“Don’t ever expect me to try and seduce you again,” Pamela said, yanking open the shower stall door

Ken stood frozen, rivulets of water running down his perfect body. “Ever learn how to knock?” he asked, his voice a low, husky drawl.

Pamela’s tirade ended as her breath exited her lungs. “Oh, my,” she whispered, unable to look away. She had already seen his beautiful bare torso and flat stomach so rippled with muscles, but now she saw the rest of him—the lean hips, the long legs and, oh, the rest of him.

Pam began to shiver. “I want you, Ken McBain,” she said, tugging off her T-shirt and tossing it to the floor. “But your nobility is killing me. So take me or leave me.”

He’d been able to hold firm before. But there was no way he could resist her now, the burning look in her eyes, the anguished need in her voice.

He nodded toward a basketful of condoms on the bathroom counter. “Grab a handful of those, would you?”

Dear Reader,

What could be more irresistible to a woman than coming across a gorgeous single man whose eyes tell her how much he wants her? That’s the dilemma facing Pamela Bradford on what should have been the worst night of her life. A bride without a groom, a woman who’s spent her entire life denying her sensual nature, she’s now ready to indulge in her wildest fantasies. And sexy Ken McBain is just the man with whom she’d like to indulge.

Ken, however, just wants to look after Pamela. Sure, his libido kicks into high gear every time he’s around her, but as far as he’s concerned, there’s going to be no sex!

It’s going to take some serious convincing—in a resort that promises to “wash away every inhibition”—for Pamela to change his mind. Let’s just say she’s relentless in her pursuit.

This is my first Temptation HEAT novel, and I’ve had a lot of fun writing it. Where else could I have come up with a setting like The Little Love Nest—a resort with round beds, mirrored ceilings, suggestive statuary and a hostess named Madame Mona. I think I like pushing the envelope. I might just have to try it again.

I’d love to hear what you think of Pamela and Ken’s amorous adventures. You can write to me at P.O. Box 410787, Melbourne, FL 32941–0787, or e-mail me through my Web site—www.lesliekelly.com.

Enjoy,

Leslie Kelly

Relentless
Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicated with love to Ray Smith….

Dad, thanks from the bottom of my heart

for always encouraging me to be a dreamer.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

1

SUFFOCATING BENEATH ten pounds of buttercream icing in a paper, cardboard and wood-framed tomb, Pamela Bradford noticed immediately when her whiskey sour buzz wore off. Her mind suddenly cleared, her stomach began rolling around and her hands started to shake.

“Get me the heck out of here,” she ordered in a loud whisper, not even knowing if any of her bridesmaids were still nearby. A giggle and a muttered “hush” told her they were. “Sue? Sue, I’ve changed my mind. I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can,” someone replied.

That wasn’t the voice of Sue, her sweet-natured maid of honor, who was timid as a rabbit about everything except her passion for romance novels. No, the voice sounded cynical but amused, gravely and authoritative, as only the voice of a strong, confident, two-hundred pound African American woman could.

“LaVyrle, please, this was a bad idea. Peter’s not going to be very happy about this.”

“Not happy? Girlfriend, puh-lease! That man’s going to bust into a raging ball of male heat when he sees you come outta this cake. And if he doesn’t, well, at least you’ll know tonight, rather than tomorrow after you marry the pansy. Now be quiet, we’re still working on our evacuation plan.”

Pamela sighed, knowing LaVyrle would not take pity on her. Sue, yes. Pamela’s best friend Sue, who’d been a perfect little angel as a child—except, of course, when Pamela was around—would have let her out in a heartbeat. But not with LaVyrle and Wanda in the room. She’d be no match for Pamela’s two friends and coworkers from the teen center in downtown Miami.

Since Pamela had once seen LaVyrle physically tackle and take down a street dealer who’d approached some of their boys leaving basketball practice, she didn’t think she wanted Sue to try standing up to her.

She could burst out of the cake now, she supposed, avoiding the bachelor party altogether. But since her friends had pushed her into a hallway of the Fort Lauderdale hotel, she figured that wasn’t such a great idea. With her luck, she’d run smack dab into the local gossip columnist or a vacationing family with six young kids, complete with Mickey Mouse caps, big eyes and a camera!

“Good grief,” Pamela muttered, knowing she was stuck, in more ways than one.

Folded in half, with her knees tucked under her chin, she couldn’t move an arm to scratch an itch without risking a heaping headful of icing. She glanced up, seeing that the top of the paper cake, just inches above her eyes, was lower than before. The wooden frame wasn’t dealing well with the weight of the gooey icing. “I didn’t think they put real icing on these stupid things,” Pamela said and glared at the frame, hoping like hell it would hold up a few minutes longer.

“They don’t, usually,” LaVyrle said. “The best man, or whoever the dude was who hired my friend Nona to strip tonight, paid extra for the icing. Some guys do that, you know. Then the birthday boy—or the groom—has to lick the stuff off the dancer.”

Pamela swallowed hard.

“Of course, we all know Peter wouldn’t do that,” Sue chimed in. Thank heaven for sweetly optimistic Sue.

“Well, he’d sure better now,” Wanda retorted. “Pamela, I bet Peter’s gonna want to lick off every speck. Unless he don’t like girls…uh…I mean, sweets!”

Pamela’s stomach rolled again. “Please let me out.”

“You just have cold feet. Quit whining!” LaVyrle ordered.

“I have a cold butt is what I have,” Pamela muttered. Her friend’s low chuckle told her she’d heard. Pamela shifted a little and wondered how she’d gotten into this mess.

Though she couldn’t move her head too well, she did cast a quick glance down at herself, and shuddered. Yes, she still wore the ruby-red, glittery pasties and matching thong, plus the spiked high heels LaVyrle called “do-me shoes.”

Okay, so she had a top on over the getup. But the filmy, nearly sheer shirt fell only to her thighs. It was also so thin it offered no protection for her nearly naked backside seated directly on the cold metal shelf of the pushcart.

This was one heck of a way to spend the night before her wedding. She still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to it. What had she been thinking?

Well, actually, she knew what she’d been thinking. She’d been listening to that teeny tiny voice in her brain that had been nagging at her lately, asking why Peter hadn’t tried to move their relationship from emotionally intimate to physically intimate.

Her fiancé hadn’t so much as attempted a single grope in the entire six months of their relationship! He’d kissed her, yes, sweetly gentle kisses that hinted at a restrained passion. But nothing more.

So why are you marrying him? she asked herself in a rare moment of pessimism brought on by whiskey sours and itchy spangled underclothes.

She didn’t have to search for an answer; she knew why. Peter might not have seduced her physically, but he had bowled her over emotionally. She’d never met another man with whom she was so perfectly in sync. They shared the same tastes in everything—from sports teams and ice cream to rock groups and political affiliations. They’d never had a single argument, never exchanged a cross word. Given Pamela’s battles with her parents, she found Peter to be a soothing presence in her world.

It went even deeper than that. Peter was also the first man she’d dated who completely and without reservation supported and applauded her career decisions. He encouraged her to keep fighting for the underprivileged teens she felt so passionately about. He consoled her when she cried in frustration at her parents’ continuing refusal to accept the choices she’d made in her life—choices that didn’t include their country clubs, golf dates or yachting trips.

In their minds, she was merely going through a stage, or intentionally being difficult as she had been when she was a child. Okay, so she’d been a tough little cookie as a kid. She’d performed operations on her stuffed animals on the kitchen table, and used green and brown markers to draw camouflage outfits on all her Barbie dolls. She’d dreamed of making the basketball team rather than being a cheerleader. Not out of a desire to be difficult, but because she’d been born with a need to be true to herself—which meant being different from those who loved her!

Peter had supported that. He’d appealed to her brain, seducing her completely with his unwavering support.

But as for her body…. Had there been touches? Heated caresses? Seductive whispers or downright horny grins? Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

Pamela wasn’t a sexual connoisseur—far, far from it!—but she had enough experience to know that people who were supposed to be in love enough to marry one another usually had some physical desire going on, too. Yet Peter had never made one serious effort to make love to her, even though she’d hinted that she wanted him to.

She’d heard about his reputation as a ladies’ man. She’d been around her father’s offices enough to know that Peter had had more than his share of female companionship—though, of course, that was all in the past. That fact made his disinterest in pursuing a physical relationship with her even more disturbing.

She’d gone so far as to plan the most romantic, enticing honeymoon she could think of! Egged on by one of those seductive ads in the back of a bridal magazine, she’d paid a small fortune to book them a room at a new honeymoon resort at Lake Tahoe. Peter thought they were going to a friend’s lakefront cabin, and Pamela wasn’t too sure how he might react to her surprise when they arrived at the luxury resort that promised to “wash away the outside world…and every inhibition.” What if he hated it? What if he wanted to leave?

She shouldn’t be having these fears about the man she was going to marry. They bothered her. More than bothered, they concerned, even angered her. So much so that, tonight, at her own bachelorette party, she’d allowed too much alcohol to loosen her tongue and had spilled her secret to her bridesmaids.

Sue’s eyes had widened. Wanda had given her a look of outright skepticism. And LaVyrle had shrieked, “He’s gay! I’m tellin’ you, girl, you’re about to marry a man who hangs out in steam rooms and goes to Bette Midler concerts!”

“He’s not gay,” Pamela muttered inside the cake. She knew Peter was straight, particularly given his love ’em and leave ’em history, yet she was unable to come up with a more logical explanation for her fiancé’s physical disinterest in her.

One thing was sure. She could not be married to a man who had no interest in sex. Love was wonderful and she felt sure…pretty doggone sure, anyway…that she loved Peter. What wasn’t to love? What woman wouldn’t want to be married to a handsome, successful man who anticipated her every need, agreed with her every thought?

“Maybe a woman who needed some passion in her life,” she muttered. Pamela simply could not imagine a marriage without desire. Not after seeing the passionate love her parents had for each other, still, after thirty years of marriage.

“My parents,” she said with a grimace. If they could see their little princess/pumpkin/pookie-face Pamela now, they’d both be clutching their hearts, leaning against their matching red Beamers in horror.

“Okay, honey, we’ve got us a plan,” LaVyrle said from somewhere above and to the right of Pamela’s cakey coffin. “Sue’s going to go in and tell Peter she has to talk to him about a last-minute wedding problem. While they’re talking, Wanda and I are gonna bust in and say there’s a bomb and everybody has to get outside. Only Sue’ll hold Peter back.”

“That’s the stupidest idea I have ever heard,” Pamela yelled. “Don’t you think Peter’s going to wonder why Sue wants him to stay and risk blowing up if there’s a bomb?”

“She’ll tell him you’re the bomb, sweet cheeks! Besides, you got any better ideas?”

Pamela blew at a wisp of brown hair that had slipped from the loose mass of curls at her nape to fall over one eye. “Why not just tell the groomsmen there’s a wet T-shirt contest in the bar?” Beneath her breath, she added, “Peter probably wouldn’t be interested anyway.”

“Yeah, Peter probably wouldn’t be interested in that, anyway,” LaVyrle said with a snorty chuckle.

Pamela muttered an obscenity.

“I guess it’ll do. You just sit tight—don’t you go anywhere now.” The other woman snickered again. “We’ll go find out where the bar is and then come up to the suite to get the other men out. Back in ten or fifteen minutes to getcha.”

“Please, LaVyrle,” Pamela pleaded, “make sure you get every other man out of there. This is humiliating enough—the possibility that anyone other than Peter could be there to see me come out of this cake is too horrible to think about.”

Particularly since most of the men at the party were Peter’s coworkers—which meant they also worked for Pamela’s father! The image of all of her father’s navy-blue-suit-and-tie-wearing middle managers seeing her in the pasties and thong was beyond bearable.

“Back soon, Pammy,” she heard Sue whisper. “It’ll be okay.” She listened as the three women walked away, their giggles lingering after them. That left Pamela alone in the small alcove near the hotel suite where the bachelor party was taking place. They’d moved her here after helping her get into the giant cake, which had been prepared for LaVyrle’s stripper friend, Nona.

What an oddly bad coincidence that LaVyrle had happened to know the woman who was performing at Peter’s bachelor party tonight. What a worse one that Pamela had chosen tonight to overdo it with the spiked punch. She’d been tipsy enough to spill her guts about her concerns regarding her potential sex life with her future husband. Her three friends hadn’t let up once LaVyrle had gotten the idea for Pamela to switch places with the stripper.

And now look where she found herself. Mostly naked. Inside a paper cake covered in icing so sweet the smell was making her nauseous. Curled so tight her legs were probably going to fall asleep and give out before she could pop out of the cake like a deranged, spangled jack-in-the-box. Unable to stop shaking as she waited to see either a wonderful look of lust or a horrible grimace of disdain on the face of her groom.

Why, oh, why had she agreed to do this?

As she had explained the time she’d broken her arm trying to see if she could fly by leaping off the roof of her parents’ garage, Pamela muttered, “I guess it just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

KEN MCBAIN sat in a back corner of the opulent hotel suite, alone, nursing a beer and asking himself for the tenth time why on earth he’d ever bothered coming to this bachelor party. He didn’t know the groomsmen. He barely knew any of the men attending the party, their conservative, clean-shaven faces wearing similar goofy expressions that said, “Let’s do something real dangerous like watch a dirty movie on the Playboy Channel.” And to top it all off, he didn’t even like the groom!

All in all, it was proving to be a wasted Friday night. Though he’d only been at the suite for about an hour, Ken was more than ready to leave.

“Pete, you remember these ladies, I’m sure,” a man Ken recognized from the personnel department of Bradford Investments said as he entered the room. Behind him were two women—two very blond, very stacked, very professional-looking women, their profession being the world’s oldest, that is.

The partying junior executives exchanged nervous glances and more nervous grins. Their eyes widened as Ken’s rolled in amused disgust.

“Now this party’s gonna roll,” the groom said, lifting a beer—imported, of course—to his lips and chugging it. Well, he tried to chug it. He drained about half of the green bottle before pulling it from his lips and sucking in a deep breath.

The entrance of the party girls was Ken’s cue to cut the hell out. He’d never had to pay for sex in his life and had absolutely no interest in being around guys who did.

He stood, preparing to do just that. Two of the other men—ones Ken had dealt well with in the few weeks he’d been working on the Bradford project—did the same thing. His respect for them went up a notch. As the groom grabbed the hip of one of the passing blondes, Ken’s respect for him—already pretty damn low—dropped to toilet bowl range.

He couldn’t believe Pamela Bradford—the Pamela Bradford whose smiling face had captivated him from the moment he’d seen her photo on her father’s desk at their first meeting—was going to marry this womanizing loser.

Peter Weiss must have one amazing acting ability to go along with the GQ looks and oozy charm. Because, as far as Ken could tell from his single encounter with Ms. Bradford, she could have just about any man she wanted with the crook of a finger. Ken grudgingly conceded he had to include himself in that estimation.

And she’d chosen Peter. So either she was stupid and gullible, which he doubted, or Peter had snowed her about what he was really like. That seemed almost inconceivable, too. Ken had only been working in the Bradford office building two weeks, and he already knew Peter had had affairs with three secretaries and had been caught nailing one of the bookkeepers in a stall in the men’s bathroom last year. Could she really not know?

Of course, it was possible Peter had been on the straight and narrow since meeting his fiancée. What man would want anyone else with Pamela Bradford in his life?

“Horse’s ass,” he muttered under his breath as Peter began untying the prostitute’s halter top with his teeth. “She could do so much better than you.”

Ken wondered why he thought so much about a woman he’d never formally met. But he did. He thought about her quite a lot, particularly when sitting in meetings in her father’s office, glancing at her photo and catching glimpses of a hint of wicked humor in her wide eyes.

Pamela Bradford had sparked something in him. He’d like to call himself a gentleman and say it was his chivalrous side, rearing up in protest of the colossal mistake she was about to make. But he had to concede it was more than that. His libido definitely had something to do with it, too.

He had a serious case of the hots for his client’s daughter…and they’d never exchanged as much as a nod of hello. In the two weeks he’d been in Miami, working on a major software project for her father, he’d seen Pamela Bradford’s picture on a daily basis, heard her name on her father’s proud yet frustrated lips dozens of times, and seen her in the flesh once. Just once. But what an impression she’d made.

She’d just emerged from her father’s office where, he’d learned later, she and Jared Bradford had argued again over Pamela’s job. Jared had often moaned to Ken that his daughter, who’d been offered every advantage two doting, wealthy parents could provide, had never willingly accepted a thing from them.

Her father was afraid for her, plain and simple. She worked with inner-city kids at a teen center in Miami. The distance from her family’s pricey estate in Fort Lauderdale went way beyond the mileage on I-95. It was like a different world. Pamela had chosen that world—which was completely foreign to her father.

That day, Ken had leaned against the doorjamb of his temporary office, which had been provided by the company for the duration of the three-month-long project. Arms crossed, he’d unabashedly listened to the raised voices from the next room. He’d watched as Pamela literally burst out of the heavy, oak-paneled door to her father’s private sanctum, giving it a solid kick with the heel of her sneaker for good measure, before she stalked away toward the elevators.

She’d been magnificent, from the curves in her tall, lean body, to the flash of fire in her huge brown eyes. A sheen of light from the overhead fixtures cast highlights of red and gold on her chestnut-colored hair. Ken had simply stood silently, watching. She hadn’t even seen him, but he’d paid close attention to her. Her chin was as proud and firm as her father’s, and her shoulders were stiff under her simple green shirt. She also had a gorgeous, wide mouth made for smiling. And kissing. And…more.

It wasn’t just the Pamela he saw with his own eyes that so attracted Ken. It was also the Pamela he saw through her father’s eyes—through his stories, his commiserations and his fond remembrances—a woman who was stubborn, yet full of heart. That Pamela sounded like someone he’d very much like to get to know.

Unfortunately, she was about to become the wife of an oversexed moron.

“Go, go, go, go,” the men around him chanted, drawing Ken’s attention back to the party. Peter was chugging again, cheered on by the crowd. After the groom drained the bottle, he threw his arms up in the air like a college jock and howled.

And Pamela was marrying him?

Ken walked through the living area, dodging puddles of spilled beer, looking for his suit jacket. He’d taken it off when he arrived, and knew he’d left it on the back of a chair near the door. It wasn’t there now. Several more guests had come in and someone had obviously done some jacket rearranging.

Frustrated, Ken looked around and saw the door to the suite open yet again. Another of the groomsmen, who’d left earlier to find cigarettes, yelled from the hallway, “Look what I found waiting around the corner.”

The man turned away, pulling at something, his already alcohol-reddened face beading with sweat. Interested in spite of himself, Ken watched as the man pulled a cart into the room.

The cart, it appeared, had other ideas. It was pulling back. From where he stood, Ken was able to see one high-heeled red shoe sticking out from beneath what appeared to be a large white-iced paper cake. The shoe tried to stop the cart by digging into the floor. The spiked heel, however, slid through the plush weave of the ivory carpeting like a knife through soft butter.

Whoever the lady was, she didn’t seem quite ready for her performance. Ken could even hear her hissing at the man to put her back where he’d found her. No one else seemed to notice.

“The entertainment has arrived,” the man said as he finally managed to pull the large cart and cake into the room.

The two blondes exchanged amused looks. “You’re gonna like Nona, sweetheart,” one of them said to the groom, who responded by pulling her onto his lap.

Ken, still closest to the cake, heard the person inside say, “I need to get out of here. There’s been a mistake!”

The man who’d pushed the cart in—Ken thought he was Dan from Billing—leaned close to the P in the word “Peter” written in red icing. “Don’t be shy, sweetie!”

She wouldn’t come out.

“Maybe she needs music,” someone said doubtfully. Considering the stereo was blasting loud enough to shake the walls, Ken wondered what that guy was smoking!

Dan from Billing tried again. “Hello in there,” he said. This time he poked two fingers into the side of the top tier of the paper cake, probably about level with where the dancer’s face was. Ken hoped she hadn’t lost an eye.

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.”

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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