Читать книгу Relentless - Leslie Kelly - Страница 8

PAMELA WASN’T THINKING, wasn’t quite coherent and probably wasn’t even completely sane when she burst out of the cake. She was acting on instinct, driven by rage-induced adrenaline. Thought played no part. She’d certainly never have made the conscious decision to emerge from the cake, dressed as she was, in front of a roomful of men.

When the drunken fool who’d found the cake had brought her in, Pamela had sent up every prayer she knew that her bridesmaids would come to her rescue. She’d stayed snug inside, peeking through the holes left by the man who’d tried to coax her out, wondering how darn long it could take them to find a bar in a beachfront hotel in a party town like Fort Lauderdale!

Seeing her fiancé holding a blond hooker had started her blood temperature rising. But she’d waited, giving him the benefit of the doubt, knowing it was his bachelor party. The woman had probably just planted herself on his lap.

Then he’d begun groping her.

She’d been furious, watching in sick disbelief. Her fiancé was feeling up some woman less than twelve hours before he was set to marry her. The fingers that had never once touched a single part of Pamela’s body, other than her hands or a casual squeeze around her waist, had been buried in the plump folds of flesh exposed by the blond floozy’s leather miniskirt. She’d begun to have major doubts about the whole wedding thing even before the stupid fathead had opened his mouth.

Once he’d done that…well, Pamela’s blood had gone from simmer to raging boil in a matter of seconds. She’d been no more able to stay inside that cake than a volcano full of molten lava could keep from erupting. And erupt she did.

“Pamela,” Peter exclaimed as she burst through the top with enough force to shatter the tack-wood cake frame into tiny pieces. Peter pushed the blonde off his lap so fast she landed in a heap at his feet.

“Shut up, Peter. Just shut up,” Pamela ordered as she pushed her way through the paper and sticky icing, feeling it matting in her hair and smearing onto her thighs. Her foot got stuck under the cart shelf where she’d been sitting. Pamela had to tug it free, silently cursing the shoes, her fiancé, her father and her life.

Peter reached out a hand. “Pamela, let me explain.”

“Touch me and I’ll rip your arm off,” she snarled, feeling it was entirely possible she could do just that.

“Darling…”

“I’m not your darling!” Pamela finally got her foot free and stepped over the legs of the blonde, who watched with wide eyes from her position on the floor. “I was never your darling. And I’m not my father’s princess. So you can go tell the king the wedding’s off! I guess that makes you the jester, huh, Peter?”

She glared at every man in the room, noting that most of them dropped their eyes, ashamed to meet her stare. She didn’t suppose a single one of them had been too ashamed to look away when she’d first gotten out of the cake. No, she imagined they’d gotten quite an eyeful. Her face flushed scarlet and she tugged the filmy pink shirt tightly around her body, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Slowly, the men began turning away. Some reached for coats, some left the living area altogether, going toward another room in the suite. She ignored them and began walking toward the door.

“Please, Pamela, don’t be rash. You misunderstood.”

“I heard you perfectly well, Peter,” she replied as she reached the foyer. “My father hired you, coached you on how to get me interested and promised you a big payoff for pretending you were madly in love.” Her voice broke, and she forced herself to straighten her shoulders. “What’s not to understand?”

He took a step toward her. “It wasn’t like that.”

Pamela pointed her index finger at him. “Ah-ah. I meant it. Don’t you come near me. Maybe it won’t be your arm I rip off.”

Peter visibly gulped. Hearing one of the men chuckle, Pamela swung her gaze toward them. Most were still huddled in the back corner, near the interior hallway. There was also apparently some kind of kitchen area that she couldn’t see, and she figured more of the weasels were huddled in there, listening to every word, peeking around corners or through archways like the nasty little vermin they were.

She’d never forget their laughter, the way they cheered Peter on, seemingly proud of him for his plan. She’d never forget their faces, knowing they probably derived some sort of satisfaction in her humiliation, since so many of them had made a play for her at one time or another. Yes, she imagined they were enjoying seeing her brought down to size.

Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back, determined not to let a single one fall free of her lashes—at least not until after she got out of this room, away from their knowing faces, far from the echo of Peter’s sickeningly self-satisfied voice.

From where she lay on the floor, the blonde cleared her throat. Forcing herself into a surreal sense of calm despite the raging intensity building inside her, Pamela met the woman’s eye. “You have something to contribute to this conversation?”

“Them are Nona’s favorite shoes you got on,” the woman said matter-of-factly as she stared at Pamela’s legs.

Not pausing, Pamela bent down and slipped one then the other of the glittery red spike-heeled pumps off her feet. She gently tossed one into the center of the room. The heel caught in the remnants of the cake and hung there, dangling inches above the floor. The other shoe flew out of her hand with a bit more speed and precision. It caught Peter right in the middle of his gut. He bent forward, gasping for air. Pamela was unable to stop a snort of satisfaction as she reached for the door handle.

Pamela opened the door, but before she stepped out of the suite, she paused and looked back at her former fiancé. Peter looked unsteady. He still breathed deeply, swaying and blinking hard, as if unable to believe everything he’d worked so hard for was collapsing around him in a matter of ninety seconds. His shoulders slumped, and he raised a hand to cover his eyes. The hooker watched from below. The cowardly men still huddled in their corners.

“Oh, Peter?” Pamela called sweetly.

He immediately lowered his hand and looked toward her, a faint light of hopefulness in his beady little eyes that had once seemed so truthful and gentle.

Once she was sure she had his full attention, Pamela gave him a wicked smile. Uncrossing her arms, she tugged the filmy shirt open, flashing him. His jaw fell open.

“You’re an idiot,” she said as she ran one flat palm across the curve of her hip, concealed only by the thin red strap of her thong panties.

“And I’m definitely not a virgin.”

THOSE IN THE SUITE remained silent after Pamela slammed out, as if the reverberations of the door had frozen them where they stood. In the kitchen, Ken was as shocked by her sudden appearance—and disappearance—as everyone else. Her parting shot hung in the air, though Ken knew he, Peter and the prostitute were the only ones who could have seen her last defiant gesture.

It took a half minute before Ken could breathe again. He’d only caught a glimpse of Pamela through the leaves of an artificial plant hanging in an arched opening between the kitchen and living room. But he’d never forget the sight of her. Never.

She was, quite simply, glorious. The tawdry costume that should have appeared cheap had been heart-poundingly enticing instead. There was too much class in the woman, from her proud shoulders to the line of her jaw and the arch of her brow, for her ever to appear less than a lady.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more beautifully shaped woman—not in magazines, not in the flesh. The full curve of her hips begged for a man’s hands, while the sweet indentation of her belly cried out to be kissed. And the long line of her thighs invited hours of delightful exploration.

But it was the pain in her eyes that spoke to Ken’s soul.

“Screw the coat,” he muttered as he stepped out of the kitchen to go after her. No way was he going to just stand there while she ran through the hotel, dressed like that, devastated and alone. He might not know her. He did, however, know hurt when he saw it, and the woman needed someone to help her deal with what had happened.

As he stepped by, the blond hooker slowly rose from the floor. “She a workin’ girl? She sure got the body for it.”

Peter looked stunned. “How could this have happened?”

Ken gave him a frown of disdain. His fingers curled into a fist; he itched to slug the man in the jaw, even if Pamela wasn’t here anymore to need protecting. Though sorely tempted, he refrained, wanting nothing more than to get out of the suite.

When he glanced at the chair where Peter and his ladyfriend had been sitting, he spotted his jacket and grabbed it.

“You sure she don’t dance? Gawd, she could be making some big bucks,” the blonde said.

Peter shook his head. “Why didn’t I do her when I had the chance?”

This time Ken didn’t listen to any inner voice of reason. He answered Peter’s question with his fist.

AFTER PAMELA slammed out of the suite, she had to stop for a moment, in the empty, silent hotel hall. She leaned her forehead against the wall as the tears built in her eyes, the sobs choked her chest, and the hot rage completely gave way to pain and humiliation.

She gave herself no more than a few seconds to wallow. Then she dashed down the empty corridor. Ignoring the elevator, she burst through the door to the stairs instead. There, safe for the moment from prying eyes, she hugged her arms tightly around her body and gave in to tears.

“You rotten bastard,” she muttered. Only she didn’t know who she was talking to at that moment. Peter? Or her father? Which one had hurt her more? Which one had thrust the knife into her heart, and which had turned it?

She didn’t have to think about it for long. Her father was the one who really loved her. So he was the one who’d really betrayed her. And she was never going to forgive him for it.

Nor would she ever forgive herself. Stupid! She’d been such a fool to let Peter get away with his scheme. God, she’d almost married the man!

Amazingly, there was no emotional pain at the loss of her fiancé yet. There was pain, oh, yes, but it was pain at being used, at being made a fool of. Mostly at being betrayed by her father. There was also anger, embarrassment and shock.

But did her heart hurt? Was she emotionally devastated? Not yet. At least not as much as she’d expect to be upon learning the man she was pretty doggone sure she loved had been using her.

Maybe that would come later. Or maybe she wasn’t so doggone sure after all, and it wouldn’t. Whatever the case, the one thing she did feel was humiliation.

After several minutes, Pamela descended the stairwell, wondering where Sue, Wanda and LaVyrle were. She didn’t want to see them; she didn’t want to see anyone who might demand an explanation. Pamela just wanted to find something to pull on over the ridiculous stripper’s outfit and go home. Since she’d left her purse, money, clothes and car keys in the locked trunk of LaVyrle’s car, she didn’t see much chance of that happening anytime soon.

The stairwell ended near a back elevator, not far from the lobby. Nearby, Pamela heard the sounds of laughter and tinkling glasses from the hotel bar, and she wondered if her bridesmaids—ex-bridesmaids—were there. Doubtful. They’d probably already gone upstairs, discovered the cake cart was missing, and were wondering where she was.

Pamela took a few seconds to indulge a fantasy of how LaVyrle would react if she went into the suite and heard what had happened. “Wonder if Peter’s health insurance is paid up,” she whispered with an evil grin. Thinking of his pride in his big, white, flashy smile, she hoped LaVyrle went for the mouth.

The lobby was nearly deserted, but she had to assume someone was working behind the check-in counter. That person would be unlikely to miss a half-naked woman running toward the exit. Pamela avoided the lobby.

She also steered clear of the bar. As much as she would have loved a good stiff drink, she couldn’t exactly see going in and ordering one. Nor could she have paid for it. “Bet someone would buy me one,” she muttered sourly.

Instead, she made her way out the back door of the hotel, which obviously led to the pool area and the beach. Sending up a silent prayer that some careless tourist had forgotten an old T-shirt or cover-up, she prowled around in the darkness.

“Bingo!” she chortled when she found a colorful beach towel lying forgotten near the kiddie pool. It was better than nothing, and she wrapped it around herself, covering the obscenely thin shirt and spangled undergarments.

With no one around, no money and no means of transportation, Pamela knew she was going to have to call for help. But who to call? Her best friends were somewhere inside the hotel. Her ex-fiancé was probably consoling himself in the arms of the hooker.

That thought sent another chill through her body, and Pamela realized she wasn’t ready to see anyone she knew yet. She needed to be alone, to think, to absorb what had happened and what she was going to do about it.

“Well, the wedding’s off, first of all,” she muttered aloud.

Stepping away from the pool, she glanced at the wooden steps that led down to the beach. The gently lapping waves and the glimmer of moonlight shining on the surface of the water offered peace and seclusion, a way to soothe her turbulent emotions.

Without even hesitating, she walked down the steps onto the beach. The sand, cooled by the night air, felt sharp against her bare feet. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, trying to remember the relaxation techniques Sue had taught her when her friend had been going through her “female empowerment” stage. That had been between Sue’s stages of “I’m going to astronaut training school” and “I’m going to get artificially inseminated and raise a baby by myself”.

“Focus on the sensations of each moment,” Pamela reminded herself. “Think about nothing but the salty taste of the air on your lips, the froth of the waves lapping your feet, the churning surf filling your ears.”

She closed her eyes, trying to focus. It worked for about six seconds. Then she snorted in disgust because all she could think about was her lying, cheating bastard of an ex-fiancé.

“You rotten louse!” she shouted to the sky, knowing no one was nearby to hear her. Shouting made her feel better. Punching something would have helped, too.

Pamela didn’t realize she wasn’t alone on the beach until someone spoke.

“Have we met?”

Shocked, she opened her eyes and jerked her attention over her shoulder. A man stood behind her, a few feet away on the beach. He watched her, nearly hidden by the shadow of the nearby dune crossover.

“No,” Pamela said, casting a quick look around to see if she could spot anyone else. This wasn’t exactly a safe situation. She stood, nearly undressed, on a dark beach, late at night, and a strange man was behind her. Uh-oh.

“How can you know I’m a louse then?” he asked.

She frowned. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was having a private moment.”

“Looked more like a private meltdown,” he said.

As he stepped closer, out of the shadows and into the light cast by the streetlamp above them in the parking lot, Pamela got her first good look at him. She sucked in a breath, more concerned than she’d been before.

He wore the south Florida businessman’s summer uniform. A white dress shirt, with sleeves rolled up, revealed thick, tanned forearms. He wore no tie, and his shirt collar was undone, displaying a neck corded with muscle and the hint of dark hair at the hollow of his throat. Though he also wore light-colored trousers, and carried a matching suit jacket slung over one shoulder, Pamela knew this was no normal happy-hour executive out for a late-night stroll. The blasé businessman clothes lied.

He was all dark intensity. From the thick hair—likely black though she couldn’t be sure in this light—that curled past his collar, to the piercing darkness of his eyes, he defied the image of polished executive that her ex-fiancé had cultivated. The strong line of his determined jaw warned of a man who wouldn’t be easily coerced. The thickness of his arms and the breadth of his chest told of his strength.

He looked like a cop, or a soldier.

But as those amazingly well-defined lips curled upward into a teasing smile, she realized he did not look like an ax-murdering rapist. She managed to smile a little in response.

“Okay, I’m having a private meltdown. The key word being private.”

“I take it you want me to take a hike?”

“If you please,” she said, tugging the beach towel tighter around her body and turning her attention toward the surf.

She sensed his hesitation and glanced at him. He pointed toward her head. “Did you know you’ve got a clump of white stuff in your hair?”

Pamela reached a hand up and dug a fistful of icing off the top of her head and threw it into the surf.

“Rough night?”

“Beyond belief,” she said with a snort.

“Anything I can do?”

“Not unless you’re a hit man.”

The man didn’t seem shocked. “Sorry,” he said with a rueful smile. “Forgot my assassin gear. I guess you’re out of luck.”

“Now there’s an understatement! Tonight has been just about the worst night I’ve ever experienced. All I want is my bed and a good stiff one.”

The man laughed out loud, obviously hearing a sexy submeaning in her innocent comment.

“I mean a good stiff drink!”

“Yeah, I knew that,” he said, trying hard to keep a straight face. The grin on his lips begged for a response, and Pamela’s own smile widened.

“I’m not trying to flirt with you,” she said, trying to sound stern, but laughing instead.

“Good thing, because you’d be doing a pretty pathetic job,” he said. “I mean, first the louse thing, then you basically told me to get lost.”

“Which you didn’t do.”

“Touché. Do you still want me to go?”

For some reason, though she’d come down to the beach to be alone, she found herself wanting him to stay. There was something so appealing about his crooked grin, the self-deprecating laugh and the warmth of his stare.

A few minutes with a stranger on a dark secluded beach. She could think of worse ways to spend what should have been the night before her wedding.

“You’d probably be better off leaving,” she muttered ruefully. “I’m not great company right now. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty miserable.”

“Not thinking of pulling a Jaws scene, are you?” he asked, looking at her bare feet, then at the surf lapping closer toward them on the sand.

“No. I’m not going for a late-night swim. I’m, uh…just thinking. It’s been a pretty bad night and, to top it all off, I now find myself stranded, without my purse, real clothes or a buck to buy a beer I can cry into.”

Surprisingly, the man didn’t ask about the clothes comment. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his sports coat and drew out a few minibottles of whiskey. “Would this help?”

Though she wasn’t ordinarily a drinker, Pamela grabbed for a bottle, unsealed it and took a hefty sip.

“I hate this stuff,” she said between choking coughs after she swallowed. The rush of warmth descended from her throat to her belly, and Pamela took it in, needing it to calm her nerves. Another sip brought the same reaction. This time, as she bent over in a small coughing fit, the towel came untucked and fell open. She snatched it back up, covering herself, looking at the man to see if he’d noticed.

He didn’t comment on her clothes—or lack thereof. Instead, he took his suit jacket off his shoulder and held it out to her. “Here. At least it won’t fall off.”

Pamela stared at his hand, and the jacket, wondering why his simple, chivalrous offer brought tears to her eyes. She looked up at him, trying to find an indication of his thoughts in his expression. She saw only kindness. Concern. A gentle look of tenderness in eyes that she sensed could sometimes be as cold as a gray winter’s sky. But tonight, under the light of the glowing moon and what seemed to be a million stars reflecting off the water, they were infused with warmth.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking the jacket from his hand. He turned slightly, so that he faced the ocean. When she saw him avert his gaze, she knew he was offering her privacy. She took it, dropping the towel and slipping the jacket on over her shoulders. “You really are a gentleman. Unlike every other man I’ve run across this evening.”

From where he stood, silently watching the surf as she donned his coat, Ken cringed. She’d sounded very bitter when she talked about the other men she’d spent the evening with. He had to imagine she was never going to forgive Peter’s friends, the men who had witnessed what had happened in the suite.

How the hell could he tell her he was one of them?

“I don’t know about that,” he murmured finally. “But at least I know I’m not a louse.”

Which she should feel pretty damn lucky about. Standing out here at almost midnight, dressed as she was, the lady could have found herself in some very serious trouble if the wrong kind of man had happened by.

“No, the louse…or is it lice?” she said with a bitter laugh, “would be my ex-fiancé and his friends. Plus my father.”

“So it’s not all males you’re hating at this moment?”

“No. Just a handful,” she admitted as she took another drink from the small bottle, draining it.

He took the empty bottle from her and watched as she popped open the second one. “Easy there.”

“I’m entitled. You can’t imagine the night I’ve had.”

Actually, he could. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. Pamela’s embarrassment was already easy enough to see. If he told her he’d witnessed her entire humiliation, she’d stalk away from him. Now, after she’d had a drink, she would probably be even more vulnerable than she’d been before! He was thankful he’d been the one to find her after he’d left the party, leaving Peter laid out on the carpet behind him.

Ken flexed his hand, thankful he hadn’t broken any fingers. Whatever bruises or stiffness he had tomorrow would be well worth the satisfaction he’d gotten knocking Peter on his arrogant ass. He hadn’t stuck around to see how long it took the other man to get up. He’d been totally focused on finding Pamela.

She hadn’t been hard to locate. How many places were there in a beachfront hotel for a half-naked female to hide? Certainly not the bar or the restaurant. He’d doubted she’d booked a room. There had been no place she could have possibly concealed any cash, ID or keys in that getup she’d been wearing, so he didn’t imagine she’d hopped into a cab or her car.

Putting himself in her shoes, er, her bare feet, he’d figured the beach was where he’d have gone. He hadn’t been surprised that was where he’d found her. “So, want to talk about it?” He looked back at her, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

She shrugged. “My name’s Pamela Bradford. Tomorrow was supposed to be my wedding day.”

“And what, you and the groom argued over the wedding cake and started throwing icing around?” he said, trying to make her laugh, trying to avoid letting her know that he knew all about the cake incident.

“That’s not so far from the truth,” she muttered glumly.

Ken didn’t know Pamela very well—heck, he didn’t know her at all. But he had three younger sisters. Growing up, all three of them had considered him the representative for every male on the planet, heaping all the praises—but, more often, all the sins—of his sex right on top of his head.

One thing he’d learned—aside from never going near his sister Diana’s chocolate stash around the time of the full moon—was that in moments of emotional crisis, females needed to get things off their chest or they’d explode. Not wanting his boss’s daughter blown to a million bits on a Fort Lauderdale beach, he urged her on. “So tell me all about your wedding plans.”

She snorted. “They’re off!”

“The wedding’s been called off?”

“Well, unofficially, yes. I guess I’ll leave it to Peter to explain to all our guests why the bride couldn’t make it.”

Ken glanced at his watch. “He’s going to have to come up with a reason pretty quick…or will he tell them the truth?”

“That he’s a womanizing jerk who basically accepted a bribe from my father to get me to marry him?”

Ken winced at the anger in her voice. “Guess not.”

Suddenly, without warning, Pamela was spilling out the whole story. Her childhood. Her relationship with her parents. Her dedication to her job, which had her interacting on a daily basis with teenagers the city of Miami seemed disinclined to help. She even told him about her disillusionment with her fiancé.

Ken listened, finally understanding why Pamela would ever have gotten involved with a guy like Peter Weiss. The man had played her like an instrument, using her father’s advice on her likes and dislikes to appeal to her. How could any woman resist a man who agreed with every word she said, who was completely supportive and anticipated her every need?

“Didn’t that get boring? A guy who never said no to you?”

“It wasn’t like that,” she retorted. “There was security in knowing we were so much alike.”

“Sounds like a yawnfest.” Ken shrugged. “Stepford Groom.”

“So what would you know about it?” she retorted, her fist on her hip. “Are you a relationship expert or something?”

“Nope. My relationships have basically blown lately.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“But I do know I would never be able to stand being with a woman who agreed with every word I said!”

“As if that’d ever happen,” she muttered, seeming to forget her own problems for the moment.

“Are you saying I’m difficult to get along with? And here I thought I’d been the soul of cordiality.”

She suddenly looked contrite. “You have. I’m so sorry. You’ve been wonderful, and I don’t even know your name. I didn’t mean to be critical. It’s just that the men in my life have been less than sterling lately.”

Ken knew without her saying it that she spoke more about her father than she did about Peter Weiss. Ken was not surprised to realize she seemed even more devastated by her father’s involvement than she did by Peter’s actions.

“My name’s Ken.”

A wicked grin crossed her face. “My Barbie dolls always preferred G.I. Joe.”

“My G.I. Joe always preferred Wonder Woman,” he retorted without missing a beat.

She laughed out loud for the first time since they’d met on the beach and Ken felt the sand shift under his feet. Odd. But it happened. The ground moved a bit, his breath grew heavy in his lungs, and he couldn’t tear his stare away from her wide, smiling mouth. This was the Pamela he’d longed to meet.

“I once traded my scooter for a G.I. Joe doll. My father caught me playing ‘G.I. Joe beats the crap out of Ken for trying to force Barbie to be a model rather than an astronaut.’”

Ken grinned. “And how did your father react?”

“He flicked my Ken doll’s head so hard it flew off,” she said with a sad smile that segued into a look of pain. “He used to tell me there was nothing a girl couldn’t do.”

Ken moved closer, tempted to take her arm, to stroke a stray wisp of fine, dark hair, dancing in the night ocean breeze, off her smooth brow. Instead, he said softly, “But now he’s let you down?”

She tightened her arms around the front of his jacket, hugging it against her body. “He’s been saying one thing but doing another. Sure, there was nothing I couldn’t do—as long as it was something of which he approved.”

“And you’re sure he helped your fiancé a little bit?”

She snorted a laugh and tossed her head. “A little bit? Good grief, an Olympic coach probably wouldn’t have done as good a job preparing Peter for the Pamela games!”

Her brief spurt of humor fled. Her face was again dark and troubled, and Ken regretted the change. She was thinking about her father, and Ken wondered how she’d ever be able to deal with what she viewed as his betrayal.

Jared Bradford loved her. Ken knew that perfectly well. But he couldn’t reassure her of that. He couldn’t ask her to admit that while her father’s actions might have been reprehensible, they weren’t malicious. Admitting he knew her father would mean telling her why he was at the hotel.

“Getting chilly out here. Do you mind?” He pointed toward the whiskey bottles in the pocket of his own jacket, which she still wore. He didn’t really want a drink. But it seemed wise to reduce the supply so Pamela wouldn’t drown her sorrows by drinking every single one of them.

Since the jacket pocket was just about even with one of her curvy hips, he did not reach out to help himself. Touch her and you’re a goner!

“I think I’ve had enough,” she finally said, studying the empty container in her hand.

Considering she’d downed two by herself, he thought she was right.

“But help yourself,” she continued, pulling one of the remaining miniatures out of the pocket and handing it to him.

Ken took it from her fingers, noting the coolness of her smooth, pale skin against the slick glass. He took a quick step back, then busied himself opening the bottle.

“So, Peter pretended to be the perfect guy…but why on earth did you feel the need to show up at his bachelor party and jump out of his cake?” Ken asked, still not completely clear on what had led up to this evening’s performance.

She sighed. “I don’t know. The way it turned out, it would have almost been easier to accept if Peter was gay.”

Ken almost choked on a sip of the whiskey. “You thought your fiancé was gay?”

“No,” she insisted. “I didn’t think so! My friends wondered if he might be, though, when I told them that I’d never…that he’d never…uh…”

“You weren’t lovers,” he stated, still feeling like a slimeball for not admitting that he’d witnessed the entire awful scene in the hotel.

“No,” she replied, a note of defiance in her voice. “He seemed to think that I was destined to be pure as the driven snow on my wedding night, and my father insisted I remain that way. Thank God he did—at least I never slept with the creep!”

Ken nearly echoed the sentiment.

One thing Pamela hadn’t mentioned during all her explanations was her one final, defiant gesture as she’d left the party. Not that he was surprised. He didn’t know many women who’d have had the nerve to do what she’d done—and then talk about it!

“So,” he asked as he put the cap back on the miniature bottle, “you going to give your father a chance to explain?”

“Nope,” she replied succinctly.

“Are you going to at least tell him there’s not going to be any wedding tomorrow?”

She scowled, looking as though she wanted to do just that. Then her shoulders drooped. “Do you have a cell phone?”

“Right-hand pocket.”

He watched her pull his phone from his jacket and dial some numbers. She took a few deep breaths, looking up at the stars overhead while she waited for an answer. Ken watched, knowing the pain this phone call would reveal—and the pain it would inflict. Though he hated what Jared had done to his daughter, Ken knew how much the man loved her. This was gonna be bad.

“Hello, Daddy? No, no, I’m fine. Yes, I know what time it is.” She looked at her wrist, but she wore no watch. Ken held his arm toward her and showed her his.

“No, please listen,” she continued. “I want to tell you I hope you and your five hundred friends have a wonderful time eating the surf and turf tomorrow afternoon at the club. Hope it’ll be worth it. Unfortunately, I won’t be there so I’ll have to count on everyone else to tell me how the reception goes. Be sure to have someone save me a piece of cake.”

She laughed, a desperate sound that held no joy. “Oh, Peter called, did he? So you understand, of course, why there will be no wedding.”

She shook her head. “No. Dad, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear a single word you have to say.” Her voice caught with unshed tears. “You betrayed me—Peter used me, but you betrayed me.”

She cut the connection, turned off the phone, and promptly burst into tears.