Bringing Home a Bachelor Read online

“No,” she said, gasping a little.

  Pete slid down south, way south, and did something wicked.

  “Oh, Pete,” she sighed. “No other guy does that either, so please don’t stop…”

  17

  “AND SO,” PETE FINISHED, his arms spread wide, “this is a fantastic solution for us all, don’t you agree, sir?” He aimed a toothy grin at his boss.

  They sat in Reynaldo’s office with its sweeping views of the bay and downtown Miami. A life-size portrait of the man in polo garb, standing next to a massive bay thoroughbred, loomed from the opposite wall. A bronze bust of Reynaldo crowned its own mahogany pedestal. And Reynaldo’s latest tousled-haired trophy wife, dripping with diamonds, gazed triumphantly at visitors from an eight-by-ten-inch, gilt-framed photo on a desk so large it rated its own zip code.

  “Not to mention that the Have a Heart Foundation has scheduled their ball here at Playa Bella in mid-October, and the Charity League Holiday Bazaar will be here in December. Projected revenues are up by…drumroll…twenty-two percent.”

  And if those projected figures turned into solid ones by year’s end, Pete’s future at Reynaldo hotels was assured.

  “Hmm,” Reynaldo said, rolling a Cuban cigar between his palms. “A boutique bakery?” He frowned. “You’ll have to check with the health department—I think she will have to do her baking in the existing kitchens, though she could sell the goods in the storefront.”

  Pete thought about this. Melinda wouldn’t like it. She preferred having her own small, private domain.

  “And we would receive a percentage of sales under the arrangement, eh, Pedro?”

  Pete had no idea if this was okay with Mel, but he nodded. He’d take it up with her—and his annoying conscience—later.

  Reynaldo was now flipping the cigar from end to end between his index fingers and thumbs. “If she is using the Playa Bella kitchens, however, then I see no reason to have a separate pastry chef. She should do our commercial baking here, as well.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa…” Pete held up a hand, but in the face of Reynaldo’s raised, supercilious eyebrows, he dropped it. “I doubt she’ll agree, sir.”

  “I see no reason to underwrite her expenses and publicity if she is not contributing to our bottom line.” Reynaldo clamped the Cuban between his teeth and folded his arms across his chest.

  “I think she’ll contribute a great deal to our bottom line, sir. Especially if she brings in the kind of traffic I’ve projected, and puts Playa Bella in the spotlight as a culinary destination. I’m envisioning a multi-week gourmet baking course with a dessert-wine tasting, eventually. And it could be international, especially with your great contacts in Columbia, Venezuela and Argentina. If you can get some of those jet-setters down there to come up and play golf while their wives—”

  “Please.” Reynaldo waved a hand. “Those people have paid chefs on staff,” he said dismissively. “Their wives don’t cook.”

  “We appeal to their artistic sensibilities,” Pete said. “This isn’t cooking. It’s high art that only the most sophisticated and elegant can appreciate…much less achieve.”

  Reynaldo cast his eyes heavenward.

  “Besides, there’s also the spa for these ladies, as you have so astutely pointed out. And high-end shopping nearby at Bal Harbour, Merrick Park Mall, Miracle Mile.”

  His boss pursed his thick lips around the Cuban.

  “There are very fine gentlemen’s establishments for the men,” Pete continued, “not to mention exclusive private gambling a mere limo’s ride away. We make it a couples’ destination vacation, with plenty of options.”

  Reynaldo grunted. “I still say the girl takes over as pastry chef as well, or there is too much expense with too much risk.”

  Pete looked at him in dismay. Mel would never agree…unless?

  “I don’t think we ultimately want her focus there, sir. But maybe she could have a sous-chef under her direction who handles that aspect? You could pay the sous-chef less than half what you’d have to pay Melinda. And this way, if she comes on board, she pays you for the retail space and you don’t pay her a dime. She brings in notoriety plus revenue, and you get an added percentage of that. Where’s the downside?”

  His boss chomped on the cigar thoughtfully.

  “So you end up saving—” Pete figured out the number and told him.

  “I like it,” Reynaldo said finally. “Okay. Make it happen, Pedro. Start low, though, with a basic job offer. Can’t hurt. I give you full authority to negotiate for me. Get a contract together. See it through.”

  And just like that, they were off and running.

  Pete couldn’t wait to tell Melinda.

  Then he remembered the Machiavellian sandwich. What the hell was he doing?

  Nothing wrong, he told himself. He was truly doing only what was best for everybody. He was keeping Reynaldo and Jocelyn and himself and Melinda all happy. It was a win-win-win-win situation.

  * * *

  THINGS BEGAN BADLY for Pete when he started, as per the Big R’s instructions, with a general job offer, not so generous salary and bare-bones benefits.

  “No,” Melinda said simply. “Not interested.”

  Pete upped the salary, keeping everything else the same.

  “Nope. I told you, I don’t want to work for anyone but myself.”

  He nodded. “Okay, then. I’m authorized to offer you the boutique on a lease…” He made her an offer that he found fair but was still very favorable to Playa Bella.

  Mel’s eyes flashed blue fire. She raised her chin and shook her head. “That’s a high rent to begin with, Pete, and there’s no way I’m giving away fifteen percent of my sales to that little Latin Caesar.”

  Pete spread his hands wide, palms up. “The rent is incredibly reasonable for the luxury space and high-end amenities you get in return. Plus the new, up-market clientele. And free parking.”

  “I have free parking now. The space isn’t any larger than what I have here, and the only true ‘amenity’ I can think of is carpet, which I don’t want. And what’s wrong with my middle-class clientele? They keep my doors open just as well as snooty ladies with Dior doggie-carriers.” No need to tell Pete that she was worried about how to pay expenses after losing the Java Joe’s account. She’d just keep that to herself.

  “So what would you find more reasonable?” Pete asked. “Name your figure.”

  First player to throw out a number loses. “Name yours.” Mel gave him a lipless social smile straight out of her mother’s repertoire and enjoyed watching him squirm.

  Pete dragged a hand down his face. “Listen, I’d love to give it to you for free, darlin’, I hope you know that—”

  “Of course.” She brightened her smile and didn’t give him an inch. She had a business to run.

  “—but I negotiate on behalf of Reynaldo.”

  “Exactly.”

  Pete sighed. “Okay, how about the monthly lease and twelve percent of profits? Remember, he’ll pay for the build-out—”

  “Big of him, since he can keep it the same and throw a coffee shop into the space later.”

  “—and get you on your own cable show—”

  “Which is time-consuming, takes my attention away from work, and has a small, limited, local audience.”

  “—as well as provide a sous-chef to handle your responsibilities here at Playa Bella—”

  “Responsibilities which I don’t want, not to mention the fact that he’ll save money by hiring a sous-chef and just putting my name on the menu.”

  Pete’s pleasant smile was fraying at the edges. “But you’re getting a phenomenal opportunity with us.”

  Mel sat back, increasing the distance between them, while Pete still leaned forward. “You came to me,” she pointed out.

  He gave a slight nod to acknowledge this.

  “So make it worth my while. Just because I’m a girl—” here she got in a jab at Reynaldo “—does not mean that I’m naïve or that all I think
about is my nails.”

  “Of course not. You’re a very astute businesswoman.” Pete tossed out his true offer, the one he was not prepared to go below. “All right. The monthly lease money and ten percent of the profits. Your name on the menu but no actual responsibility besides designing the dessert menu and providing the recipes to the sous-chef. The cable show, seasonal baking contests sponsored and promoted by Playa Bella. That’s an unbelievable deal.”

  “An offer I can’t refuse?”

  Pete nodded, expecting to wrap this up.

  Melinda pursed her lips. “Take five hundred bucks off the monthly rent and Playa Bella gets two percent of the profits.”

  Pete’s jaw dropped open. “You’re smoking crack,” he said as pleasantly as it was possible to say such a thing. “A hundred bucks off the rent and eight percent.”

  By the time she’d finished with him, he looked downtrodden, rumpled and frustrated. But Mel was exultant. She’d shaved three hundred bucks off the monthly lease amount and chiseled him down to three and a half percent of her sales.

  Pete glared at her, shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the door. “I’ll have our attorneys draw up the papers.”

  “Don’t I get a kiss?” Mel asked, innocently.

  “I don’t kiss sharks,” he growled.

  “Aw. I’m just a furry wittle bunny wabbit, I swear.” Melinda batted her eyelashes at him.

  He glowered at her. “Pickpocket bunny with fangs.”

  Melinda laughed.

  He didn’t.

  “It was your idea, you know,” she called after him as he pushed open the door of her shop.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Hey! You forgot your free cookie!”

  Slam.

  “Poor thing,” Melinda said to Mami as she skipped into her office. “He must have a headache.”

  Mami wagged her tail. Then she yawned, entirely unconcerned.

  * * *

  PETE’S WEEK DIDN’T get much better.

  Even though he invented a piranha of an attorney, a six-foot-five ex-boxer, to blame for the lousy deal with Melinda, Reynaldo wasn’t pleased that he’d been bested by a girl and insinuated that he’d lost both his mind and his shriveled gringo balls during the encounter. As a reward, Pete had to fire the existing pastry chef in person, on the slimmest of pretexts.

  He felt horrible, as the man first exhibited shock, then pleaded abjectly for his job and finally went into a violent frenzy, knocking pans and baking supplies off the shelves as he exited.

  Pete spent a moment standing in the silent, aghast kitchen, head bent forward, the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Then he got a broom and cleaned up the mess.

  He’d brushed the flour off his pant legs and the ground hazelnuts out of his wing tips. He’d gone upstairs and was running numbers in his office when the concierge desk buzzed him to say that Mrs. Jocelyn Edgeworth was downstairs to see him.

  “Oh, farg me,” Pete said aloud.

  “Perdón?” Tomas, the concierge, was from Ecuador.

  “Nothing. Send her up. Thank you.”

  “Farging” Pete turned out to be precisely what Jocelyn had in mind, though not literally.

  “Darling Peter,” she said as she swept into his office in a pale pink checked pantsuit and pink patent-leather Mary Janes, “don’t be ridiculous.”

  Pete raised his weary gaze to meet her expertly made up, vicious baby-blues. “Excuse me?”

  She removed two fat manila envelopes from her Gucci tote and shook them at him. “There must be some mistake.”

  Pete stretched his lips into the semblance of a smile. “I don’t think so. I went over the agreements myself. The date for the Have a Heart Foundation ball is October 23, the Charity League Holiday Bazaar is on December 2, and we’ve cleared January 17 for the Every Breath You Take lung cancer fundraiser.”

  “I’m not concerned with the dates, Peter. I’m talking about the charges. Where are my discounts?”

  “Discounts, Mrs. Edgeworth?”

  “Pee-ter. I’ve brought you not one, not two, but three big charity events and I expect some serious consideration for such.”

  He gave it consideration. He considered making her eat the bronze Longhorn on his desk, slowly, with her pinkies elevated. Then he considered forcing her to sit on it, instead.

  “Mrs. Edgeworth, I really don’t have the authority to discount—”

  “That’s just nonsense. You know it and I know it.”

  Pete gritted his teeth. It was nonsense, but most people had the courtesy to play the game with him and then fawn all over him when he made a “special exception” for them, one that he “really shouldn’t” make.

  “Take thirty percent of the ballroom rentals right off the top, for starters,” she demanded.

  Pete’s throat swelled in outrage. “That’s impossible. I can’t do that, Mrs. Edgeworth.”

  “Why not?” Her eyes held all the warmth of titanium bores, and were just as deadly.

  “Because your events are on Saturdays during the high season! I’ve already given you a good rate. The best I can do on top of that is give you five percent off the rentals.”

  “Pee-ter. These events are for char-i-ty. You don’t pillage the coffers of charities. You contribute to them. You act with goodwill.”

  “I’m not pillaging your charities, Mrs. E. We have a business to run, here at Playa Bella. I’m sorry, but five-percent off is the best I can do. Your guests purchase expensive tickets and tables, big booths at the bazaar. And you run a silent auction. That’s how you raise the funds.”

  “Fine. Then donate the liquor,” she said.

  “I can’t do that—you know it would amount to thousands of dollars!”

  “The food, then.”

  “Not going to hap—”

  “The desserts!”

  “Why don’t you ask your daughter to donate the desserts? She’ll be opening a bakery boutique in our retail space.”

  Silence shrieked between them for a few moments.

  Tension.

  Then Jocelyn’s aristocratic nostrils flared.

  “Why don’t I ask my daughter about her new beau?” she suggested, smacking the manila envelopes down loudly in the middle of his desk. She shot him that lipless cobra smile of hers.

  He met her gaze evenly. “Are you threatening me, Mrs. Edgeworth?”

  “Peter, darling.” She waved a languid hand. “I’d never do something so inelegant.”

  Pete’s head was going to explode, it really was. He could feel the rocket fuel gathering at the back of his neck, turning into a tight ball of rage. It was spreading across his shoulders, too.

  He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to lay his hands flat on his desk, so that they couldn’t curl into fists. She won’t do it. It would hurt her daughter too much. She’s bluffing.

  Jocelyn drummed her fingernails against the leather of her Gucci tote. “But I could certainly check with the Standard and the Ritz and even the Delano to see if they have ballrooms available on these dates.”

  The bottom line was that he didn’t want to lose the business, however much he’d like to toss her and her Italian leather tote off the roof.

  Pete dredged up the last courteous smile he could muster and forced it onto his lips. “Of course you’re free to do that, Mrs. Edgeworth,” he said. “Meanwhile, why don’t I discuss this matter of a discount with Mr. Reynaldo and get back to you?”

  “Why, Peter.” She summoned her bloodless smirk again. “That would be lovely.” She curled two fingers in to her palm in a sign that for him would always signify the Texas Longhorns. But she turned it sideways and held an imaginary phone to her ear. “Call me.”

  18

  “YOU MUST BE JOKING, Pedro.” Reynaldo ran his manicured fingers over the bronze bust of himself in his office, removing imaginary dust particles from its stylized locks of hair.

  Pete tried not to think about how much he despised b
eing called Pedro. “No, sir. Jocelyn Edgeworth wants a thirty percent discount on her gigs, or she’ll look into moving them to the Standard, the Ritz or the Delano.”

  Reynaldo muttered something in Spanish. Pete was pretty sure it translated into something like “socialite whore.”

  “I don’t like being badgered, and especially not by a woman. Has her daughter signed the contracts for the boutique bakery yet?”

  “I’m meeting with Melinda on Wednesday to do that.”

  “Good.” Reynaldo went to his elaborate humidor and chose yet another of his vast array of Cuban cigars. “First, preempt the mother. Call and reserve the big ballrooms at those hotels for the relevant dates, if they’re available. Use my wife’s mother’s name. And call any other suitable venues, as well.”

  Pete’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “But they’ll want credit-card numbers.”

  “Give them my alternate Am Ex Black Card number.” His boss gave him a crocodile smile around the cigar. “I’ll cancel it next week.”

  “The charges will still—”

  “I assure you that I am a very good customer. One that they will not wish to offend. And I will not know how those charges got onto my card. Clearly the number was stolen, eh?”

  Pete blinked.

  “A vengeful employee or girlfriend. After all, why would I make all of those reservations for the same date? It makes no sense.”

  “O-kay.”

  “Stall the mother until you get the contracts signed with the daughter. Then tell the mother that I won’t even authorize a five-percent discount, unless…” Reynaldo added something incredibly crude in Spanish and laughed as he sat down in his rolling leather chair, knees spread wide.

  Pete stared at him. Had his boss really suggested that Jocelyn could negotiate further on her knees and under his desk?

  Granted, he’d developed quite a dislike for the woman, but that was going too far. She was his girlfriend’s mother, after all. And though he despised the way she’d gone about it, he couldn’t really blame her for trying to get a better deal.

  “Next,” Reynaldo said, “you mention to her that she would not want to jeopardize her daughter’s arrangement with us, eh?”