Goldman was the very model of a senior bank executive: trim from playing squash, tan from playing golf, square-jawed, silver-haired and dark-suited with impeccably manicured hands.
“Ms. Kent, isn’t it?” he greeted her. “Kylie.”
She was pleased that he remembered her from the occasional meeting and company function they’d both attended. “Yes, sir. How are you, Mr. Goldman?”
“Fine, fine. And you?”
“Very well, thank you.”
He nodded, then turned and reached into the backseat of the Mercedes for his leather computer bag. “I heard about your initiative to streamline the process for small business loans. That was very innovative of you.”
“Th-thank you,” Kylie said, taken aback.
“Keep up the good work.” Milty flashed a smile at her as he shut the car door.
“Yes, sir.” Flattered, she practically floated to her desk where the stacks didn’t seem quite so daunting. They were still substantial and she knew the more she did in the office, the less she’d have to take home.
She unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite as she flipped through the information in the top file. The business loan had been made to a small family-run nail salon, and they’d used the money to finish the commercial space, as well as to purchase equipment like special pedicure chairs, manicure stations and a washer and dryer to keep the salon towels clean. Everything was in order.
She closed that file and looked through another one, in which the loan had been made to a greenhouse and garden center. Payments had been late a couple of times, which indicated that their cash flow was spotty, but overall the loan made sense.
Kylie went on to a third, this one bearing a pink sticky note on the front of it. Her boss had scribbled:
Guy is somewhat disorganized. Check to see that he’s on track. Watch this one carefully and make in-person visit before okaying second installment of loan.
Hmm. She took another bite, savoring the crunch of green apple bits and walnuts, and flipped the file open. She was in the act of swallowing when her brain processed the name on the loan: Devon McKee.
Kylie blew chicken salad all over the wall of her cubicle. It wasn’t pretty.
11
“KYLIE, are you okay?” Priscilla inquired.
Of course. Of
course
her strawberry of a boss had seen her spew. Murphy’s Law had Kylie in its jaws like a rat terrier with a dirty sock.
“F-fine!” Kylie managed to say, clearing her throat and lunging at the mess with her napkin. “Just food down the windpipe.”
Priscilla nodded. “You really should take your lunch into the break room, you know.”
Kylie hunched her shoulders. “Normally I would, but I was trying to get ahead of these files and it’s hard to concentrate in there…with four or five different conversations going on around you.”
“I see. Well, all right then.” She smiled. “Keep up the good work. We do appreciate it.” Priscilla left Kylie to stare in horror at Devon McKee’s neatly typed name, address and phone numbers.
She was being ridiculous. There were probably at least twenty Devon McKees in the south Florida region. This wasn’t necessarily the one she loathed with every fiber of her being.
If it makes you feel any better about being a psycho hose-beast, those tits made up for any personality flaws....
But the cell phone number looked all too familiar. She had an almost photographic memory for numbers, and Dev had left those same digits, in that order, on a slip of paper in her purse. She knew this because she’d removed it to flush it down her toilet—after dumping the goodies from the cat box on top of it. Juvenile, maybe, but it had relieved her feelings.
Kylie stared at the file. This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. She didn’t really have to go see the creep at his business, did she? Run through his figures with him? Check to see that the bank’s investment was safe?
She didn’t really have to share the same airspace and table while they talked? Endure the sight of him while he ogled her breasts? Surely God was not this cruel.
Her first instinct was to go to Priscilla and tell her that someone else had to handle this loan. But her boss had one thing on her mind: clear the decks so she could have her baby without worry. And going to Priscilla would lead to all kinds of unwanted, unanswerable questions. Plus it would make her, Kylie, look less than professional.
Which was completely unacceptable.
No, she was going to have to deal with Devon McKee somehow. There was no avoiding it. The bank had entrusted her with minding its money…no matter how much she minded this particular customer.
And he, in turn, was going to have to deal with her. If he so much as set a toe out of line, she’d shut down his funding and he’d have to serve corn dogs on a stick at his grand opening. The thought had her grinning evilly.
But the grin faded immediately as she realized that he could make things very uncomfortable for her if he wanted to. Kylie stuffed her sandwich into its wrapper, her hands suddenly clammy. What if he called the bank and told them that he wouldn’t work with her, and why?
It could mean disaster for her career. Complete catastrophe. She pictured Milty Goldman’s expression if Dev did that.
“Yes, Mr. Goldman? This is Dev McKee calling about the psycho hose-beast in your loan department? The one with the spectacular rack? Yes, Kylie Kent…”
She shuddered and dropped her face into her hands. No, she could not pull rank on Dev. She didn’t dare.
Her fingers itched to call Melinda and pour out her own tale of woe, but she was too damned proud. She gave advice. She didn’t ask for it. She was a self-contained unit, and had been since her parents had died.
Except when it came to Devon McKee.
How had her life turned into a nightmare?
A FEW DAYS after the wedding, Dev prayed for patience as he unloaded liquor boxes behind the bar at Bikini, his bar on South Beach. He was hot, sweaty and scruffy from two days of not shaving. His T-shirt was soaked through, since he’d been physically moving a thousand dollars worth of food and supplies from the back of his second car, a battered SUV, into the storage room.
Normally the kitchen staff might have picked this stuff up, but Dev didn’t trust them with his credit card yet. Besides, he’d rather that they keep focused on preparing for the grand opening that would expand what was now only a club into both a bar and restaurant. It was a massive undertaking and one that would change his business.
Right now, on the weekends, Dev often hired beautiful girls in—yes—bikinis to lounge on or in front of the bar. So while the place didn’t have an ocean view, it did have other views that were just as scenic—and more curvaceous. The problem was that they could also be high-maintenance and temperamental. It was always a toss-up whether their antics were worth the crowd they drew. Maybe once the restaurant opened and attracted its own crowd, he’d skip the scenery.
It was five o’clock, and Lila, his main bartender and another star attraction, was having a heated argument with her boyfriend instead of getting set up for the evening.
“Si tu tuvieras huevos y tu tuvieras un trabajo decente, yo no tendria que trabajar aqui in esta cantina de mierda y mostrar mis tetas!”
She paced in front of Dev, gesticulating wildly but perfectly balanced on her five-inch black bondage sandals. She wore black leggings and a top that would be illegal in most states, deliberately pulled down low enough that a couple of centimeters of red lace bra showcased her assets.
Men flocked to Bikini to suffer abuse at Lila’s hands. She made Dev thousands of dollars per night, so he put up with her temper, insolence and occasional laziness.
Her long, dark hair whipped behind her as she moved and her inch-long, dark red nails gleamed in the low lighting. Her lush lips drew back into a snarl, exposing blinding white teeth as she continued her tirade.
Dev knew enough Spanish to get by, and he discerned that the fight was about flirtatious behavior on her part. The boyfriend, Stefan, objected and had called her a slut. Lila countered by saying that she wouldn’t have to work in Dev’s crappy bar with her tits on display if Stefan were a real man and made decent money.
Dev winced on his own behalf as well as Stefan’s.
Crappy?
His joint was a little downtrodden after years of service and several different reincarnations under different ownership, but it was
not
crappy. He’d done what he could to upgrade it, including ripping out the old bar and installing a maple one. The top of it consisted of a deep pocket that he’d filled with white sand, shells, sand dollars and replica fish, all covered by a thick piece of glass. Not bad if he did say so himself.
He slammed two bottles of Tanqueray into place, then the Cuervo. He transferred more Dos Equis into the cold case that held the beer, and followed it with Corona and Tecate.
The restaurant in the adjoining space was going to be stunning…assuming that he’d bribed the electricians enough to actually show up in the next couple of days to finish installing the lighting, so that he could then bribe the inspectors to get the permits finalized. And the freakin’ flooring guys to please, for the love of God, finish installing the toe-board and trim so that he could then rebribe the painters with beer to do the last of the painting.
It was all enough to drive him to drink…or worse.
Dev switched out the empty kegs on tap as well as the mixers, occasionally looking over at Lila to indicate that she might want to get off her cell phone and help. She studiously ignored him and cursed into the phone. Finally she spat one last doozy, hit the off button and stormed into the ladies’ room.
Dev sighed. Unfortunately, he was used to this. He looked at his watch. Where were the cocktail waitresses? Angie and Marla shared an apartment and a car, meaning if one was late, so was the other.
In the kitchen, matters weren’t much better. He’d hired a Swedish chef to handle the top-notch food that the restaurant would serve, letting the former cook go in order to balance expenses. Unfortunately, Bodvar thought it beneath him to serve potato skins or anything breaded or fried—essentially the entire bar menu. The very smell of such
offal
sent him into orbit.
In an attempt to keep Bodvar happy, Dev had commandeered one of the sous chefs, Maurizio, to handle the orders. But since he had taken the job in order to learn the culinary arts from a master, Maurizio was now in a snit and Bodvar complained bitterly about not having proper support.
Dev was ready to attack the sous chef with a cheese grater and hang Bodvar with the beef in the huge walk-in fridge. Instead he joked with them and went heavy on the back-slaps.
And then there were the new waiters to finish training. Two of them had a lot of experience, but the other two were wet behind the ears. Dev prayed that they’d work out under the tutelage of the older ones.
He’d been praying a lot lately, since so much was at stake. He was sure he could bribe, cajole and charm everyone enough to pull off the grand opening party, but they had to maintain rigorous standards after that. Too bad
rigorous
and South Beach didn’t exactly go arm in arm.
Hot, steamy, salty, sexy, languid
…all those adjectives applied to South Beach. The trick was to keep enough of the beautiful crowd on your premises to attract the regular crowd and any tourists you could snag as well.
The beautiful crowd required pampering to show up. Free drinks and spa discounts and goody bags and everything else. It was enough to bankrupt a guy…speaking of which, he should call Sol Trust and confirm the second installment of the loan with that Priscilla woman. He’d tell her that he’d confirmed the attendance of Milan and Cheri, the very notorious, very blond twin heiresses to a hotel chain. And they’d bring all their friends, and the friends would bring friends…
Oh, thank God. Lila had come out of the ladies’ room with fresh lipstick on, just in time to take the orders of two dazzled tourist guys whose tongues now dragged on the bar in front of her cleavage.
And that blue streak past the open front door had been Angie and Marla’s Mazda, he was sure of it.
Dev nodded at the tourists and moved to get the last box out of Lila’s way. It contained frozen chicken breasts and was covered with the brand name and logo of a well-known poultry company. Dev picked it up and turned to take it into the restaurant side.