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 rubbed gently under her eyes with his thumbs. He brushed at her cheeks with his fingers. And then he dabbed at her mouth with a piece of the bathroom tissue.
Mortifying though the situation was, the warmth—and was it tenderness?—of his hands sent shivers of renegade pleasure down her spine and brought heat to the surface of her face and neck.
“That’s better,” Devon said. “Not that you weren’t the most gorgeous human finger painting alive.”
She managed a self-deprecating snuffle.
“Now, do you want to tell ol’ Dev why you’re crying in this closet?”
“Not crying,” she muttered.
“Riiiight. So, do you want to tell me why you’re squeezing joy and happiness out of your eyes in secret, then?” She shook her head.
“I see. Well, I just want to make sure that all this, um, euphoria isn’t because of something that a nasty pecker-head said to you a few minutes ago in defense of his own ego.”
“Of course not,” she said emphatically.
“I’m so relieved. I mean, this really sets my mind at ease,” said Devon, frowning at her.
“Good.”
He looked around the closet. “It’s clear to me, in that case, that you came in here to have fun with your broomstick, as the nasty pecker-head suggested.”
Kylie’s lips quivered in spite of her mood.
“But it’s gone,” he pointed out. “So …”
She met his eyes, which were twinkling ruefully. “The carpet steamer was more than adequate.”
“Ah. Need a cigarette now, do you?”
She nodded.
He patted his pockets.
“Actually, I don’t smoke.”
They stood looking at each other for a long moment, and she had to admit that if any guy could carry off leather pants, it most certainly was Devon McKee.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said simultaneously.
They both laughed.
“I’m not normally a slut or a tease,” Kylie added.
“That’s a real shame. What was it about me that brought out those admirable, delightful qualities?”
Her face flash-fried. She didn’t answer.
“I don’t normally play hard to get,” Dev said. “But I’m usually in the driver’s seat, so to speak. This was a whole new ball game.”
“Yeah … listen, we really should get back out there.” Once again, Kylie tried to maneuver her way out of the closet.
Once again, Dev blocked her way, this time, by simply stretching his arms across the narrow breadth of the closet and putting his palms flat on each wall.
Kylie eyed
