Читать книгу Bringing Home a Bachelor - Karen Kendall - Страница 11

PETE DIDN’T KNOW what to think of Melinda at this point. In the space of a few hours, she’d gone from vulnerable woman to bold seductress, then from shy, self-conscious schoolgirl to passionate lover. And finally from remarkable gymnast—he didn’t think he’d have the guts to climb from one balcony to another on an eighth story—to crazed coward.

She’d bolted from his room like a horse out of the gate at the Kentucky Derby. Whether she was mortified or petrified, he didn’t know. Maybe somewhere in between the two. But she’d used his comb to attack her hair—without stellar results—and scrubbed at her smudged makeup with a washcloth.

Then she’d abruptly said, “Gotta go!” And one turn of the knob and slam of the door later, she’d vanished.

Pete shrugged it off and climbed into the shower, but he couldn’t forget the sight of her face, flushed and beautiful, as he’d entered her … and he’d never, as long as he drew breath, forget those breasts.

He soaped up and rinsed off, bemused to find himself hard again as he toweled dry. He wanted to see her again, no matter how awkward things might get with Mark. He would see her again.

As he put his tuxedo pants back on, a second knock came at his door. What the …? It was Grand Central Station around here tonight. Mel must have forgotten something. Pete opened the door, ready to tease her, ready to kiss her again.

His boss stood there.

“Peter?”

“Mr. Reynaldo!” What in the hell was the man doing here on a Saturday night?

Rafael Reynaldo was in his late fifties, a man of impeccable grooming and great charm. He wore a French-blue tailored shirt and a charcoal-gray suit that complemented the salt-and-pepper of his hair and neat mustache. One of his dark eyebrows rose as he took in Pete’s shirtless, barefoot state. “Are you not attending the Kirschoff/Edgeworth reception downstairs, Peter?”

“I—I—I can explain, sir. A guest knocked a cup of coffee down the front of my shirt, and …”

Reynaldo took in the rumpled bed, the champagne bottle and the two glasses, just as Mark had. “I see.” Then he glanced at Pete’s white tuxedo shirt, which lay on the floor next to the nightstand. The not-stained-with-coffee tuxedo shirt. And his nostrils flared as he undoubtedly caught the scent of sex.

“You do not need to lie to me, Peter,” he said.

Fire burned its way up Pete’s face. This was so definitely not the path to a vice presidency at Playa Bella, Inc. It was more the path to the unemployment office. “Sir, I’m sorry. I—I was … unexpectedly sidelined … and I’m on my way back downstairs right now.”

“Was she pretty?” The ghost of a smirk played at the corner of Reynaldo’s mouth.

Pete opened, then closed his own mouth. “Yes, very,” he croaked at last.

“You practice safe sex, eh?” Now the smirk emerged full force.

Would the floor please open up and swallow him whole? Or could a lightning bolt strike him instantaneously? “Of, of course. The safest.”

Reynaldo nodded. “Well, then. I do suggest a shirt and some shoes before you rejoin our guests.”

“Right.” Pete swallowed convulsively and tried to ignore the perspiration rolling from his neck down to the small of his back. “Ha, ha!”

“Ha, ha, ha!” Reynaldo squinted at him with friendly malice.

“So. Was there something that you needed, sir?”

“Yes, Peter. Respect. And a grain of intelligence, as well. There are security cameras in Playa Bella. And your key card is electronically trackable, you know. So I suggest that in the future, you are careful about when you engage in, shall we say … recreational activities.”

Pete knew he’d screwed up, but did the guy have to keep rubbing his nose in the wet spot? He looked at the floor.

“Sir, I will point out that I am technically not working this evening—I am a guest at the reception—but would you like my resignation?” His stomach lurched. How the hell would he find another decent job in this economy?