Blame It on the Bachelor. Karen Kendall

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       “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.