Blame It on the Bachelor (24 page)

She suddenly felt shy and didn’t know what to say to him. She hadn’t processed her feelings—they were still in the vault.

When he saw her, he pulled the cig from his mouth and blew out a gray, toxic cloud. “I really don’t smoke much.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I’m not your mother.”

“No. You’re the big, bad bank lady.” He lifted a corner of his mouth.

“Not so big. Not so bad. Everything looks good, Dev. I’ll sign off on the second installment.”

He nodded, then took a drag on the cigarette and squinted at her before spouting smoke again. “Thanks. Really. I mean it. For everything you’ve done.”

“You’re welcome. No worries.”

He let out a short, unamused bark of laughter. Then took another drag and spewed out smoke. “No worries? Yeah, right.”

“You nervous about Saturday?”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s going to be a huge success. And a success you deserve, Dev.”

His mouth flattened and he gazed off into the distance. “I don’t know about that.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged.

And suddenly she knew exactly where his head was. She understood where, in fact, it had been for the past decade. She knew where all the partying, the obnoxiousness, the womanizing and the drinking had come from: a desire to lose himself. To forget who he’d been. Black out his inner torment over his friend’s death.

He’d wanted, above all, to fall into the cocoon of a coma and emerge fresh, reborn, able to fly away from his guilt.

“Dev.” Kylie put a hand on his arm. “Look at me. You can’t keep beating yourself up about the past.”

“Ha,” he said, his dark eyes full of pain. “Somebody has to.”

“No. That’s not true. You were kids. Stupid ones, maybe. But
kids.
And Will’s death wasn’t your fault, no matter what his parents said to you in their grief. In fact, they owe you an apology, Devon.”

Tears gathered in his eyes. “They don’t.”

“They do. But I’m not going to stand here and argue about it. I think you should send them an invitation to the opening.”

His mouth dropped open. “Are you
high?
”

“Of course not.”

“Then you’re crazy.”

“Send it, Dev. See what happens.”

He changed the subject abruptly, and she let him. She’d done her best, and now she had to go.

Kylie reached up and touched his cheek with her hand. “The restaurant looks stunning, Dev. And if the aromas over the past few days are anything to judge by, the food will be incredible.”

“Let’s hope so. If the chef and the rest of the staff don’t come to blows.”

She smiled. “Bodvar
is
a little hyper.” On her way to the ladies’ room, she’d witnessed him pelting Maurizio with bits of onion, apparently because he didn’t like the way it was sliced.

“A little? Jeez, the guy will be the death of me. Him and Lila, with her temper tantrums and that damned jealous boyfriend of hers.”

She noticed that the hand holding his cigarette was shaking almost imperceptibly. The other was shoved deep into the pocket of his jeans. Sweat beaded at his temples and on his lip.

“It’s going to be fine, Dev. Really.” She put a hand on his arm.

“You’re going to be here, right?” His dark eyes held an almost feverish intensity. “No matter what.”

She’d known the
what
referred to their earlier conversation and the uncertainty of their relationship. She’d let that remain unresolved, because she simply hadn’t known how to resolve it. “Of course I’ll be here. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

23

AS EIGHT O’CLOCK approached on Saturday night, Dev told himself that he wasn’t nervous. Everything was going smoothly. His sister Ciara, who worked for a PR firm, had sent out follow-up press releases, gotten him radio spots and even a couple of regional TV spots that had advertised the event, so that they’d draw the curious to the bar side and pique their interest even if they weren’t officially invited to the dinner.

Ciara had rushed in at six with boxes and boxes full of goody bags for the guests, stuffed with enticing products.

These currently sat in colorful rows on a table at the rear, and to either side stood a champagne fountain that would be operated by—who else?—two stunning models in bikinis and spike heels.

While the bar would serve as usual, waiters would circulate the restaurant side with trays of wine, champagne and hors d’oeuvres during the cocktail hour. At nine o’clock, the guests would be asked to take their seats for a multi-course dinner.

They’d start with a chilled avocado soup followed by tiny crab cakes. Then a salad of baby field greens misted with Bodvar’s signature Bikini dressing.

The main course was a lobster-stuffed sole with a delicate white-wine sauce, served over a truffle-infused couscous. Those allergic to shell fish were slated for filet mignon with chanterelle-shitaki risotto.

And dessert? A choice of lemon cheesecake or a light-as-air chocolate-raspberry swirled mousse.

The restaurant, at capacity, could serve one hundred and sixty diners, and they had RSVPs for almost every seat. The VIP attendees included—but weren’t limited to—the hotel heiress twins and their dates, a huge pop star and her entourage, a bevy of models, a couple of major developers, a senator and his social secretary/mistress, a major magazine publisher, some big retailers, a yacht-builder, a few industry leaders and a former wrestler-turned-film-star known affectionately as the Boulder, whose date was his fourteen-year-old daughter. Last, but not least, they’d invited a couple of newspaper columnists in the hopes of a mention in the
Herald
or
Sun Sentinel.

It was a given that some of these people wouldn’t show up despite promising to attend, in which case Dev would lure in some beautiful people off the street, seat them carefully and pray that they behaved themselves.

He looked at his watch and went to check on things in the kitchen, where Bodvar and Maurizio were barely speaking and the other staff were keeping their heads ducked and their shoulders hunched behind growing piles of crab shells and legs. Bodvar insisted that all ingredients be fresh and refused to buy shelled crabmeat or lobster meat since he couldn’t be sure how old it was.

Dev had refrained from pointing out that the crabs and lobsters themselves could have been frozen for any length of time before they were put out at the fish market. It didn’t seem wise.

The poor bastards in the kitchen had been there since the early hours of the morning, slicing and scooping out avocados for the soup. They’d then progressed to deboning the fish and cracking open the lobster.

Yesterday they’d prepped all the vegetables and worked on sauces. They’d baked the cheesecakes the day before. Everyone looked exhausted. Truth to tell, they looked as if they’d like to stuff Bodvar bodily into the giant oven and serve his head as a centerpiece.

Dev couldn’t blame them. Bodvar was a maestro with food, but he was a lousy people person. And he was even more jacked up today than usual, bouncing on his toes, twitching and screaming what sounded like Swedish obscenities. He’d been up all night, for sure. And his whole reputation, like Dev’s, was riding on the success of this event.

Still, there was no violence other than verbal. No blood. So Dev went to check on Lila and the backup bartenders, one a stacked little blonde named Judy and one a long-haired guy from Texas named Bobby Ray. Everything seemed under control.

At eight Dev’s buddies arrived, including Pete, Adam and Jay. Adam was still annoyed at Dev for the medical school prank, but at least he was speaking to him and was here to support him. He’d asked them to come early so that the first guests wouldn’t feel as if, well, they were the first guests. Dev sent everyone over to the bar for free drinks.

At eight-thirty, his mom and dad showed with his brother and his wife to kick off the McKee Family Circus. Mami, at fifty-two years old, looked thirty-eight at most. Her black hair streamed to her caramel shoulders, her huge dark eyes needed little makeup and if he hadn’t seen her bruising the day after her discreet lid lift, he’d never have believed she’d had one.

Mami had a figure to die for and an emotional range that rivaled a roller coaster, which was probably why Dev dealt so patiently and effectively with Lila the moody bartender. Mami was also an incorrigible
chismosa,
or busybody. She could charm the skin off a snake, but there was a reason he kept his file cabinets and desk locked and didn’t talk about business around her.

Dev hurried over and whistled appreciatively at her form-fitting, plunging red cocktail dress and spiked heels while she preened. Then he kissed her cheek and clapped his long-suffering Irish father on the back. “Dad, you’re looking good.”

This was an egregious lie. His father snorted and patted the large belly that copious amounts of home-cooked Cuban food and gallons of Irish whiskey had cultivated. “Right. Your mother just told her sister that I’ll give birth to twins next month.”

Mami whipped her head around. “Ay! I say no such theeng.”

“You think I don’t oonderstand Spanish after therty yares with ya, woman?” Dad shot back in his Irish brogue.

“Mami, have a glass of champagne. Dad?”

“Bubbly piss,” his father said with disgust. “No. Jameson’s, rocks. Before I go into labor, eh?” He shot his wife a dirty look and Dev edged him away with a pleading glance toward Pete.

“Señor McKee,” Pete boomed out. “Lila was just asking how you are. She’s got a whiskey with your name on it.”

One disaster averted, Dev offered champagne to his sister-in-law and asked after his small nephews. His brother Aidan, a professor of comparative religion, looked around in appreciation. “Place looks great, Devster. Who knew you had taste?”

“Hey, I saved all the leftover eighties fabric for you, bro. I figured you might take up quilting.”

“How’d you guess?”

“You want a real drink, or you want bubbly piss?” Dev made a wry face and gestured toward the champagne fountain.

“Got a good cabernet?”

“Of course.” Dev hijacked a waiter’s tray and supplied his brother with the wine, as a commotion of noise and flashbulbs started at the main entrance. “Excuse me.”

An ex-Miami Dolphins player and his wife had arrived, and it looked as if a photographer and reporter from one of the newspapers had, too.

Dev greeted everyone and made sure they got drinks right away. More people followed: friends, business acquaintances, VIPs. As the room filled and people seemed to be having a good time, he relaxed a little.

He stuck his head into the bar and was pleased to see that everything was going smoothly there. At least five men leaned on the bar, riveted by Lila’s assets. These were showcased in a skin-tight, electric-blue sequined camisole—worn Miami-style. In other words with no bra, nipples plainly visible under the clingy, sparkly material.

Dev winked at her and was rewarded with a soulless black stare and a toss of her mane. He departed for the kitchen and was less reassured by what was going on in Bodvar’s domain.

First, it was hotter than July in the Sahara. The ovens produced waves of shimmering, suffocating heat. Curls of white steam wafted up from ten different pots, creating an aromatic but stifling stainless-steel bowel of hell.

Towering over his sweating, cowering minions was a Satanic blond Bodvar, perspiration and menace rolling down his irate face and soaking his collar and the brim of his tall hat. His eyes rolled maniacally in his head, the whites showing.

Dev squinted at him. If he didn’t know better—

No. Don’t even
think
it.

But the guy showed every sign of using amphetamines.

At his feet was an overturned pan in a lake of tomato sauce flecked with onions and spices, which looked like nothing so much as a pool of blood and gore. Had he thrown it down in a fit of temper?