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.

3

MOST MEN didn’t know how to react when a woman burst into tears right in front of them. Ken, however, had a little experience. Resorting to basics, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms.

She cried until his shirt became warm and damp with her tears, but she made no move to step away. He ran a consoling palm down her back, cupped her head with his hand and tried to ignore the rush of physical pleasure he got out of holding her in his arms.

She fit very well against him. Since she was nearly as tall as he, her cheek brushed against his neck as she cried. His pants and dress shirt provided a layer of fabric between them, but he felt her curves against his body. The delicate perfume she wore competed with the lingering sweet scent of icing. With her head tucked into his shoulder, Ken found his lips next to her temple and was unable to resist placing a soft, consoling kiss there. His fingers tangled in her hair as he held her and he finally started to feel her relax.

Comfort gradually segued into something else. She drew in a few deep breaths. He felt the pulse in her temple beat faster as she acknowledged the intimacy of their embrace. Anyone watching from the crossover above would have thought them passionate lovers.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered against his shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m sobbing in the arms of a complete stranger.”

“Well, in the absence of a beer to cry into…”

She pulled away from him and took a step back, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands. Her makeup was smeared under her eyes and her face was puffy. “I’m usually not a cryer.”

“It’s okay, really. I’m glad I was here.”

“You won’t be when you see the black circles my mascara made on your shirt,” she said glumly. “If you give it to me, I’ll be happy to have it cleaned.”

She looked miserable. Ken wanted to see that smile again, wanted to move past the sudden moment of intense awareness that had flashed between them while she remained in his arms. “You’re just determined to get all my clothes off me, aren’t you?”

She raised an eyebrow, obviously hearing the teasing in his flirtatious remark. Her reply, however, wasn’t quite so teasing.

“Is it working?”

That surprised him. Ken wondered if she heard the blatant suggestiveness in her own voice. He doubted it. Even if she did, he certainly wouldn’t take it seriously. The woman was right smack-dab in rebound territory—and Ken had already had his one experience with a woman fresh from a breakup with someone else. It had ended with a Dear Ken letter. He’d vowed never to put himself in that position again. She needed a friend? Okay. She needed a sounding board? He could be that, too.

She needed a warm and willing pair of arms to make her forget her miserable love life? Been there, done that. Pick another guy, lady.

He gave her a noncommittal smile. “I think I can manage to wash the shirt.”

She shrugged. “That’s about how my love life’s been lately. Can’t get a man to even want to take off his shirt for me.”

Ken almost barked out a laugh. Then he realized that while her tone was light, her expression was very serious. “You can’t honestly still be thinking your fiancé didn’t want you. Not now that you know why he was staying away from you.”

She turned slightly, facing the water and looking down at her hands. “I obviously didn’t offer much temptation.” Apparently seeing his confusion, she hurried on, “Not that I’m not very glad we never went any further! It’s just…”

“Yes?”

“Well, let’s say my track record with men isn’t so great. Not many guys are too hot for a five foot ten former basketball jock who now fights and claws through bureaucratic b.s., dealers, gangs and absentee parents every day in her job.”

“Only men with brains to go with their…libido,” he said.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I’ve learned to accept the fact that I’ll never be mistaken for a femme fatale.”

Remembering what she looked like under that jacket, Ken had to bite his tongue to hold back a retort. As he watched, Pamela reached into the pocket of his jacket and drew out the last small bottle of alcohol. “You’re sure you want that?”

She opened the bottle and lifted it to her lips. “Hey, it’s my wedding day. Doesn’t the almost-bride deserve a toast?” Without pause, she drained the small bottle. This time she didn’t collapse into a coughing fit, though she gave one shudder and blinked her watery eyes.

“So, I guess your father’s going to be out a small fortune, hm?”

She nodded. “Guess so. It’s not like he can’t afford it. I didn’t want the country club wedding, anyway.”

“What did you want, Pamela?” Ken asked, studying her profile as she watched the surf.

“Just an awesome honeymoon.”

He laughed.

“You think I’m kidding? After dealing with Peter’s, uh…lack of interest, I wanted to go somewhere alone and make sure we were really compatible.” Pamela took a step back, wobbled a little on her feet, then bit her lip. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Go right ahead.” He grinned, wondering how uncomfortable the sand was going to feel against the huge amount of bare skin exposed by her underclothes. Just thinking of that sent a burst of heat rushing through him. Don’t even go there!

“So, where were you going on this honeymoon?” he asked as he sat next to her in the sand.

Pamela glanced over at him, wondering why he didn’t seem to care that his trousers were probably going to be ruined by sitting on the beach. Then she remembered she was wearing his jacket. While it didn’t entirely protect her fanny from the damp ground, it would more than likely be in pretty bad shape by the time she got up.

Remorseful, Pamela leaned over, holding his jacket down over her backside with the flat of her palm, and grabbed the beach towel. She spread it out and moved over to sit on it.

“Might not be too late for this suit,” she offered with a grin. She patted the other half of the towel, inviting him to join her. When he did, she realized exactly how small the kiddie beach towel was. While it had wrapped once around her torso, it certainly didn’t provide enough width to keep their bodies from touching, shoulder to hip, bringing every one of her senses roaring to life.

“Uh, now, what did you say?” she asked, focusing on wiggling her toes into the sand to avoid staring at the well-defined shoulder just inches from her cheek.

“I was asking about your honeymoon. Where were you going?”

“Lake Tahoe. To a gorgeous couples-only honeymoon resort called The Little Love Nest.”

She heard him chuckle, then he said, “Sounds pricey. Guess Daddy’s going to be out some cash on that deal, too.”

His words reminded Pamela of the truth. No, her father wasn’t going to be the one losing out on the small fortune her honeymoon trip had cost.

She leaned back, dropping her elbows to the sand and reclining on them, frowning in disgust. “Nope, that was all mine! Peter didn’t even know about it. I paid for everything and had planned to surprise him tomorrow when we got there.”

“No trip insurance?”

She snorted and cast an incredulous look at him. “Gee, do they offer insurance against jerk-off fiancés who cheat and lie?”

“Guess not.”

She didn’t even want to think of the amount of money she’d spent on the trip. Actually, she couldn’t really think about it, because her head was a teensy bit spinny. From the alcohol. From the stress. From the nearness of this stranger whose cologne made her want to bury her face in his neck, and whose warmth made her long to crawl back into his arms.

She shook her head once, hard, trying to clear her brain. “I think maybe I shouldn’t have had that last drink,” she whispered as she tried to focus on sticking her toes into the damp sand. “I also think I’m going to wake up tomorrow and wonder if this whole thing was a nightmare.”

“I think you’ll be glad you found out tonight that your fiancé is a cheat and a liar,” Ken replied, “rather than after tomorrow.”

She sneaked another glance at him, liking the strength of his jaw, the quirk of his brow as he cast a knowing grin at her—not to mention the muscular neck, the broad shoulders, the long legs stretched out next to hers against the damp sand.

Pamela suddenly realized there was more than alcohol making her feel sort of funny, like she had butterflies in her stomach. She was responding to him physically. More than that, though, she found she liked him, this stranger who’d found her on the beach and somehow made her laugh on what was turning out to be the worst night of her life.

She liked his eyes, and she liked his laugh. She liked those big strong hands that had held her with such gentleness when she’d cried. Yeah right. As if that’s all she liked.

She’d also very much liked the look of his lips and wondered if he used them for kissing as well as he used them for grinning.

The fact that they were so close together fueled her feelings. The elemental churning of the waves, and the moisture in the air brought forth a response deep within her. She suddenly found her mind filled with the most vivid picture of her and this man lying in the surf in a passionate embrace.

Now she knew she was tipsy. She was having sexual fantasies about a complete stranger! She tried to force them out of her mind, but they stayed, making her pulse beat faster, her breath come harder, and making her legs shake, though she told herself that was only because of the strong ocean breeze blowing across her. Looking at him out of the corner of her eye, she again noticed the strength of his face, the long lashes hooding his expressive eyes, and his hard body, hidden under the dress shirt and slacks.

She wanted him. “How crazy is that?” she muttered out loud, ignoring his questioning glance.

It was true. She wanted this gray-eyed man, wanted his hands on her breasts and his mouth on her throat. Wanted him on top of her. Beneath her.

Inside her.

“Oh, goodness, I definitely had too much to drink,” she whispered.

Knowing she had no business even thinking such things did not halt the thoughts. They did, however, remind her of that last scene with Peter up in the suite. She wondered where on earth she’d found the courage to do what she’d done, to say what she’d said. Because she was a big, fat liar. She’d taunted Peter that she wasn’t a virgin. Whoops! Not exactly true.

As ridiculous as it seemed in this day and age, Pamela, at twenty-six, was a virgin.

Some people might wonder how she could have remained basically untouched all her life, but Pamela knew her upbringing and her job were the reasons. Growing up, she’d listened when her parents had talked about their respect and love for one another. Subconsciously, she’d wanted that for herself.