Karen Kendall - Bringing Home a Bachelor

“I’ll be fine. I’ll take a couple of antacid pills and come down to the reception again soon, okay?”

“Well, all right.” The steel-blue eyes held motherly concern, but also a bit of irritation. In Jocelyn’s book, a little tummy-upset was something to be swallowed and tolerated with a social smile, not indulged or complained about.

If her ancestors hadn’t come over on the Mayflower, then they’d arrived shortly afterward, probably swimming in relays behind it. They were all angular, lean, fast-muscle-twitch sorts of people; tennis-players, skiers, marathon runners.

Melinda took after her father’s side of the family. “I’ll see you in a little while,” she said, her brief euphoria and champagne buzz fading fast. She made for the elevator. A glance backward found Jocelyn staring with disapproval at the sand trail made by her bare feet.

As the doors closed and the car carried her upward toward room 817, Melinda no longer felt sexy. She felt like a human sausage squeezed into the two pairs of Spanx. She felt windblown and sticky and hopeless. How could a brief encounter with her mother and her prominent, Anglo-Saxon hip bones do this to her?

The elevator reached the eighth floor with a ding and Mel had to decide whether or not to get out. Whether or not to go to Pete’s room. Whether or not to wriggle out of the horrible Spanx and expose herself to his gaze.

Just as she hit the button for her own floor, five, the doors opened to reveal a bellhop with a large cart and three other waiting people. Clearly they all wanted to get into the elevator, and equally clearly, if they did there would be no room for her.

“Ma’am?” The bellhop smiled at her and held the door open. Reluctantly, Mel got out, and everyone else got in.

Slowly she made for room 817 and what was probably a huge mistake. Had she really reached out and put her hand on Pete Dale’s equipment?

She had.

And squeezed it?

She winced.

And unzipped his pants?

Oh, God. What had she been thinking?!

She stared at the innocuous wooden door as if it were the gates of hell, waiting to swallow her whole into fiery torment. She clutched the key card in her hand so tightly that it cut into her palm.

Melinda turned to run and then had the awful thought that she might hurt Pete’s feelings if she did that. He was such a nice guy; the only person who’d been truly wonderful to her lately. He’d have danced with her. He’d come looking for her.

He wanted her. And Melinda wanted so badly to be wanted.

Oh, that’s pathetic.

Really? There’s a song about it. I want you to want me …

Forget it.

Mel turned around and marched three steps from the door. Then she heard the familiar ding of the elevator again, cheerful whistling, and Pete’s hearty laugh.

“None of your business,” he said to someone. “But yeah, you could say that. I’ve got a hot date waiting for me.”

Aaaaaack!

Pete was about to walk this way, and she still had the Spanx on. She’d die before she’d let him see those.

Melinda sprinted for his room, as he stood chatting a little longer, evidently with a coworker here at the hotel.

She jammed the key card into the slot, fell inside and banged closed the door. She dived into the bathroom, eyeing his toiletries as she rucked up the skirt of her dress and yanked down on the waistbands of both pairs of Spanx. After a mighty tussle, she managed to roll both of them down her thighs at once, into a sort of microfiber pretzel, and then panicked.

She had no idea what to do with them. She shoved them into the trash can and wadded up some toilet paper to throw on top of them.

By the time Pete came through the door, she’d launched herself out of the bathroom and onto his bed, hyperventilating.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, grinning at her. He held a full bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“Hi,” she huffed, leaning back on her elbows in what she hoped was a nonchalant pose. A drop of perspiration dribbled from her hairline down to her ear.

She took brief stock of the room—like hers, it was decorated in standard luxury-hotel fashion, with formal drapes at the sliding door to the balcony, and sheers in the middle for privacy. The bedspread was done in a fabric that coordinated with the drapes.

“What’s got you so out of breath?” Pete set the champagne down on a small, faux-Chippendale desk in the room, placed the glasses next to it and then began to work on the cork.

She cast about for an acceptable answer. The truth was completely out of the question. But so was, “I’m so desperate for you that I ran up seven flights of stairs, panting for your touch.”

She swallowed. “Oh, you know … I was just warming myself up for you.”

Pete knocked over the bottle. He licked his lips as he righted it. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. I got a little too warmed up, as a matter of fact.”

The cork shot out of the champagne and hit the flat-screen television on the dresser. His hand shook as he poured the bubbly into one of the flutes, then the other. Then he walked over to the bed and stood over her, his eyes hooded, gazing down at her. Pete no longer looked like a teddy bear. He looked faintly predatory and all male.

“You’re a naughty girl, Mel.” He handed her one of the flutes.

She flushed and gulped some of the wine.

“In fact, you’re just full of surprises. I had no idea.”

He sat down on the bed next to her, depressing the mattress so that she rolled right into him. He leaned forward, his face close to hers, their lips almost touching. “You didn’t come without me, did you?” His voice had gone husky.

Heat streaked like lightning to the core of her. “No …”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’d just have to make you come all over again.” Pete touched his lips to hers and she felt another flash of electricity shoot through her, leaving traces along her erogenous zones.

He smelled spicy, enticing. The outdoorsy aftershave mingled with the scent of his freshly laundered shirt and a musky smell that was all Pete—which went to her head most of all.

He slipped his tongue into her mouth, touching hers, and deepened the kiss. He tasted of champagne and mint and … cocktail sauce? She wasn’t sure, but then he set down his glass and took hers away, too, and it didn’t matter.

He took her face between his big hands and kissed her with urgency. She couldn’t think—she was all sensation, all pleasure.

Pete’s fingers threaded through her hair and he pushed her back onto the mattress. He found the hidden side zipper of her dress and pulled it down, down, down. He eased the spaghetti straps off her arms and peeled back the bodice. She wore a lacy black bra, strapless.

Pete kissed her cleavage and then freed her from the lace, the tiny sand dollar from the beach rolling onto the bedspread. His face became a study in boyish awe. Speechless, he mounded her breasts in his hands and then whistled like a construction worker.

Mel laughed, glad not to have disappointed him.

“They’re incredible … stunning.” He simply stared at them as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Yours to play with,” she said, trying to catch her breath—a lost cause. “For now.”

Pete fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and removed it, never tearing his eyes away from her body.

It was her turn to stare at his, to take in the solid mass of furred muscle that was his chest, the gym-hardened, cut arms, the tanned expanse of his skin. Her mouth went dry.

How could she ever have thought of him as a teddy bear? Simple: she hadn’t seen him shirtless in years.

And dear God, now he’d kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks and dropped his pants. Pete had the tough, built legs of a soccer or rugby player. How could she have known? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him in shorts. And she’d never seen him in plain blue boxers, as he was now.