Blame It on the Bachelor

by Karen Kendall

She closed that file and looked through another one, in which the loan had been made to a greenhouse and garden center. Payments had been late a couple of times, which indicated that their cash flow was spotty, but overall the loan made sense.

  Kylie went on to a third, this one bearing a pink sticky note on the front of it. Her boss had scribbled:

  Guy is somewhat disorganized. Check to see that he’s on track. Watch this one carefully and make in-person visit before okaying second installment of loan.

  Hmm. She took another bite, savoring the crunch of green apple bits and walnuts, and flipped the file open. She was in the act of swallowing when her brain processed the name on the loan: Devon McKee.

  Kylie blew chicken salad all over the wall of her cubicle. It wasn’t pretty.

  11

  “KYLIE, are you okay?” Priscilla inquired.

  Of course. Of course her strawberry of a boss had seen her spew. Murphy’s Law had Kylie in its jaws like a rat terrier with a dirty sock.

  “F-fine!” Kylie managed to say, clearing her throat and lunging at the mess with her napkin. “Just food down the windpipe.”

  Priscilla nodded. “You really should take your lunch into the break room, you know.”

  Kylie hunched her shoulders. “Normally I would, but I was trying to get ahead of these files and it’s hard to concentrate in there…with four or five different conversations going on around you.”

  “I see. Well, all right then.” She smiled. “Keep up the good work. We do appreciate it.” Priscilla left Kylie to stare in horror at Devon McKee’s neatly typed name, address and phone numbers.

  She was being ridiculous. There were probably at least twenty Devon McKees in the south Florida region. This wasn’t necessarily the one she loathed with every fiber of her being.

  If it makes you feel any better about being a psycho hose-beast, those tits made up for any personality flaws....

  But the cell phone number looked all too familiar. She had an almost photographic memory for numbers, and Dev had left those same digits, in that order, on a slip of paper in her purse. She knew this because she’d removed it to flush it down her toilet—after dumping the goodies from the cat box on top of it. Juvenile, maybe, but it had relieved her feelings.

  Kylie stared at the file. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. She didn’t really have to go see the creep at his business, did she? Run through his figures with him? Check to see that the bank’s investment was safe?

  She didn’t really have to share the same airspace and table while they talked? Endure the sight of him while he ogled her breasts? Surely God was not this cruel.

  Her first instinct was to go to Priscilla and tell her that someone else had to handle this loan. But her boss had one thing on her mind: clear the decks so she could have her baby without worry. And going to Priscilla would lead to all kinds of unwanted, unanswerable questions. Plus it would make her, Kylie, look less than professional.

  Which was completely unacceptable.

  No, she was going to have to deal with Devon McKee somehow. There was no avoiding it. The bank had entrusted her with minding its money…no matter how much she minded this particular customer.

  And he, in turn, was going to have to deal with her. If he so much as set a toe out of line, she’d shut down his funding and he’d have to serve corn dogs on a stick at his grand opening. The thought had her grinning evilly.

  But the grin faded immediately as she realized that he could make things very uncomfortable for her if he wanted to. Kylie stuffed her sandwich into its wrapper, her hands suddenly clammy. What if he called the bank and told them that he wouldn’t work with her, and why?

  It could mean disaster for her career. Complete catastrophe. She pictured Milty Goldman’s expression if Dev did that.

  “Yes, Mr. Goldman? This is Dev McKee calling about the psycho hose-beast in your loan department? The one with the spectacular rack? Yes, Kylie Kent…”

  She shuddered and dropped her face into her hands. No, she could not pull rank on Dev. She didn’t dare.

  Her fingers itched to call Melinda and pour out her own tale of woe, but she was too damned proud. She gave advice. She didn’t ask for it. She was a self-contained unit, and had been since her parents had died.

  Except when it came to Devon McKee.

  How had her life turned into a nightmare?

  A FEW DAYS after the wedding, Dev prayed for patience as he unloaded liquor boxes behind the bar at Bikini, his bar on South Beach. He was hot, sweaty and scruffy from two days of not shaving. His T-shirt was soaked through, since he’d been physically moving a thousand dollars worth of food and supplies from the back of his second car, a battered SUV, into the storage room.

  Normally the kitchen staff might have picked this stuff up, but Dev didn’t trust them with his credit card yet. Besides, he’d rather that they keep focused on preparing for the grand opening that would expand what was now only a club into both a bar and restaurant. It was a massive undertaking and one that would change his business.

  Right now, on the weekends, Dev often hired beautiful girls in—yes—bikinis to lounge on or in front of the bar. So while the place didn’t have an ocean view, it did have other views that were just as scenic—and more curvaceous. The problem was that they could also be high-maintenance and temperamental. It was always a toss-up whether their antics were worth the crowd they drew. Maybe once the restaurant opened and attracted its own crowd, he’d skip the scenery.

  It was five o’clock, and Lila, his main bartender and another star attraction, was having a heated argument with her boyfriend instead of getting set up for the evening.

  “Si tu tuvieras huevos y tu tuvieras un trabajo decente, yo no tendria que trabajar aqui in esta cantina de mierda y mostrar mis tetas!” She paced in front of Dev, gesticulating wildly but perfectly balanced on her five-inch black bondage sandals. She wore black leggings and a top that would be illegal in most states, deliberately pulled down low enough that a couple of centimeters of red lace bra showcased her assets.

  Men flocked to Bikini to suffer abuse at Lila’s hands. She made Dev thousands of dollars per night, so he put up with her temper, insolence and occasional laziness.

  Her long, dark hair whipped behind her as she moved and her inch-long, dark red nails gleamed in the low lighting. Her lush lips drew back into a snarl, exposing blinding white teeth as she continued her tirade.

  Dev knew enough Spanish to get by, and he discerned that the fight was about flirtatious behavior on her part. The boyfriend, Stefan, objected and had called her a slut. Lila countered by saying that she wouldn’t have to work in Dev’s crappy bar with her tits on display if Stefan were a real man and made decent money.

  Dev winced on his own behalf as well as Stefan’s. Crappy? His joint was a little downtrodden after years of service and several different reincarnations under different ownership, but it was not crappy. He’d done what he could to upgrade it, including ripping out the old bar and installing a maple one. The top of it consisted of a deep pocket that he’d filled with white sand, shells, sand dollars and replica fish, all covered by a thick piece of glass. Not bad if he did say so himself.

  He slammed two bottles of Tanqueray into place, then the Cuervo. He transferred more Dos Equis into the cold case that held the beer, and followed it with Corona and Tecate.

  The restaurant in the adjoining space was going to be stunning…assuming that he’d bribed the electricians enough to actually show up in the next couple of days to finish installing the lighting, so that he could then bribe the inspectors to get the permits finalized. And the freakin’ flooring guys to please, for the love of God, finish installing the toe-board and trim so that he could then rebribe the painters with beer to do the last of the painting.

  It was all enough to drive him to drink…or worse.

  Dev switched out the empty kegs on tap as well as the mixers, occasionally looking over at Lila to indicate that she might want to get off her cell phone and help
. She studiously ignored him and cursed into the phone. Finally she spat one last doozy, hit the off button and stormed into the ladies’ room.

  Dev sighed. Unfortunately, he was used to this. He looked at his watch. Where were the cocktail waitresses? Angie and Marla shared an apartment and a car, meaning if one was late, so was the other.

  In the kitchen, matters weren’t much better. He’d hired a Swedish chef to handle the top-notch food that the restaurant would serve, letting the former cook go in order to balance expenses. Unfortunately, Bodvar thought it beneath him to serve potato skins or anything breaded or fried—essentially the entire bar menu. The very smell of such offal sent him into orbit.

  In an attempt to keep Bodvar happy, Dev had commandeered one of the sous chefs, Maurizio, to handle the orders. But since he had taken the job in order to learn the culinary arts from a master, Maurizio was now in a snit and Bodvar complained bitterly about not having proper support.

  Dev was ready to attack the sous chef with a cheese grater and hang Bodvar with the beef in the huge walk-in fridge. Instead he joked with them and went heavy on the back-slaps.

  And then there were the new waiters to finish training. Two of them had a lot of experience, but the other two were wet behind the ears. Dev prayed that they’d work out under the tutelage of the older ones.

  He’d been praying a lot lately, since so much was at stake. He was sure he could bribe, cajole and charm everyone enough to pull off the grand opening party, but they had to maintain rigorous standards after that. Too bad rigorous and South Beach didn’t exactly go arm in arm. Hot, steamy, salty, sexy, languid…all those adjectives applied to South Beach. The trick was to keep enough of the beautiful crowd on your premises to attract the regular crowd and any tourists you could snag as well.

  The beautiful crowd required pampering to show up. Free drinks and spa discounts and goody bags and everything else. It was enough to bankrupt a guy…speaking of which, he should call Sol Trust and confirm the second installment of the loan with that Priscilla woman. He’d tell her that he’d confirmed the attendance of Milan and Cheri, the very notorious, very blond twin heiresses to a hotel chain. And they’d bring all their friends, and the friends would bring friends…

  Oh, thank God. Lila had come out of the ladies’ room with fresh lipstick on, just in time to take the orders of two dazzled tourist guys whose tongues now dragged on the bar in front of her cleavage.

  And that blue streak past the open front door had been Angie and Marla’s Mazda, he was sure of it.

  Dev nodded at the tourists and moved to get the last box out of Lila’s way. It contained frozen chicken breasts and was covered with the brand name and logo of a well-known poultry company. Dev picked it up and turned to take it into the restaurant side.

  That was when he saw Kylie, dressed in a navy blue pencil skirt, modest white blouse and pearls. She sported a soft-sided leather briefcase and an austere version of her mysterious Swiss bank-vault smile.

  “Hi, Dev,” she said. “I’m your new account manager from Sol Trust.”

  12

  KYLIE LOCKED HER knees so they wouldn’t shake and braced herself for Dev’s reaction. It made her feel better when he fumbled the box he held.

  He smelled a little ripe, but he was nothing short of devastating with a couple of days’ worth of growth on his cheeks and chin. His damp T-shirt clung to every inch of hard chest, straining pecs and flat abdomen.

  Lightning streaked through her as she remembered exactly how his face had looked between her thighs.

  Dev cocked his head and quirked his mouth. “Ha. That’s a good one, Kylie. Tell me another.”

  He walked past her, toward the back and then right, carrying the crate. He depressed a handle on a metal door with his elbow then opened it, holding the box one-handed with his knee bracing the underside.

  She followed him, her high heels sounding like gunshots on the floor.

  Dev disappeared inside what looked like a giant, walk-in refrigerator with floor-to-ceiling shelves. She caught up as he set the box down and distributed the contents onto them. When he turned, Kylie gave him a tight smile.

  The door of the big fridge closed behind them automatically.

  “I’m not kidding, Dev. I work in the loan department at Sol Trust. I’m your new account manager.”

  Dev’s expression said that she worked in hell, as a misery manager, instead. “What happened to Priscilla What’s-Her-Face?”

  “My boss? She went out on maternity leave.”

  He wiped his filthy hands on the legs of his jeans. Then he pulled a utility knife out of his pocket, flipped the cardboard box over and sliced along the seams before folding it down. “Well, then. I guess you’ll have to give me your number now.” He laughed without much mirth.

  A tense silence followed. Kylie felt her face flaming, even though she’d begun to shiver in the cold. Dev seemed unbothered by it.

  Then he said, “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have said what I did to you, but my ego was bruised.”

  Oh. Wow. Was there anything, anything sexier than a man who could apologize when he was wrong? It disarmed her. Just like that, all of her righteous indignation at him evaporated.

  “Look,” she muttered, “I’m sorry, too, that we got off on the wrong foot—”

  His eyebrows rose along with the rest of him. He still held the knife loosely in his fist as he lounged lazily against the shelves, looking like an outlaw. The bare lightbulb overhead caught the blue highlights in his hair, and emphasized the drama of the growth on his cheeks.

  The curve of his lips, sensual to begin with, deepened into something truly sinful. “Oh, I seem to remember that we got off, all right. Off both feet.” He laughed softly.

  Despite another shiver, Kylie flushed hot with mortification and unwelcome, recurring longing.

  Why couldn’t she decide whether she liked or hated this guy? Sorry one minute, sexually harassing her the next. He knocked her completely off balance. And he was probably worse than Jack on so many levels.

  She wished she didn’t remember every inch of Dev naked. “We’re going to have to put that behind us, because there’s no other option.”

  He retracted the knife’s blade and shoved it into his pocket. Then he folded his arms across his sweaty chest. The grin hadn’t faded. “But I’d so much rather get behind you again.”

  Images flooded her mind, X-rated ones, followed by remembered sensations. His hands on her hips, holding her in place for him. His hands on her breasts, possessing them. His chest against her spine. Him inside her.

  She sucked in a breath. The heat in her cheeks was nothing now, compared to the heat under her prim navy skirt. His audacity stole her words, dried her mouth. She moistened her lips with a tongue that felt like sandpaper. “You’re a bastard,” she said in low tones.

  “I know,” he whispered, moving into her space. His eyes crinkled at the corners in an unfairly sexy way. “I’m a dirty bastard to remind you of how much you loved it.”

  She shook her head. Her hands itched to slap him, but she held one fisted at her side and the other curled around the strap of her briefcase.

  He stepped closer, and she could feel his breath on her face. “Admit it,” he said.

  She closed her eyes to block out his face: the knowing dark eyes, the clever mouth, the cheekbones that did unlawful things to her knees.

  Felt his fingers trailing along her jaw and into her hair, stroking her ear. Her body, damn it to hell, betrayed her by trembling.

  “Admit it,” he said again.

  She shook her head. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  So he kissed her. It was an act of sheer sensual aggression, the commandeering of her mouth as his playground. And in spite of knowing full well what he was doing, she couldn’t help but respond to him.

  He kissed her to make her open to him, sent his tongue marauding to find hers, to stroke it and gentle it into behaving. There was nothing violent in the kiss,
but it was possessive as hell and she hated herself for the tiny moan that escaped her throat.

  He made a noise of male satisfaction, pulled away and stroked her cheek. “Yeah,” he said a little raggedly. “I got your number, honey.”

  She struggled to pull herself together, but his body heat enveloped her, as did his scent. He wore no leather today, but somehow he still smelled faintly of it under the musk of exertion. “You want me,” he said. “Same as I want you.”

  What she wanted was to push him away, and at the same time, she wanted to yank up his shirt and lay her cheek against his chest. Climb him like a tree.

  She felt like a crazy woman. She was a crazy woman. She should never have been in a closet with this guy to begin with, and now she was in a refrigerator with him?

  Sure enough, there were crates of tomatoes and boxes of asparagus, bins of mushrooms and stacks of cheeses. Containers of sour cream stared at her, lined up with mayonnaise and milk.

  The sheer incongruity of it almost made her laugh, except the situation wasn’t funny.

  She fought for what was left of her breath and made a declaration. “We can’t do this, Dev.”

  Since he showed no inclination to move, she put her hands flat on his chest in order to push him out of the way. No dice.

  “Why not?” he asked in reasonable tones.

  “Because…because…we just can’t. There’s a moral issue at stake.”

  He smiled down at her. “Oh, I assure you that everything I want to do to you right now is completely immoral.”

  Her heart lurched and hopped, behaving like a mutant frog. Or was she confusing her heart with her— Never mind. That hard, hot pulse was everywhere.

  “Some of it might even be illegal,” he mused.

  “Dev—”

  “And impossible. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it.” He waggled his eyebrows, leering at her.

  “Okay, really—”

  “That pearl necklace of yours has me wanting to add to it, if you know what I mean.”