you on for life,” Pete ribbed him.

“True. Very true. Listen, I called for a couple of reasons. One, to say hi. Two, er … you remember my sister Melinda, right?”

“Of course I remember Melinda.” Pete shifted in his chair.

He’d gotten a real shock when he’d run into her at a Dolphins game a couple of years back. Hadn’t recognized her. Though she’d looked familiar, he couldn’t place her. A tumble of dark hair, a sunburned nose, big blue eyes, and a curvaceous body made for a man’s pleasure.

She’d glanced at him, then turned to walk away with her friends. He’d been openly admiring her rounded ass and wondering what it would feel like in his hands, when she’d turned back toward him and stared, hard.

Busted, Pete pretended that he’d been searching for something.

Then she’d put a hand on his arm and said, in tones of disbelief, “Pete? Pete Dale, is that really you?”

He’d raised his ogling eyes and looked at her face again, puzzled. Where had he seen her before?

“Pete, I’m Melinda. Melinda Edgeworth. Mark’s sister.”

Shame flared in his gut as heat climbed his neck. “Mel? No way … oh, my God, it is you.”

He registered with surprise that she was blushing, too. Of course she was! He’d been fixated on her ass, pervert that he was, and she knew it. Oh, hell. “You’re all grown up,” he added, instantly wishing that he could take back the lame words.

She shrugged. “How are you?”

“Uh, great. You?”

And then her friends had hustled her away, before he could think to get her number. Not that he should have. Mel was Mark’s little sister, which put her strictly off-limits.

Mark’s next words brought Pete back to the present with a jolt.

“Melinda doesn’t have a date for the wedding, and I wanted to ask you if you’d, well, make sure she has a good time.”

“Sure, no problem,” Pete said easily.

“You’re the only nice guy of my acquaintance, and you know how it is with Mel,” Mark said.

No, How was it?

“If she’d just lose that baby fat of hers, her life would be different.”

Baby fat? Pete frowned, sat up straight in his chair and settled his elbows on his desk. “Oh, come on. Mel’s a very pretty girl.”

“Uh, huh,” Mark said, in dismissive tones. “You know, Kendra tried to give her some advice on how to eat, but it didn’t go over too well.”

Pete felt a quick wave of sympathy for Mel. Kendra was so thin that he wasn’t sure she even qualified for a size at all. He was pretty sure he’d heard of women who were actually size zero. Kendra’s legs looked like chopsticks, if you asked him, and her arms were toothpicks. She looked downright brittle; as if she’d break in half if she so much as stubbed a toe. Mark was lucky that she hadn’t punctured his kidneys in the night, with one of her elbows.

Put them side by side, Kendra and Melinda, and Pete’d take Mel any day of the week. She had beautiful skin, bright eyes, shiny dark hair that was always escaping the clip she wore to hold it back. And oh yeah, there were those abundant curves of hers.

Pete personally had never been a fan of the South Beach Swizzle Sticks that Mark had collected in college. And they tended to be low-energy and moody, since they were malnourished.

“Well, anyway. The family’s been a little worried about Mel lately. Something happened with a big account at the bakery last week—she won’t talk about it—and she’s been holed up in her shell, doing nothing but work. So if you’d just—I don’t know—get her out on the dance floor for a few numbers … well, I’d really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Pete said again. “Mel is a very cool girl and I’d be delighted.”

“You don’t have a date to the wedding either, right, bud?” Pete gritted his teeth. “No, Mark, I don’t.”

“That’s what Mom and Kendra said—that you were coming stag.”

Thanks, Mom and Kendra. Appreciate it. No need to rehash why he was coming alone—that he’d been unceremoniously dumped by his wine-distributor girlfriend a month before. For the hotel manager of an entire cruise line.

Yes, Maribel mixed business and pleasure very well indeed, and he’d just been too stupid to realize that she’d move on when she found a guy a few pay grades and career notches above him.

“So that’s perfect, then,” continued Mark.

“Yep. Perfect.” Pete was nothing if not agreeable. It was part of his job, part of his personality. It sucked sometimes, being a Certified People Pleaser, but placating various warring family members had set him on that course long ago.

So when Pete felt like telling people to take a flying leap, he generally stuffed his emotions and smiled instead. He offered to give them a courtesy discount, no matter how discourteous they’d been to him. He jollied them into a better mood. He sent them complimentary champagne and fruit baskets.

Pete hotly denied, though, that he was a member of the subspecies Doormaticus. Nor was he a butt-kisser or a toady. He was simply a customer-relations expert. He kept the peace, and there was nothing wrong with that, was there?

Pete handled situations with his trademark easy smile, a professional grade eye-twinkle and a voice carefully modulated to Soothe/Empathize on his Internal Customer Service Dial.

Everybody loved Pete … with the evident exception of his ex, Maribel.

Mark had called her a witch. Their fraternity brother Adam, a medical student, had said Pete was well-rid of her. And Dev, another fraternity brother, had offered to love-her-and-leave-her in a one-night-stand of revenge on his friend’s behalf.

Pete had politely declined this generous offer of male solidarity and explained to Dev that even he, as a former rock ‘n’ roll stud who still owned leather pants, couldn’t compete with the hotel manager of a cruise line—at least not in terms of business opportunities for Maribel.

“I don’t hold anything against her,” Pete told him. “It’s just her nature.”

Dev had coughed. “I don’t hold anything against scorpions, either, dude—but I still step on ‘em.”

Pete couldn’t help a snort of amusement at that, but he quickly banished it in favor of feeling magnanimous towards Maribel, and therefore superior. That really helped with the whole lovelorn depression thing.

“So,” Mark boomed, “I’ll see you guys Thursday night, then!”

“Yes, you will … though you probably won’t see us in focus for very long, my man. After a few shots, you’ll be seeing two of everyone.”

“I’m not sure I can handle seeing two of Dev,” Mark said, sounding a little alarmed.

Pete laughed.

“And don’t hurt me too bad, or Kendra will be pissed.”

“Why don’t we manage that possibility from the get-go,” Pete suggested. “Do not make any lunch plans with your bride for the next day.”

THE MORNING WAS NOT receding, no matter how much Melinda Edgeworth wished it to. In fact, the Miami sun was rising into the sky as cheerfully as it always did; defying her and shining down upon her lazy, moping self.

She wanted it to immolate her like a vampire so that she wouldn’t have to face her bakery and work. Tomorrow she had to deliver three hundred fresh chocolate croissants and three hundred vanilla raspberry scones to a medical convention, which meant that she and Scottie, her assistant, had to make them today.

That, in addition to a groom’s cake, an elaborate baby-shower cake, and a large order of petits fours for high tea at a ladies’ club.

Noooooo! Melinda closed her eyes again and groaned. She felt the small, warm body against hers stir. Mami, her little Schipperke mix, got to her tiny, fuzzy feet and yawned, sending a wave of hot dog-breath up Mel’s protesting nostrils.

Melinda opened one eye. “You have the breath of a camel, sweetheart.”

Mami yipped, climbed onto Mel’s chest and licked her face with gusto.

“That wasn’t an invitation to make me smell like a camel, too.” But Mami was irresistible, and knew it. Mel scooped her up, kissed her head, and tucked her under her chin.

Mami tolerated this treatment for a couple of minutes, but then wriggled free, yipping for her breakfast.

“Not open for business yet,” Mel grumbled. She rolled onto her stomach and stuffed her head under her pillow. At least she had her brother’s four-tiered wedding cake done. But there was so much else to tackle.

Get out of bed this instant and don’t be a whiner, said her Inner Drill Sergeant. You’re lucky you get to play with ganache and fondant and don’t have to work in a coal mine.

God, she hated her Inner Drill Sergeant. Why couldn’t he strangle to death in a loop of her small intestine? Or fall into a pit of digestive acid?

Twenty minutes later, Mami had her heart’s desire out of a can, while Melinda sat at her breakfast table, deeply committed to smothering her Inner Drill Sergeant in pancakes, butter, syrup and bacon. Lots of bacon, crispy, the way she liked it.

She pictured the Sergeant being pelted by the mouthfuls of food as she swallowed them. “That’ll teach you to nag me about work ethic and calories and exercise,” she muttered.

But it didn’t shut him up, of course.

No, he just asked her nastily whether she was finished yet, or whether she wanted to add another thousand calories to her breakfast—a third of a pound. He told her she was a disgrace. He told her that she was fat …

Just like Franco Gutierrez had, last week, when she’d smacked him for snaking a hand down her pants and fondling her bare butt. She’d chased him out of her shop with a rolling pin, instead of compromising her ethics in order to keep his very large Java Joe’s account.

Gorda! He’d spat at her. Cow! This was followed by something filthy in Spanish. The implication was that she’d be lucky if he deigned to ‘do’ her. Who was she to turn him down?

But she had, and it was going to seriously hurt her in financial terms. Java Joe’s, a big café chain, supplied almost twenty-five percent of her income. How was she going to replace it? She couldn’t go to her aunt Kylie at Sol Trust again. Kylie had made her the initial bank loan for the startup after Mel had graduated from culinary school and hung out her shingle as a pastry chef, but her condo was at stake as collateral. And she had to generate enough income to pay all expenses, plus her mortgage, her bills and installments on the debt.

Mel stopped eating and dropped her fork. Then she pushed her plate away, leaned her head on her arms and wondered miserably why she could run a busy high-end bakery, but lacked the competence to run her own body in the way she knew she should.

She picked up Mark and Kendra’s engagement photo and found her eyes watering at Mark’s expression of pure love for his bride.

Amazing. He hadn’t looked like that when he’d painted Mel’s Barbie with Barbiecue sauce—ha, ha—and broiled her in Mom’s oven in her pageant gown and tiny rubber shoes; or when he and Pete Dale had buried Mel up to her neck in sand and kept her there on the beach for hours, only letting her drink from a plastic water-gun aimed at her mouth.

She shook her head as she thought about the teenaged Pete, about the huge crush she’d had on him back then. She’d turned bright red every time he came near her, and either stuttered or—on one horrifying occasion—burped convulsively when she tried to speak to him.

She hadn’t seen Pete in years, except for the brief sighting at that Dolphins’ game, but he’d be at the wedding, of course. She ignored the brief flutter of her pulse and stared at Mark’s engagement photo again.

Her brother certainly hadn’t worn that expression of tenderness when he and Pete had removed the ladder from the edge of the tree house, leaving her stranded long past dinnertime.

And what Kendra saw in him, she wasn’t entirely sure. But then again, Mel was his sister, and had grown up with him. She’d seen the crusty dishes, dirty clothes and hidden, gross girlie magazines in his boyhood room.

Melinda liked Kendra. She did. Kendra had a good heart, even though Mel didn’t know how there was room for it in that tiny chest cavity of hers.

She was happy for Mark.

So why did she feel like moping in a corner? She pondered that question, which she couldn’t seem to answer.

You’re afraid nobody will ever look at you the way Mark is looking at Kendra, supplied her Inner Drill Sergeant. And you know why you’re afraid of that? Because you’re fat!

Melinda reached for the plate of pancakes again.

My self-esteem is not dependent on my weight, Sarge. So what if I’m not a human twig? And besides, I don’t care what you say. You’re only a figment of my imagination.

But in spite of her tough retort, he’d gotten to her, as the voice behind years of subconscious programming by fashion magazines, television and movies. And his message was: you’re not desirable unless you’re thin.

Mel added more syrup to her plate and finished every bite of the pancakes. She only hoped she would fit into her bridesmaid’s dress on Saturday.




2


MELINDA EDGEWORTH HAD vanished—bridesmaid dress, pearls, up-do and all—and she hadn’t even had the courtesy to leave a glass slipper lying around as a clue to her whereabouts.

Pete hunted for Mel in the posh wedding crowd at Playa Bella, with no success. She’d disappeared faster than a Swedish meatball down the gullet of a guest.

He accounted for the other four bridesmaids, who were easy to spot in their matching turquoise gowns, but Melinda wasn’t among them.

Not a good sign. Pete frowned, recalling even through the fog of his continuing hangover what he’d promised Mark: to make sure his little sister had a good time at the wedding.

Mark and Kendra had tied the knot in a beautiful ceremony less than an hour ago. The photographer had rounded up all the groomsmen, including Pete, and taken a goofy shot of them admiring Kendra’s ring. Then he’d rounded up all the bridesmaids, including Melinda, and taken an equally goofy shot of them in a gaggle around Mark with the blue garter that was now, presumably, back around Kendra’s thigh.

After that, Melinda had gone missing.

Pete lurked outside the ladies’ room for a couple of minutes, with no luck. Then he tried dialing her room in the hotel, but nobody answered. Finally he dug another couple of ibuprofen out of his pocket, swallowed them dry, and ducked out the back doors.

It was like stepping into a postcard of sunset, sand and ocean waves. The Hotel Playa Bella was located, true to its name, on the beach—on a tiny private key in downtown Miami. That meant the beach, too, was private and open only to guests of Playa Bella. Since Pete worked there in account management, and was specifically in charge of new business development, he’d been able to cut Mark and Kendra quite a deal.

Pete put a hand up to his bleary eyes—God, what had possessed the groomsmen to do all those shots last night?—and looked out towards the water. Sure enough, he spotted a turquoise-draped figure with a brunette updo, walking in the sand with her shoes in her left hand.

“Mel?” Pete called, but he knew it was futile. No way could she hear him over the wind. He looked down at his shiny formal shoes, then back at the sand, and groaned. He sat down on a deck chair and untied his laces, slipped off the shoes and peeled off his socks. He rolled up his pants to his knees and headed after her.

The ocean breeze had picked up, and the force of it plastered his shirt to his chest as he approached her. It also did things to Melinda’s dress that he couldn’t help appreciating. The flimsy fabric clung to her curves like plastic wrap, and he got a very intimate look at her generously proportioned, sexy derriere.

It was wrong of him to look. Mel was Mark’s kid sister, the pudgy little girl that they’d buried to the neck in the sand, petrified with ghost stories and trapped in the old tree house when they’d stolen the ladder …

But look Pete did. And the closer he got, the more he liked what he saw. He hadn’t noticed her body at all during the rehearsal dinner—she’d worn something shapeless and forgettable—but the turquoise bridesmaid dress was also fitted at the waist, and more than a little snug in the bust area.

She seemed to sense his gaze on her, because as he approached she turned toward him, and he was faced with a heavenly eyeful of deep, shadowy cleavage. Her breasts strained against the fabric that confined them, and he himself strained mightily not to look at them.

He failed.

Her face became pink as she said, “Hi, Pete. What are you doing out here?”

Heat rose in his own face. “Looking for you.”

“Why?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I was going to ask you to dance.”

“Me?” Mel swung a champagne bottle out of the folds of her skirt and lifted it towards her lush, pink mouth as Pete raised his eyebrows. She drank, her lips kissing the bottle. He watched the liquid pour into her mouth from inside the dark green glass, the sight erotic as hell. His own mouth went dry.

Little sister. Mark. Again, he had to remind himself.

“What’s the matter, Pete?” she asked, throatily. “You’ve never seen a girl drink from the bottle before?”

“Uh,” he said stupidly, around a tongue that felt thick and woolly. “Would you like a glass?”

“No, thanks.” She smiled at him. “It would spoil my whole Barefoot Bohemian Bridesmaid thing.”

“Oh. I get it,” said Pete, who didn’t.

Yeah … that was another oddity. Melinda Edgeworth wasn’t at all bohemian. Not the sort of girl you’d find wandering a beach barefoot, slugging back booze from a bottle. And yet here she was. Looking like a whole lot of big, blue-eyed trouble, with her updo acting like voodoo on him.

For somehow, over the years, Mel’s freckles had faded and her huge blue eyes—he remembered, with shame, how they’d called her Bug-Eyes—now fit her lovely face.

“Want some?” Mel asked, extending the bottle to him.

Pete took it, touched his lips to where hers had just been, and drank. The wine was cold, dry and effervescent. He felt his hangover stir sleepily and pull the new alcohol over it like a blanket. Yeah, that was it: a little hair of the dog would cure everything … and he’d just drown this sudden, unwelcome and inappropriate lust of his for Melinda.

She walked a couple of paces ahead of him, then bent down to pick up a small sand dollar. The fabric of her dress molded, once again, to that curvy backside of hers, and if she wasn’t wearing a thong, then his name was Abraham Lincoln and not Peter S. Dale.

Pete barely restrained a groan.

Mel stood up with her prize and smiled. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? So amazing that nature can create something so perfect.”

He nodded and held out the champagne bottle, but almost dropped it when Melinda slipped the sand dollar into her cleavage. She took the bottle without noticing that he’d practically started drooling.

“That gives me an idea,” she said. “I’m going to make pies that look like sand dollars … and cookies that look like starfish. Maybe cakes shaped like fish, too. It’s a perfect theme for Miami.”

“How about suns and boats?” Pete suggested.

“Great idea.” Mel upended the champagne bottle again, drinking deeply. “I’m going to make it, Pete, no matter what anyone says.”

He drew his eyebrows together. “Of course you are. Why would anyone doubt that you’re going to be a success?”

Pete noted with alarm that a good three-quarters of the bottle was gone.

“You wouldn’t believe,” she said, after finally taking a breath, “how many demeaning comments I got while I was enrolled at the Culinary Institute.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pastry chef?” Mel mock-scoffed. “Oh-what-cute-cupcakes-you’ll-make-for-your-kids-one-day.” Up went the bottle again. Glug, glug.

Pete’s radar detected deep wounds hidden under Mel’s words and consumption of champagne. “Who said that to you?”

The wind had blown a stray lock of hair free and into her face. Mel attempted to blow it back into place, but failed. “My brother Mark, for one. And my dad asked me if I could really support myself by baking cakes and pies.”

Pete had been ready with a rejoinder about what a jerk the comment-maker was, but he shut his mouth. “I’m sure they don’t mean to be unsupportive.”

“Right,” she said. Glug.

“So what about your mom?”

“My mom doesn’t take it seriously either, but she does order lots of cakes for her friends’ birthdays and other occasions.”

Melinda was perilously close to finishing off the bottle of champagne. Her speech wasn’t slurred, but Pete noted that every time the tide came in, she leaned backward a little. And every time the water rushed away again, she leaned forward, unconsciously echoing its rhythms. Her face had begun to flush, too, because of the alcohol.

Pete deduced that she’d drunk the champagne very quickly, and that more of its effects were going to creep up and clobber her any moment now. Time for a little friendly interference. “Hey, Bug-Eyes,” he teased. “Give me some of that.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but handed over the bottle. “I could have lived without being called that ever again, you know.”

Pete winked and gave her a friendly shrug. He took two large gulps and k.o.’d the champagne. Then he set the bottle in the sand and manfully restrained a belch.

“Do you know what a complex you and Mark gave me? I went crying to my parents and begged them to take me to the eye doctor so he could fix the problem! I had nightmares about becoming a fly—and no, I never saw the movie because I was afraid to.”

Pete struggled mightily to look sympathetic and suitably remorseful, but he burst out laughing instead. “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

To his relief, Mel began to laugh, too. “It’s not funny,” she exclaimed.

“Yes it is,” he said, backing away with his palms in the air in case she tried to smack him.

“Well, it wasn’t funny at the time!”

He got control over himself and tried to imagine how scary it would be to a six-year-old to wake up in the middle of the night, in the dark, terrified that she’d sprout several hairy insect legs and a pair of wings to go with her existing “bug eyes.”

Regret washed over him. “Mel, I’m truly sorry if we said anything to traumatize you back then. We were just a couple of dumb kids.”

“It was years ago,” she said dismissively. “Forget it.”

“Okay.”

She picked up the empty bottle and peered into it. “Hey! You drank all the champagne.”

Pete decided not to correct her, though he’d had approximately one-eighth of the bottle and she’d had the rest.

“That’s not very nice.”

“What can I say? I’m not a nice guy.” He grinned at her.

She frowned back. “Yes, you are. You weren’t always nice as a kid, but now you’re so nice that your picture’s next to the word in the dictionary.”

He found that he was mildly offended. “Not true.”

“It is, too. You took off your shoes and came all the way out here to talk to me.”

“I came to talk to you because I like you, not because I’m nice.”

“You said you wanted to dance with me.”

“Yeah …?”

“Well, that proves that you’re nice.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Pete said.

“Does too.”

“Does not.”

This was ridiculous—they were behaving like little kids.

“I wanted to dance with you because you’re a beautiful, sexy woman,” Pete told her.

Mel snorted and turned away. “Riiiight.”

He put a hand on her arm and tugged her back around to face him. “You are. What’s with the horse noise?”

Mel’s face, already flushed with alcohol, deepened a couple of shades. “Pete, I’m not one of Playa Bella’s high-roller clients. You don’t have to suck up to me.”

Stung, he opened his mouth to make an uncharacteristic retort. Then he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes and stopped himself.

“I want some more champagne,” she said.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Not nearly.”

He shrugged. “Okay. I’ll get us some more in a minute. What’s got you so upset, Mel?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s Nothing’s last name? I’ll go beat him up for you,” he said teasingly.

“You’re going to coldcock my mother?”

Pete winced. “Okay, maybe not. So what did she do, honey?”

Mel expelled a long, quivering breath.

He waited for her to take another and blow that one out, too, staying quiet, not pressuring her to share. Pete knew how to listen. He was a pro. He listened to litanies of complaints from picky customers all day long. He then listened to staff complain about the complaints, as a matter of fact. So whatever Melinda had to say wasn’t going to faze him.

“My mother.” Mel laughed softly. “My stick-thin mother and her backhanded compliments …”

Uh-oh.

“She told me how lovely the cake looked—the wedding cake I did for Mark and Kendra. And in the same breath she said my life would be so different if I did something outside the ‘realm of temptation,’ the ‘calorie-rich’ environment of my bakery.”

Pete hissed in a breath. Ouch.

“Yeah, nice, huh?”

“It probably just came out wrong,” he said, trying to make her feel better.

She rounded on him. “Oh, so there’s a right way to say that?”

“Noooo, maybe not.”

“I’m really good at what I do! I’m proud of it!” Two angry tears overflowed Melinda’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

“Of course you are.” Pete wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head under his chin. He rubbed her back and tried very hard not to notice how good her hair smelled—like camellias—or how her breasts mounded solidly against his chest, or how his body reacted to her dangerous curves.

“Then why doesn’t my own family take me seriously?” She sniffled against his tuxedo jacket. “My dad still asks me if I need money. My mom treats me like a wayward teenager, and she recently subscribed me to Weight Watcher’s online without permission. And Mark only let me do his wedding cake because it was free.”

“That cake is stunning,” Pete said with honesty, but also because he needed to distract himself. Part of him was hardening, and unfortunately it wasn’t his heart.

He prayed that Melinda wouldn’t notice. They’d been kids together. She was Mark’s baby sister. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, pop a woody. Not here, not now.

He cleared his throat as she lifted her face from his tuxedo jacket. “Thanks, Pete. You’re such a good guy.” She hugged him wholeheartedly. “Just for that, you get a free birthday cake.”

How about a free birthday suit? Yours?

His body loved that idea.

Oh, hell. Pete closed his eyes.

Houston, we have a problem: the missile has launched.

Melinda stiffened, staring fixedly at the third button on his starched shirt for a beat too long.

She’d noticed. Of course she had.

As if to make sure she’d actually felt his wayward cock pressing into her abdomen, she shifted against him again.

Heat climbed Pete’s neck and burst into his cheeks. He took a deep breath. His instinct was to shove her away from him, but it might hurt her already wounded feelings … not to mention that it would leave him exposed, with a telltale tent at his crotch.

So Pete babbled instead. “Absolutely gorgeous, that cake. You made it yourself? How do you get the icing so smooth? How do you make those perfect roses?”

He knew he was asking too many questions, and asking them too fast.

Mel raised her eyes from the oh-so-fascinating button and met his gaze. Then she moved a hand down his side, trailing it downwards to his upper thigh.

Pete swallowed hard.

No way. Mel had been brought up in a conservative household, and she wouldn’t … unfortunately … act on this. It wasn’t going to happen, no matter how eager his trouser snake was. She’d had a lot of champagne, true, but—

Nah. Forget it. Not gonna happen.

Then Melinda stepped back two inches and wrapped her fingers around his colossal erection, squeezing it lightly through his trousers.

His mouth fell open.

“Do you really want to hear about how I make roses out of icing, Pete? Or would you like me to help you with this, instead?”




3


SOMETHING DEEP INSIDE Mel exulted, as she stood there on the beach with the wind making a mess of her hair. The tight fit of her satin bridesmaid dress felt sexy now, instead of confining, uncomfortable and embarrassing. She felt … voluptuous.

Pete wanted her. His body had betrayed him. He didn’t think of her as a stupid kid anymore, as Bug-Eyes, Mark’s little brat of a baby sister. He didn’t think of her as fat.

After the week she’d had, after her experience with Franco Gutierrez and a revisit of all her teenage emotional scars, Mel viewed this as a gift.

Curiously enough, she didn’t ask herself if she wanted him. She just exulted in the power of him wanting her.

She had a red-blooded man in a tuxedo with a raging erection—and they had a beach all to themselves … except it wasn’t so private, what with the hundred-odd windows looking down at them from the vast, modern hotel.

And then there was the question of the two pairs of Spanx she’d donned under the turquoise dress: an instant mood killer.

Mel brushed those concerns aside for the moment—she’d just have to get him to his hotel room. For now, she had her hand on the prize. She squeezed gently and Pete groaned.

“Mel,” he said hoarsely, “you really shouldn’t be doing that.”

She peered up at him from under her lashes. “Why not?”

“Because you’re playing with fire, little girl.”

An old-fashioned line, but she liked it. Nobody had called her a little girl for a long time. She considered the width of Pete’s shoulders and the breadth of his chest. He was only about five-eleven to her five-five, but he was built like the linebacker he’d been in high school. They’d called him Fozzie, since even back then he’d been a big teddy bear of a guy.

Mel used her other hand to ease down his zipper. “Show me what you’ve got.” She pushed aside the fabric of his boxers and cupped him, running her fingers up and down the satiny skin of his cock.

Pete made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “Melinda, you’re killing me!”

She smiled. “I know. But you’ll die happy.”

He gritted his teeth and looked down at her, shaking his head. “Last chance to run, honey. Last chance to rethink this, before—”

She rubbed the underside of him with her thumb. “Before what?”

“Before you get a whole lot of Pete.”

“I think I’d like that.”

“Then get your hand out of my pants and take my room key.” He dug into his pocket and produced it, sliding it into her palm. “Meet me upstairs. I’m going to use my jacket as a shield, if you know what I mean, and I’ll stop to get us another bottle of champagne. Okay?”

She nodded.

He stuffed himself back into his pants and zipped up, carefully.

“If you change your mind, Mel, it’s okay.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth, drinking in the outdoorsy scent of his aftershave, sliding her hand along the slight bristle of his cheek. “I won’t change my mind,” she said.

“I sure as hell hope not.” Pete eyed her as if she were a cupcake and he a starving diabetic.

She started to turn, but he caught her arm.

“Do me a favor and stand there for a second.” He shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and folded it strategically over his arm. “I don’t want to run into any other guests with this battering ram extended out in front of me …”

Melinda laughed at the image. “Does that mean you really want to get inside my castle?”

“Honey, you have no idea,” he muttered. “Now go, before I throw you down right here in the sand and have my way with you.” Pete winked at her.

Mel picked up the shoes she’d dropped and made a bee-line for the hotel, picking her way over the beach barefoot. She was conscious of the fact that Pete was staring after her with lust in his eyes, and a strange, unaccustomed joy bubbled up within her.

Pete thought that she, Melinda, was hot.

Smiling from ear to ear, she put an extra wiggle in her step, just to torture him a little.

She reached the glass French doors of the hotel, pulled one open and ran smack into her mother.

“Melinda! Where have you been?” Jocelyn Edgeworth, elegant and pristine in a powder-blue suit and taupe heels, swept her gaze over Mel, stopping first on her tousled hair, then at the drops of perspiration that dotted her neck and cleavage and finally at her sand-encrusted bare feet. True to form, she flattened her lips and said nothing critical aloud. She let her steel-blue eyes do the talking for her.

Because she didn’t voice her opinion, Melinda couldn’t possibly make a rude retort. “Walking on the beach,” she said.

Jocelyn sighed. “Your brother and Kendra haven’t even cut the cake yet!”

“I needed some air. And I’ve seen the cake. Up close. For hours. I don’t need to see it again.”

“Wouldn’t you like to mingle with the guests? Great-uncle Ernie was just asking about you.”

“Great-uncle Ernie is a sweetie, but he’s getting senile. I spent half an hour talking with him at the rehearsal dinner last night.”

“Well, don’t you want some food? There are several low-calorie options …”

“Mom, I’m actually not feeling so well,” she lied. “My stomach is upset. I’m going to go up and lie down for a little while.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jocelyn reached for her hand, but since it was clutching Pete’s room key, Melinda tucked it into her skirts and gave her mother a peck on the cheek instead.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll take a couple of antacid pills and come down to the reception again soon, okay?”

“Well, all right.” The steel-blue eyes held motherly concern, but also a bit of irritation. In Jocelyn’s book, a little tummy-upset was something to be swallowed and tolerated with a social smile, not indulged or complained about.

If her ancestors hadn’t come over on the Mayflower, then they’d arrived shortly afterward, probably swimming in relays behind it. They were all angular, lean, fast-muscle-twitch sorts of people; tennis-players, skiers, marathon runners.

Melinda took after her father’s side of the family. “I’ll see you in a little while,” she said, her brief euphoria and champagne buzz fading fast. She made for the elevator. A glance backward found Jocelyn staring with disapproval at the sand trail made by her bare feet.

As the doors closed and the car carried her upward toward room 817, Melinda no longer felt sexy. She felt like a human sausage squeezed into the two pairs of Spanx. She felt windblown and sticky and hopeless. How could a brief encounter with her mother and her prominent, Anglo-Saxon hip bones do this to her?

The elevator reached the eighth floor with a ding and Mel had to decide whether or not to get out. Whether or not to go to Pete’s room. Whether or not to wriggle out of the horrible Spanx and expose herself to his gaze.

Just as she hit the button for her own floor, five, the doors opened to reveal a bellhop with a large cart and three other waiting people. Clearly they all wanted to get into the elevator, and equally clearly, if they did there would be no room for her.

“Ma’am?” The bellhop smiled at her and held the door open. Reluctantly, Mel got out, and everyone else got in.

Slowly she made for room 817 and what was probably a huge mistake. Had she really reached out and put her hand on Pete Dale’s equipment?

She had.

And squeezed it?

She winced.

And unzipped his pants?

Oh, God. What had she been thinking?!

She stared at the innocuous wooden door as if it were the gates of hell, waiting to swallow her whole into fiery torment. She clutched the key card in her hand so tightly that it cut into her palm.

Melinda turned to run and then had the awful thought that she might hurt Pete’s feelings if she did that. He was such a nice guy; the only person who’d been truly wonderful to her lately. He’d have danced with her. He’d come looking for her.

He wanted her. And Melinda wanted so badly to be wanted.

Oh, that’s pathetic.

Really? There’s a song about it. I want you to want me …

Forget it.

Mel turned around and marched three steps from the door. Then she heard the familiar ding of the elevator again, cheerful whistling, and Pete’s hearty laugh.

“None of your business,” he said to someone. “But yeah, you could say that. I’ve got a hot date waiting for me.”

Aaaaaack!

Pete was about to walk this way, and she still had the Spanx on. She’d die before she’d let him see those.

Melinda sprinted for his room, as he stood chatting a little longer, evidently with a coworker here at the hotel.

She jammed the key card into the slot, fell inside and banged closed the door. She dived into the bathroom, eyeing his toiletries as she rucked up the skirt of her dress and yanked down on the waistbands of both pairs of Spanx. After a mighty tussle, she managed to roll both of them down her thighs at once, into a sort of microfiber pretzel, and then panicked.

She had no idea what to do with them. She shoved them into the trash can and wadded up some toilet paper to throw on top of them.

By the time Pete came through the door, she’d launched herself out of the bathroom and onto his bed, hyperventilating.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, grinning at her. He held a full bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“Hi,” she huffed, leaning back on her elbows in what she hoped was a nonchalant pose. A drop of perspiration dribbled from her hairline down to her ear.

She took brief stock of the room—like hers, it was decorated in standard luxury-hotel fashion, with formal drapes at the sliding door to the balcony, and sheers in the middle for privacy. The bedspread was done in a fabric that coordinated with the drapes.

“What’s got you so out of breath?” Pete set the champagne down on a small, faux-Chippendale desk in the room, placed the glasses next to it and then began to work on the cork.

She cast about for an acceptable answer. The truth was completely out of the question. But so was, “I’m so desperate for you that I ran up seven flights of stairs, panting for your touch.”

She swallowed. “Oh, you know … I was just warming myself up for you.”

Pete knocked over the bottle. He licked his lips as he righted it. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. I got a little too warmed up, as a matter of fact.”

The cork shot out of the champagne and hit the flat-screen television on the dresser. His hand shook as he poured the bubbly into one of the flutes, then the other. Then he walked over to the bed and stood over her, his eyes hooded, gazing down at her. Pete no longer looked like a teddy bear. He looked faintly predatory and all male.

“You’re a naughty girl, Mel.” He handed her one of the flutes.

She flushed and gulped some of the wine.

“In fact, you’re just full of surprises. I had no idea.”

He sat down on the bed next to her, depressing the mattress so that she rolled right into him. He leaned forward, his face close to hers, their lips almost touching. “You didn’t come without me, did you?” His voice had gone husky.

Heat streaked like lightning to the core of her. “No …”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’d just have to make you come all over again.” Pete touched his lips to hers and she felt another flash of electricity shoot through her, leaving traces along her erogenous zones.

He smelled spicy, enticing. The outdoorsy aftershave mingled with the scent of his freshly laundered shirt and a musky smell that was all Pete—which went to her head most of all.

He slipped his tongue into her mouth, touching hers, and deepened the kiss. He tasted of champagne and mint and … cocktail sauce? She wasn’t sure, but then he set down his glass and took hers away, too, and it didn’t matter.

He took her face between his big hands and kissed her with urgency. She couldn’t think—she was all sensation, all pleasure.

Pete’s fingers threaded through her hair and he pushed her back onto the mattress. He found the hidden side zipper of her dress and pulled it down, down, down. He eased the spaghetti straps off her arms and peeled back the bodice. She wore a lacy black bra, strapless.

Pete kissed her cleavage and then freed her from the lace, the tiny sand dollar from the beach rolling onto the bedspread. His face became a study in boyish awe. Speechless, he mounded her breasts in his hands and then whistled like a construction worker.

Mel laughed, glad not to have disappointed him.

“They’re incredible … stunning.” He simply stared at them as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Yours to play with,” she said, trying to catch her breath—a lost cause. “For now.”

Pete fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and removed it, never tearing his eyes away from her body.

It was her turn to stare at his, to take in the solid mass of furred muscle that was his chest, the gym-hardened, cut arms, the tanned expanse of his skin. Her mouth went dry.

How could she ever have thought of him as a teddy bear? Simple: she hadn’t seen him shirtless in years.

And dear God, now he’d kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks and dropped his pants. Pete had the tough, built legs of a soccer or rugby player. How could she have known? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him in shorts. And she’d never seen him in plain blue boxers, as he was now.

He moved towards her with an expression of ownership that she’d never seen, either, a possessive gaze that made something inside her go all girly.

He mounted the bed and straddled her, then bent his head and kissed her again, the hair on his chest brushing her breasts erotically. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, the act imitating what he wanted to do between her legs.

When she was breathless, he turned once again to her breasts. He squeezed them together and took the peaks into his mouth, like a kid trying to devour two ice-cream cones at once.

Pure, hot pleasure overwhelmed her and reminded her that he was no kid. It surged between her legs and dampened her inner thighs. It spiraled through her belly, tugging at her womb.

Pete sucked harder, abrading her nipples with his tongue. Her powerful response to him came from somewhere primal; somewhere no other man had accessed before. A low scream tore out of her throat, shocking her, and turned to a keening noise as he continued.

She briefly considered shame, and rejected it. She threaded her fingers through his dark curls and pulled on them, her legs moving restlessly.

Pete tore his mouth from her breasts, rolled to the side and pushed the skirt of her dress up, over her knees and then above her thighs. Shame came rushing back, cresting as he gazed down at her, pooling at her core. She knew her thighs weren’t slender.

But he didn’t seem at all interested in evaluating the circumference of her thighs. Pete relieved her of her black lace thong before she could even squeak out a protest, and when she tried to pull down her skirt again, he grabbed her wrists. With one hand, he pinned them on the mattress, over her head.

“Let me look, Mel. I think you’re gorgeous.”

Heat rose in her cheeks and she muttered a denial.

“Gorgeous,” he repeated. He released her wrists, eased off her dress and looked his fill while she lay naked and blushing. After a few moments, her discomfort had her rolling to the other side of the bed, where she swung her legs off the mattress and put her feet on the floor.

“Where do you think you’re going, honey?” His voice was soft, but commanding. “And why?”

She struggled to verbalize her self-consciousness. “I—”

“Have you changed your mind?” He rounded the bed and took her chin in one hand. She could feel the heat of his body; smell his desire.

As she raised her gaze from the floor, she couldn’t help but notice that he’d ditched his boxers. That part of Pete that she’d never dreamed she’d see … it was heavy, thick, hard. She remembered from the beach exactly what it felt like in her hand. How would it feel inside her?

The thought made her go weak.

“Have you changed your mind?” Pete asked, again. “It’s okay if you have.”

She moistened her lips with her tongue, still staring at his cock, knowing that her body was more than ready for him.

He forced her chin up, gently, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Her pulse beat triple time.

“If you haven’t changed your mind,” he said softly, “then I want you to do something for me. I want you to lie back right now, on the bed, and spread your legs. Open your thighs, like the dirty girl you were pretending to be … open them all the way, until I can see pink.”

Shocked, her gaze flew to meet his, but she looked away just as fast. Her breathing had gone fast and shallow, her pulse haywire. Those lighting streaks were coming in clusters, assaulting her erogenous zones.

“Pink,” he repeated. “I want to see you. I want to stroke

you. I want to taste you. And then I’m going to make love to you.”

She thought she might come on the spot, just from his words.

“So what’s it gonna be, Mel? Hmm?”

To hell with shame …

She followed instinct.

She lay down for him.

She spread her thighs.




4


MELINDA WAS LAID OUT like a banquet in front of him, and Pete shook his head, a little dazed by the sight. Was it the champagne or pure lust that fogged his brain?

He eased himself onto the bed, noting her self-conscious blush. “You’re beautiful,” he said softly. “Do you know that?”

Her blush only intensified. She moved a shoulder ever so slightly, saying nothing, but everything.

And it got to him. Pete’s heart turned over. “We’ve got to do something about this,” he said firmly. “Right now.”

Mel shot him a puzzled glance and tried to close her legs, which didn’t work well since Pete moved quickly to position himself between them. He sat back on his heels, then ran his hands from her knees up to her thighs, his thumbs tracing the sensitive flesh on either side of her mons.

She shivered as he caressed her lightly there; let out a soft gasp. She parted her lips; so did he, rubbing a little more firmly against the slickness and paying special attention to the small nub that he knew would bring her the most pleasure.

“You like that?” he asked, as she pushed against him unconsciously. Her eyes had fallen closed and her breathing hitched.

“Yes …”

“I like it, too. You know you’re beautiful?”

Mel’s mouth twisted; again, she made no comment, and again, it bothered him. He slipped a finger inside her while still stroking that little fold of flesh. Tight, hot, wet, welcoming: the crazy mystery of a woman, the innermost cave that drew a man.

A small moan escaped her, and he smiled, knowing he was bringing her pleasure. Pete came forward on his knees and bent his head to her breasts, taking one into his mouth while still working his magic between her legs.

Her body began to tremble in mounting tension as he sucked, and he took his hand from between her legs, placing it instead on her other breast. He didn’t want her coming too early.

She made a sound of protest but quieted as he slid his cock against her, teasing and exploring. She tried to guide him inside her, but he took her hands away. “This is for you,” he said. “I want this to be all about you.”

There were dozens of questions in her eyes, but he ignored them. He kissed her, tasting the champagne on her lips along with something sweet that was pure Mel. He wanted more of it. He slid his tongue into her mouth to explore, and denied his body’s insistence on doing the same further south.

He kept teasing her there, though, and moved his mouth to her nipples again, abrading them lightly, sucking until she wrapped her legs around him and whispered, “Please …”

He wasn’t ready to indulge her yet. “Say this aloud, Mel. Say, ‘I’m beautiful.’ I want to hear you.”

“Pete, come on,” she muttered, the blush beginning to reappear.

“Come on, what? I want you to say it.”

“I’m not saying that.” She reached for his cock and wrapped her fingers around it.

Yeah, oh yeah, his body said.

“No, Mel, you can’t have it yet,” his mouth said.

Dumb ass, said his body.

“Tell me you’re beautiful.”

She let go of him and lay her head back on the pillow, clearly frustrated. “I’m not playing this game with you, Pete.”

“It’s not a game,” he said, stung.

“I’m not trading cheesy affirmations for … for—”

“Cheesy affirmations? Melinda, I just wanted you to acknowledge something which happens to be true.” He stared down at her.

“It’s not true, and we both know it!” she snapped.

“Yeah, darlin,’ it is. Clearly you haven’t been looking in any mirrors lately.”

“Spare me. Really. Spare me the bad lines, Mr. Customer Service.” She sat up, clearly with the intent of getting out of bed.

Pete had never been naked, fully erect and this instantly angry before in his life. Maybe it was the years of smiling in the face of hotel-guest abuse, or maybe it was having his kindness thrown back into his face. Maybe it was this particular woman.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back down on the mattress, ignoring the shock in her eyes as she struggled against him.

“Listen to me, Melinda. You can have a complex about your weight if you want to. You can be self-conscious and awkward—that’s your choice. But what you cannot do is call me a liar. Understand?”

She just stared up at him, wide-eyed.

“Does this—” he gestured bitterly at his raging erection “—does this look like customer service to you?”

She opened her mouth but only a squeak came out.

“Well, does it?” he roared.

“No,” she said in a small voice.

“Okay, then.” He nodded. “Now, do you think I get this way around women I think are ugly?”

After a small hesitation, she shook her head.

“Then I think you owe me an apology.” Pete released her and rolled off the bed, stalking to the window. How in the hell had this gone so wrong? He took stock of himself with vague surprise: rigid muscles, heavy breathing, big scowl. Who was this guy? It certainly wasn’t Peter S. Dale, Senior Account Manager. How had he gotten this pissed off?

A pair of soft, warm arms slipped around him from behind. “I’m sorry, Pete,” Melinda said. “I’m sorry.”

He could feel those spectacular breasts up against his back, and her legs brushing his. Her hands moved from his stomach up to his chest, her fingers combing through the hair and then tracing his nipples, which hardened immediately under her touch.

He closed his eyes as she smoothed her way down his belly again, to the springy hair just south of it. And bit back a curse as she took his cock into her hands and worked her woman voodoo on it until he felt like he could smash through stone walls with the thing. He was so hard it hurt.

Before he knew it, Mel had dropped to her knees in front of him and taken it into her mouth. Nothing had ever felt so good …

He stood there for a moment, lost in the sensations of it. Warm and wet, her tongue sliding along him, her hand wrapped tightly at the base. Ahh.

But he wasn’t going to let her apologize this way. He slid his hands over her head, tunneled his fingers into her hair, and destroyed what was left of her updo. Then he took her by the shoulders and pulled her gently to her feet. “Come here, Mel.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, honey. You do everything right.” He kissed her, loving the way her hair now tumbled free around her shoulders. He palmed her breasts possessively.

And she kissed him back without hesitation. “Then why …”

“Because,” Pete said, “I want to make love to you.” He took her by the hand and led her to the bed again. “If that’s all right by you.”

She nodded shyly and sat down.

He went into the bathroom and got a condom from out of his toiletries kit. He ripped open the packet, took it out and she helped him roll it on, her touch a sweet kind of torture.

“Now, where were we?” Pete asked ruefully.

Mel scooted to the middle of the bed, lay down and opened her legs. “Right here?”

“Yeah, right about there.” He winked at her. “And the view is to die for.”

MEL’S PULSE SKITTERED crazily when he looked at her that way, as if she were truly some kind of knockout. But men just got excited in the face of the female anatomy, didn’t they? A centerfold in the privacy of the bathroom would probably produce that same glazed expression.

Then Pete launched himself at her like some kind of animal, and she didn’t have time to be cynical. Because … dear God … his face was between her legs and his mouth was right there, and his big hands cupped her bottom, and her heels were hanging over his broad shoulders.

His hands pushed her thighs even further apart to give him better access, and she thought she’d split in two.

The tension in every muscle built until her insides went molten and poured towards where his clever, teasing tongue was. She was barely aware of thrashing against him, her body trying to celebrate and escape simultaneously.

She heard herself scream, felt the rumble in his chest as he chuckled in satisfaction, registered the exultation on his wet face, framed by her thighs.

Then he moved over her, slid himself into her a couple of inches, and closed his eyes at the evident pleasure of it. Maybe he was trying to hold himself back. He opened his eyes again as if to ask permission to be rough.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He drove into her with such force that she could almost feel him in her throat, making a sound that could have expressed either ecstasy or pain. “Melinda,” he said. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

“It’s okay … I like it.”

He pulled out and drove in again, and a tension coiled low in her belly at the sweet friction of it. She clutched helplessly at his shoulders, his neck—he was slick with perspiration and need. He smelled of sweat and man and her own essence.

She met him stroke for stroke, echoing his rhythm. When he bent his head to her nipples again, the tension low in her gut grew almost unbearable and she begged for release.

Pete slid a hand between their bodies and found her clitoris with his thumb. He toyed with it, massaged it as he pumped into her … and again she came apart, lifting off the bed and locking herself against him.

Electrified, spasming around him, she felt him tense, curse, and explode inside her before falling exhausted to the mattress on top of her. “Now,” he said raggedly, “will you please, for the love of God, just say it?”

It took her a moment to register what he was talking about. Then she laughed weakly. “I’m … I’m beautiful?”

“Damn straight,” said Pete. “Not only that … you are one hot piece of ass.”

Since he said it in a tone that was close to reverence, she didn’t take offense. Instead, in a state of wonder, she reached out and stroked his damp chest, which was still heaving—and because of her. Her, pudgy Melinda Edgeworth.

“In fact,” Pete continued, “I wish I could do you again right now. Instead, we’re going to have to wait a little while.”

Mel snuck a look at the digital clock on the bedside table. “Oh, my God! I have to get back downstairs.”

“Why?” he asked. But he knew why. People would notice they were missing.

In fact, a peculiar expression formed on his face. One that she found hard to interpret. It wasn’t exactly embarrassment. Nor was it fear. It was halfway between guilt and trepidation.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you looking like that?”

“Like what?” Pete wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“Like … I don’t know …” She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “As if …”

They both jumped as a heavy knock sounded on the door. “Pete? Pete, are you in there?”

“Shit!” he whispered. “Please don’t tell me that’s—”

“Mark,” Melinda said, gulping.

He vaulted off the bed and pounced on her dress, then her panties. He threw them at her. Then her bra. “Get into the bathroom!”

Melinda ran.




5


PETE TORE AFTER HER and grabbed a towel, which he wrapped around his lower body. Then he sprang towards the bed again, yanking the spread up over the tangled, sweaty sheets. It reeked of sex in the room. He headed for the sliding glass doors, which he opened to the balcony.

“Pete!” yelled Mark. “Open the door. I know you’re in there.”

Shit—the first place Mark would check was the bathroom. Pete wrenched open the door, put a finger to his lips, and dragged the still half-naked Melinda out. She now wore her bra and panties, but hadn’t made it back into her dress. He pointed silently to the balcony. She sprinted.

“Mark, what the hell, man?” he called. “Hang on a minute—I was about to get in the shower.”

“Dale, open this door. I have a bad feeling about who’s in there with you!”

Pete spied Mel’s purse on the dresser, and her shoes near the bed. He scooped everything up and bundled it onto the balcony after her. Then he pulled closed the heavy drapes.

Casually, he strolled to the door and opened it, yawning. “Mark? To what do I owe this honor?”

Mark loomed over him in his tuxedo. His breath reeked of Scotch. “Where’s my sister?”

Pete put on his best puzzled face. “Huh? Why? Where’s your bride?”

“Changing into her going-away outfit. You know we’re spending the night at the Ritz. Where’s my sister?”

“Melinda? I have no idea. I took her a glass of champagne out on the beach, asked her to dance. We talked for a little while. Then she said she’d rather be alone.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He eyed Pete’s towel and pushed past him, scanning the room but finding nobody there.

Back in high school, some asshole on the basketball team, Barton something, had asked out Melinda and tried to feel her up. He’d complained about spending a bunch of dough on dinner and not getting to see her tits.

Mark had beat him to a pulp when he found out. Pete was pretty sure that Barton had carried home his torn-off arm, his nose and possibly his head. Or so the rumor went.

Since Mark was now a full foot taller and half again as wide as back then, Pete wasn’t interested in true confessions. He valued his arms. He didn’t need his nose kicked inside out. And kissing up to corporate clients would be a tad difficult without a head.

Pete aimed a convulsive smile at his friend. “Dude, you paranoid freak. Did you really think I was having some sex orgy up here with Melinda? Please.”

“All I know is that she’s missing.” Mark poked his head into the bathroom. “And so are you.”

“I’m not missing. I’m right here.”

“It smells like sex in this room,” Mark growled, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.

Pete produced an embarrassed, hangdog expression. “Dude. There are channels on the television for single men. What can I say?”

“Nice. So you’ve been sitting up here jacking off? Is that why you missed the cutting of our cake?”

Pete dragged his hands over his face. “Mark. I was there for the ceremony, which is what counts. I made sure everything was perfect for the reception. As an account manager for a major hotel, how many times do you think I’ve seen wedding cake being cut? We do receptions here every weekend. I can only take so much bland white frosting.”

Was that an outraged snort from the balcony? He hoped not.

Mark’s head swiveled toward it. He turned to Pete, his eyes narrowing again. “That noise …” he said slowly. “You’ve got her outside!” In four strides, he was whipping open the drapes.

Son of a bitch! “Mark, I can explain—”

He stared. There was nothing there but the moonlight. Nothing below but sand, lit by lanterns, and dark sea. No scantily clad Melinda. Not a shoe, not a hairpin, not a sign of her anywhere.

“Do you feel stupid, now?” he asked Mark.

Because he sure did.

His buddy wouldn’t give him an inch. He looked back into the room. “No, I don’t. There’s a sweating bottle of champagne on the desk, and two glasses on the nightstand, one with lipstick on it. This room reeks, and you’re acting strange. If it’s not my sister you’ve had in here, then who is it?”

Pete shrugged.

“Kylie. Kylie’s been missing, too. Are you slipping it to my aunt?”

“Mark, there are a lot of women at the wedding, okay? Maybe I don’t feel like kissing and telling.”

“Are you saying that the woman is married?” Mark looked genuinely shocked.

“I’m not saying anything! Jeez, will you get out of my face and stop giving me the Spanish Inquisition? I’m a consenting adult, so is she—and that’s really all you need to know, my friend. Now, get back to your bride before she thinks that you’re screwing around on her.”

Mark frowned. “I’m worried about Melinda. Mom said she went to her room with stomach issues, but she’s not answering the door.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Pete told him. “She may have taken something to knock herself out. Like Benadryl.”

“Or maybe she’s passed out. Mom said she was pretty sure she’d had a bottle of champagne by herself.” Disapproval permeated Mark’s voice.

“Well, there you go. She’s sleeping it off.”

“If she’d just trim down a little bit, she’d find a boyfriend with no problem.”

Anger bubbled up inside Pete. “You guys need to ease up on her. I think she looks great just the way she is.”

Mark snorted. “Well, ask her out on a date, then.”

“I just might. How would you like that?”

The growl came back instantly, and Mark glared at him. “I wouldn’t. In fact, I’d take you apart. I’d rip off your arm and beat you with the bloody stump. Then I’d rip off your head. I’d friggin’ kill you …”

“Good to know,” Pete said, nodding. “Good to know.”

MELINDA’S KNEES WERE SCRAPED, and so were the undersides of her arms. That’s what she got for playing monkey-girl and climbing from Pete’s balcony to the one right next to it, heart in her throat as she straddled the wall between the two and clung to it and the railings. Thank God the occupants of the room hadn’t been there.

She was now fully dressed except for her shoes. She’d even wriggled back into the much-despised Spanx, which she’d dug out of Pete’s trash can so he wouldn’t find them. Mel took in the view of Biscayne Bay below, with the shadowy silhouettes and brightly lit windows of other buildings in the background. Miami was just waking up for the evening, its residents languidly having a cafécito and anticipating the night ahead.

Mel herself was all gringa: she yawned, sleepy from the champagne, the lack of food, and the mind-blowing sex. But then she shrank back, fully awake, when she heard Mark prowling outside and Pete’s voice saying to him, “Do you feel stupid, now?”

She sagged with relief. She’d made the right call in shimmying over to the next balcony, a plus-sized Spiderwoman in nothing but her bra and panties.

Mark was giving poor Pete the third degree in there, pointing out the champagne bottle, the glasses, the rumpled bed … really, he was way out of bounds. Pete was playing the wronged innocent, lying through his teeth for her. And here she was, a grown woman, skulking in the shadows so that her brother wouldn’t know she’d had a fling at his wedding.

What was this, the Middle Ages? Mark was behaving like a caveman, and they, Pete and Mel, were allowing it.

Then again, Mark had always had a temper, a protective streak a mile wide, and a wicked right hook. She didn’t want to see Pete hunting for his nose on the beach in the moonlight. She didn’t want a rift between the two friends, either.

So she stood there, reveling in what Pete had said to her. You are one hot piece of ass …

Nobody had ever called her that before. She couldn’t help grinning. And then, once her teeth were bared, she got kicked in them—again—as Mark’s voice carried clearly through the night.

If she’d just trim down a little bit, she’d find a boyfriend with no problem.

Hurt and betrayal knocked the grin off her face. It fell eight stories to the dark beach below and buried itself in the sand.

It was one thing to absorb the hints and the glances of her mother and brother. It was another to hear the hurtful words spoken aloud, and to someone else, someone outside of the family. Someone who’d just seen her naked, for God’s sake.

Melinda, still reeling, barely registered Pete’s response.

You guys need to ease up on her. I think she looks great just the way she is.

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?




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