Bringing Home a Bachelor

“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.