Bringing Home a Bachelor (9 page)

It was the most awful sound in the history of the planet—until Pete’s loud laugh. “S-sorry,” he managed, as Melinda’s face flash-fried.

The rose petals in her ballroom withered. Her gown wilted and rotted like a cabbage rose in the sun. The balloons popped, and the pink tablecloths went up in flames, charred beyond recognition.

Please, God. Take me now. Pull me through the floor and put me out of my misery. Please…

But the Almighty didn’t seem to hear her.

Mark chose that moment to pull his head out of the fridge. “Good one, Bug-Eyes. Was that a burp or a fart?”

Only her brother could have made the moment more calamitous.

Aghast, Melinda turned and fled, her pink and silver dreams destroyed forever.

Total humiliation had obliterated her crush on Pete. She’d never allowed herself to think of him that way again.

Until now.

You idiot.
Mel got out her set of piping tips and mixed up some more butter-cream icing to make a frame for BB Temperley’s ridiculous Ode.

Pete could easily find her work number, today was Thursday, and he’d shown no signs whatsoever of calling about this Saturday, or any of the other three hundred sixty-four options in the calendar year.

Mel couldn’t say she was surprised, no matter what charming things he’d said to her at the wedding breakfast. She let out an involuntary sigh.

As always, her mother had been right.

11

B
Y
F
RIDAY
, P
ETE
’
S
FINGERS
itched to dial Mel’s bakery and tell her what a vicious wolverine she had for a mother. He got as far as keying in the number and chewing on the end of the phone’s antenna, but he couldn’t make himself hit the Send button. He found himself hitting the Off button instead.

Because Melinda would be mortified at her mother’s actions. And if she had low self-esteem already, how would she feel to know that her mother had bribed a man to ask her daughter out? It was simple.

Mel would be devastated.

And Pete couldn’t do that to her.

Worse, he couldn’t even call his best friend, Mark, and vent about the situation, since Jocelyn was also Mark’s mother. And because Mark had already threatened to rip off his head and crap down his throat if he so much as laid a hand on Melinda’s arm, much less her more luscious and private parts.

Which got Pete to thinking about those again, which filled him with lust as well as frustration and anger.

In desperation, he called his buddy Dev instead, and asked his advice over choros and escabeche de pescado at a favorite Peruvian restaurant.

Dev looked hungover, which was no big surprise since he owned a restaurant/bar. Even his dark, spiky hair looked today like it had no energy and was only standing up on his head by sheer virtue of the amount of product smeared into it. He ran a hand down his unshaven face and blinked a couple of times. “Let me get this straight.”

Pete waited.

“You banged Mark’s sister at the wedding reception?”

“I did not bang her. We—”

Dev waved his fork in the air. “Right, you made mad, passionate, multicolored, many-splendored luuuuv. Whatever. You bumped uglies, and you like her enough to want to call her. But Mama Grizzly is demanding that you call her, and even sweetening the pot if you do.”

“Right.”

Dev put down his fork and picked up his ice-cold Dos Equis beer instead. He held the bottom of it to each eye for a couple of seconds, then took a swig and set it down. He gazed at Pete across the table as the melted condensation ran from his eyelids. He spread his hands, palms up. “Dude, I don’t see the problem.”

“What do you mean, you don’t see the problem!” Pete stared at him.

“I mean that it’s a win-win situation,” Dev said, with Satan’s own reasonableness.

“It’s not!”

“It is. You say you were going to call her anyway. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“And this way you even get paid to call her. So freakin’ call her, dude!”

“You’re advising me to do something completely unethical. You realize that, don’t you?”

“Not at all. I’m advising you to do what your heart tells you to do anyway,” Dev said. “The other part is just gravy. Extra. Manna from heaven that’s dropped into your lap, like a drunk, horny girl at the tail end of the party.”

“Dev, you’re so immoral…”

“Not true, my man,” he protested. “I’m amoral. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah? And what’s that, buddy?” Pete was disgusted with him.

“It’s a big difference. ‘Immoral’ means that you act against your scruples. ‘Amoral’ means without scruples. I can’t be held accountable for behaving counter to principles that I don’t have.” Dev flashed him a hundred-megawatt grin.

“I should have known better than to try to talk to you about this,” Pete said.

“Pete, Pete, Pete.” Dev sighed. “Look, I’m only trying to make you feel better.”

“Well, you’re making me feel worse, instead.”

“Look at it this way, my friend.”

“Which way?”

“Can you un-bang Mel, at this point?”

Pete rolled his eyes.

“No, you cannot. Second question. Can you change the fact that Mommie Dearest came to you with her warped deal? No, you cannot. Third question. Will it make Mel feel better if you don’t call? Or worse?” Dev gazed at him from those hooded dark eyes of his, unapologetic for making a rude kind of sense.

“Worse,” Pete said in gloomy tones.

“Exactly. Now, I ask you, is more business a bad thing? Is more money a bad thing?”

Pete peeled the label off his own beer and stuffed it into one of the empty mussel shells on his plate. He didn’t reply.

“The woman’s going to take the business somewhere, dude. You may as well get it for Playa Bella. You may as well use her just like she thinks she’s using you.”

Ugh.

“It’s simple payback,” Dev explained.

“And what about when it’s time to ‘let Mel down easy’?” Pete demanded.

“You call the shots.”

“What if Jocelyn tries to call them?”

“Tell her in the nicest possible way to get stuffed. After all, she’s hardly going to tell her own daughter what she did. The poor girl would never speak to her again. Right?”

Dev had a point.

Still. “I should just walk away now.”

“Mmm.” Dev lounged back in his chair. “And let Melinda feel used and thrown away by her brother’s best friend. Great.”

“Shit,” Pete said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Or something like it, anyway.” Dev drained his Dos Equis and set it down with a thud. “So what’s it gonna be, Dudley?”

Pete squinted at him. “Dudley?”

“Do-Right.” Dev belched. “You want that last choro, bud?”

“Eat it,” Pete said, and watched Dev stick the entire mussel shell in his mouth, then scrape it clean with his front teeth as he pulled it back out. “Then you can eat me, dickhead.”

Dev swallowed the food, laughing. “Hey, whatever happened to Mr. Customer Service?”

“He’s out to lunch,” Pete said, and flipped him the bird. Not that it helped him make a decision.

* * *

O
N
S
ATURDAY
EVENING
,
Pete drove to Playa Bella, parked, and then met Mr. Reynaldo under the hotel’s elegant portico, though he’d much rather be meeting Mel.

Pete had gotten a trim at the barber, shaved carefully, and put on his best dark slacks and crisp white shirt. He’d even shined his shoes. He’d opted out of a tie at the last moment, because Miami was casual and he didn’t want to appear to be trying too hard. Evidently, that was a bad decision.

Reynaldo wore a royal blue tie himself, studded with tiny yachts. He looked Pete over from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes and nodded once. Then he said, “Come with me.” He turned, went back through the double doors and strolled straight over to Playa Bella’s boutique, which sold overpriced golf shirts, baseball hats, ladies’ swimwear, jewelry, sundries…and ties.

The manager had locked the glass door and was counting the contents of the cash register. Reynaldo rapped on it with his knuckles. She dropped the money instantly and scurried over to the door. “Yes, Mr. Reynaldo? What can I do for you?”

Pete felt a slow heat burning up his neck as his boss sauntered over to the small tie rack, scanned it and chose a pink-striped one that reminded Pete of a gay zebra in a chorus line.

“Perfecto,” Reynaldo said, and handed it to him.

Pete stared at the tie.
I don’t get paid enough to wear that.

But I might, if I can bring in twenty percent more business.

He swallowed his bile and his pride, and started to pull off the price tag, which displayed an alarming number of digits after the dollar sign. No wonder the boutique was losing money—its prices were ridiculous.

“No, no,” said his boss. “You’ll return it tomorrow, eh?”

“Sure,” Pete said. Truth to tell, he was glad not to be stuck with the damned thing. He slipped it around his neck and tied it in a simple Windsor knot, tucking the offending tag inside the lining. Who would pay two hundred and seventy-nine dollars for such a butt-ugly rag, anyway?

As they left the gift shop, he told himself to be grateful that Reynaldo hadn’t forced him to wear a matching pink silk pocket hankie.

“That place—it’s not working,” his boss said when they were out of earshot. “The lease is up soon. Find something else to do with the retail space.”

“Uh,” Pete said. “Sure. No problem.” What the hell was he going to do with it? Open a massage parlor?

He made small talk about the Marlins as they drove up to Palm Beach, where the governor’s fundraiser was being held.

Reynaldo eased the Bentley past the wrought-iron gates of a long private driveway, at the end of which was a massive, Mediterranean pile with a red barrel-tiled roof. The house was flanked by royal palms and overlooked the ocean.

His boss winked at him. “Not bad, eh? Trump, he used to live a few doors back that way.” He jerked a thumb to the left.

“Not bad at all,” Pete agreed.

A uniformed maid opened the door, and a white-mustached butler with regal posture led them down a hall the size of a railway station and through a set of double mahogany doors to a ballroom.

The ballroom was full of tables. The tables sparkled with silver flatware and white cloths; the people around them sparkled with gemstones and white teeth. There were senators and mayors and heads of businesses present; there were lawyers and the top brass of various law-enforcement agencies; there were taut, tanned trophy wives milling about, showing off designer clothes and multicarat diamonds. There were people on the make and people on the take.

Reynaldo eased into the crowd, grinning, backslapping, promising Cuban cigars and hot stock tips. He kissed the cheeks of women and winked conspiratorially at the men as he shook hands and murmured greetings. Pete followed in his wake, feeling a little like a barnacle stuck to a whale.

Somehow they ended up at one of the open bars, where Reynaldo ordered him Johnny Walker Black Label, a double, straight up. “You will need it,” he said cryptically.

“Rocks,” croaked Pete to the bartender. He hated whiskey. If he was going to have to choke the stuff down, he wanted it diluted.

What did Reynaldo mean? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Drinks in hand, his boss maneuvered them quite elegantly right into the governor’s path. He introduced Pete immediately as his “right-hand man” and Governor Vargas reciprocated, presenting his campaign manager, Gareth Alston. Reynaldo had evidently just met Gareth a couple of days ago.

And within two seconds of shaking Gareth’s smooth, limp fingers, Pete was draining his Black Label with full comprehension and horror.

For starters, Gareth had glossier, more buttery-blond highlights than Jocelyn Edgeworth. His personal fragrance was more floral. His cuticles were trimmed more neatly. His nails were buffed to a higher shine.

Then there was the fact that Gareth was retaining Pete’s hand with an unexpected strength while he ran his gaze over the breadth of his shoulders, the expanse of his chest and, to Pete’s instant outrage, the bulge at his crotch.

“Love the tie,” Gareth said, staring far too long at what swung beneath it.

Pete upended the despised glass of whiskey and drained half of it in a gulp. “Thanks.” He forced himself to smile. “Yours is nice, too.” He flushed uncomfortably. “Your tie.”

That was a lie. Alston’s tie was a nightmare in violet.

“Dolce & Gabbana,” the man purred. “Cost a fortune, but I had to have it.”

Pete had never in his life bought a tie on his own. His mother supplied them with depressing regularity on birthdays and at Christmas. He’d never had the heart to tell her that most of the ties were still in their boxes in his closet.

As for Alston’s tie, he wouldn’t use it to clean his windshield. But Pete smiled and nodded as Gareth went on and on about the high-end shops at Bal Harbor. “I’m a Neiman’s addict,” the guy enthused, as Pete took another sip of his despised Johnny Walker Black Label.

He choked on it as he lowered his glass and saw Melinda. Worse, some of the whiskey dribbled out of his mouth and onto the pink tie as he coughed and hacked.

And the noise drew not only her attention, but that of his boss, who frowned at him from across the room.

Within moments, Melinda made her way over from the elaborate dessert table she’d evidently been supervising. “You look as if you could use this,” she said, as she proffered a starched linen napkin.

“Thanks,” Pete wheezed, and held it to his mouth.

She seemed fixated on his tie.

He, in turn, was fixated on the plunging neckline of her black cocktail dress. How well he remembered the contents…

Pete wrapped up his coughing attack. “Uh, Melinda Edgeworth, meet Gareth Alston, Governor Vargas’s campaign manager. Gareth, Melinda is a very fine pastry chef.”

“Thank you. Mrs. Van der Voort was nice enough to ask me to do the desserts for the party tonight.”

“Oh?” Alston displayed a set of perfect, bleached teeth. “Sunny is a doll, isn’t she?”

Melinda nodded.

As Pete looked down to blot the whiskey from his tie, he realized that the price tag had popped out during his coughing fit. Heat and mortification surged up his neck.

Gareth Alston gave a small snort.

“Oh, Pete,” Melinda exclaimed after a beat. “I’m so sorry! The price tag was still on Mark’s tie.”

He blinked.

Mel reached up and yanked off the tag, crumpling it in her hand. Then she turned to Alston. “Poor Pete called me en route, because he didn’t know until too late that he needed a tie for the party. I snagged one of my brother’s for him—they’ve been best friends since junior high.”

“Well, wasn’t that nice of you,” Gareth said.

Yes, it certainly was. Pete could have kissed her then and there, for more than one reason.

“I haven’t had a chance to call you,” he said. “Sorry.”

The concern and amusement in her eyes faded to something flat, polite and cold. “No worries.”

“It was fabulous chatting with you, Pete,” Alston said. “If you’ll excuse me…” And he moved into the crowd.

“Thank you,” Pete said to her. “You have no idea how grateful I am to you. No idea.”

She shrugged. “It was nothing.”

“Really. So…Mel, you look beautiful.”

Her face froze. “Pete, please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pay me compliments, okay?” Her lips, moments ago a lush bowed shape, flattened into a thin line. “And you also don’t need to pretend you were going to call. It’s okay. I’m a big girl.”