Relentless

Dan nearly lost a finger. “Ouch!” he yelped as he yanked his hand free. “I think she bit me!”

Biting? Strippers? Prostitutes? Okay, Ken had seen enough. It was time to leave before they started bringing in the livestock.

But he still hadn’t found his jacket. Since his car keys and phone were in the pocket, he didn’t think he was going to be able to just ditch it. Walking into the kitchen area of the suite, he glanced around and began digging through a pile of coats someone had dumped on the counter.

He kept an eye on the party. Dan and another guest pulled the reluctant cart farther into the room, so it was practically right in front of the groom. Though the men tried to coax the dancer out, Peter didn’t seem too concerned about his entertainer’s reluctance. “We’ve got all night,” he said with a chuckle. The blonde on his lap curled tighter against him.

“Better make it worthwhile, Pete, since it’s your last night of freedom,” one of the men said. Ken, who’d just about given up finding his coat, grabbed a canned soda from a cooler and rolled up his shirt sleeves. The room was getting hot and he imagined whoever the woman in the cake was, she was going to be wilted and steamy if she hid in there much longer.

“I don’t think I’m going to miss my freedom much once I get my hands on my new wife. Holding her off has been killing me!”

That got Ken’s attention like nothing else this evening had. It almost sounded like Peter was saying he and his bride hadn’t anticipated their wedding night, which would be a shock given the groom’s notorious sexual escapades.

The blonde giggled. “You mean you haven’t…”

“No. Princess has to be a virgin on her wedding night or Daddy won’t be happy, and that’s all that counts. After waiting this long, she better make tomorrow night worthwhile.”

Though Pamela wasn’t here, couldn’t know what was being said, Ken felt a sharp pang of embarrassment for her. This jerk was spouting off locker-room talk about the woman he was going to marry! Not only that, he was talking to a roomful of men who got their paychecks every week from that woman’s father.

“Whaddya mean keeping Daddy happy?” one of the less intoxicated guys asked.

Peter’s beer consumption must have been pretty high, because he answered the question, not noticing or not caring how much of an insensitive ass his answer made him appear. “She comes with the keys to the kingdom. As long as I keep her pregnant, at home and away from those dregs from the inner city she’s so devoted to, I write my own ticket with dear old Dad-in-law. He and I have something of a ‘gentleman’s agreement.’”

Ken felt sick on Pamela’s behalf. Because it sounded, from what Peter was saying, like Pamela’s own father had conspired with her fiancé to get her to give up her career and be the good little socialite wife. As much as he liked Jared Bradford, Ken had to concede that as far as Pamela went, the man probably wouldn’t be above such meddling.

“You can’t imagine the hell I’ve gone through—my wife’s gonna be a wild one in bed, I can tell. Practically every time I’ve dropped her off lately she’s given me this pouty look with those lips of hers, and I’ve had to go cruising for some female company before I could go home!”

Ken shook his head in disgust. Of course Peter hadn’t curbed his appetites in the months since his engagement. He was an oversexed cheating moron.

As far as Ken was concerned, once you put a ring on a woman’s finger, you’ve promised her you’ll be faithful. It was like shaking a man’s hand over a business deal. You don’t welch, you don’t whine. You give your word to a colleague that you’ll accept his offer? You stick to it. You’re engaged to a woman but can’t have sex till the wedding night? You start enjoying cold showers and get damned friendly with your hand. You don’t cheat.

Shaking his head, he gave one more quick glance around the room, again looking for his coat. Then he noticed something funny. The cake was shaking. It had started to tilt a bit, and now, from here behind the cart, Ken could see the back jerking as if the person inside was pounding on it. Slowly. Rhythmically.

“If I’d known old man Bradford was that hot for someone to take the girl off his hands, I’da tried a lot harder to get her to go out with me,” someone said.

“As if you didn’t already try enough—to the point that you made a complete idiot of yourself every time she walked by your cubicle,” another man replied. “Not that I blame you. She’s not hard on the eyes—she’s got legs that’d make a man weep.”

“Not to mention her sweet…”

Ken didn’t hear the last word because, suddenly, the cake erupted. Two fists punched through the paper and icing on the flat top, putting holes through the C in “Congratulations” and the R in “Peter.” The arms scissored, effectively slicing the paper down the middle, and a woman’s head and torso burst through the opening.

“Oh, crap,” someone muttered. Ken understood why as soon as he saw that thick mass of chestnut-brown hair, held in a loose clasp at the nape of her neck.

Pamela Bradford, who had obviously heard every word uttered since she’d been pushed into the room, emerged from the remains of the cake like a vengeful goddess.

2

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.”