Bringing Home a Bachelor. Karen Kendall

      Electrified, spasming around him, she felt him tense, curse, and explode inside her before falling exhausted to the mattress on top of her. “Now,” he said raggedly, “will you please, for the love of God, just say it?”

      It took her a moment to register what he was talking about. Then she laughed weakly. “I’m … I’m beautiful?”

      “Damn straight,” said Pete. “Not only that … you are one hot piece of ass.”

      Since he said it in a tone that was close to reverence, she didn’t take offense. Instead, in a state of wonder, she reached out and stroked his damp chest, which was still heaving—and because of her. Her, pudgy Melinda Edgeworth.

      “In fact,” Pete continued, “I wish I could do you again right now. Instead, we’re going to have to wait a little while.”

      Mel snuck a look at the digital clock on the bedside table. “Oh, my God! I have to get back downstairs.”

      “Why?” he asked. But he knew why. People would notice they were missing.

      In fact, a peculiar expression formed on his face. One that she found hard to interpret. It wasn’t exactly embarrassment. Nor was it fear. It was halfway between guilt and trepidation.

      She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you looking like that?”

      “Like what?” Pete wouldn’t meet her gaze.

      “Like … I don’t know …” She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “As if …”

      They both jumped as a heavy knock sounded on the door. “Pete? Pete, are you in there?”

      “Shit!” he whispered. “Please don’t tell me that’s—”

      “Mark,” Melinda said, gulping.

      He vaulted off the bed and pounced on her dress, then her panties. He threw them at her. Then her bra. “Get into the bathroom!”

      Melinda ran.

      5

      PETE TORE AFTER HER and grabbed a towel, which he wrapped around his lower body. Then he sprang towards the bed again, yanking the spread up over the tangled, sweaty sheets. It reeked of sex in the room. He headed for the sliding glass doors, which he opened to the balcony.

      “Pete!” yelled Mark. “Open the door. I know you’re in there.”

      Shit—the first place Mark would check was the bathroom. Pete wrenched open the door, put a finger to his lips, and dragged the still half-naked Melinda out. She now wore her bra and panties, but hadn’t made it back into her dress. He pointed silently to the balcony. She sprinted.

      “Mark, what the hell, man?” he called. “Hang on a minute—I was about to get in the shower.”

      “Dale, open this door. I have a bad feeling about who’s in there with you!”

      Pete spied Mel’s purse on the dresser, and her shoes near the bed. He scooped everything up and bundled it onto the balcony after her. Then he pulled closed the heavy drapes.

      Casually, he strolled to the door and opened it, yawning. “Mark? To what do I owe this honor?”

      Mark loomed over him in his tuxedo. His breath reeked of Scotch. “Where’s my sister?”

      Pete put on his best puzzled face. “Huh? Why? Where’s your bride?”

      “Changing into her going-away outfit. You know we’re spending the night at the Ritz. Where’s my sister?”

      “Melinda? I have no idea. I took her a glass of champagne out on the beach, asked her to dance. We talked for a little while. Then she said she’d rather be alone.”

      Mark’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He eyed Pete’s towel and pushed past him, scanning the room but finding nobody there.

      Back in high school, some asshole on the basketball team, Barton something, had asked out Melinda and tried to feel her up. He’d complained about spending a bunch of dough on dinner and not getting to see her tits.

      Mark had beat him to a pulp when he found out. Pete was pretty sure that Barton had carried home his torn-off arm, his nose and possibly his head. Or so the rumor went.

      Since Mark was now a full foot taller and half again as wide as back then, Pete wasn’t interested in true confessions. He valued his arms. He didn’t need his nose kicked inside out. And kissing up to corporate clients would be a tad difficult without a head.

      Pete aimed a convulsive smile at his friend. “Dude, you paranoid freak. Did you really think I was having some sex orgy up here with Melinda? Please.”

      “All I know is that she’s missing.” Mark poked his head into the bathroom. “And so are you.”

      “I’m not missing. I’m right here.”

      “It smells like sex in this room,” Mark growled, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.

      Pete produced an embarrassed, hangdog expression. “Dude. There are channels on the television for single men. What can I say?”

      “Nice. So you’ve been sitting up here jacking off? Is that why you missed the cutting of our cake?”

      Pete dragged his hands over his face. “Mark. I was there for the ceremony, which is what counts. I made sure everything was perfect for the reception. As an account manager for a major hotel, how many times do you think I’ve seen wedding cake being cut? We do receptions here every weekend. I can only take so much bland white frosting.”

      Was that an outraged snort from the balcony? He hoped not.

      Mark’s head swiveled toward it. He turned to Pete, his eyes narrowing again. “That noise …” he said slowly. “You’ve got her outside!” In four strides, he was whipping open the drapes.

      Son of a bitch! “Mark, I can explain—”

      He stared. There was nothing there but the moonlight. Nothing below but sand, lit by lanterns, and dark sea. No scantily clad Melinda. Not a shoe, not a hairpin, not a sign of her anywhere.

      “Do you feel stupid, now?” he asked Mark.

      Because he sure did.

      His buddy wouldn’t give him an inch. He looked back into the room. “No, I don’t. There’s a sweating bottle of champagne on the desk, and two glasses on the nightstand, one with lipstick on it. This room reeks, and you’re acting strange. If it’s not my sister you’ve had in here, then who is it?”

      Pete shrugged.

      “Kylie. Kylie’s been missing, too. Are you slipping it to my aunt?”

      “Mark, there are a lot of women at the wedding, okay? Maybe I don’t feel like kissing and telling.”

      “Are you saying that the woman is married?” Mark looked genuinely shocked.

      “I’m not saying anything! Jeez, will you get out of my face and stop giving me the Spanish Inquisition? I’m a consenting adult, so is she—and that’s really all you need to know, my friend. Now, get back to your bride before she thinks that you’re screwing around on her.”

      Mark frowned. “I’m worried about Melinda. Mom said she went to her room with stomach issues, but she’s not answering the door.”

      “I’m sure she’s fine,” Pete told him. “She may have taken something to knock herself out. Like Benadryl.”

      “Or maybe she’s passed out. Mom said she was pretty sure she’d had a bottle of champagne by herself.” Disapproval permeated Mark’s voice.

      “Well, there you go. She’s sleeping it off.”

      “If she’d just trim down a little bit, she’d find a boyfriend with no problem.”

      Anger