Relentless

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.

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