“Maybe we should get to know each other a little better first …”

“But I was getting the distinct feeling that you didn’t want to get to know me better, so I thought I’d speed things up a little bit.” Devon grinned his signature, megawatt, killer grin. The one that used to inspire girls to throw their panties at him up on stage.

Kylie shook her head at him.

“What?”

“You,” she pronounced, “are a mess.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Then she nodded, drumming her fingers on her champagne glass. “I think you might do.”

“Do?”

“Mmm-hmm. You just might.” But then she turned on her heel and walked away, her actions, like her words, sending damned confusing signals.

Devon downed the rest of the hated champagne. Then in three long strides he caught up to Kylie and stepped in front of her. “I’ll do? Do what, exactly?”

She flashed that Swiss-bank-vault smile. Then she patted his cheek. Her touch sent an electric current through him, from his jaw to his toes and then back up to toast everything south of the border.

“Me,” she replied. Then she walked off again, leaving him staring in her wake.

Dear Reader,

There are so many reality TV shows that feature ex-rockers, superstars whose posters we may have had on our bedroom walls when we were twelve. This made me wonder what life becomes for a guy who once took the spotlight for granted, yet now is just a regular Joe. It’s got to be a tough adjustment, no?

And so former bad boy Devon McKee and his black leather pants were born. He’s the second groomsman in my ALL THE GROOM’S MEN trilogy.

Dev’s got a big heart and a lot of emotional baggage, but likes to pretend that he doesn’t. A serial womanizer, he now wants a real relationship with a woman, but he’s not quite sure how to go about it—even though he’s spotted the right woman in Kylie Kent.

But Kylie’s got his number—and refuses to give him hers. The very last thing she wants is another degenerate man in her life. She just got rid of one, thank you very much. Her career and a cat will do fine …

I hope you enjoy Dev’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Let me know by contacting me through my website, www.KarenKendall.com.

Happy reading,

Karen Kendall

About the Author

KAREN KENDALL is an award-winning, bestselling author of more than twenty novels and novellas, many of them romantic comedies. She is the recipient of a Maggie Award, plus Bookseller’s Best, Write Touch and RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Awards. Karen lives and laughs in south Florida with her husband, two rescue greyhounds and one cat. She loves hearing from readers! Please visit her website at www.KarenKendall.com.

Blame It On
The Bachelor

Karen Kendall

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Don,

who has always been my rock star

Acknowledgements

With special thanks to my consultants on all things Swedish, Julita Zaborovsky and Martin Pirgiotis. Chef Bodvar wouldn’t be the same without you.

1

DEVON MCKEE FELT LIKE a hyena at high tea. He did not belong at a fussy rehearsal dinner in a country club. But he was a groomsman, and the wedding party and all the relatives had been invited, so here he was. Chatting with his buddy’s Great Aunt Mildred and trying to resist the urge to add about four ounces of rum to his plain Coke.

If he added the rum, he’d be all too responsible for the consequences. He might do things that he’d regret—and his head still ached from the bachelor party the previous night.

Mark was getting married, and for Mark’s sake, Dev would do his best impression of a gentleman, comical though the act might be.

He’d known Mark since college and he loved him like a brother. He might heckle him about going over to the Dark Side, but he was secretly envious—and that was just plain weird.

Dev first spied the girl of his dreams through Aunt Mildred’s hairdo, which was teased and sprayed to an awe-inspiring volume, in spite of its sparseness. Aunt Mildred’s hair—a spiderweb combed into an upside-down urn shape—was almost transparent, gossamer in the overhead lighting.

Through it, Dev got a glimpse of the girl. She had a smile like a Swiss bank account: secure, glamorous and a bit secretive. A regal neck and aristocratic shoulders, revealed to perfection in her short, navy silk dress. Dark blond hair with shimmers of gold throughout. And legs that were nothing short of spectacular.

Devon, once the lead guitarist for the Miami band Category Five, was a connoisseur of such things. He’d always been a leg man—not that he disliked cleavage or sassy asses. Far from it. And he saw plenty of those now that he’d opened a successful South Beach bar.

What he didn’t always see was—no other word for it—class. This woman dripped it the same way many others oozed availability. She fit in perfectly here in the country club’s garden room.

His first coherent thought was that he wanted to lick those incredible legs of hers—but not through Aunt Mildred’s hairdo. So he extricated his hand from the old lady’s and told her he’d return with a glass of champagne for her.

Dev swam, sharklike, through the crowd and up to the bar, where he secured two champagnes before he continued toward the delicious woman, his dorsal fin flying high. In no time at all, he was in front of her. He opened his mouth, sure that one of his famous one-liners would emerge and make her giggle.

But nothing happened. His mojo, his schmooze, his charm—they’d deserted him. He searched blindly for a word, any word, even a grunt. But he’d been struck dumb.

Finally, Dev closed his mouth.

She lifted an elegant eyebrow, clearly amused at his expense.

Embarrassed and trying to recover, he dropped his gaze to her breasts. She had very nice ones. C cup, he estimated. Friendly, they seemed to surge toward him, eager to make his acquaintance.

“Hi,” Dev said to them. “Uh. Mark thought you might like some champagne.” A lame line, but workable.

Naturally enough, the breasts did not respond. Instead, their owner did. “Mark’s not even here yet.” Her voice was rich, smooth, spicy like the Jamaican rum he craved.

He blinked at her, feeling like an idiot. Mark hadn’t arrived yet.

“But the twins never turn down tiny bubbles.” She smiled at him and neatly plucked both glasses from his fingers, holding them in front of her breasts. Then she raised one to her lips. “So thanks.”

From somewhere over his shoulder, Dev heard a hoot of male laughter that could only have come from Pete Dale, another groomsman. Pete would have to witness Dev’s humiliation. But he’d deal with him later.

Dev slowly raised his eyes to the woman’s, heat suffusing his face. This was the worst encounter he’d had with a girl since ninth grade. “I … um. I guess I deserved that.”

Her smile dissolved into laughter and she handed him back the other champagne glass. “Admit it. Mark had nothing to do with you coming over here.”

Devon hated champagne—it tasted like sour tonic water to him—but he upended the flute and drank half the contents in one gulp. “Okay,” he said. “I do admit it. What’s your name?”

“I’m Kylie Kent. You?”

“Devon McKee.”

“Devon,” she repeated, thoughtfully. “How do you know Mark?” he asked. “I’m his aunt.”

“His what?”

“His aunt. Even though he’s older than I am. It’s kind of weird, but true.”

Dev digested that, working out the math. He guessed it was possible that Mark’s father or mother had a much younger sister.

Kylie was doing some thinking of her own. “Wait … Devon … you’re Mark’s rock-star friend?”

“I was never more than a minor local celebrity.”

“Mark mentioned you. And I guess that explains the leather pants.”

“Er.” He’d never before felt the need to explain those, but now, in her presence, he wished he’d worn something boring and khaki. He wished he’d tamped down his spiked, rocker hair and maybe even left his gold chain at home. He was crashing and burning here, big-time.

“Not that they’re not very nice leather pants,” she added, evaluating them.

“Yeah, okay. You hate my pants. Whatever.” He raised his chin and angled his head down at her. If she weren’t so damned hot, he’d be cutting his losses and walking away right now. Dev, heretofore the coolest guy in Miami, felt like the city’s biggest dork. It wasn’t a feeling he liked.

“I don’t hate them at all,” Kylie said. “I want them myself.”

“No kidding?” Dev asked. “Here, you can have ‘em right now.” Tongue between his teeth, he went for his fly. After all, he had to recover his man card somehow.

She laughed. “Maybe we should get to know each other a little better first.”

“You think?”

“Yes.” She tilted her champagne glass towards her perfect lips and drank.

“Well, but I was getting the distinct feeling that you didn’t want to get to know me better, so I thought I’d speed things up a little bit.” He grinned his signature, megawatt, killer grin. The one that used to inspire girls to throw their panties at him up on stage.

She shook her head at him.

“What?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“You,” she pronounced, “are a mess.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

She pursed her perfect lips. “But you have a peculiar, repulsive appeal,” she said thoughtfully.

Dev blinked. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

She nodded, drumming her fingers on her glass. “I think you might do.”

“Do?”

“Mmm, hmm. You just might.” But then she turned on her heel and walked away, her actions, like her words, sending damned confusing signals.

How could a guy be repellent and have appeal at the same time? It didn’t make any sense.

Devon upended his glass again and sucked down the rest of the hated champagne. Then in three long strides he caught up to Kylie and stepped in front of her. “I’ll do? Do what, exactly?”

She flashed that Swiss-bank-vault smile again. Then she patted his cheek. Her touch sent an electric current through him, from his jaw to his toes and then up to toast his balls.

“Me,” she replied. Then she walked off again, leaving him staring in her wake.

KYLIE FORCED HERSELF to keep her shoulders straight and didn’t permit herself to turn around as she walked to the ladies’ room. She was pretty sure that Mr. Black Leather Pants was still standing there with his mouth hanging open, and she relished the moment.

Kylie, girl, you’ve still got it. Or you can at least fake it. See?

Nobody needed to know that she was a loser who couldn’t keep her own fiancé’s interest. Nobody needed to know that she’d lost him to internet porn.

Kylie entered the fussy, overdecorated ladies’ lounge and stepped up to the wide gilt mirror, where she took a quick inventory of her face. Eyeliner: currently unsmudged. Blusher: fine. Nose: a smidgeon shiny.

She reached into her bag for her compact, pleased to note that her hands were steady. She powdered her nose, adding a layer to what she thought of as her “war paint” for the evening.

She studied her reflection critically. Everything was more or less symmetrical. She had nice hazel eyes. She was no dog. So why had Jack felt the need to—

Who knew. Why had Tiger Woods cheated on his absolutely stunning wife?

Well, sweetie … men do like variety, you know. Maybe some racy lingerie, a wig or a little role-playing would help.

Kylie jammed the compact into her purse with a little more force than necessary as she remembered her older sister’s well-meaning hints. Note to self: never complain about your sex life to your relatives!

Not only was her sister’s advice annoying and humiliating, but it also conjured up all kinds of horrible specters about what she might have gotten up to over the years.

Kylie shuddered and pulled out a lipstick. There was nothing to touch up, but she did anyway, killing time before she had to return to the garden room. Small talk wasn’t her favorite thing.

At least it’s only internet pictures, her sister had said. Yeah, sis. Right. A lot you know.

It would have been better, really, if Jack had cheated on her with a real woman—or even two. Imperfect women with stressful jobs and ungrateful children and PMS.

But she simply couldn’t compete with a constant parade of flawless, airbrushed beauties and their bountiful beaver shots. Jack could pull them up at any time for his viewing pleasure. And he did.

How pathetic he was, sitting in the dark with his porn. So why did she feel like the loser? She was crazy.

Kylie had finally had enough of the repeated talks and the repeated broken promises to stop. She’d dumped his sorry ass.

If only she didn’t remember what Jack was like before he’d discovered OxyContin and internet porn. He’d been handsome and charming, with a bright future in medical equipment sales ahead of him.

He’d been a blue-blazer kind of guy, definitely not the type to show up to a coat-and-tie dinner in, say, black leather pants.

But Jack was now unemployed and boozing it up in T-shirts that said things like I’m with Stupid, and Property of So-and-So’s Athletic Department. He needed a barber badly and a life even more.

And it was time for Kylie to focus on what she herself needed: to wash Jack out of her hair for good.

She needed a distraction.

A male distraction, one with no conscience so she wouldn’t feel at all bad about using him for her own psychological and physical purposes.

Yes, she needed some acrobatic, sweaty, therapeutic sex with a hot stranger. A stranger who wouldn’t want a relationship, since she was done with those for a while. A stranger who was ready to peel off his inappropriate pants within moments of finding out her name.

Devon McKee had honed right in on her. Devon, with his I’m-a-sex-god eyes and his background full of rock ‘n’ roll groupies, was just the ticket. Her ticket to ride.

He’d do quite handsomely.

And she was sure he’d do her well.

2

DEVON, AFTER A MOMENT of stunned silence, followed Kylie out of the reception, only to see her disappear behind the door of the ladies’ room.

There was no question that given the opportunity he would do her. But he didn’t like the way she’d neatly plucked the power out of his hands along with the champagne glasses. He felt like a piece of meat.

He had a mental image of Kylie poking and prodding him through plastic wrap as he sat on a foam tray in the cold case of the local supermarket.

Repulsive appeal?

As if he had an area of gristle or a streak of fat running through him, and she wasn’t sure he was worth his per-pound price. As if she’d take him home in a pinch, but was tempted to wait until he oxidized a little and went on sale.

That stuck in his craw.

Devon McKee of Category Five had been Grade A prime beef in his heyday. Hell, he’d had a local artist make a mobile of the lacy thongs that had been tossed at him. He’d had the bad taste to hang it over his pool table in the game room of his rented house.

He wasn’t particularly proud of that now, but then, he wasn’t proud of a lot of things he’d done.

Kylie Kent was right. He was a mess. But he wasn’t used to being summed up so thoroughly and instantaneously by a woman. And he’d already decided to start cleaning himself up. Maybe not today. But soon.

“Dev, what are you doing lurking out here in the hallway?” Adam asked him. Adam Chase, a medical student, was the best man, and he was currently sporting a broken nose. Or close to broken, anyway.

“Nice schnoz. Where’s the stripper you stole from the bachelor party last night? You didn’t bring her as a date?”

Adam glowered at him, and Dev grinned.

The very cute blond stripper had exploded out of her plywood cake only to elbow his friend right in the face, knocking him to the floor.

Adam squinted at the champagne flute Dev held and deliberately changed the subject. “What’s with that? You hate champagne.”

“Yeah, but I’m trying to stay away from the rum.”

“Since when?”

Dev waved a hand at him and ambled into the garden room. He went to the bar and then belatedly brought Aunt Mildred the drink he’d promised her.

She arched a drawn-on eyebrow at him. “Thank you, young man. Did you have to harvest the grapes, first?”

Was every woman here, from five to ninety, going to bust his balls? But his lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am. Apologies.”

She patted his arm. “It’s all right. I saw you almost trip over your tongue when Kylie walked in. The girl’s always been a looker. Sweet, too.”

Sweet?

“She’s far too wholesome for you, dear. Wait until tomorrow at the wedding and I’ll introduce you to a naughty girl who’s more your speed.” Aunt Mildred, to his horror, winked at him.

For the second time in a half hour, Dev found himself speechless. Then he got defensive. “How do you know I’m not looking for a nice girl?”

She cackled. “In those pants?”

Damn it, he was going to set fire to them.

“I really am looking to settle down. You know, find the One. Believe it or not.” He wasn’t sure he believed it himself, but the words had somehow flown out of his mouth.

Mildred eyed him shrewdly. “Your tone is sincere. But are you serious or … self-delusional?”

Dev laughed weakly because he had no idea how to respond.

Was he self-delusional? After all, he’d just failed the challenge his sister Ciara had set him: to keep a houseplant and a goldfish alive for a month. She’d gotten the idea from some movie.

Anyway, the plant had died after ten days, despite his best efforts. And the fish was looking depressed and moody. He hoped the neighbor kid wasn’t overfeeding it while he was away for the weekend. Or forgetting to feed it at all.

“Why are you abusing me, Aunt Mildred?” Dev asked her, with his best innocent-little-boy smile.

“I’m not, dear heart. I’m fond of you, and I don’t want to see you make a mistake. My first husband thought he was ready to settle down with a nice girl, too.” She lifted her shoulders and took a sip of her champagne, leaving a mauve lip-print on the rim of the glass. “He wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. If Laurence hadn’t done me wrong, I’d never have met Mr. Right. Ed and I were married for forty-three years, all of them good. But I won’t lie to you—it’s easier to get it straight the first time.” She smiled at him. “So you make sure that you sow every last one of your wild oats before you go playing house, hmmm?”

Just what, exactly, was a wild oat? Wild and oats had never seemed to fit together, to Dev. And sow meant to plant. If something was planted, then it didn’t grow wild. Where did these phrases come from?

But all he said was, “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for the advice. Now, can I get you a shrimp puff or a Swedish meatball?”

“No, Devon, but thank you. Run along now and play with someone your own age.” She tilted her cheek up and he dutifully kissed it.

As he moved away, he caught Pete smirking good-naturedly at him. “What?” he growled.

“That blonde you hit on a few minutes ago?” Pete chuckled. “I’ve never seen the mighty McKee shut down so hard.”

“Oh, yeah? It might interest you to know that she wants to do me.”

His buddy guffawed. “Oh, clearly. I suppose she told you that right up front.”

“As a matter of fact, she did. So you can save your sarcasm.” Dev swiped a shrimp puff off a passing waiter’s tray and popped it into his mouth.

“You lie,” Pete said. “Like a rug.”

Pete could say things like that to him, because they’d known each other for over a decade—since freshman year in college. All the groomsmen had. They’d all been pledges in the same fraternity.

Dev didn’t respond, because Kylie Kent chose that moment to undulate through the doorway and wink at him.

Women didn’t wink at him. He winked at them. How dare she seize the power of the wink and the one-liner? Things were all out of whack, here. Off-kilter. Askew.

He was the wolf. She was Little Red Riding Hood. They needed to get the rules straight, here.

Dev shoved his hands into his pockets and sauntered toward her with a scowl on his face. She’d plucked another glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray and moved into a corner.

Just as she held it to her lips to take a sip, he reached her and leaned into her space. “Where do you get off?” he asked indignantly.

She raised her eyes to his, amusement in them. “Where? Or how? Use your imagination. I have the same parts as other women.”

Again, she’d rendered him speechless. Wholesome? Had Aunt Mildred really called her wholesome, for God’s sake?

“But if you want to know where …” She shrugged. “There’s a utility closet down the hall from the ladies’ room. You can’t miss it.”

Devon found his voice. “You know damned well what I mean. You’ve got a hell of a nerve, Kylie Kent. What makes you so sure I’d do you?”

She tilted her head at him. “You undressed me with your eyes as soon as I walked into the room.”

“So?” Dev said, flushing in spite of himself. “It’s a disgusting male habit I have. It doesn’t make you special.”

“Then you brought me a drink.”

“A more polite male habit.”

“And you talked to my breasts.”

“So you have a nice rack.”

“McKee,” she said patiently, “just admit it. You want to have sex with me.”

“Yeah?” said Dev, outraged. “Honey, I’ve got news for you. I wouldn’t bang you if you were the last chick on earth.”

“That’s your pride talking, not your dick.”

His mouth fell open. How dare she? “You are so full of it.”

“Is that right?” she smiled. She dropped her gaze to his fly, which made him uncomfortable. Him, of all people. She drank deeply from her glass.

Then she wet her lips and peered up at him from under her lashes. “I’ll bet it’s big,” she whispered. “Isn’t it?”

The breath he was taking turned to a rasp in his throat.

“And I’m so ready for it. Did you know I’m not wearing any panties? What do you think about that, Dev?”

The air he’d drawn in refused to circulate. It stayed there and rattled helplessly in his windpipe.

“I’ll bet you like sex fast and hard … with her ankles on your shoulders … unless her mouth is on you, taking it all the way in….”

And just like that, Devon was wearing an erection as well as a tie to Mark’s rehearsal dinner.

He was furious, and yet he was filled with an unwilling admiration for her as well as lust. She had definitely called his bluff. “You’re a world-class witch,” he said to Kylie.

“I’m really not.” Was there a hint of apology in her tone?

He let out a bark of laughter as he buttoned his jacket and held his glass strategically in front of himself.

“I was only trying to make—” She broke off, looking—of all things—abashed.

He didn’t buy the act for a second. “Make what, darlin’?” he asked sardonically.

She hesitated. “A point.”

That hadn’t been what she was going to say. He knew it instinctively. “Well, you did.” He looked down at his crotch. “You made your point and now I’m stuck with it,” he said bitterly. “Thanks.”

“I’ll help you with that,” she said, evidently emboldened again. “Really. Just meet me in the utility closet in five.”

He gritted his teeth and leaned forward so that his lips almost brushed her ear. He could smell her honeysuckle shampoo, her light floral perfume, the clean scent of her skin. “Not even if the fate of the free world depended on it.”

Kylie gulped the last of her champagne. Was it his imagination, or was her lip trembling?

He didn’t care. “But you go ahead to that closet. You just hop on your broomstick and enjoy yourself, sweetheart. You hear?”

With that parting shot, Dev turned on his heel and walked away without compunction—still horny as all get-out.

Damn her.

3

KYLIE WAS SHAKING INSIDE, though she wore her smile like armor. What was wrong with her, that she couldn’t even score with a bona fide man-whore like Devon McKee? His reputation preceded him. Everyone knew he had no standards; that given the chance he’d do a day-old bagel.

And yet he’d turned her down, despite the fact that she’d lost her mind and talked to him like a professional phone-sex operator.

The cocktail hour was drawing to a close and soon everyone would take their assigned seats for dinner. She was on the verge of tears. She had to pull herself together.

Kylie lifted yet another glass of champagne—her third—from a waiter’s tray and wobbled towards the ladies’ room again, with the idea of shutting herself into a stall until she’d calmed down. But the entire flock of bridesmaids got there before she did, leaving her no option … except, perhaps, the infamous utility closet.

A quick scan of the hallway told her she was alone, so she walked quickly to the door, pulled it open and slipped inside, feeling around for a light switch as she closed herself in.

Far from being alone with a sexy ex-rocker, she had as her companions an industrial carpet steamer, a cart stocked with cleaning products and bathroom tissue, and a vacuum the size of a Chevrolet.

Kylie leaned her forehead against one of the dingy, pockmarked walls and closed her eyes against the sting of rejection. It wasn’t really Devon’s rejection that hurt, of course—it was the long months of feeling inadequate in her relationship, helpless at the erosion of Jack’s love as drugs and sexual fantasy consumed him.

Devon’s dismissal of her was the last straw. Kylie gulped the entire glass of champagne and set the flute on the cleaning cart. She took a deep breath. Then another.

I will not cry. I will absolutely not cry. I will under no circumstances cry.

I am a strong, fabulous woman with a great job in banking. I will be an assistant vice president soon, then a regional vice president of the bank one day. If I can’t have a fulfilling personal life, then I will have a meteoric career.

There is no reason for me to be skulking in a broom closet!

I will not cry…

Oh, hell. Did salt water stain silk? She was going to ruin her dress. Kylie grabbed a roll of toilet paper from the cleaning cart and unwound enough to mummify her entire head. She buried her face in it.

Judging by the black streaks on the tissue, her mascara was running, damn it. She had to stop this pathetic mewling immediately.

Bank executives did not behave this way.

She straightened her spine and looked upward, blinking rapidly to get rid of the tears in her eyes. She smacked her own cheeks lightly. She cleared her throat.

“I am woman,” Kylie said out loud. “Hear me roar.”

Of course that was the moment when the closet door opened, and Devon McKee stood staring down at her, his dark eyebrows raised quizzically.

“Roar?” he asked.

Really, why couldn’t the floor swallow her up?

“I heard some sniffling,” he said, “but definitely no roaring.”

“Figure of speech.” She tried to brush past him—but he didn’t move.

Instead, he closed the door behind them, forcing her to step back. “What’s the matter, darlin’?”

“Nothing. I—I need to go find my seat. They’ll start serving dinner any minute, now.”

“Word of advice?”

“What?” she asked gruffly.

“Clean up your face a little better. It looks like a kid’s finger painting. Here, let me help.” He cupped her face in his hands and rubbed gently under her eyes with his thumbs. He brushed at her cheeks with his fingers. And then he dabbed at her mouth with a piece of the bathroom tissue.

Mortifying though the situation was, the warmth—and was it tenderness?—of his hands sent shivers of renegade pleasure down her spine and brought heat to the surface of her face and neck.

“That’s better,” Devon said. “Not that you weren’t the most gorgeous human finger painting alive.”

She managed a self-deprecating snuffle.

“Now, do you want to tell ol’ Dev why you’re crying in this closet?”

“Not crying,” she muttered.

“Riiiight. So, do you want to tell me why you’re squeezing joy and happiness out of your eyes in secret, then?” She shook her head.

“I see. Well, I just want to make sure that all this, um, euphoria isn’t because of something that a nasty pecker-head said to you a few minutes ago in defense of his own ego.”

“Of course not,” she said emphatically.

“I’m so relieved. I mean, this really sets my mind at ease,” said Devon, frowning at her.

“Good.”

He looked around the closet. “It’s clear to me, in that case, that you came in here to have fun with your broomstick, as the nasty pecker-head suggested.”

Kylie’s lips quivered in spite of her mood.

“But it’s gone,” he pointed out. “So …”

She met his eyes, which were twinkling ruefully. “The carpet steamer was more than adequate.”

“Ah. Need a cigarette now, do you?”

She nodded.

He patted his pockets.

“Actually, I don’t smoke.”

They stood looking at each other for a long moment, and she had to admit that if any guy could carry off leather pants, it most certainly was Devon McKee.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said simultaneously.

They both laughed.

“I’m not normally a slut or a tease,” Kylie added.

“That’s a real shame. What was it about me that brought out those admirable, delightful qualities?”

Her face flash-fried. She didn’t answer.

“I don’t normally play hard to get,” Dev said. “But I’m usually in the driver’s seat, so to speak. This was a whole new ball game.”

“Yeah … listen, we really should get back out there.” Once again, Kylie tried to maneuver her way out of the closet.

Once again, Dev blocked her way, this time, by simply stretching his arms across the narrow breadth of the closet and putting his palms flat on each wall.

Kylie eyed him nervously.

“Not that it wasn’t refreshing, but I prefer to do the seducing,” he said with a predatory grin.

My, but he had a lot of very white teeth. Rather wolfish ones, truth to tell.

She swallowed nervously, all of her former bravado having deserted her. She was locked in a closet with a guy she didn’t really know, and she’d teased him shamelessly.

Dev’s arm shot out and he caught her around the back of her neck, under her hair. Her stomach flipped as he drew her inexorably toward him. She was barely aware of her feet moving, or of her knees shaking as he bent his head to hers.

His lips sent liquid fire shooting through her veins, and they parted hers easily. He delved into her mouth, his other hand slipping down her back, over the thin silk of her dress. He pulled her against him, hard, and his hand drifted lower, cupping her bottom and then curving up again.

“You lied,” he said. “You are wearing panties. A thong.”

He slid his fingers up, under her dress, and the heat of him against her bare flesh shocked and excited her.

“So smooth,” he murmured. “So soft.”

She gasped as he dipped under the thong, into the cleft of her backside and down to the most private area of her body. The pleasure exquisite, it sent erotic ripples all over her body. He released her nape and picked her up with both hands, her skirt rucked up and the core of her snug against the hardness of him.

His breath came hot and shallow against her lips as he rocked against her, doing through their clothing what he wanted to do naked.

Through her dress, her breasts rubbed against his shirt, aching and wanting.

Supporting her weight with his left hand, he went back to cause more sensual trouble with his right. He dipped under her thong again, stroking and rubbing.

The sensations held her at gunpoint, taut and caught on a moan and shivering at the possibility of what he might do next.

Devon bit her lower lip gently and slid two fingers into her, still teasing her core with his thumb.

Unintelligible noises came from her own mouth, and she finally tore away from his. “You can’t— We can’t— You have to put me down!”

“Why?” asked Devon, and did something even more disturbing and wonderful.

“Because—aaahhhhh…”

“I thought you wanted me to do you.”

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh. No, stop! Wait, don’t stop—”

“Am I doing you wrong?”

“Nooooooooo!”

“Then what’s the problem?” He cleared space on the cleaning cart by knocking a bunch of bath tissue off it, then set her down. He fished in his pocket for his wallet and took out a condom. While she caught her breath, he unzipped his pants and rolled the condom on.

She couldn’t help being stunned at the size of him. She also couldn’t help coming to her senses about their ugly surroundings. “This is really cheap and sleazy,” she said, as he picked her up again.

“I know.” He grinned. “Ain’t it grand?” And he lowered her slowly onto his cock, kissing her as she reacted with a helpless moan. “You’re so tight. So hot. So delicious. Mmm.”

“I’m such a slut!”

He chuckled, nuzzling her neck. “Yeah, that’s right. Feel guilty about it, feel dirty. ‘Cause I’m gonna make you come anyway and a filthy, screaming orgasm is the best kind there is. Okay, honey?” He backed her against a wall and gave it to her hard, the way she needed it right now.

She needed passion. She needed to be with someone so excited by her that he could barely control himself. She needed so desperately to be wanted.

Devon supported her now with his right arm and used his left to pin her wrists above her head, driving into her almost violently, taking her to the edge and then beyond. The heat and the friction and the sense of the forbidden built to a crest. Then he bit her nipple lightly through her dress and she lost control, spasming around him.

“That’s right, darlin’. That’s beautiful. Give it to me, give me all you’ve got.” It was his turn to groan, now, as he took himself to the hilt inside of her, once and twice and a third, final time. He cursed softly as he came and held her to him tightly until every last tremor between them subsided.

Kylie leaned her head against the wall, her eyes unfocused. Devon kissed her neck and finally put her down, not that she could stand on her own two feet at the moment. She slid down in a boneless heap.

Dev leaned on the supply cart, panting. “You are something else, sweetheart.”

She nodded. “I’m now officially a tramp.”

He frowned at her. “If you feel this conflicted about things, why did you proposition me to begin with?”

“It’s complicated,” she said, pulling her dress over her thighs. At least she hadn’t thought once about Jack. “Why did you come looking for me? I thought you said that you wouldn’t bang me if I were the last chick on the planet. Not if the fate of the free world hung in the balance.”

Dev shrugged. “Clearly I’m not superhero material.”

“I don’t know about that.” She shot him a sidelong glance.

“We aim to please, here at McKee, Inc.” He winked at her.

“Devon, how are we going to go into the rehearsal dinner without everyone knowing what we just did?”

He pursed his lips. “People knowing is a problem for you?”

“Yes! I’m really not this type of girl.”

“The riddle again. So it was my animal magnetism that toppled you from your nice-girl pedestal?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why am I not buying this? Why do I have a feeling that you had some twisted female agenda of your very own?”

She gave him a look of limpid innocence.

He snorted. “All right. Now, I’m going to sneak out of here and find a pack of cigarettes. My official story is that I went out for a smoke and lost track of the time. You, on the other hand, got a business call. So you go back in still ‘talking’ to someone on your cell phone and then hang up and apologize to your table. I’ll saunter in about five minutes later, looking surprised that the meal has started. Does that work for you?”

She nodded and got to her feet, smoothing her dress. She found her purse and dug out her lipstick and compact, repairing the damage he’d done.

He watched her silently while he readjusted his own clothes and disposed of the condom. “Okay. One final thing, Kylie Kent.”

“What’s that?”

His dark eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her a dazzling smile. “Well, I’d like your phone number, of course.”

She froze for a moment, then shook her head decisively as the smile dropped off his face. “Oh, no, no, no. No offense—you were great—but I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.”

And Kylie bolted out of the supply closet, once again leaving him speechless.

4

OUTSIDE, DEV SUCKED HARD on his Marlboro Red and squinted at the duck in front of him. It tilted its head and stared at him out of black eyes that would have been menacing on any other creature.

“You want bread. I want a phone number. Life sucks, buddy. That’s all I can tell you.” Dev blew smoke out of his mouth and nostrils, feeling like a disgruntled animal himself—some sort of hairy, two-legged dragon.

The duck opened its beak and expelled a hiss of displeasure before turning its tail feathers on him and waddling to the edge of a man-made pond.

A couple of smaller ducks bobbed on the surface of the water. Big Duck sailed toward them grumpily, then without notice flapped his wings and climbed onto one of the others, shoving her half under the water. Rustling and squawking ensued. It took Dev a minute to clue in.

“Dude,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s just wrong.” At least his woman had been willing. “And you could, at a minimum, buy her dinner first.”

After the unromantic, er, ducking, the female emerged outraged and shook herself off, clearly wanting nothing further to do with Big Duck.

“Feeling used?” Dev asked. “Me, too.” He finished his cigarette and left the butt in the sand on top of a trash receptacle. “Except you’re not stupid enough to want his phone number after that kind of treatment.”

It did occur to him that cosmic payback was a bitch. That women all over the city of Miami—and probably the whole state of Florida—would find his predicament funny and satisfying.

The leather pants stuck to his legs in the humidity, and he again cursed himself for wearing them. But he didn’t own a suit and the two pairs of dress slacks he did own were dirty. Dev shoved his aviators up his nose and reluctantly went inside to join the party, damp patches and all.

Kylie sat cool and elegant at a table three away from his, looking like a modern Grace Kelly. Not a soul in the room would believe he’d had her moaning in a utility closet. He almost didn’t believe it himself.

He glowered at her from behind the aviators as he seated himself with Adam and Pete and the other groomsmen, but she didn’t spare him a glance.

“What’s with the shades?” their old college friend Jay asked. “Did I miss the paparazzi?”

“He’s crying,” Pete suggested. “He crashed and burned with the hot blonde over there.”

Dev snatched the sunglasses off his face and shoved them into the breast pocket of his blazer. He turned his scowl onto Pete. “I did not crash and burn.”

“Devon, I saw her walk away from you. I saw your mouth hanging open like a guppy’s. So just admit it—you’ve lost your touch.”

“Along with some of his hair,” Adam added.

The table of guys erupted into laughter.

“Go to hell,” Dev said, grinning and, in spite of himself, putting a hand up to his head. Still bristling with frolicking follicles, thank God. “You’re just bitter.”

“Bitter, he claims!” Pete waved his fork. “Why, because in college, the Gig used to leave no women standing for the rest of us?”

The Gig. His old college nickname was very unwelcome right now. Dev ignored the hot slab of beef on his plate—it felt too much like a brother. He went to work battling the almond slivers that had slyly infiltrated the perfectly good green beans. Then he uprooted the parsley encroaching on his potatoes.

“I wasn’t under the impression you wanted the women standing,” he retorted. “So I left them on their backs for you.”

Silence ensued.

“The sheer arrogance of that statement takes my breath away,” Jay marveled. He was the writer among them.

“Good. ‘Cause we don’t want no stinkin’ poetry out of your mouth, Shakespeare.” Dev squinted at him much as he had at the duck.

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re skillfully leading us away from the main topic,” Pete pointed out. “Which is that you went down in flames with that woman.”

More like up in flames. But Dev stayed silent. Why, he didn’t know. He didn’t owe her anything, not even privacy. But he kept his mouth closed.

Unfortunately every groomsman at the table simultaneously looked over at Kylie to evaluate the one female immune to the great Gig’s seductive powers.

And she noticed.

Oh, hell.

She also heard the male laughter erupt once again, and saw them ribbing him. Judging by her frosty, disdainful expression, she assumed the worst: that he was giving them all a detailed description of the encounter in the utility closet—and that he was doing so as some sort of payback for her not dishing out her phone number.

Dev slid down a few inches in his chair. Then he snagged a passing waiter and requested a gravy boat full of rum for his Coke.

RAGE PULSED THROUGH every nerve ending Kylie possessed as she sliced her filet mignon into ribbons. It was surprisingly tender, and she dragged each slice through a hearty lake of portobello/red-wine sauce before consuming it a little too ferociously.

Her sister Jocelyn and her husband Richard didn’t notice, having eyes only for their son and his bride, and Mark’s little sister Melinda seemed withdrawn and preoccupied.

Across the table, Aunt Mildred lifted a penciled-on eyebrow, but Kylie barely noticed. Through Mildred’s beautifully swirled, spidery cone of hair, she saw Devon McKee guiltily avert his gaze from hers.

So Dev had initiated a regular Penthouse Forum over there at his table, had he? Why should she be surprised? She’d chosen him for his stud qualities, not for his maturity, diplomatic or social skills.

Still … for some reason, she’d expected better of him, maybe because he’d been man enough to apologize for his earlier comments. But clearly man did not equate to gentleman.

Mmm. And you’ve been such the lady this evening, yourself.

Kylie, unable to refute her conscience, simply worked herself into a greater rage. But it felt better than the depressive slump she’d been in lately.

“You’re looking a little feverish, my darling,” Aunt Mildred suggested. “Are you feeling quite all right?”

“I’m fine,” Kylie growled, stabbing a forkful of green beans. The slivered almond on top jumped to its death onto the plate in the face of her fury.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Tell me about your cruise, Auntie.”

Mildred brightened as she fumbled in her purse with something that rattled. “It was lovely, just lovely. We sailed out of Barcelona, as you know, and the next stop was Marseille where I purchased this darling little French sailor’s hat, which would probably look better on you than it does on me.” Mildred extended her bony hand and took Kylie’s, forcing her to release her grip on her steak knife.

“What—”

Mildred released two small pills into her palm. “These will help with the cramps,” she said in a stage whisper.

Mortified, Kylie ignored the smirks of the cousins to either side of her. “I’m not— I don’t—” Dear God, could the evening get any worse?

Mildred smiled and nodded at her. “Take them.”

“Thank you, but no.” She didn’t know what they were, and she didn’t need them. Despite the fact that her head was beginning to pound, Kylie slipped them into her pocket, and took a large, fortifying swallow of wine instead. Then another.

She finished dismembering her steak and washed it down with more wine while the smirking cousins exhausted the subject of the weather and bravely broached politics. Finally, no longer smirking, they gave up trying to make small talk with her, and she with them.

The steak was followed by coffee that burned her mouth and a flan that seemed actively afraid of her, judging by its cowardly quivers.

Before Kylie could take a bite of it, her brother-in-law Richard stood to make a speech.

“I want to thank you all for coming this weekend, especially you out-of-towners, to celebrate this joyous occasion of Mark’s marriage to Kendra. When he first brought her home to meet us, I said to my wife Jocelyn, ‘Kendra’s the one.’ She’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s a sweetheart. She’s a lot like you, honey.”

Beside him, Kylie’s older sister Jocelyn preened, and all the women in the room sighed.

Kylie found her rage melting into sentiment and girly-goo at Kendra and Mark’s happiness, and Jocelyn and Richard’s, too. But all too soon, the girly-goo spawned a horrifying, shameful self-pity.

It could have been, should have been, Kylie’s and Jack’s wedding before this one.

Oh, stop it. Jack is a jerk. And surely, you are not this small and this mean. Be happy for Mark.

“Two years later,” Richard continued, “here we are. So I was right! Then again, just ask Jocelyn. I’m always right, right, honey?”

The room rumbled with low laughter while Jocelyn lifted her eyes heavenward and said, “Yes, dear.”

“In fact, I haven’t been wrong since 1972, the one and only time I stopped and asked for directions. But I digress. Back to Mark and Kendra and their very happy day …”

Kylie looked at her wineglass as a tide of unwelcome emotion washed from her stomach to her throat and then receded, leaving nausea in its wake. If she could have dived into the wine and drowned herself in it, she would have.

She still remembered the two-foot-high stack of bridal magazines she’d once happily pored over, anticipating the day that she and Jack would celebrate their own wedding.

She also remembered how heavy they were when she picked up the entire stack and staggered outside to the Dumpster. She hadn’t had the strength to throw all of them into it at once, so she’d lobbed them one by one into the big metal bin until her arm ached. She’d pictured all of those glossy, grinning, two-dimensional brides landing with satisfying splats in mounds of coffee grounds, eggshells and putrid leftovers.

Richard, bless him and his fatherly pride, was still talking. “I’ve always been proud of my son, from the moment he was born. I watched him take his first steps and I will never forget the day he wobbled down the driveway on his bike, independent of my guiding hand. Course, I’ll never forget the way he forgot how to use the brakes, either, and plowed straight into our neighbors’ pile of leaf bags …”

“Dad, please,” Mark protested as everyone chuckled.

“But I’ve never been prouder of him than at this particular time, when he takes the hand of this lovely young woman and leads her into their future together.” Richard started to choke up.

Kylie sympathized with him. She really did. Because the tide of emotion was back at her throat, too, and it rose steadily this time. There was no denying it, no pushing it back.

“So may I propose a toast now, to my son Mark and his beautiful bride, Kendra!” Richard raised his glass.

So did every guest in the room, including Kylie.

Then she excused herself politely and ran from the hotel.

5

AS THE FIRST NOTES OF the wedding march sounded the next evening, Dev stood with the other groomsmen, flanking a beaming Mark. The doors of the chapel opened wide to admit a white-clad, veiled Kendra, escorted by her father.

She looked beautiful in the dress, which had a V-shaped neckline filled in with some kind of fancy lacy stuff and short, poofy sleeves. Her waist looked tiny and the back of the dress dragged along the carpet, which women seemed to find romantic for some reason that he’d never comprehend.

Everyone in the church gave a collective sigh at the bride’s stunning gown and radiant face. Her mother, grandmother and even Great Aunt Mildred produced white handkerchiefs and began their eye-dabbing immediately.

As for Mark, his chest swelled and he looked as though he’d died and gone to heaven. His eyes even held suspicious moisture. Once Dev would have made fun of him, but today … today he swallowed a weird lump in the back of his throat.

As the bride made her graceful journey down the red-carpeted aisle, Dev searched for Kylie among the pews. There she was, sitting in the second row back on the groom’s side, with an odd expression on her face. It seemed loving and warm … and at the same time forlorn. Her hazel eyes held a regret that seemed out of place for the occasion.

Dev had noticed her sudden disappearance after the champagne toast the night before, and fought the uneasy feeling that he might be to blame—even though he’d been a complete gentleman. He, Dev, the artist formerly known as Gig, the idiot who’d taken pride in the bra-festooned chandelier over his dining room table, had done his very best to behave.

Kylie met his gaze for the briefest of seconds before she averted her eyes and stared fixedly at the black-robed minister who waited for Kendra and her father to take their final steps to the front of the church.

What, Kylie couldn’t even look at him? Dev’s mild indignation of yesterday grew. It was one thing to use him then deny him her phone number. But it was quite another to pretend now that he didn’t exist. He’d existed, all right, when she’d come for him in the supply closet.

And no matter what she might think, he had not given the guys a blow-by-blow description of what had taken place. So after the ceremony, he and Ms. Kent were going to have a chat, whether she liked it or not.

A naked chat would be better than a clothed one, truth to tell. As the minister droned on, Dev tuned him out and indulged some enticing memories of what Kylie’s smooth, bare thighs looked like. And what that sweet little derriere of hers felt like in his hands. And—

“We are gathered here today…” intoned the minister.

To have impure thoughts in church? To pop a woody in front of God and all the guests? Get a grip, man!

Mark and Kendra held hands as the familiar words of the traditional ceremony echoed throughout the nave. They looked into each other’s eyes. They smiled like a couple of drunk angels. It was—no other way to put it—sweet. And Dev had no doubt that the two of them would not lose that lovin’ feeling. You could tell with these two—they’d make it through anything life lobbed at them.

Dev wondered if one day a woman would look at him like that: as if she’d gladly put her soul into a stew pot and serve it to him with hot, crusty bread. As if nothing would make her happier than simply to make him happy.

And he wondered, too, if he’d look at a girl the way Mark did at Kendra: as if he’d slay any dragon, shoulder any mortgage and work five jobs just to keep her in designer shoes.

Aw, hell. He was getting all whatdyoucallit, that German word for sentimental—verklempt.

“Do you, Marcus James Edgeworth, take this woman …”

Dev found himself staring at Kylie again.

Her gaze flickered over him and she moved in the pew, uncrossing and recrossing her legs. She didn’t acknowledge him in any way, though.

Squirming, honey? If not, you will be soon. Because not only are you going to look at me before this night is over, but you’re also going to dance with me. Up close and personal.

“Do you, Kendra Lynn Kirschoff, take this man …”

He kept staring deliberately at Kylie until he could have sworn she blushed, but he was too far away to be sure.

Dev turned his attention to the ceremony just as the minister said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Up went the veil, down bent Mark’s head, and it was a regular smooch-a-rama up there.

“Easy, boy!” said Kendra’s father, and everyone burst out laughing.

Then bride and groom went traipsing down the aisle and out the door, followed by the wedding party. While people milled around, Dev lurked behind a partition in the musty-smelling hallway until he saw Kylie.

He greeted her affectionately as she passed him and slid an arm around her waist. “Need a ride to the reception?”

“No, I—”

“Fantastic,” he said, grinning amiably and hustling her out into the parking lot.

“I don’t want a ride from you!” Temper flared in those hazel eyes.

“Funny, you sure wanted a ride last night.” He continued to tow her along while she balked.

“Oh!”

“So I find it real interesting that you didn’t say goodbye, that today you won’t make eye contact with me and that you seem to want me dead.”

An ominous silence fell, until she finally retorted, “Alive. But in serious pain.”

“Why?”

“You know exactly why.”

“Nope. I don’t. If your nice-girl-gone-astray guilt is kicking in, you shouldn’t take it out on me. I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to do. I didn’t proposition myself, tease myself or screw myself in that closet, Sweet Pea. You were there for every step of the process.”

“This has nothing to do with guilt. It has to do with you being a jerk of epic proportions.”

“Thank you for the compliment. It’s true that my proportions have been described as epic. What I don’t get is the jerk part.”

“Oh, you get it, all right.” She tried to pull away from him again. “Let go of me.”

“No. We’re going to have a little talk,” he told her, stepping up the pace so that she tottered on her high heels and had to hang on to him for support as he towed her along.

“I have nothing to say to you, and if you dare try to manhandle me into your car, I will file kidnapping charges against you!”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” said Dev, unlocking the passenger door of his screaming red Corvette. “Now get in.”

“No.”

“What is your problem?” Dev asked, raising his voice on purpose as an elderly couple approached. “You practically raped me in the supply closet last night and now—”

Kylie whipped her head around. “Keep your voice down!”

The couple got a little bug-eyed but pretended not to hear as they shuffled toward their Buick.

“I’ll be glad to whisper if you’ll get in the car instead of behaving like the lead actress in a bad soap.”

With a look that would have reduced a lesser man to rubble, Kylie folded herself into the low-slung sports car, showing a lot more leg than she probably intended to—not that he minded.

Dev shut the door for her and rounded the nose of the ‘Vette to get in himself. “Now,” he said, closing his own door and starting the engine, “just what are you so pissed off about?”

“You know why I’m pissed! You’re disgusting. You’re a pig, McKee. I saw you telling your buddies all about us.”

“You saw nothing of the sort.”

“What, do you think I’m stupid? You were three tables away, your friends were falling over themselves laughing, and you were all looking at me!”

Dev shot out of the exit, took the corner on two wheels and watched, amused, as she flailed for her seat belt. The powerful eight-cylinder engine made her breasts jiggle under the prim dress. Pig or not, he enjoyed it.

“For your information, sweetheart, the guys were laughing because they were convinced that you’d blown me off. That I tried, and failed, to get into your pants.”

She finally clicked the tongue of the seat-belt fastener into the latch, then turned to face him. “Oh, but I’ll just bet you enlightened them, didn’t you?”

“No,” he said evenly. “I did not.”

“Then why were they all laughing so hard?”

“Because they loved seeing me strike out. It doesn’t—” Dev shut his mouth abruptly, as self-preservation kicked in. It was probably best not to call attention to his man-whore past.

“Doesn’t what?”

“Forget it.”

“Doesn’t happen often?”

Dev felt his face and neck get warm. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.” Kylie crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window as if she couldn’t get enough of the strip malls, gas stations and convenience stores.

“Interesting. So does that mean you think I’m hot?”

A low growl came from her throat.

Dev grinned, then cleared his throat. “So I’m waiting …”

“Waiting for what?”

“An apology.”

Kylie muttered something unintelligible.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, why should I believe you? It seems like an awfully convenient explanation.”

“Are you always this ornery, or do I just bring out the best in you?”

“Well, it does!”

Dev sighed. “Pete saw the tail end of our first encounter, okay? The one where you said I might do. And he saw you walk away from me and out the door, while I stared after you like a brain-damaged sheep.”

Her lips twitched.

“So he assumed that you blew me off, and he told the other guys, who thought it was hilarious that the one-time chick magnet crashed and burned.”

“Chick magnet?”

“Look, give me a break. I was the lead singer in a popular band. Women threw themselves at me.”

She tossed him a look of distaste. “Maybe I should have sprayed your epic proportions with the Lysol in the closet.”

Stung, Dev said, “I used a condom!”

“Yeah. Maybe I should have made you use duct tape, too.”

“Listen up, Miss Bee-yotch. As I recall, you were begging for it, and weren’t too particular about whether I had protection with me or not!”

Her gasp of outrage was satisfying. “I went to the closet to cry, not to have sex with you.”

“And I went to the closet to see if you were okay. Seems to me you’re on some kind of emotional roller coaster this weekend.”

Kylie shrugged.

“So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“C’mon, tell Father Dev all about it.”

Kylie kept staring out the window.

“Unless you’re just a garden variety psycho?”

“That’s it. Stop the car and let me out.”

“No.”

“I’d rather walk to the reception than ride with you.”

“The drama queen returns,” muttered Dev, without slowing down.

“Stop the car!” she shrieked.

He rolled his eyes, made a last turn into the grounds of Playa Bella, the luxury hotel, and squealed to a stop under the portico, where a valet immediately came toward them. “Feel stupid yet? Would you rather I’d left you at the stoplight a block away?”

Kylie erupted from the passenger side of the Corvette like a blond hurricane, without waiting for the valet to hand her out. Dev was treated to the delectable view of her ass swinging furiously from side to side as she teetered up the carpeted steps and into the hotel without him.

He shook his head at the valet and shrugged his shoulders. “She had to get to the ladies’ room, quick.”

The valet’s eyebrows shot up in clear disbelief.

“Okay, fine. She’s late for a homicide,” said Dev, scooping up the evening bag she’d left on the ‘Vette’s floorboard in her haste to get away from him. “And she really likes to be on time for her bloody murders. Pictures at eleven …”

6

KYLIE MUGGED A waiter the instant she was inside the grand ballroom. She snatched a glass of wine off his tray, almost unbalancing the poor man in the process. She drank it dry on the way to the buffet table, where she stabbed five Swedish meatballs, six mini-quiches, three triangles of spanakopita and an entire school of shrimp, which she drowned in cocktail sauce.

She stalked with her plate to the darkest corner of the ballroom, which happened to be where the huge amplifiers for the band clustered. Kylie maneuvered herself behind one that was almost her height and attacked her food like a starving goat, in the subconscious hope of filling the awful hollow inside her. She was four meatballs into the meal when she realized that she’d left her purse in Dev’s ostentatious Corvette. Which meant she’d have to speak to him again. And worse, she’d have to do it politely.

With this realization came the full volume of the speaker as the band broke into “Endless Love,” which presumably the bride and groom had chosen as the song for their first dance. She couldn’t help it; she rolled her eyes.

Eardrums shattered, flushed from her hiding place, Kylie stumbled out from behind the monstrous black box only to run straight into Wilton Grubman, her older sister’s best friend’s son.

The two women had once forced Kylie and Wilton out to an eighth grade dance together, with disastrous results. Disastrous because Wilton had had a crush on her ever since then, and had been caught in the junior high boys’ room doing unspeakable things with her class picture in hand.

“Kylie!” he enthused, his oddly triangular but puffy face beaming.

“Wilton,” she said, trying desperately to dredge up a smile. “Long time no see.”

Poor Wilton still looked like a possum. He had a broad forehead, long sharp nose and narrow chin which sat directly over plump shoulders as if God had forgotten that he needed a neck. Those shoulders transitioned into a barrel of a torso set on tiny legs. Wilton had small, pink, plump hands, too, that were always clammy.

“Care to dance?”

She was insanely grateful for the plate of food she still held. “Oh, um, maybe later? Thanks, but I’m starved.”

“Here, let me hold that. You two run along and have fun,” Dev said helpfully from behind her as he snatched the plate. She whirled to find him standing there with her purse tucked under his arm and an unholy smirk on his lips.

“Oh, no,” she said sweetly. “I can’t expect you to—”

“Of course you can! Listen—the band just struck up ‘Shout.’” He popped her last meatball into his mouth and slapped her on the butt. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

She plotted Devon McKee’s murder as Wilton grasped her hand in his pudgy, sweaty one and towed her out onto the floor, looking as if he’d won the lottery.

Kylie was taller than he was. At every repetition of the chorus, he threw his arms up and hopped, morphing from possum to seal trying to snatch fish from the air. And her breasts were the fish, since with every “Shout!” they popped up, despite her best efforts to harness them.

That rat-bastard Devon laughed from the sidelines while consuming her shrimp.

Shout! Kylie decided to dismember him alive with a hacksaw and feed his limbs to a shark while he watched.

Shout! Better yet, she’d knock him unconscious, tie him up, smear canned tuna all over him and feed him to a herd of starving feral cats.

Shout! Or maybe she’d toss him into a mosh pit of violently vengeful women whom he’d spurned over the course of his career.

As the song got faster and sweatier and Wilton’s enthusiasm for her even more oppressive, she contemplated the virtues of alligators, pythons and piranha, any of which were readily available here in south Florida and would satisfy her bloodlust.

Finally, the song was over. She dodged Wilton’s determined attempt to slide a sweaty paw from her waist down to her ass, and thanked him for the dance. Then, through a series of dodges and feints, she lost him in the sea of people now filling up the room and made her way to Dev the Devil and her purse.

Her plate, she saw as she approached him, was a lost cause. It was littered with shrimp tails, quiche crumbs and flakes of spanakopita.

He waggled his eyebrows at her—for all the world like Belushi in Animal House—then popped the last corner of the only remaining savory Greek pastry into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed and smirked at her again. “Enjoy the dance?”

“I’d like my evening bag, please,” she said icily.

“Are you going to hit me with it?”

“I reserve the right.”

“Of course you do. So under the circumstances I think I’ll hang on to it for a while.”

“I’m not going to play juvenile games with you.”

“Excellent,” he said heartily. “Then can we move on to the adult ones? Triple X?”

She turned on her heel and walked away from him, toward a roving waiter. Somehow in three long strides, Dev got to the waiter first, commandeered a glass of wine and thrust it at her. “Drink?”

She ignored him and took a different glass off the waiter’s tray. Then she continued walking while the waiter gave a mock-shiver. “Brrrrr. That was cold,” she heard him say. “Why the hot girls so cold, man?”

“One of life’s mysteries,” Dev told him. Then, to her disbelief, he came up behind her again and touched her shoulder. “Don’t you want your purse?”

“Of course I do, but I won’t beg for it. I don’t beg for anything, Devon McKee, not ever, no matter how you like to delude yourself about last night.”

“Fine. Here.” He extended it to her. “By the way, I put my phone number inside.”

She snatched it from him and then hit him with it, hard, on the arm.

“Ow!”

“That’s for eating the food on my plate.” Then she hit him again, even harder.

“What the fu—”

“And that’s for making me dance with Wilton Grubman!” She glared at him.

He said nothing. He didn’t even laugh. He just evaluated her.

“What?” she yelled.

“Do you feel better, now?” Dev asked. There was actual concern in his eyes, and something appallingly like kindness in the curve of his mouth. It was horrible, unfair, the last straw. The convenient target of her hostility was being nice to her and that blew all her defenses.

“N-n-no!” And Kylie’s face crumpled despite her very best efforts on behalf of Grace Kelly poise. Forget the minor leakage in the supply closet—now the waterworks started in earnest and great, wracking sobs overtook her body.

This should have been her wedding. She’d held in her emotions for eight long months, and now they wouldn’t be denied.

“Oh, honey,” Dev said, and folded her into his arms. “Oh, my poor little psycho … it’s okay … whatever this is all about, it’s gonna be okay.”

His arms felt so good, so comforting, so right. How long had it been since a man had held her? The thought made her sob even harder as Dev walked her backward and to the left, and then backward again. She heard a ding and then they were inside an elevator.

“Not s’posed to be nice,” she howled into his jacket. “S’posed to be a d-d-d-dick.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Dev said, with just a quiver of humor in his voice. “I do my best.”

“S’posed to be a d-dick so I can yell at you!”

“I can see how my behavior frustrates you, then. I’m sorry.” He smoothed her hair, which disarmed her further, which produced more sobs, except they sounded like wild hog snorts on the inhale. Which was even more mortifying, if that were possible—which it wasn’t. But it was.

“So,” Dev said, his chest rumbling under her forehead. “Is it me in particular that you want to yell at … or will any old dick do?”

She only cried harder. He couldn’t possibly understand how painful the long months of withdrawal and rejection by Jack had been. How he’d changed under her very eyes from the man with whom she’d wanted to spend her life to a drug-addled internet-porn potato.

“I’m going out on a limb, here,” he continued, “but I’m going to guess that you’re very upset with some guy who isn’t here right now … so you decided to use me as a stand-in punching bag?”

“I’m sorry,” she wailed, punctuating the words with a great deal of mascara and—worse—snot. “I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

He actually kissed the top of her head. “If it makes you feel any better, sweetheart, I probably do. At least in terms of karma.”

She began to laugh, then, on top of the sobs, because she figured he was right, but that didn’t make her behavior any better.

She felt his hand cover hers, then take the purse back.

“I assume that you’re staying here in the hotel?”

She nodded, smearing more makeup onto his jacket.

“And that you have a key card to a room in here?”

She nodded again.

“If you’d care to tell me the number, then I can push the relevant elevator button and take you there.”

“Six-twelve,” she mumbled. “Thanks.”

He hit the button, keeping one arm still around her. She was amazed and grateful.

The elevator rose, thankfully without anyone else trying to get on. They stepped out onto the sixth floor and her room was only a few short steps away.

Dev slid her card into the slot on the door and opened it for her. “There you go.”

She stepped out of his arms, feeling suddenly bereft, and went inside.

“Can I suggest a hot bath?” he asked.

Kylie smiled wanly.

“And maybe a bottle of wine from room service?”

She nodded.

“Okay, then.” He stepped forward, took her chin in his hand, and dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. “Whatever this is all about—this emotional storm—it will pass. You’re gonna be okay, Kylie. I promise.” Then he turned and headed for the door.

The spiked hair with the gel in it that she’d thought was too Miami-stud yesterday suddenly looked right on him. His shoulders filled out the black tuxedo jacket to perfection, and the posture that she’d dismissed as cocky … well, who’d have known that it disguised real empathy?

“Dev?” she asked tentatively.

He stopped. “Yeah.”

“How would you like to share that bottle of wine with me?”

He turned to face her, one eyebrow raised.

“Please?” she added.

He hesitated.

Perhaps it was underhanded, but she really didn’t want to be alone. So she fixed him with one of those you’re-the-only-man-who-can-save-me-from-certain-disaster looks.

“Hmm,” he said. Not yes.

“I swear not to hit you with anything.”

He grinned at that and seemed to relent. “Will you promise not to yell?”

She swallowed and pushed her hair out of her face, then struck a mock-sexy pose. “No. But I’ll save it for when you get to … you know … the good parts.”