Bringing Home a Bachelor

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.