Blame It on the Bachelor. Karen Kendall

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