Bringing Home a Bachelor Page 9
“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.
* * *
ON SATURDAY 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 gl
ass 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.”
He caught the bitterness in that last sentence; the double meaning. “Mel, you don’t understand—”
She put a hand on his arm. “Pete. I do understand. We had a good time. It’s cool. Now, forget it.”
12
PETE SHOVED THE PRICE TAG deep into the pocket of his trousers, downed the last of the whiskey and set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. He hated being this twisted up inside. He was a human pretzel.
Melinda had come unexpectedly and gracefully to his rescue, but then turned into an ice queen and retreated. If it didn’t make absolutely no sense, he’d have sworn that the word beautiful had triggered her cold response. But in his experience, women adored being told they were beautiful. Did he need to enroll in Female Behavior and Habits 101?
If only such a class existed.
He watched Melinda’s shapely backside as she fled to her dessert table and gave instructions to the redheaded guy who was clearly there to help her. They had left a large rectangular spot on the table blank, while to either side were mouthwatering tarts, stemmed crystal goblets filled with chocolate mousse, cookies in all shapes and sizes. A silver urn at one end held coffee.
Mel nodded at something the redheaded guy said and flashed a smile at him. A smile that Pete wanted to be his, not some leprechaun twerp’s. Threatening brother or not. Wolverine mother or not.
He plucked two glasses of red wine off yet another waiter’s tray and made his way purposefully over to her. Her back still to him, he leaned over her shoulder and angled his head so that his mouth was only inches from her ear. “I don’t want to forget it.”
She jumped, clearly startled.
“Do you?” Pete asked, as she whirled to face him.
“Yes.” Then she spoiled the finality of her message by snatching one of the glasses of wine, taking a furtive look around, and downing a third of it. Evidently she didn’t want to be seen drinking on the job.
“I saw that!” said the leprechaun assistant, popping out of nowhere.
At the same time, Pete leaned in toward her again and said, “I don’t believe you.”
Mel hunched her shoulders defensively against both of them, while for the second time that night, Pete became the target of a not-so-subtle evaluation by another male. Actually a third time, if he counted the ordeal with Reynaldo and the tie.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your very handsome friend?” the leprechaun asked from behind a naughty smile.
“Scottie, this is Pete. Pete, Scottie.”
Scottie put his hands on his hips and tsked. “Now, Mel, that’s like handing someone a naked, un-iced cookie. Details, please!”
She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them and sighed. “Scottie is my very talented, very nosy assistant at the bakery. He’s masterful with fondant—”
“Oooh, masterful!” Scottie preened. “I like that word.”
“—and he’s trying to steal my dog through culinary bribery.”
“Who’s Fon-Don?” Pete asked.
Scottie snickered.
“Fondant,” Mel said, emphasizing the “t.” “It’s a type of icing.”
“Got it.”
“Pete, here,” Mel continued to Scottie, “is an old friend of my brother’s who used to call me Bug-Eyes and once trapped me for hours in a tree house.”
“Not my idea,” protested Pete. “It was Mark’s.”
“Bug-Eyes?” repeated Scottie. “Hey, can I steal that?”
“No.” Melinda glared at him.
“Sure.” Pete grinned.
“We used to call him Fozzie,” Mel informed her assistant. “Feel free to steal that, too.”
“Well, I’m damn glad to meet you, Fozzie.” The leprechaun stuck out his hand with an impish smile. “Did you get the name because you have a hairy back?”
“Excuse me?”
“You two deserve each other,” Mel said, and drained the rest of her wine before walking out of the room.
“The ingratitutde!” Pete said, mock-offended. “She drinks the wine I bring her and leaves.” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Thank you, Pete, that cabernet was delicious,” he called after her.
To Scottie, he said, “No, I do not have a hairy back, not that it’s any of your business.”
Scottie laughed. “So, do you have designs on my boss?”
“She wasn’t kidding, was she? You are nosy.” But Pete poked his tongue into his cheek, softening his words.
“Yup. So do you?”
“Well, then, what are you waiting for?”
“Your permission, of course,” Pete said in dry tones.
“Granted. But only if you’re nice to her.”
“Oh, I figure I’ll kick her like a can down the street and then into the nearest dive bar, where I’ll get her drunk on cheap tequila and then take advantage of her,” Pete said with heavy sarcasm. “That okay with you?”
“You’d best not be doing that,” Scottie warned. “I may be small, but I can damn sure pick a lock and hide a nest of hornets under your toilet lid.”
Pete blinked. “I think we understand each other. Pleasure to meet you.” He stuck out his hand.
Scottie’s grip was firm and dry. “There are a lot of people who care about Mel.”
“Yeah. I’m one of them, buddy, so you can save your hornet surprise for somebody else, ’kay?”
“Okay.”
After that interesting conversation, Pete went in search of Mel. The girl sure had a talent for disappearing at parties.
* * *
MEL TOLD HERSELF that she wasn’t hiding from Pete. She was simply transporting a cake almost bigger than she was. A cake she’d made to resemble the Governor’s Mansion in Tallahassee, Florida, surrounded by lush, sculpted-sugar landscaping and even tiny marzipan people. Across the front of the façade ran a banner that proclaimed, “Governor Vargas, Term Two!”
She had the cake on a wheeled service cart that she used for these occasions.
“Mel, is that you behind the mansion?”
She couldn’t actually see Pete through the baked architecture, since she was bent forward, pushing the cart, but that was his voice. She stood up straight and peered over the gabled roof. “No, it’s King Kong.”
“Would you like some help moving that? It’s incredible, by the way.”
“Thanks, but I’m used to doing this by now. Watch your feet.”
“You don’t want to sweep me off them?”
“Not so much. I don’t want to roll over your toes, either.”
“Melinda, you’re going to have to talk to me at some point. So you may as well go out with me.”
“Wow, Pete.” She raised her eyebrows and kept rolling the steel cart towards the ballroom. “I think that might be the most gracious invitation I’ve ever received. And the most heartfelt.” She picked up speed as she went down the cavernous hallway, but he kept pace with her easily.