WIFE IS A 4-LETTER WORD
Stephanie Bond
One
Alan Parish drew back and kicked the aluminum can high in the air,
mindless of damage to his shiny formal shoe. Hands deep in his pockets,
he watched the can bounce and tumble on the deserted rain-soaked
sidewalk in front of him, gleefully imagining it to be John Sterling's
head each time the
metal collided with the pavement.
His mouth twisted with the ballooning urge to curse, but he couldn't
think of an appropriate expletive to describe the basically nice guy
who'd just happened to steal his fiancee—at the altar. Right now the
only adjective for the man that came to mind was... smart.
Glancing around, Alan looked for something else to kick, suddenly
wishing it were physically possible
to make contact with his own
backside. He should have asked Josephine to marry him months ago—
no,
years ago. Instead he'd taken their relationship for granted and she'd
fallen in love with one of her clients, then canceled her marriage to
him before his mother, perched on the front pew, had time to
work up a
good cry.
At this very moment, his friends and business associates were no doubt
toasting the happy impromptu couple, at Alan's expense—literally. He
winced, remembering that he'd made sure a case of his favorite
champagne would be sitting behind the bar in the reception hall.
The sound of a speeding car approaching behind him, along with a
telltale beeping horn, made him turn just as the vehicle zoomed through
a curbside puddle and showered him from head to toe. Alan raised
his
arms in a helpless, deep shrug as the cold, muddy water seeped under
his white shirt collar and dripped down his back. An aged white Volvo
sedan jumped the curb a few feet in front of him and lurched to a
lopsided halt, with one wheel up on the sidewalk.
Oh, well, he'd actually seen worse parking out of Pamela Kaminski.
"Sorry," she yelled, fighting and tugging her way out of the death trap
she drove. "The hem of this damned lampshade dress got tangled in the
pedals." She slammed the door and limped toward him. "Broke a heel,
too," she reported.
Alan rubbed a finger over the lenses of his glasses to remove the water
blurring his vision. Pamela
should have looked ridiculous in the peach
organza bridesmaid dress with the armful of stiff chiffon around her
bare shoulders, but she didn't. With her typical irreverent air, and
her remarkable good
looks, she carried off the eighties prom-dress
knockoff with panache.
From her alarmingly low-cut neckline, she dragged out a handful of
white handkerchiefs. She then
shoved back a strand of dark blond hair
that had escaped her topknot, and began to swipe at the water streaming
from his chin. "Sorry 'bout that," she murmured.
"No problem," he said tartly. "I needed to cool off."
She grimaced. "I was talking about the wedding."
"Oh." Trying to keep his eyes averted from the bosom of his
ex-fiancee's best friend, Alan decided
he'd never been more miserable
in his life than at this moment. He stood completely still and allowed
Pam to continue a woefully inadequate job of soaking up the water. "I
can't believe Jo actually selected that dress for you to wear," he said
sourly.
"She didn't," Pam said, painfully sticking the end of a hankie into his
ear before moving on to swab his forehead none too gently. "Someone
mixed up the order, but when it arrived, Jo seemed so stressed-out,
I
didn't want to bother her with it."
Alan scowled. "Since she only had eyes for John Sterling today, I'm
sure she didn't even notice."
"It appears she did have a lot on her mind," Pam inhaling, then
expelling his breath noisily, Alan said,
"I suppose they
got married."
Pam kept her eyes averted and nodded. "I heard Jo breaking the news to
her mother just before I left."
"And you didn't stay?"
She pressed her full, brightly painted lips together and shook her
head. "Between Jo, the groom and his three kids, I figured there were
already enough people at the altar."
Grunting in frustration, Alan sputtered, "I can't believe after all
these years of saying she didn't want children, Jo just up and marries
a man with so much baggage!"
"Mmmnn," Pam said sympathetically. "Three carry-ons." She tossed the
ruined handkerchiefs into a nearby trash can and pulled out her
neckline, presumably to look for more.
Alan swallowed hard. He'd never thought about Pamela Kaminski
romantically, but he was in the same pool as the rest of Savannah's
male population when it came to admiring her generous physical gifts.
The glimpse of a wildly inappropriate black strapless bra beneath the
innocuous dress was enough to
dry his tux from the inside out When she
plucked out two more hankies, he pulled a finger around his suddenly
too-tight shirt collar. "Were you planning to shed a few tears, Pam?"
he asked wryly.
She frowned and waved a hankie. "They were for Jo. The poor girl was
crying like Niagara all morning."
"Thanks."
Pam glanced up and smiled sadly, her hands stilling. "I'm sorry, Alan.
I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I know how much you love Jo."
Anger, hurt and frustration welled up anew, so he cleared his throat
and changed the subject. "Why did you follow me?"
She tossed the last two soiled handkerchiefs. "Thought you might need a
friend. Where's your best
man?"
"My guess is he's two choruses deep into the Electric Slide,"
"Where were you headed?"
"To the airport."
She angled her head at him and laughed. "That's quite a walk."
"My flight to Fort Myers doesn't leave for four hours." He smiled
tightly. "I allowed us plenty of time
to celebrate at the reception."
"You're not serious," Pam said cautiously, as if she wasn't sure she
was dealing with a sane person. "You're still going on
your honeymoon?"
"Sure." He shrugged, then lifted his chin. "Why not? It's paid for.
I'll drown my sorrows in buckets of margaritas on the beach. I plan to
eat enough limes to stave off scurvy for a lifetime."
Pam stared at him, the blue of her eyes startling against the wide
whites. Then she blinked and looked
up as a large raindrop dripped down
her cheek. Within a few seconds, the rain was pelting down.
Which Alan didn't mind since his day couldn't possibly get any worse.
Suddenly a bolt of lightning streaked through the sky and struck a
stand of trees several hundred yards away. On the other hand, perhaps
he shouldn't tempt fate.
Pam was already tugging him toward her car.. "I'll give you a ride.
Where's your luggage?"
"In the back of the limousine at the church. I'll buy everything I need
when I get to Fort Myers." He opened the passenger-side door, lifting
it out and up at its awkward angle, then gingerly lowered himself onto
the dingy sheepskin-covered seat. Once inside, he turned to look at
Pam, who barked, "Buckle up," as she started the engine.
With a teeth-jarring jolt, they descended from the curb in reverse.
Then Pam peeled rubber on the wet pavement, and made an illegal U-turn.
As they sped toward the highway, Alan winced at the sound of her
stripping gears, then braced an arm against the cracked vinyl
dashboard. A dislocated shoulder was the most minor injury he could
hope for when the rescue team extracted them with the jaws of life.
"Uh, Pam."
She glanced over at him, turning the steering wheel in the same
direction. He gasped as the car ran off
the shoulder, then sighed in
relief when she jerked it back to the pavement. "What?" she asked,
oblivious to his alarm.
"Never mind," he said hurriedly. "We'll talk when we get to the
terminal. Do you know where you're going?"
She scoffed and made a heart-stopping weave across the yellow line,
then yanked the hem of her dress above her knees. She was barefoot.
"Alan, you know I practically live in my car. It's my job to know where
I'm going."
Alan now realized why Pamela was the most successful real estate agent
in Savannah—after a ride with her, prospective home buyers were
probably too rattled to refuse.
To his horror, she reached over to tune the radio, and after enduring a
full fifteen seconds of her not
once looking at the road, Alan lurched
forward and offered to find a station. He tuned in to some light rock
and eased back in his seat, trying to relax.
Pam made a disapproving sound. "Is that all you can find? My dentist
plays that stuff, as if the sound
of a drill isn't torturous enough."
Alan sighed and found a more trendy station, assuming Pam was satisfied
since she began singing along— badly. Suddenly he focused on the
windshield wiper on his side and pursed his lips. "Is that a man's
sock?" he asked.
"Yeah," she sang, weaving and shrugging. "The wiper blade fell off and
the sound of that metal arm scraping against the windshield wore on my
nerves."
Alan shivered.
She turned a dazzling smile his way. "The black sock is hardly
noticeable and it works great."
He begged to differ, but he didn't dare. He briefly wondered which of
Pam's admirers had left the handy souvenir, then pushed the thought
aside. Instead, he closed his eyes and conjured up visions of sandy
beaches and unlimited quantities of alcohol. He'd buy and finish the
entire set of a new science-fiction series he'd been yearning to read.
And Mrs. Josephine Montgomery Sterling, mother of three, would be far,
far away...wiping runny noses.
Pamela respected his silence, humming and singing along with the radio,
but not pressing him into conversation. After several minutes, he
opened his eyes and glanced at her. Her profile was almost classically
beautiful—the tilt of her nose, the curve of her pronounced cheekbones.
Except Pam's upper lip protruded slightly over her lower lip, giving
her the appearance of having an upside-down mouth. Combined with large
blue eyes and a mane of dark gold hair, she was stunning to the point
of being intimidating. She had the braver half of Savannah's bachelors
running to her bed, and the smarter half
just plain running.
He'd heard the stories in the locker room at the club—Pam's exploits in
bed were legendary. But he'd often wondered how many of the rumors were
rooted in fact and how many were pure conjecture based on Pamela's
background. She'd grown up in the Grass-wood projects, the black eye of
Savannah's otherwise beautiful downtown face. Grasswood was notoriously
populated with several generations of dopeheads, prostitutes and petty
thieves.
The first time he met Pamela, he'd peeled her off another girl's back
in the hallway of his private high school and she'd rewarded him with a
sharp kick to his shin. In response to public pressure, Saint London's
Academy had extended scholarships to a handful of families from the
projects, and Pamela's was one of the lucky ones. He remembered her two
brothers being hoodlums and she herself being
garish and unkempt,
mouthy and irreverent, courting fights with girls, boys and teachers
alike. One by one, the Kaminskis had all been expelled.
When he'd started dating Jo several years later, he'd been amazed to
learn the girls were best friends,
and more stunned still when he
discovered that dirty-faced, sparring Pamela had become a top-producing
agent for Savannah's largest realty company. Jo took Pam's flamboyance
and reputation in stride, and soon Alan had grown more relaxed with
Pam's company, despite her unpredictable and scandalous behavior.
The first time Jo had asked him to accompany Pam to a charity benefit
as a favor, he'd been slightly uncomfortable, hoping desperately his
high-bred mother didn't get wind of it because he didn't want to listen
to her reproof. But he'd watched with fascination as Pamela the sexy
siren had morphed into a
sleek and charming conversationalist as she
worked a roomful of potential clients. As a bonus, she'd
even procured
him a few introductions that had proved beneficial in advancing his
computer-consulting business.
She was as different from his reserved, proper ex-fiancee as night and
day. Jo was a quiet reading
bench, Pam was a tousled bed. Jo was a
contented house cat, Pam was a prowling lioness.
Alan frowned. The woman was a little scary.
"I'll wait with you," she announced as she veered into long-term
parking.
"That's not necessary," he said, hanging on while she took him on a
harrowing ride through the parking garage.
They lurched to a crooked halt one-eighth of an inch from a four-foot
round concrete pillar. "I'll buy
you a drink," she said, and lifted
herself out of her seat with the force of putting on the emergency
brake. "Let me get some decent shoes."
Hiking up her skirt, she walked around to the trunk in stocking feet.
Alan got out of the car and
followed her. She unlocked and lifted the
lid to reveal an unbelievable array of footwear—pumps, sandals, boots,
tennis shoes—he guessed there were fifty or more pairs scattered to the
far corners
of the trunk, no doubt from her perpetual careening.
"Do you moonlight as a traveling shoe salesman?" he asked.
She laughed. "I never know what kind of terrain I'll be showing a house
in—I try to be prepared."
Alan reached in and withdrew a thigh-high red-patent leather boot. He
lifted an eyebrow and asked, "Where's the matching leash?"
She smirked and yanked the boot away from him. Pam hastily rummaged
through the pile and came
up with one light-colored high-heel pump and
slid her foot into it, then stood on one leg while she searched for its
long-lost mate. "Aha!" she said, finally retrieving it, then tossed in
the pair with the
broken heel and slammed the trunk with vigor. It
bounced back up and she slammed it twice more
before it held. "The catch is tricky," she informed him, slinging her
purse over her shoulder.
"Let's go."
They garnered more than a little attention as they made their way
through the airport and settled into a booth at a tacky lounge. To send
him off right, Pam ordered two shots of tequila and a pitcher of
margaritas on the rocks. She licked the back of her hand and sprinkled
salt on it. He did the same and lifted his shot glass to hers.
"You make the toast," she said, her eyes bright.
Her beauty struck him at that moment, and his tongue stumbled slightly.
"Uh, to being single," he said, clinking her glass heartily.
"I'll drink to that," she seconded, then tossed back the tequila,
licked the salt from her hand and sucked on a lime wedge.
He followed her lead, squinting when the sour juice drenched his
tongue. "I really didn't want to get married anyway," he mumbled.
"So why did you propose?" she asked, then poured them each a glass of
margarita from the pitcher. .
Alan shrugged. "It sounds silly now, but at the time it seemed like the
thing to do."
Her look was dubious, but she didn't question him further. Instead, she
laughed. "You're a mess."
Alan glanced down at his wet, disheveled tuxedo and chuckled, then
scanned her rumpled appearance
and grinned. "So are you."
They both laughed and he loosened his bow tie, letting the ends hang
down the front of his stained, pleated shirt. "What a hell of a day,"
he said, shaking his head and cradling the frosty glass of pale
green
liquid.
"Yeah," she agreed. She took a deep drink from her glass, then one more
drink to finish it off. "Did you have any idea she was hung up on John
Sterling?"
He frowned. "I knew he was hung up on her, but I never suspected she'd
even consider a man with so many kids.'' He finished his own drink in a
long throat-numbing swallow. "Did you know?"
She shook her head and refilled their glasses. "I knew something was
bothering her, but I assumed it
was just prewedding jitters."
"I feel like a fool," he announced, swallowing more of the tangy drink.
"I know everyone is laughing at me."
She shook her head again, dislodging another strand from her stiff
hairdo. "They probably feel sorry
for you."
"Oh, thanks, that makes me feel tons
better."
"Everyone will forget about it by the time you return," she said in a
soothing tone as she topped off
their glasses again.
The alcohol was beginning to take effect on his empty, nervous stomach.
His tongue and the tips of his fingers were growing increasingly numb.
He pushed his water-spotted glasses back up on his nose. "I hope so,
but I doubt it. Maybe I should move."
She scowled, an expression which did not diminish the prettiness of
flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. "That's ridiculous—you've lived in
Savannah all your life. Your parents would be hurt. And your consulting
business—" she lifted her glass again and squinted at him "—you can't
leave before you
get old Mr. Gordon's computer account. I went to a lot
of trouble linking up the two of you at the children's benefit."
"I know," he said mournfully, swirling the liquid in his glass before
taking another deep drink. "You're right, of course. But let me wallow
a little—my ego is pretty tender at the moment."
"You'll bounce back," she said with confidence. "There'll be
debutantes lined up at your door by
the time you return from your trip."
Her words were slightly slurred—or was his hearing becoming somewhat
warped? "Nope." He sat up straight and jerked his thumb to his chest
awkwardly. "I'm never getting married. As of today, wife is a
four-letter word."
"Alan," Pamela said, leaning forward, "wife
has always been a
four-letter word."
He frowned. "You know what I mean."
Feeling a little tipsy herself, Pamela looked across the sticky table
at her drinking companion and a
feeling akin to envy crept over her.
She wondered what it would feel like to have a man so in love with you
that he'd swear off marriage completely if he couldn't have you. Pam
bit her bottom lip. She'd
known Jo Montgomery for years, and her best
friend had always demonstrated remarkable good sense—until today.
What could have possessed her to abandon her faithful boyfriend of
three years at the altar to marry
a widower with three kids? Granted,
Jo had confided that her and Alan's sexual relationship left a little
to be desired—and personally, Pam found Alan quite bookish and dull,
but even a boring man didn't deserve to be jilted. But she knew Jo felt
bad because she'd asked Pam to go after him. Even though
she didn't say
it, Pam knew Jo feared Alan might do something impulsive and
self-destructive.
She watched as Alan tilted his head back and emptied his glass. In high
school, Pam had triumphantly dubbed him "the Ken doll," a nickname she
still used in conversations with Jo, much to Jo's consternation. His
fair hair was cut in a trendy, precision style, and his round wire
glasses were like everything else in his wardrobe: designer quality.
The man was painfully clean-cut, his skin typically scrubbed within an
inch of its life, his preppie clothes stiff enough to stand in a
corner. She perused his slim, chiseled nose and squared-off chin,
complete
with an aristocratic cleft. He was handsome in an Osmond kind
of way, she supposed, but everything about him screamed predictable.
Alan Parish came from thick money, as her mother would say. She doubted
if he'd ever experienced belly-hurting hunger, missed school because
his shoes had finally fallen completely apart, or scraped together
money to post bail for three family members in one week. The worlds
they came from were
so far apart, they were in separate dimensions.
Then she bit back a smile. Right now, with his hair mussed, his glasses
askew and a narrow streak of
mud on his jaw, he looked more like one of
her stray lovers—disorderly and disobedient. Only she
knew better. Alan
was an uptight computer geek—she'd bet the man had a flowchart on the
headboard
of his bed.
"What's so funny?" he asked, his expression hurt.
"Nothing," she said as fast as her thick tongue would allow while
waving for the waiter to bring them more drinks. Then they spent the
next half hour extolling the virtues of being footloose and
commitment-free while they drained the second pitcher.
At last, Alan looked at his watch, moving it up and back as if he was
trying to focus. "Time to go,"
he said, standing a little unsteadily.
Pam stuck out her hand. "I think I'll stick around and sober up for the
drive home."
"With your driving, who could tell?"
She scowled. "Have a great time, Alan."
"Yeah,'' he said dryly. "I'm off on my honeymoon all by myself." He
bowed dramatically.
"Maybe you'll meet someone," she said.
Alan straightened, then frowned and pursed his lips.
"What?" she asked, intrigued by the expression on his face.
"Go with me," he said.
Pam nearly choked on her last swallow of margarita. "What?"
"Go with me," he repeated, giving her a lopsided smile.
"You're drunk," she accused.
He hiccuped. "Am not."
"Alan, I'm not going on your
honeymoon with you."
"Why not?" he pressed. "My secretary booked a suite at a first-rate
hotel, and it's all paid for—room, meals, everything." He pulled the
plane tickets from inside his jacket and shook them for emphasis. "Come
on, I could use the company and you could probably use a vacation."
A week away from Savannah was tempting, she
mused.
His smile was cajoling. "Long days on the beach, drinking margaritas,
steak and lobster in the evening." He wagged his eyebrows. "Skimpily
dressed men."
At last he had her attention. "Yeah?"
He nodded drunkenly. "Yeah, you might get lucky."
But she couldn't fathom spending a week with Alan, and she'd never
share a bed with the man, no
matter how roomy. She shook her head. "I
can't."
"I'll sleep on the pullout bed," he assured her.
She set down her drink. "But what will people think? What will Jo
think?''
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Pam squirmed on the uncomfortable bench seat. "Well, you know—us being
together for a week."
His shocked expression didn't do much for her ego. "You mean that
someone might think that we're...
that we're... involved?'' His
howl of
laughter made her feel like a fool.
Of course no one would jump to that conclusion—a high-bred southern
gentleman and a trashy
white girl from the projects—it was ludicrous.
"And as far as Jo is concerned," Alan continued, "if she ever thought
there was a remote possibility we'd be attracted to each other, she'd
never have trusted me to escort you to your business functions."
Pam's fuzzy brain told her an insult was imbedded in his rambling. "I
suppose you're right, but a few people might jump to conclusions."
Alan shrugged. "It's not like the whole town of Savannah is going to
know Pam."
She glanced down at the horrid peach-colored dress. "But I don't have
any clothes."
"We'll go shopping when we get there," he said simply. "Come on, will
you go or won't you?"
She had accrued vacation time. And only one deal in progress that she
could probably handle over the phone. And Jo had
asked her to keep an eye on Alan. She pressed a finger to her aching
temple. It
hurt to think too deeply.
Pamela emptied her glass and wiped the back of her hand across her
mouth, then looked up at him
and smiled. "Well, I could use some new
sandals...why the heck not?"
Two
Alan saluted the head flight attendant, then dropped into his seat,
wincing when the jolt threatened to scramble his furry brain. He felt
as if he was forgetting something, but the answer hovered on the fringe
of his memory, eluding him. His neck suddenly felt rubbery. Laying his
head back, he closed his eyes
and slowly reached up to pat the wallet
in his breast pocket. That wasn't it. Hmm, what then?
"Ex-schuse me," came a loud female voice. He opened his eyes a
millimeter and Pamela Kaminski
slowly came into focus, just as her
purse whacked some poor businessman upside the head. "Sorry, sweetie."
She leaned over to place an apologetic kiss on the man's receding
hairline.
Alan smiled and tried to snap his fingers, but missed. Pamela! He'd
forgotten Pamela.
"There you are!" Pamela said, her eyes glassy. "When I came out of the
ladies' room, you'd disappeared. Thank God, my middle name is Jo. Then
all I had to' do was convince a woman at the gate that the last name on
my license and the name on the ticket were different because I'd just
gotten married." She giggled. "Whew!" She swung into the seat next to
Alan, then leaned against him and squealed. "I've
never flown
first-class before."
"Unlimited drinks," he informed her, rolling his head.
Her grin was lopsided. "No fooling? I'm up for another pitcher."
"You'll have to settle for one drink at a time—and they don't serve
margaritas."
She pouted, sighing at the inconvenience, then noisily fumbled with her
seat belt until Alan lifted his
head and offered to help. "It's
twisted," he announced, reaching across her lap to straighten the
strap.
The chiffon ruffles at her plunging neckline tickled his jaw. He
valiantly tried to concentrate on the
silver buckle, but his eyes kept
straying to her cleavage. The tiny embroidered rose front and center
on
her black bra made an appearance every time she inhaled. After three
clumsy attempts, he finally clicked the belt together, then settled
back into his seat heavily.
The flight attendant eyed them warily when they ordered bourbon and
water, but served them promptly enough. They finished the weak drinks
before takeoff, and Alan found himself beginning to doze as
they taxied
down the runway. An iron grip on his arm startled him fully awake.
Pamela's left hand encircled his right wrist so tightly her knuckles
were white. Her long peach-colored nails were biting into his flesh.
And her face was turning as green as the limes they'd sucked dry.
"What's wrong?"
"Remember when I said I'd never flown first-class?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I've never flown before, period."
"No kidding? Why not?"
"I just remembered—it's a phobia of mine." She put her fingers to her
mouth. "Oh, dear."
He leaned forward and twisted in his seat. "What?"
"I'm going to throw up."
Alan panicked. "Oh, don't do that."
Still holding her mouth, she nodded in warning, her eyes wide. Alan
fumbled for the airsick bag, and jerked it under her mouth just as the
plane banked. She unloaded, missing the bag more than hitting it,
although Alan accepted some of the blame for holding the paper bag
somewhat less than stone still. He heard a groan go up from surrounding
passengers.
. .
When her retching gave way to dry heaves, Pamela slumped back into her
seat, frightfully pale. A flight attendant was at their side as soon as
the plane leveled off, extending a warm, wet towel to Pamela. "I'm
going to need more than one," Pam muttered, eyeing the mess she'd made.
Organza was more absorbent than it looked, Alan decided, fighting the
urge to vomit, himself, as he handed the bag to the attendant.
Insisting she was too weak to make a trip to the lavatory, Pam cleaned
up as well as she could sitting in her seat. The attendant, obviously
at a loss, murmured the two-hour trip would pass by quickly.
"Oh, God," Pam breathed, laying her head back. "It's an omen—I should
have never gotten on this plane."
"Relax,", Alan said, reaching forward to pat her arm, then decided it
would be more sanitary to pat her head. Her hair was stiff and had
pulled free from the clasp that hung benignly above one ear. "It'll be a
smooth flight—I travel all the time and I've never had any problems."
Suddenly the plane dipped, then corrected, then dipped and banked
again. The Fasten Seat Belt sign dinged on, and the pilot's voice came
over the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have encountered some
turbulence." The attendant was thrown out of her fold-down wall seat,
but she recovered and continued smiling as she fastened her own belt.
"Please bear with us while the captain climbs to a higher altitude."
It was the worst flight Alan had ever experienced. The plane continued
to pitch and roll, eliciting gasps and moans from the passengers. A
cabinet door in the small galley gave way, sending trays of food into
the aisles.
Alan felt terrible, willing his stomach to stay calm, and pressing his
throbbing head back into the seat to keep it as immobile as possible.
He felt terrible, too, for inviting Pam to come along. She'd probably
be traumatized for life. He heard others seated around them getting
sick, and he glanced anxiously at Pam
to see if she would lose it again.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her lips were moving. "Hail Mary, full
of..,full of gr-grace..." She opened one eye and whispered to Alan,
"I've never said my prayers while I was loaded—do you think
it cancels
out?"
Alan pursed his lips and considered the question, then shook his head,
and she continued to stumble through the prayer, finishing with "Pray
for us s-sinners now and...and at the hour- of our death. Amen." Then
she crossed herself.
"Hey," he whispered soothingly. "We're going to be fine. It'll level
out here in a few minutes."
On cue, the plane made a sickening dip. Pam swallowed and jerked her
head toward him. "Are you
crazy, Alan? We're all going to die and I'm
going to be buried in this horrid dress—they find our bodies."
He sighed. "Of course they'll find our bod—" He stopped and shook his
head to clear it. "Wait a minute—we're not going to die, okay? I refuse
to die in a plane crash on my wedding day."
Her eyes widened and she gestured wildly with her hands. "Oh, Mr.
Moneybags, I suppose you're
going to buy your way out of, this?"
Alan frowned. He'd spent his entire life trying to make his own way,
only to be frequently reminded he was a Parish, and therefore was
forced to share the credit for his accomplishments with his family
name. He crossed his arms, closed his eyes and refused to be provoked.
"I'm not going to argue with you because I'm drunk and tomorrow this
conversation won't matter."
"Does anything affect you, Alan?" Pam asked, her voice escalating. "You
got jilted today and you still came on this honeymoon like nothing
happened. Now we're getting ready to crash and you sit there
like a
dump on a log."
"That's lump," he corrected, his eyes still closed. "A lump on a log.
Or is it bump?"
"I meant what I said," she retorted. "I'm drunk, but I'm not
incoherent...I'm...I'm...oh, God, I'm going
to be sick again."
His eyes snapped open. He reached for the airsick bag on his side and
thrust it under her chin.
"Arrgghhh!" he cried when she missed the bag again. He looked away and
tried to reach the attendant
bell with his elbow. Once the remaining
contents of her stomach appeared to have been transferred to
the bag,
the floor and all surfaces in between, she fell back into her seat,
completely exhausted. At last
the pilot located a more comfortable
altitude, and the turbulence ceased. The passengers cheered, and within
seconds, Pam fell into a deep sleep.
Alan surveyed his traveling companion and winced. If his head didn't
hurt so much, he'd probably be laughing. Pam Kaminski, the perpetual
playmate, looked like a rag doll in her stained, smelly, ugly
gown. Her
hair was lank and damp, her mouth slack in slumber. He flagged the busy
attendant and quietly asked for more towels, then carefully leaned
toward Pam, trying not to wake her.
With fierce concentration, he delicately wiped her face, admiring the
fine texture and translucence of
her creamy complexion, and the long
fringe of lashes on her sleep-flushed cheeks. She never once
stirred,
not even when he dabbed at the corners of her upside-down mouth. But
for the first time ever
in the presence of Pamela Kaminski, Alan felt
himself stir.
He shifted in his seat, trying to stem the rush of inappropriate
feelings for his ex-fiance's best friend.
But sitting there in her
mussed gown with her mussed hair, she looked like the grubby little
tigress
she'd been in high school, all piss and vinegar, and she made
his blood simmer.
Passing a hand over his face, Alan blamed the lapse on his own
lingering drunkenness. He hadn't
made a big enough fool out of himself already today—why not make a pass
at Pam
and watch her
laugh until she vomited again.
* * *
Pam was a bird flying over a landfill, dipping and diving, the stink of
rotting trash permeating the air.
She started awake and blinked,
disoriented at first, then realized with a jolt that she was on a plane
hurtling toward a shared honeymoon with Alan Parish, and that the stink
was her.
"Ugh." She wrinkled her nose in disgust, and pulled herself straighter
in the seat, flinching at the
explosion of pain in her temples. She
turned her head oh-so-slowly to see Alan zonked out, snoring
softly and
leaning against the wall. His expensive black tux was probably beyond
cleaning, but his
mottled jacket still lay folded neatly across his
lap. Embarrassment flooded her when she remembered how he'd held the
airsick bags as she filled them. She smiled wryly. Alan.had surprised
her.
A ball of white fuzz dangled in his hair, and she reached forward
impulsively to remove it. Awareness leaped through her when she touched
the silky blond strands, which was almost as alarming as the feeling of
warmth that flooded her as she watched his chest rise and fall. Awake,
he was Alan the Automaton. But relaxed in sleep, he looked downright
sexy. A memory surfaced...she'd had an absurd crush on him for the
short time she had attended the private school his family practically
owned.
Before she had time to explore the amazing revelations, the attendant
who had earlier emptied the linen closet on Pam's behalf, touched her
arm and murmured, "Are you feeling better, ma'am?"
Pam nodded gingerly.
The woman smiled gently. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Parish—this flight wasn't a
very promising start to a honeymoon."
Confusion clouded her brain. "But I'm not—" She glanced up at the woman
and smiled tightly. The situation was too convoluted to explain. "It'll
be fine once we get to Fort Myers."
"Congratulations—was it a long engagement?" the woman pressed.
"N-no," Pam stammered, suddenly nervous. "This was all quite sudden.
Could you direct me to the bathroom, please?"
The blue-suited attendant pointed and smiled, then walked back down the
aisle.
Pam slowly pulled herself to a standing position, but the movement
stirred up a fetid smell from her
dress. Swallowing her urge to gag,
she gathered her skirt in her hands, hiked her dress up to her knees
and sidled her way to the lavatory.
Not sure what she expected, she was nonetheless disappointed by the
cramped booth.' 'People actually have sex in here?" she mumbled. A
glance in the mirror .evoked a shocked groan. Her makeup had
disappeared, except for mascara that rimmed her eyes. Her hair was a
sky-high rat's nest of tangles. Miserable, she looked down at her dress
and shuddered—nothing much she could do there.
After washing her face with cool water, she opened her makeup bag to
repair as much damage as possible. At the last minute, she held up a
perfume bottle and gave her dress a couple of squirts.
Too late, she
realized she'd only intensified the stench. Cursing under her breath,
she exited the cubicle and made her way selfconsciously back to
her seat, aware of passengers recoiling in her wake.
Alan was still dozing when she lowered herself into the seat. The
pounding in her head had lessened, making room for reality to ooze into
the crevices of her brain. In her occupation, vacations were hard to
come by because time off meant missed commissions on home deals that
were possibly months in the making. She'd passed up a week in Jamaica
with Nick the All-Nighter, and a long weekend in San Francisco with
Delectable Dale'.
Only to squander seven days in close, romantic quarters with Annoying
Alan.
The captain's voice came over the intercom and announced they were
beginning their final descent to
Fort Myers. Beside her, Alan roused
and started to smile, then his nostrils flared. "Oh my," he said, his
eyes watering.
Pamela frowned sourly. "You're no fresh breeze
yourself."
"A shower would feel pretty good right now," Alan agreed, then touched
his forehead. "Not to mention
a couple of aspirin. We really tied one
on."
Pam nodded. "Tequila will make you say and do strange things." She
caught his gaze and studied his eyes, wondering if he was having as
many misgivings about his hasty invitation as she was about her
impulsive acceptance.
But his ice-blue eyes gave away nothing. "Better buckle up," he said,
pointing, men smiled shyly.
"Need a hand?"
Inhaling sharply, she shook her head. She could handle die guys who
thought they were macho, the self-assured
lady-killers—they were safely shallow. What she couldn't handle was
Alan's Mr. Nice
Guy persona... it threw her off balance.
It was six-thirty when they emerged from the airport, and dusk appeared
to be converging. With only
a few wrong turns, they found the car
rental where Alan's reservations had been made.
"I'm sorry, sir," the clerk said, smiling sympathetically. "We're all
out of full-size luxury cars. We'll
have to step you down—with a
sizable discount, of course."
Alan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, I'll take a
midsize."
The man tapped on the keyboard, then made a clicking noise with his
cheek. "No, sorry."
"Utility vehicle?"
More clicking. "Nada."
Alan pursed his lips. "What do you have
available?"
.
The man smiled and pointed out the window to a row of tiny white
compacts.
Alan shook his head firmly. "No way."
Pam frowned. He was exhibiting typical Parish behavior. "Alan," she
whispered loudly. "What do you mean 'no way'? It's a lousy rental
car—what do you expect?"
He looked at her and mirrored her frown. "The best."
She crossed her arms impatiently and tapped her foot. "I'm tired, sick
and cranky—get the stupid car
and let's go."
His mouth tightened in displeasure, but he nodded curtly to the clerk.
"I'll drive," Alan announced
firmly a few minutes later as they
approached the little car.
"Fine," Pamela said, not missing the dig. "I hope this resort is close
by—I'm beat."
With a lot of cursing from Alan, and frustrated mut-terings from Pam,
they finally managed to wedge themselves into the car. Alan unfolded
the map he'd purchased, taking up the entire interior of the car.
"Looks like about a twenty-minute drive." Then he spent fourteen
minutes rattling the map, trying to refold it.
Pam leaned her head back, forcing thoughts of the coming week from her
mind. She'd just roll with
the punches, as always. Why was she letting
a few days with Alan rattle her? She was safe—the man wasn't the least
bit attracted to her. But it was his uptight idiosyncrasies that were
going to drive her crazy. He was still rattling that damned map. She
reached over and tore it from his hands, wadded it
into a ball and
tossed it in the back seat. "Let's go."
* * *
Alan squinted at a sign as they drove by. "Did that sign say Penwrote
or Pinron?"
"We're lost, aren't we?"
He scoffed and pushed up his glasses. "Of course not."
She sighed dramatically. "Oh, yeah, we're lost, all right."
"'Lost' is a relative term."
"And I guess you're one of those guys who'd rather run out of gas than
stop and ask for directions."
"Well, if you hadn't destroyed the map—"
"Forget the map—pull off at the next exit"
Suddenly the car wobbled. At a thumping sound on the back right side of
the car, he slowed. "Darn it,"
he mumbled as he steered the lame car to
the shoulder of the road. "We've got a flat."
"Beautiful," Pam said, throwing her hands up in the air. "We're lost
and we have a flat."
"Well, it's not my fault." He shoved the gearshift into park. "You're
the one who insisted we take this, this...matchbox car to begin with!"
"So call them to bring us another car."
"My cell phone is in my suitcase in Savannah."
She reached into her purse and pulled out her own mobile phone,
but-frowned. "The battery's dead."
"Great This is just great!"
She pointed down the highway. "There's probably a phone off that exit."
Exasperated, Alan saidn "I'm sure there is, but by the time I've walked
that far, I could have the tire changed."
She sighed mightily once more, then opened the passenger-side door .and
stepped out. Alan did the
same and walked back to the tiny trunk,
swaying as vehicles passed them at terrific
speeds.
"Are you sure you know how to do this?" Pam asked suspiciously.
"Sure," he said with false confidence. He'd once read a roadside
manual, and he was sure the information would come back to him. Men
just knew these things, didn't they?
Thirty minutes later, he was on his back, still trying to position the
jack, when he looked over to see Pamela standing with her skirt hiked
up to her thighs, and her thumb jerked,
to the side.
"What the heck are you doing?" he shouted.
"Getting us a ride," she yelled matter-of-factly.
"Would you please cover yourself? You'll attract every serial killer in
the vicinity."
"I don't care, as long as he'll give us a ride to the resort."
"I've almost got it," he lied.
"Sure," she said, unconvinced, then smiled wide into oncoming traffic.
He heard the sound of a large vehicle slowing down and glanced over to
see a big rig edging onto the shoulder in front of their cracker-box
car.
' 'It worked!" she squealed, trotting toward the truck.
Alan heaved himself to his feet and took off after her, grabbed her by
the elbow and pulled her to a halt. "Are you crazy? Didn't your mother
ever tell you not to accept rides from strangers?"
Pam angled her head at him. "Alan, there's no one stranger than you."
Then she yanked her arm out
of his grasp.
He frowned at the tire iron in his hand, then tested its weight and
hurried after her. At least he could
break the serial killer's knees if
he tried anything funny.
The burly, bearded murderer was already climbing down from his rig,
doffing his cap to his vivacious victim. The man hadn't yet noticed
him, Alan observed.
"Howdy, little lady, having car trouble?"
He couldn't hear Pam's response, but from the tilt of her head, he
assumed it was something pathetically feminine and appropriate. She did
at least gesture back to Alan, and the man looked up at him, frowning
at the tire iron in his
hand. Alan swung it casually as he stepped up beside Pam, slapping the
metal bar against his left palm as if he wielded the weapon often—and
well.
"Name's Jack," the man said cautiously as he extended his grubby hand
to Alan.
Alan sized him up. Jack the Ripper,
Jack the Jackal, Jugular Jack.
Shifting the bar to his left hand, Alan firmly shook the paw the man
offered, then spit on the ground in what he hoped was a universal
he-man gesture.
"I'm Pamela and this is Alan," Pam said cloyingly, her eyes shining.
Jack looked them over. ''You two just get married?''
"No," Alan said.
"Yes," Pam declared.
The trucker looked between them, and took a tentative step backward.
Pam shot Alan a desperate look, "I mean, yes,"
Alan said, conjuring up a laugh. He shrugged and winked at the man.
"Still can't get used to the idea."
"We just need a ride," Pam said quickly. "Tothe..." She looked to Alan
for help.
"The Pleasure Palisades," Alan said, somewhat selfconsciously. Pam
raised an eyebrow and he felt his neck grow warm.
Turning back to the man, she asked, "Do you know where it is?"
"Yeah," Jack said, tugging at his chin. "Y'all ever been there?"
"No," Alan said. "My secretary moonlights as a travel agent—she made
all the arrangements. I hear
it's a very nice
place."
The trucker pursed his lips, then nodded slowly. "Yep."
"Can we get a ride?" Pam pressed. "We'll be glad to pay you for your
trouble." She dug her elbow
deep into Alan's rib. He gasped, then
nodded.
"No bother," Jack said, turning to walk toward his truck. He swept his
arm ahead of him. "Climb on in."
"What're you hauling?" Pam's new drawl and buoyant step were evidence
she'd already bought into the little adventure.
"Hogs," the man said proudly as he climbed up to open the
passenger-side door.
"Hogs?" Alan parroted as Pamela clambered inside. She was barefoot
again, carrying her shoes in one hand.
"Yep." The man grinned as he waited for Alan to get in beside her.
Still gripping the tire iron solidly,
Alan glanced over his shoulder
uneasily.
"You'll need to put down that tire iron, son," the man said bluntly.
Alan straightened and puffed out his chest. "And why is that?"
Another grin. ''So you can hold Barbecue," the man said, pointing
inside.
"Oh, it's a baby!" Pam cooed.
Letting down his guard slightly, Alan slid one eye toward the cab.
Pamela was sprawled in the seat, leaning over to fondle a tiny pig on
the floorboard.
"That's Barbecue," the man said, laughing. "Born a few days ago. The
rest of the litter died, so I figured I'd keep him up here till the end
of the run."
"He's adorable," Pam said, squealing as loudly as the nervous,
quivering pig.
"Get in, son," Jack said, giving him a slight shove.
Alan spilled into the deep seat. The door banged closed behind him.
"We're goners," he said to Pam.
Her forehead creased. "What?"
"The man's probably got all kinds of butcher tools on him, and a meat
hook for each one of us."
"You're paranoid," she scoffed. "We're lucky he stopped."
Jack opened his door and climbed up behind the huge steering wheel,
effectively halting their conversation. He pulled down the bill of his
cap, then started the truck. It rumbled and coughed, then lurched into
gear. "To the Pleasure Palisades," he crowed, slapping his knee. "You
folks will have a dandy wedding night there."
Alan's heart pounded and he didn't dare look at Pam. He glanced at his
watch and almost laughed out loud. Less than eight hours ago, he was
ready to walk down the aisle to marry Jo Montgomery, hoping the act of
commitment would put a new spin on their lackluster sex life. Instead
he was sitting in the cab of a big pig rig with a woman who smelled
almost as bad as the cargo, with only the promise of a lumpy sofa bed
to sleep on—if they ever made
it to the resort.
Pamela chatted with Jack, while Alan sank deeper into the seat. He felt
moisture on his foot and looked down in time to see Barbecue squatting
over his shoe. Alan didn't have the energy to pull away, so he simply
lay his head back on the cracked vinyl. He'd officially sunk to the
level of piglet pee post. What
a poetic way to sum up the day.
Three
"Are you sure this is it?" Pamela peered out the window at the
four-story structure. Half of the sign's neon letters were unlit.
"Yep," Jack said.
"Linda said it was an older resort, but with a lot of atmosphere." Alan
said, frowning slightly. "It's beachfront, though—I think I can see the
water from here."
"Well, it's hard to tell much in the dark," Pam said agreeably,
allowing Alan to help, her down from
the truck. His hands were strong
around her waist, and he set her only a few inches in front of him.
Surprised at her body's reaction, she quickly stepped back.
They looked up and waved to thank the trucker. Jack leaned out of his.
window and yelled, "Wish I
were you tonight, son. She's a looker!"
Pleased, Pam grinned, men glanced at Alan. He'd turned beet red and his
smile was tight as he nodded
at the man, speechless. Pam felt sorry for
Alan being put on the spot, so she scrambled for something
to smooth
over the moment. "Well, let's get checked in. I can't wait to get out
of these clothes."
Too late, she realized she'd only added fuel to the fire. Alan cleared
his throat, then turned toward the entrance. Without the lights of the
truck, the parking lot was plunged into darkness. She took a step,
then stumbled and
grabbed the back of his jacket on the way down, very nearly taking him
with her.
He straightened and reached for her, his hands moving over
her in search of a handhold. She felt him latch on to her shoulder and
heard the rip of fabric as he came up with a handful of chiffon
ruffles. He cursed and pulled her to her feet with an impatient sigh.
"Do you think we can manage the last hundred yards without another
catastrophe?"
She nodded, shocked at the sensations his hands were causing. It was
the alcohol, the hunger, the exhaustion, the darkness—all of it
combined to play games with her mind. What she needed was rest
and
daylight to remind her he was only uptight, dweeby Alan.
He grasped her elbow and steered her in the direction of the hotel. Pam
suddenly had a premonition
about the place and the week to come, but
she kept her mouth shut and tucked her torn ruffles inside
her bodice.
Flanked on either side by two gigantic plastic palm trees, the front
entrance was less than spectacular.
A dank, musty smell rose to greet
them when they stepped onto the faded orange carpet of the gloomy
reception area. To their right, stiff vinyl furniture so old it was
back in style and more plastic plants encircled a portable TV set with
an impressive rabbit-ear antenna. A home shopping channel was on,
and
two polyester-clad, middle-aged couples sat riveted to the screen. To
their left, the gift shop was having a clearance on all Elvis items.
Pam pursed her lips—maybe she could expand her collection.
She glanced at Alan to gauge his reaction. He was frowning behind his
glasses, clearly ready to bolt.
"This isn't exactly
what I expected," he mumbled. She bit down on her tongue, suddenly
annoyed. She doubted if he'd eyer spent a night in less than four-star
accommodations.
The reception desk stood high and long in front of them, dwarfing the
skinny frizzy-haired clerk
behind the half glass. She was snapping a
mouthful of chewing gum. "Can I help you?" she asked disinterestedly,
not looking up. She was surrounded by cheap paneling and sickly colors.
In a word,
the decor was garish. Alan's ex-fiancee, an interior
designer, would have fainted on the spot. Yet for
Pam, the place had a
certain...retro
charm.
"Hello," Alan said tightly. "I'm not sure this is the right place. Are
there any other hotels named Pleasure Palisades in the area?"
Twiggy glanced up, her eyes widening in appreciation as she scanned
Alan. She completely ignored Pam. "Nope," she said, sounding infinitely
more interested. "This is it."
Alan gave Pam a worried glance, then looked back to the clerk. "Do you
have a reservation for Mr.
and Mrs.—" He coughed, then continued. "For
Parish?"
"Parish?" She flicked a permed hank of dark hair over her shoulder,
turned to a dusty computer terminal and clicked her fingers over the
keyboard. "Parish... Parish... yep, Mr. and Mrs. Alan P. Parish, the
deluxe honeymoon suite through next Friday night." She glanced up and
added, "With complimentary VCR and movie library since it's almost
Valentine's Day."
Alan's eyes widened in alarm. "We're in the right place?" Twiggy didn't
answer, only blew a huge pink
bubble with the gum, sucked the whole wad back into her mouth, then
smiled.
"I'm sure the room is nice," Pam whispered, trying to sound optimistic.
As long as it had running water, she couldn't care less.
He held up his finger to the girl. "Just one moment" He curled his hand
around Pam's upper arm and pulled her aside. "There must be some
mistake. I'll call Linda and get this straightened out immediately.
I
saw a Hilton a couple miles down the road— we'll get a room there
tonight."
Pam was shaking her head before he finished. "I don't have 'a couple
miles' left in me or in these shoes." She stamped her foot for emphasis.
"We'll call a cab," he said, frowning.
She stabbed him.in the chest with her index finger. "You call a cab,
and you go down the road to
the Hilton. I'm tired and I'm hungover. As
long as this place is clean, I'm staying!"
He took a step back and poked at his glasses. "You don't have to get
nasty about it."
She swept an arm down the front of her dress. "That's the point, Alan.
I am nasty."
Holding up his hands, he relented. "Okay, okay— we'll stay one night."
Two minutes later* the clerk swiped his credit card, then handed them
two large tarnished keys. "Room 410 in the corner, great view, cool
balcony. But the elevator is out of order, so you'll need to take the
stairs." She smiled tightly at Pam mis time, and snapped her gum. "Have
a pleasant stay."
Alan moved in the direction she indicated, but Pam grabbed his arm.
"I'll need to purchase a few things
to change into," she reminded him, nodding toward the gift shop.
"You need something in the gift shop?" the girl asked. She didn't wait
for an answer, just reached under the counter and pulled out a piece of
cardboard that read, "Back in a few," and propped it against a can
of
cola. "I'm the cashier, too." She snapped her gum and emerged from
behind the wooden monstrosity.
Pam followed the girl into the gift cubbyhole, rubbing her tired eyes.
"Alan, what does the 'P' stand for?" She quickly surveyed the dusty
merchandise on the cramped shelves, searching for items to help her get
through the week.
Alan moved to the other side of the store, intent on his own shopping.
"What 'P'?"
She stacked toiletries in her arms, then moved to a wall rack of
miscellaneous clothing. "Your middle initial, what does it stand for?"
He was silent for several seconds, then said, "Never mind."
She turned around and grinned, her curiosity piqued. "Come on, what's
your middle name?"
The frown on his face deepened. "Forget it, okay?"
"Well, it has to be something odd or you wouldn't be so touchy."
He looked away.
"Parnell?"
"No."
"Purcell?"
"No."
"Prudell?"
"Pam." His gaze swung back to her, his voice low and menacing. "Don't."
She made a face at him, then turned her attention back to the shelves.
She'd need shorts and a T-shirt, not to mention underwear. Pam spied a
single package of men's cotton boxer shorts and picked it up,
then
stopped when she realized Alan also had a hand on them. They played a
game of mini-tug-of-war, with each tug a little stronger than the last.
She yanked the package. "I didn't figure you for a boxer man, Alan."
He pulled harder. "And I didn't figure you for a boxer woman, Pam."
She jerked the package. "You don't know me very well."
"I have to have underwear,"
he protested, then nearly stumbled back
when she abruptly released the package.
Pam acquiesced, palms up. "Since underwear has always been optional for
me, they're all yours."
His Adam's apple bobbed and he looked contrite. "M-maybe we can share."
Perhaps it was the timbre of his voice, or iris boyish, disheveled
appearance, or Elvis's "Blue Christmas" playing softly in the
background, but Pamela suddenly felt a pull toward Alan, and it scared
her.' 'I don't think so," she said more haughtily than she meant to.
Alan shrugged. "Suit yourself. Do you have everything you need?"
Nodding, Pam yanked an Elvis T-shirt and a pair of pink cotton shorts
off the rack, then heaved her bounty onto the counter.
Alan piled his items on top. "I'll get these things," he said, opening
his wallet. She started to protest,
but he held up his hand. "It's the
least I can do," he said, then raised an eyebrow when the clerk lifted
a package of rub-on
tattoos from Pam's things.
Pam grinned. "I always wanted a tattoo."
Five minutes later she lifted her skirt, shifted her packages and
tilted her head back to look up the
stairwell that seemed to go on and
on. She was exhausted and again her decision to share a room with Alan
for a week seemed ludicrous. On the way up they had to stop several
times to rest, then walked down.a dimly lit outdoor walkway, past
several doors to reach the last room, 410.
Pam could hear the ocean breaking on the beach below them, and she
leaned over the railing to get a better look. Suddenly Alan's arm
snaked around her waist and dragged her back against his chest.
The
length of his body molded to hers, and Pam gasped as her senses leaped.
After a few seconds,
he released her gently, then admonished in a low
voice, "I don't trust that railing, and I don't want to make a trip to
the hospital tonight."
Her heart still pounding in her chest, Pam laughed nervously and
listened while he fidgeted with the
key in the dark. "You'd think they
could put up a few lights," Alan muttered. He pushed open the door,
reached around the corner and flipped on a switch.
They stood and stared inside the room in
astonishment.
"They obviously saved all the lights for the interior," he added flatly.
Pam nodded, speechless. The room's chandelier was a dazzling display of
multicolored lights, multiplied dozens of times by the room's
remarkable collection of mirrors.
"It's a disco," he mumbled.
And the bed was center stage. Huge and circular, it was raised two
levels. A large spotlight over the padded headboard shone onto the
satiny gold-colored comforter, and Pam doubted the light was meant for
reading.
"At least the carpet is new," she said, stepping inside.
"Yeah," he said. "And I'm sure they paid top dollar—brown shag is
really hard to find."
She glanced around the room, at the avocado-green' kitchenette, the
makeshift living room consisting
of a battered sofa—presumably the
pullout bed—and two chaise-size beanbag chairs. The sitting area
was
"separated" from the sleeping area by two short Oriental floor screens.
The wide-screen TV was situated to be visible from the bed or from the
sofa.
"It's spacious," she observed. "And functional."
"Yeah—for orgies."
She scoffed and set down her bags, crossing the room to inspect the
bed. She poked at the comforter
and watched the bed ripple. "It's a
water bed," she said, grinning. "And look." She held up a small bottle
lying on the pillow. "Complimentary body liqueur-cinnamon." She twisted
off the lid, then dipped her index finger in and tasted it. "Mmm, I'm
starved."
Alan rolled his eyes, then looked around the room as if plotting how to
get through the night without touching anything. "It's a dump," he
pronounced.
Pam replaced the liqueur. It was a repeat of the car rental—nothing but
the best was good enough for Alan Parish. "Lighten up, Alan, this is
fun."
"Speak for yourself,'' he muttered, shaking his head.
Straightening, she put her hands on her hips and threw back her
shoulders. ''Why don't you come down from your high horse and see how
the other half lives?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means life isn't always first-class, and you have to learn to roll
with the punches."
He squared his jaw. "I can roll with the best of them."
"Hah! You can't even bend,
Alan, much less roll. You're just a spoiled
little rich boy."
"I resent that," he said, his eyes narrowing.
"Go ahead—it's still the truth." She jerked up the bag that contained
her new toiletries and headed in
the direction of what appeared to be
the bathroom. She opened the door, then breathed, "Wow."
A large red sunken tub dominated the room, appropriately set off by
pale pink tile. It appeared that the sink, shower and commode had been
miniaturized to make room for the tub, which could easily accommodate
three adults.
"Hmm," Alan said behind her. "Another novelty." His voice was still
laced with sarcasm.
"But not the last," Pam said, pointing out the picture window over the
tub.
Their room was the last one set in a U formation, giving them a perfect
view over an open plaza of the brightly lit room on the opposite side.
Though not as spectacular as theirs, the room was furnished in the same
style and occupied by an elderly couple who clearly had a disdain for
clothing. Pam stared, fascinated, as the couple moved around in the
kitchen, completely nude—with no tan lines. "It's like watching a car
crash," she murmured. "You don't want to look, but you can't help
yourself."
The woman turned her gaze directly toward them, then nudged her
husband. Pam and Alan stood
frozen, like two animals caught in
headlights. Then the couple smiled and waved.
Alan reached forward and yanked the curtain closed over the tub.
"Unbelievable," he muttered.
"Those people are old enough to be my
parents."
Pam leaned over and turned on the hot-water faucet. The first few
trickles of water looked a little rusty, but it ran clear within a few
seconds, so she stopped up the tub and poured in a handful of scented
salts from a gold plastic container.
"Not everyone loses interest in sex when they get older, Alan." Then
her best friend's comments about her drab intimate relationship with
Alan rattled around in her head. "Assuming a person was ever interested
in sex in the first place," she added dryly.
She reached around the back of her dress to capture the zipper in her
fingers, and began to ease it downward. Suddenly, she remembered Alan
was still in the room, and stopped. Holding up her
neckline, she
sighed. "Alan, I don't have the energy to throw you out, but I'm
warning you—these
clothes are coming off in the next few seconds, so if
you don't want to be embarrassed twice in one evening, you better
vamoose."
He paled, then groped for the doorknob and bolted out of the room. Pam
giggled, then slid the zipper down and escaped from the hideous, rancid
dress. After ripping, off her shredded panty hose, she unhooked her bra
and stepped into the heavenly, hot bubbles.
"Ahhhh," she breathed, sinking in up to her neck. Leaning her head
back, she closed her eyes, her
hands moving over her body to dislodge
the day's grime. She automatically lapsed into a series of isometric
exercises she always performed in the tub or shower for toning and
relaxing. After a few minutes, her limbs grew languid, but her skin
tingled.
Gingerly, she lifted her head and -looked toward the closed door.
Scooping up a handful of bubbles,
she trickled them across her raised
leg. Alan Parish was the most conservative, stuffy man she'd ever
met
under the age of sixty. Of course, he did have a lot to live up to,
being the oldest son of such a prominent Savannah family. A subdivision
had even been named for them— Parish Corners. He was
a regular pillar
of the community, unlike herself, who had .nowhere to go in. the world
but up.
And here they were, two opposing forces, thrown together in a tacky
hotel room. Paper and matches. Roses and switches. Uptown and downtown.
She smiled wryly. Inviting her to come on the trip was no doubt the
most spontaneous thing Alan had ever done in his life. How ironic that
he was probably the only man in Savannah who would invite her
to spend
a week with him, without having anything sexual in mind. Pam eased her
head back. She
could relax— Alan Parish's relationship with her was
even less than platonic.
* * *
Alan passed a hand over his face and paced the length of the room. He
wouldn't have believed it possible to be so tired and yet so awake at
the same time. His hungover head was screaming for sleep, but the
rest of his body was rigidly aware that Pamela Kaminski, a woman who
had a sexual position named
for her—the Kaminski Curl—was in the next
room, naked... and lathered.
He swore and ripped off his bow tie, then tossed it across the room.
When he caught a glimpse of
himself in one of the many mirrors, he came
up short, surprised at the anger he saw in his face. He
prided himself
on always remaining calm, regardless of the situation, but today—he
sighed and shoved
his fingers through his hair—today he'd been put
through the wringer by two different women. His laugh was short and
bitter. If he didn't know better, he'd suspect it was a conspiracy.
His empty stomach rolled, prompting him to call the front desk.
Twiggy's bored drawl was instantly recognizable. "Yeah?" .
Alan bit back a tart comment, and instead mustered a pleasant tone.
"My uh, our package includes
meals, and I was wondering if the hotel
restaurant is still open.''
"Just closed," she said cheerfully.
He groaned. "We're starved—can we get room service?"
Twiggy sighed dramatically. "What do you want?"
"A couple of steaks and a bottle of wine."
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks." He hung up and frowned sourly at the phone. How had his
secretary found this place? Remembering he still needed to find
accommodations for the rest of the week, he called Linda's voice mail
and left her a message to call him. Then he contacted the car rental
agency who promised to have another car delivered to their hotel first
thing in the morning.
Trying mightily to forget the events of the last few hours, Alan
removed the black studs from his
buttons, shrugged out of his wrinkled
shirt and folded it neatly over the back of a stiff kitchen chair.
He
slipped off his shoes and socks, then lowered himself to the dreadful
carpet and performed fifty push-ups. Breathing heavily, he pulled
himself to his feet, wincing at the odor of his own sweat. A
shower
before dinner would feel terrific. Glancing at his watch, he frowned
and hesitated, then went
to the bathroom door and rapped lightly. Steam
curled out from under the door, warming his bare toes. Alan swallowed.
"Pam?"
He heard her moving in the water, splashing lightly.
"I ordered room service and it should be here soon."
She didn't answer Alan shifted from foot to foot, wondering if she'd
fallen asleep in the water.
Suddenly, the door swung open and Pam stood
before him, holding the ends of a dingy white towel
above her breasts,
her hair dripping wet. His breath caught in his throat, and the room
seemed to close
in around them.
Pamela smiled benignly. "I left my new clothes out here," she said,
pointing to a bag on the floor. She brushed by him, her clean, soapy
scent rising to fill his nostrils. He watched with blatant admiration
as
she walked over to retrieve the articles. Her long, slender legs
were glowing with bath oil and speckled with water. His heart skipped a
beat'when the towel sagged low enough in the back to expose her narrow
waist and the top of her—
"Astringent," she mumbled, rummaging in the bag.
"Wh-what?" he croaked.
"Remind me to buy astringent tomorrow when we go shopping," she said,
bending over, the towel
inching up to reveal
the backs of her thighs.
Alan felt his knees weaken, and averted his glance to the ceiling as he
cleared his throat. "Okay." The plastic bag rattled.
"And a hair dryer."
''Sure." He sneaked another peek. Her back was still turned, and she
was still standing butt up, the
towel barely covering her. Squeezing
his eyes shut, he suppressed a groan.
"Are you okay?"
His eyes snapped open. Pam was staring at him, squinting.
"Uh, tired and hungry, same as you, I suppose."
She nodded toward the bathroom. ''You'll feel better once you shower."
Gratefully, he escaped to the bathroom, where he leaned heavily against
the closed door for a few seconds to compose himself. But he was still
muttering to himself a few minutes later when he stepped under the cold
spray of the cramped shower. Any other man would have ripped off that
towel and
carried Pam to the bed...so why hadn't he? Sighing, he
massaged his tired neck muscles. Because Pam would have welcomed it
from any other man. .But he'd been around Pam enough to realize she saw
him as little more than a big brother—completely asexual. Why else
would she have sashayed into the room practically naked, as if he
wasn't there? She hadn't acknowledged his masculinity enough even to be
modest around him. It was downright insulting. Just because he wasn't
like the Neanderthals she typically dated didn't mean he wasn't alive.
A tapping sound on the shower glass startled him. "Alan?"
He froze, then whirled, instinctively crossing his hands over his
privates.
Four
Pam bunked. She'd seen so-so bodies and she'd seen good bodies. But who
would have thought this magnificent specimen had been walking around
Savannah all this time disguised as Alan Parish? Wide, muscled
shoulders, smooth chest, washboard stomach...now if only he'd move his
damn hands out
of the way.
Through the steamed glass of the shower door, his face was screwed up
in anger. "Pam!" he yelled.
"Do you just walk in on a person no matter
what they're doing?"
Pam gave him a wry smile. "Don't get your bowels all twisted, Alan.
Unless yours is green, you don't have anything I haven't seen before.
Your secretary is on the phone."
"Linda?" he asked, talking above the noise of the water.
"How many secretaries do you have?",
"Has she found another place for me—us—to stay?"
Pam sighed impatiently. "I didn't ask, Alan. I think she's still
recovering from the fact that a woman answered the phone."
His eyes widened. "Did you think to disguise your voice?"
She planted her hands on her hips in annoyance.
"Sorry, I was fresh out of helium, but I think we're safe."
Alan nodded, the water streaming down his face. "You're probably
right—she'd never suspect you
were here with me."
"No one would," Pamela agreed dryly. "Not in a million years."
He stared at her, nodding and dripping, then sputtered, "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Well, hand me a towel!"
Pam grinned, enjoying his self-consciousness, then reached for the
remaining bath towel folded not so neatly on the toilet tank. She
dangled the flimsy cloth in front of the shower door and watched as he
considered uncovering himself to retrieve it. Thirty seconds passed.
Alan shifted and blushed deep pink. "Just drape it over the top of the
stall, will you?"
Pressing her lips together to control her smirk, Pam tossed the towel
over the top of the shower door
and Alan grabbed it just as it passed
his waist. She laughed and exited the room shaking her head.
Imagine, she thought as she collapsed on a yellow beanbag chair and
began to untangle her wet hair,
Alan was modest. It was actually kind
of...refreshing in an attractive man, quite the opposite from the
chest-pounding antics of her transient lovers. Then she frowned. Maybe
Alan was more than just a
"lights off' kind of guy—maybe he harbored a
host of hangups that kept him from enjoying sex. Her friend Jo had
never gone into specifics, and even though Pam had been dying to know
details, she'd respected her friend's privacy.
The sound of the bathroom door opening broke into her thoughts. Alan
emerged in a pair of navy sweatpants and strode over to the phone. He
was polishing his glasses with the bath towel and didn't
look at her,
but the set of his shoulders told her he was still ruffled by her
invasion. He shoved aside
the wet hair hanging in his eyes, yanked up
the handset and turned his back to Pam.
"Hello, Linda?"
Unabashed, Pam used the opportunity to more closely scrutinize his
startling physique. His skin was damp and glowing, golden and sleek,
like a swimmer's.
"You just got back from the wedding? They must have had a blowout
reception."
His shoulders were wide and covered with knotty muscle that rolled
under his skin as he paced around
the nightstand, gripping the phone.
"No, Linda, don't feel bad—I'm glad you enjoye"d the champagne...well,
thanks for the condolences,
but it's probably for the best."
She could smell the clean, soapy scent of him even at this distance*
stirred up every time he pivoted
on his bare feet.
"Yeah, I decided to take the trip anyway."
Pam squinted at the length and width of his feet, made a few mental
calculations, then pursed her lips
in admiration.
"Let's just say this place is not exactly what I expected."
The baggy sweatpants dipped low to reveal the top of his hard-won
boxers and a narrow waist. Being
a computer nerd must be more physically demanding than she thought.
"Actually, Linda, it's a dump."
Now that she thought of it, she had passed him going in and out of the
workout club a couple of times.
"What do you mean, this is the only room available?"
His butt was narrow and hard, like a greyhound's... aerodynamic...
built for speed. Desire struck low
in her abdomen, shocking her.
"The woman who answered?" Alan glanced at her. over his shoulder, then
quickly back to the phone. "Uh, nobody...that is...nobody you'd know."
He laughed nervously. "A m-maid."
Pam frowned, but a knock at their door and thoughts of food distracted
her. She scrambled up and
swung open the door, then practically
snatched the covered food tray from Twiggy's hands. When the
girl stuck
out her skinny foot to prevent Pam from shutting the door, Pam smirked,
set down the tray
and shoved a five-dollar bill into her bony hand.
She slammed the door with a bang and motioned for Alan to get off the
phone. He nodded, his face a mask of frustration. "Just keep checking,
Linda, and let me know when you find something."
By the time he hung up, Pam was already sitting cross-legged on the
water bed and lifting the lid from fheir meal.
"Bad news." He sat on the edge of the mattress and triggered a small
tidal wave.
"I know—too pickles," Pam said, staring down at a platter of
grilled-cheese sandwiches.
"Linda says it's the height of the season, and with Valentine's Day
only a few days away, everything is booked."
"Damn," she mumbled, sinking her teeth resignedly into the surprisingly
good sandwich. "I really
wanted pickles."
"She's going to call if something opens up."
"Mmphh," Pam said, licking gooey orange cheese from her finger.
Alan stared at the food tray. "I ordered steak. That is not steak."
"But it's good/' she mumbled, cracking open a can of cold soda.
"And that is definitely not wine."
She glanced up at him. "You ordered wine?"
He blushed, then stammered. "W-well, you know, the meals are already
paid for."
"I thought I was too tired to eat, but I was wrong." She stuffed in the
last bite of her sandwich.
Alan picked up a sandwich by the corner and sniffed it. "Cholesterol
city."
"My hometown," Pam said with a smile, then she tore off a huge chunk of
a second greasy sandwich. "Live a little, Alan."
He wrinkled his nose and took a tentative bite, then chewed slowly.
"Linda said the wedding was a big hit."
At the serious tone of his voice, Pam stopped munching and searched for
something comforting to say, but nothing came to mind.
"I thought Jo really loved me," Alan said without self-pity. He seemed
genuinely perplexed.
"She did," Pam quickly assured him. "She told me so many times."
"Then she fooled us both."
Pam shook her head, then finger-combed her wet bangs. "That's not
true—Jo doesn't have a deceitful bone in her body. Look how close she
came to marrying you because she thought it was the right thing
to do."
Alan gave her a wry smile. "Pam, don't ever go into motivational
speaking."
"Okay, that didn't come out just right, but you get the gist—she really
does care about hurting you."
His blue eyes darkened. "I knew John Sterling was trouble the minute I
laid eyes on him."
Pam chose her words carefully. "It takes two to tango, Alan." Then she
muttered to herself, "Three
in France."
He sighed heavily. "You're right. She certainly fell hard, for him."
Sympathy barbed through Pam—the man had been robbed of the future he'd
planned. She felt compelled to say something. "Well, if you ask me, Jo
missed out." Pam leaned sideways to give Alan's shoulders a friendly
squeeze, but she was unprepared for the electricity beneath her fingers
when she made contact with his smooth skin. Alan jerked his head around
and their faces were mere inches apart.
For a few seconds, neither one spoke. Pam swallowed audibly.
"Do you really think she missed out?" Alan asked, his voice barely
above a whisper, his gaze locked
with hers.
Sirens went off in Pam's head. She fought the waves of awareness that
flooded her—his scent, his warmth, his incredible physique. Her body
softened and hardened in response. Sexual energy flamed
to the surface and singed the
fringes of her mind. Incredibly, a message was delivered to her brain
amidst the smoke and fire. It's
Alan. Alan—who's still in love with
your best friend.
Pam inhaled sharply and pulled back carefully, not wanting to make the
moment even more awkward. The fluid mattress bumped them up and down.
She laughed nervously. "Yeah, I do," she said brightly, then swept her
arm out toward the room. "She missed all of this oriher wedding night."
To her relief, Alan smiled and looked around. "Something tells me she
wouldn't have appreciated all
this, um, atmosphere as much as you do.
Jo would never have climbed into that ridiculous tub."
"It was fun."
"And she would never have sat on a beanbag chair."
"The most underrated furniture on the market, in my opinion."
"And this bed..." He laughed, smacking the shiny comforter, then
bobbing up and down with the waves. "She would never—" He stopped
midlaugh and glanced up, then blushed.
Pam grinned and shrugged. "She might have surprised you. Water beds
aren't so bad."
With one eyebrow raised, Alan reached for another sandwich. "You speak
from experience, I take it"
She nodded amiably. "My first experience, as a matter of fact. Which
was so unremarkable, it's a
wonder I don't have a bad association with
water beds."
He laughed again. "My first time was less than memorable, too. To this
day I have an aversion to spiral stairs."
Surprise shot through her, and she couldn't keep it out of her voice.
"Spiral stairs? You, Alan?"
His smile was sheepish. "I seem to remember that was also my first
introduction to Kentucky bourbon."
"Ah," she said knowingly. "Been there, done that" She dropped her
half-eaten cheese sandwich onto the platter and stifled a huge yawn. "I
think the day is catching up with me, but it's scarcely ten-thirty."
He glanced toward the television cabinet. "How about a movie before we,
um, turn in?"
"Sure," she said, shifting on the bed, flashing forward to their
sleeping arrangements. She felt restless
and uncomfortable with her
newfound attraction to Alan, and grateful he didn't share her momentary
indiscriminate horniness. But the thought of sleeping with Alan and
then returning to Savannah to face
her friend Jo was enough to have her
begging her guardian angel for strength.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as Alan removed the food tray
and slid it onto the dresser.
He moved with casual elegance, running a
hand through his drying hair, separating the glossy strands. Pam
groaned and crossed her arms over her saluting breasts, squeezed her
eyes shut and whispered,
"Oh Holy Angel, forsake me not..."
At the sound of his moan, she peeked. Alan leaned over and arched his
back, cracking and popping the stretched vertebrae, flexing his
well-toned upper body. Sweat broke out on her upper lip. "...give no
place to the evil demon to subdue me..."
"I hope this free video library has something decent to offer." He
straightened, then walked over to the cabinet and swung
open the door. When he knelt down to finger the row of black video
cases, his baggy sweatpants inched even lower, revealing more of the
new pale blue boxers.
"...take me by my wretched and outstretched hand..."
"Oh, great," he scoffed, his back to her. "Denise Does Denver, Long,
Dark, and Lonesome, and the soon-to-be-classic Tripod Man."
"...and keep me from the front—I mean, every affront of the enemy..."
"Did you say something, Pam?"
Her eyes widened. Alan was squinting back at her over his shoulder. She
straightened and smiled, her mind racing. "N-no, just reciting my to-do
list for tomorrow."
He frowned. "To go shopping?"
"No, I, uh...I have a big home deal in the works that I have to check
on." Which was the absolute truth, although she hadn't given it any
thought until now.
"Anyplace I'd know?"
"The Sheridan house."
He whistled low. "That should be quite a commission."
"That's why I need to check on it."
After reshelving the tapes, he retrieved the remote control and pushed
himself up from the floor to sit
at the foot of the bed. With his back
to her still, he asked, "Isn't the Sheridan house haunted?"
Pam felt the wave he'd started ripple beneath her rear end. "Please
don't add fuel to that rumor—the house has been on the market
for
nearly two years and I finally have an interested buyer." And please don't come any closer.
"Hey—'X-Files' reruns." He turned and clambered up to join her on the
bed, a happy grin on his face. After stacking the slippery, bumpy
pillows behind his back, he scratched his bare, flat stomach and
crossed his long legs at the ankles.
Pam held her breath, rattled by his nearness. Her head bobbed from the
rolling mattress. "I've seen this episode," she said, exhaling.
He turned his head toward her and pushed his glasses higher on his
nose. "Really? You like this show?"
"Never miss it—I'm a big science-fiction fan."
His eyebrows rose. "Me, too."
Pam sat perfectly still, her thigh a mere eight inches from Alan's
elbow. "So, do you think Mulder and Scully will ever get together?"
Alan made a clicking sound with his cheek and shook his head, his fair
hair splaying against the shiny
gold pillows. "I hope not."
"Why?"
"Because they're great just the way they are. Sex would...would—" He
waved vaguely into the air.
"Well, you know—"
"Complicate things," Pam offered, trying to relax.
He nodded. "Cloud the picture."
"Muddy the waters."
"Yeah, I'd hate to see them backslide to the X-rated Files.'" Alan
smiled and forced himself to take his eyes off Pam and concentrate on
the television show. His skin tingled from her proximity and he had to
keep his leg bent in order to hide the other physical reaction she
provoked. "Of course it's obvious that Mulder thinks
Scully is really hot."
"You think?"
"Sure," he said, sneaking another peek up at her from his reclined
position. He was eye level with her chest...and she wasn't wearing a
bra. She glanced down at him, twisting a lock of dark blond hair around
her finger. His bent leg began to tremble. "Can't you tell by the way
he, um, looks at her all the time?"
She squinted at the screen. "Does he?"
"Yeah, and haven't you noticed that they're always invading each
other's personal space?"
"How can you tell?"
"Eighteen inches. Americans like to keep a private space of eighteen
inches around them." He started to draw an imaginary arc around him,
but stopped when he realized the line would encompass Pam. His
leg was
practically jerking now. "Th-that space is reserved for, uh—"
"Intimacy?" she prompted, looking completely innocent.
His pulse leaped. "Or k-keyboards," he croaked.
Her finely arched eyebrows drew together. "What?"
He shrugged, suddenly feeling foolish. "Computer humor—most of us spend
more time with our PC's than with any one person."
"Agreed—more than with any one person," she said, smiling wryly, then
breaking out in a huge yawn.
Great, Parish. Not only is your
conversation putting her to sleep, but
you come off looking like some
kind of freak who's turned on by his
mainframe. And he hadn't missed her unnecessary reminder that
when it
came to sex, she liked to experiment. Which was an even bigger slap in
the face considering
they were in bed together and
she was fighting to keep her eyes open.
He turned his attention back to the television, trying to lose himself
in the fantasy on the screen. His wedding night was turning out to be
somewhat less exciting than he'd hoped for. Not that he'd invited Pam
along as a substitute for Jo—sleeping with her hadn't entered his mind.
Well, okay, so it had entered
his mind, but not seriously. Not any more
than when he saw a gorgeous model or movie star on TV. To him, Pamela
had always seemed just as distant, just as untouchable.
And even though
the long expanse of her bare leg beckoned to him just a few inches
away, she might
as well have been still in Savannah for all the good it
would do him.
He bit the inside of his cheek, his frustration mounting. One half roll
of his body would put him face-to-breast with the most beautiful,
sexual woman he knew. Maybe all he needed to do was make
the first
move. Maybe she'd rip off her clothes and he'd get to see what half of
Savannah was raving about. Maybe they'd be great together and he'd give
her a blinding orgasm.
His confidence surged, and he made a split-second decision. For once in
his life, he would seize the moment and let the chips fall where they
might. Before he could change his mind, he drew a quick
breath and
rolled onto his side, realizing the instant his chin met soft, pliant
skin that he'd underestimated the distance and the size of her breasts:
Her light floral scent filled his lungs, and his mind spun. His eyes
darted to her face as he scrambled to think of something witty to say.
Panic exploded in his chest.. .until he saw that she was sleeping.
He pulled himself up and expelled a small, disappointed sigh as he
studied her lash-shadowed cheeks and the eternal pout of her fuller
upper lip. He allowed his gaze to rove over her slender neck, then down
to her breasts. The dark crescents of her nipples were barely visible
beneath the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Elvis smiled at him, obviously
happy to be stretched over Pam's ample bosom.
Alan's body hardened and he fought back a groan. He lifted, ids free
hand and let it hover over an area where her shirt had risen high on
her thigh. Was she wearing panties? Did he dare peek? After all, she'd
seen him all but buck naked.
No, he decided. He wasn't a voyeur—he wanted anything that transpired
between them to be consensual. "Pam," he whispered, his voice scratchy.
She moaned and moved down on the pillows and slightly toward him, but
didn't rouse.
"Pam," he repeated a little louder.
He held his breath as her eyelashes fluttered for a second and her
mouth opened as if she was going to speak. His desire for her swelled
even more and his heart thumped in anticipation.
"Alan?" she murmured, her eyes still closed.
"Y-yes?" he whispered hopefully.
She wet her lips, and he thought he might go mad with wanting her. He
moved toward her open mouth, intending to kiss her awake, but the sound
emerging from her throat stopped him cold.
She was snoring...loud enough to shake the mirror on the ceiling above
them.
Five
Pam's leg itched. Trying to ignore it, she floated deeper
into the
pillow, enjoying the last fuzzy minutes
of sleep. But the itch
persisted until at last she reached down and scratched her knee
vigorously. The thought that she needed to shave skittered across her
mind, but was obliterated when she realized she hadn't even felt her
fingernails against her skin.
Her eyes flew open, and she froze at the image in the mirror ceiling.
Alan, stripped down to his boxers, lay wrapped around her like a koala
bear in a eucalyptus tree, his arm resting comfortably across her
chest, his bent leg heavy upon her abdomen. She could feel his warm
breath upon the side of her neck. Her mind spun and panic welled within
her. The last thing she remembered was watching television—
had
she...did they...oh, God, what was that stabbing into her side?
She pushed at his arm, dragging him with her as she attempted to roll
away from his body. The fluid mattress surged, grabbed her, then
slammed their bodies back together, abruptly rousing Alan from his
slumber.
"Huh?" he muttered, lifting his head.
His glasses sat askew on the top of his head and his hair had finished
drying in every direction but
down. "Get off of me," Pam said,
enunciating clearly.
Squinting, he appeared not to have heard her.
"Alan," she repeated more loudly. "I'm not Jo—get off of me."
She knew the precise second her words registered because he stiffened
and his nearsighted eyes
rounded. "Pam?"
Throwing him a smile as dry as her mouth, she said, ''Afraid so."
He wasted no time disentangling himself from her, but floundered a few
seconds before propelling
himself off the bed. Pam followed him with
her eyes, averting her glance from the bulge straining at
the front of
his underwear. To avoid aggravating her mushrooming headache, she lay
still until the
waves stopped.
Patting furniture surfaces, presumably searching for his glasses, Alan
walked into the half-unfolded sofa bed. Flesh collided with metal in a
sickening thunk. ''Son of a—'' He broke off and bit his lower lip,
wincing.
"They're on the top of your head, Einstein."
Alan fumbled for his glasses, jammed them on and looked back to the bed
as if he still hadn't seized the situation.
She lifted her hand and fluttered her fingers at him. "I trust you
slept well," she said in a sarcastic tone..
Patting down his hair, he scowled and bent over to scoop up his
sweatpants. "How could I, with you snoring loud enough to rattle my
teeth?"
Annoyance bolted through her, and she shot up, grimacing at the pain
exploding in her temples. "Do you always curl into a fetal position
when you're in agony? Our deal was you would sleep on the sofa bed!"
He reached down to massage his shin. "I tried to pry open the damn
thing, but it wouldn't budge."
She rubbed her forehead, glancing around the sunlit room. "What time is
it?"
He held the sweatpants in front of his waist with one hand and picked
up his watch with the other. "Almost ten o'clock."
She sighed, pushing tangled hair out of her eyes. ''At least the
stores should open soon."
"Forget the stores, give me a restaurant."
"Fine. We'll have a bite to eat, then I can go shopping." Thankfully,
the awkwardness was dissolving. "Wonder what the weather will be like
this week?"
Alan picked up the remote and found the weather channel, then tossed
the control on the bed. Without another word, he turned and limped into
the bathroom.
Pam frowned after him. He didn't have to be so snotty—after all, he had
invited her. He wasn't being
a very gracious host.
Oh, well, at least Mother Nature was smiling on them. According to the
chipper weatherwoman,
they had arrived smack in the middle of a
February heat wave: temperatures in the low nineties,
and sun, sun,
sun.
Pam gingerly pulled herself out of bed and walked to the far end of the
room, away from the bathroom. In the light of day, the kaleidoscope
room really was horrid. Groaning, she reached overhead in a full-body
stretch, wriggling her toes in the chocolate shag carpet, then drew
aside the yellow brocade curtain covering a sliding glass door. The
balcony Twiggy promised was a tiny wooden structure about the size of a
refrigerator enclosed by worn railings. Despite the slight pain caused
by the morning sunlight, she unlatched the door and stepped out into
the cool air, feeling her spirits rise along with
the gooseflesh on her arms.
A set of questionable-looking narrow stairs descended to a pebbly path
that disappeared into palm trees and sea grass. She took a step
forward, then stopped, rubbed one bare foot over the other, and decided
not to chance it If she fell and broke a leg, Alan might shoot her to
put her out of his misery.
Without the wide sign from the neighboring Grand Sands Hotel, they
might have had a very good view. Despite the obstruction, a slice of
the white beach was visible, dotted with morning walkers and
shell-seekers. The air, full of sand and salt dust, blew sharp against
her bare arms and legs. Inhaling deeply, she drew in the tangy ocean
breeze and was suddenly very glad she had come. Maybe the circumstances
weren't ideal, but she loved the ocean and Savannah's beaches were a
bit too cold to
enjoy this time of year.
Humming to herself, she turned and reentered the room, closing the
sliding door behind her. Then her gaze landed on the bathroom door and
her smile evaporated. Obviously, Alan already regretted the invitation
to share his honeymoon. She was a poor replacement for the woman he
loved. But she was here, and she'd promised Jo she'd keep an eye on
him. She blushed guiltily—the amount of time she'd spent eyeing him
since their arrival probably wasn't what her friend had had in mind.
Lifting her chin,
she gathered her willpower. She could keep her lust
at bay for a lousy week, but darn it, she wasn't
going to let him mope
and ruin the only vacation she'd had in over a year!
She took in her appearance in one of the many mirrors at her disposal
and groaned out loud. As if
he'd be interested, anyway. Her friend Jo rolled out of bed looking
great.
She, on the other hand, looked as if she'd been dragged backward
through a hedgerow.
Dropping onto the unmade bed, she grabbed the phone. She needed to
check her messages and see if
old Mrs. Wingate had made up her mind
about buying the Sheridan house, haunts and all. She retrieved her
answering service with a few punched buttons. The message from Nick the
All-Nighter was wicked enough to fry the phone lines. And Jo had
called, concern in her voice—had Pam seen Alan and was he all right?
She shot a look toward the bathroom door just as it opened. Speak of
the devil. Swallowing, she scanned the tempting length of Alan
in black
running shorts and a tight touristy sweatshirt. He offered her a small
smile, apparently in a much better mood. She lifted her finger, then
turned away from him and tried to concentrate on Jo's rambling,
heartfelt message. With a sigh, Jo thanked Pam for going after Alan and
asked Pam to call her at John's house—Jo laughed—make that her house.
Pam smirked into the phone, happy for her friend, but disturbed by the
sticky mess she'd left behind.
She felt contrite as she replaced the handset. It wasn't Jo's fault
that she was having these inappropriate feelings for Alan. "Jo left me
a message."
Alan's handsome face remained impassive—perhaps a little too
nonchalant. "What did she say?"
Pam hesitated, then said, "She was wondering if I'd seen you and how
you're doing."
He exhaled loudly and cracked his knuckles in one quick movement. "What
business is it of hers?"
"She's just worried about you—"
"Well, I'm not suicidal," he snapped.
Pam stood, jamming her hands on her hips. "You don't have to shoot the
messenger."
"Sorry—I'm not feeling very well."
"Join the crowd," Pam yelled back, then touched a hand to her
resurrected headache. . His expression softened a bit. "You don't look
too bad—I mean, uh, you look...fine."
She smiled wryly, then turned toward the bathroom. "Nice try. I'll be
out in two shakes."
Alan watched her retreat into the bathroom, the curves of her hips
tugging at the hem of her T-shirt. A little more than two shakes, he
amended silently, making fists of frustration at his side.
"This is insane," he said to the frantic-looking man in the mirror.
"Why are you worried about it?" his image asked. "Just bed the woman,
for heaven's sake."
"I can't—she's my ex-fiance"e's best friend."
"Even better."
Alan squeezed his eyes shut and cursed, then slowly opened them to
address his argumentative reflection. "This is a fine mess you've
gotten us into." Oh, well, maybe his secretary would come through with
less evocative accommodations.
True to her word, Pam showered quickly, emerging like a ray of
sunshine, her skin glowing, her golden hair caught up in a high, swishy
ponytail. He groaned inwardly. She was even gorgeous in running shorts
and a baggy white jersey sporting a multicolored parrot. "Ready?" she
asked.
"And willing," he mumbled, picking up his wallet.
At the last minute, they both shoved their feet into hard, ill-fitting
plastic thongs, then stumbled downstairs to find the
reservation desk deserted. A fiftyish woman sprawled in one of the
lobby chairs, smoking a long cigarette and watching a church program on
television. She was happy to nod in the direction of the restaurant,
and as soon as they smelled food their clumsy steps quickened.
Alan's stomach rumbled when he saw how packed the restaurant was.
Grasping Pam's elbow, he pointed to the buffet line. "If you'll get us
something to eat, I'll try to find a table." She nodded and he cased
the area, his eyes lighting on a family of four wiping their chins over
emptied plates. He scrambled toward the table, arriving at the same
time as a busboy and an older couple holding laden plates.
The silver-haired man smiled. "Share?"
"Sure," Alan agreed.
"We're the Kessingers," the man supplied. "I'm Cheek and this is Lila."
Alan introduced himself as he pulled out the older woman's chair.
"Another person will be joining me."
"We're from Michigan," Lila offered.
"Savannah," Alan told her, as he took a seat opposite her. The
Kessingers seemed nice enough,
divulging they were devoted snowbirds
who migrated south every January until spring.
"There you are;" Pam said, precariously balancing two plates piled high
with food. Alan relieved her of half her burden, then introduced the
senior couple.
"Hi," Pam said cordially as she swung into her seat.
Alan frowned down at the plate in front of him. Every single item was
fried. "I see you got plenty of
the brown food group."
"Eat," Pam said pointedly, stabbing a sausage patty with her fork.
With visions of whole-wheat bagels and fresh fruit dancing in his head,
Alan ate, stopping frequently to sop the grease from his food with
paper napkins. Lila Kessinger proved to be quite chatty, which gave
Cheek plenty of time to ogle Pam, he noticed, surprised at the needle
of jealousy that poked him.
"Are you newlyweds?" Lila asked.
Pam glanced at him. "No, we're just...uh..."
Alan's stomach fluttered. "Buddies," he offered.
"Pals," Pam affirmed.
"Oh," the woman responded. "I assumed you were married since you're in
the honeymoon suite."
Alan stopped. ''How did you know we're in the honeymoon suite?"
lila grinned. "We're right across the plaza from you, in room 400.
Remember—we waved."
He frowned, trying to recall, then grunted as Pam kicked him under the
table. One look at her raised eyebrows and his memory flooded back. The
naked couple! He dropped his fork with a clatter and a burning flush
crept up his neck. "Oh, I didn't recognize you—"
"Because we're both nearsighted," Pam cut in. "We couldn't see much."
She looked at him for reinforcement. "Isn't that right, Alan?"
"Y-yes," he said, a picture of the wrinkled nude couple emblazoned on
his mind. "In fact, we didn't
see anything at all. You waved, did you
say?" He brought a glass of room-temperature water to his
mouth for a
drink.
Lila beamed and nodded. Cheek leaned forward, his eyes devouring Pam.
Lifting his wrist, Alan pretended to be shocked. "Look at the time. We
have to go," he said, eyeing Pam.
"But I'm not finished," she protested.
"We'll get a stick of butter for the road," he said through clenched
teeth, casting his eyes toward the door.
"Okay," she relented sullenly, wiping her mouth and standing. "It was
nice to meet—"
Alan pulled on her arm, and nearly dragged her back through the
restaurant.
"Let go of me," she said angrily, then jerked away from him. "What the
devil is wrong with you?"
He stared at her and exclaimed, his frustration high, "That's the
thanks I get?"
"Thanks? For what?"
''That dirty old man looked like he was getting ready to have you for
breakfast!"
Pam tilted her head and laughed. "You're jealous!"
"What?" Alan scoffed, embarrassment thickening his tongue. "That's
we—ridiculous!"
"Weally?" Pam teased.
Grunting, Alan sputtered, "I thought you wanted to go shopping."
She grinned, looking triumphant. "I do."
"Then let's go see what the car rental agency delivered." He pivoted as
quickly as die stupid sandals would allow, then flapped back toward the
lobby, fuming. Damn, he hated her teasing, filing him in the same
category as her bevy of besotted suitors.
Twiggy had returned to her post, and looked as bored as usual when he
asked about the car. Without a word, she held up
a key and pointed to the parking lot.
"Finally," he breathed, taking the key. "Something is going right"
He walked stiffly across the lobby and out into the parking lot, unable
to look at Pam, still smarting from her taunt. He knew she was behind
him, but he didn't know how close until he spotted their car, stopped
dead in his tracks and felt her body slam into his.
"What's wrong?" she asked, stepping up beside him. Then she gasped. "A
limo?" She whooped, then laughed until her knees buckled.
Alan, however, did not share her mirth. "This is unbelievable." He
removed the letter tucked under the windshield wiper and read aloud.
"Dear Mr. Parish, please accept this upgrade vehicle as our apology for
your unfortunate breakdown—" He broke off and glanced at the powder
blue stretch limousine. "They sent me a damn pimpmobile!"
Pam laughed even louder, clapping her hands. "What a blast!"
He stood paralyzed in shock as she swung open the back door. "Ooooh,"
she breathed, her eye's shining. "A television and everything!"
I'm in the twilight zone.
"We're taking it back."
Her head jerked around. "What? We can't!"
"Oh, but we can."
Pam's eyebrows crumpled, and she pulled out her secret weapon: the
pout. Damn! Surely she knew
what that mouth did to him. He wavered. ''Maybe we'll keep it just for
the day."
She brightened and tumbled inside, then stuck her head back out. "I'll
ride in the back." He felt the vacuum of air as
she slammed the door.
Feeling like a colossal fool; he glanced around, opened the front door
and slid behind the wheel. Pam
had already found the button that
operated the divider between them and. was zooming the panel up
and
down.
"This is amazing," she squealed.
He glanced in the rearview mirror at her smiling face, watched her
pressing buttons and exploring, and
felt a strange tug at his heart. As
exasperating as she could be, Pam's unflagging enthusiasm was
undeniably charming. Somewhere between childhood and yuppie-hood, he'd
lost his zest for simple things...now he wondered how many wonderfully
pure pleasures he'd overlooked the last several years.
"There's a refrigerator!" she exclaimed. "And olives!"
He pulled onto the highway, keeping one eye on Pam. She reclined in the
back seat, propping her long legs on the bench seat running up the
side. Then she unscrewed the lid from a slender jar and popped green
olives into her mouth like a squirrel eating nuts. For some reason, he
found the whole scene provocative.
"Hey, Alan, have you ever gotten naked in a limo?"
He weaved across the centerline so far he might have hit the oncoming
car if the guy hadn't blared his horn and punctuated it with a hand
gesture.
Breathing deeply to stem the charge of adrenaline through his body, he
said, "I, uh, no, I can't say I have."
"Me neither."
Although her admission surprised him, he didn't say so. For a fraction
of an instant, he entertained the idea of sharing
Pamela's first sexual something. The way he figured it, the only new
variable he could possibly add to her experience equation was location.
Shaking the thought from his mind, he kept his
dry mouth shut and his
eyes peeled for signs indicating a mall.
Once he found a shopping center, it took several minutes to find a
place to park. At last they were inside the mall and Alan felt some
sort of normalcy returning at the sight of regular people in smart,
upscale .surroundings. He made a beeline for a well-known department
store. "We can split up," Pam suggested.
Alan shook his head. "I'll go with you, I'm paying."
"Wait a minute—"
"Don't argue. I talked you into coming, and it's my responsibility—"
"I can take care of myself!"
He drew back at the change in her mood, the vehemence in her voice.
He'd obviously hit a nerve, so
he gentled his tone.' 'I know you can
take care of yourself, Pam, but I'd feel bad if you spent money
on top
of taking time from your job. Let me do this—make me feel good."
Immediately, he felt his skin warm at the implication of his own words.
She chewed on her lower lip, considering his words, then smiled slyly.
"I think this may be the first time
a guy has offered to do something
for me to make "himself feel good."
Glad her mood had lightened, he crossed his arms and mirrored her
smile. "Maybe you've been hanging around with the wrong guys."
Her smile dissolved and her gaze locked with his.
"Maybe you're right," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Alan studied her face and inhaled slowly, sure his chest was going to
explode. This woman was driving him crazy. One minute she made him feel
like an inept teenager, the next minute she made him feel as
if he
wanted to take care of her. Which was nuts because she'd made it
perfectly clear she intended to take care of herself.
His fingers curled tighter around his biceps, itching to smooth the
stray lock of hair back from her soft cheek. To hold her pointed chin
and tilt her porcelain-like face up to the sun. To kiss that lopsided,
upside-down, top-heavy pink mouth.
"Okay, go ahead," she said, shrugging.
He actually took a half step toward her before he realized she was
talking about the clothing tab.
'Where to first?"
"Men's shoes."
"What?"
She pointed to his red, thong-pinched feet and grinned. "You're going
to need comfortable shoes to
keep up with me."
Good idea, he decided three
hours later as he shared a bench with an
older gentleman outside the women's dressing room.
"Birthday?" the guy asked, obviously bored.
"No."
"Anniversary?" The man tapped out a cigarette and put it in his mouth,
unlit.
"Uh-uh."
"Ah—you're in the doghouse."
"Well, not really."
"Oh, God," the man said, rolling his eyes. "Don't tell me you love her."
"Pam," he said loud enough to carry into the dressing room, "I need to
eat something nourishing for
a change. Can you hurry up? I'm getting
light-headed."
"I think I found a swimsuit," she sang, then burst through the swinging
doors. "What do you think?"
"Good Lord," the man muttered, his unlit cigarette bobbing.
Alan swayed, then gripped the side of the bench to steady, himself.
Pam's curves were stunning.
Metallic gold, the top of the string bikini
barely covered the tips of her generous breasts, the veed
bottoms
arrowed low to her bikini line and high on the sides, emphasizing the
opposing curves of her waist and hips. His throat closed and
perspiration popped out on his upper lip despite the chilling air
conditioner.
Her pale eyebrows furrowed. "You don't like it."
"He loves it!" the man next to him shouted, his cigarette bouncing off
the carpet. Then he punched
Alan's arm so hard, Alan fell off the side
of the bench.
Flat on his back, Alan wet his lips carefully, then croaked, "It will
do."
Six
"Arent you cold?" Alan asked for the eleventh time.
Pamela jerked her head toward him, then lowered her ninety-nine-cent
white sunglasses. "No."
"You look cold."
"Then stop looking." She leaned her head back against the plastic
chaise lounge that suspended her several inches above the wet, white
sand of the beach. "And stop talking."
After spending the day shopping with him yesterday and sharing an
awkward dinner last night, she was ready to scream. They'd been at each
other's throats all evening, culminating in an argument over finding
someplace else to stay because he refused to sleep on the broken
foldout bed. In the end, she had won separate sleeping arrangements,
but he had complained about his back all morning.
Although quiet at the moment, he was driving her bananas, hiding behind
those mirrored designer-prescription shades, reminding her every few
seconds that she lay nearly naked within touching distance, yet he had
no intention of doing so. Which was a good thing, she fumed, because
she'd cuff his chiseled jaw if he laid a hand on her.
She harrumphed to herself. As if she would stoop to fooling around with
her best friend's ex. Pam
winced and concentrated,
desperately trying to dissolve the sexual pull radiating from him.
After all, once they returned to Savannah, Alan might run into Jo at an
odd party or two, but Pam saw her at least a couple of times a week. Jo
had been a true-blue friend, and Pam wasn't about to risk their
relationship for a beach fling—no matter how pulse-poundingly gorgeous
Alan looked lying glistening in the sun.
It was a glorious day, the sun as high as it could climb in a February
Florida sky. As promised, the air temperature hovered in the
mid-nineties, although she suspected the water temperature would be a
bit more sobering. Still, it hadn't stopped several families from
romping in the foamy waves, some with floats, some with masks to
protect their eyes from the brine.
The beach was much more crowded than she'd expected. Portable stereos
blared and the nutty smell of suntan lotion mingled with the salty air,
barely masking the underlying scent of fish. Striped umbrellas
populated the sloping stretch of pale sand and waitresses threaded
their way through bodies to deliver drinks and hot dogs from the
oceanside grill. The whole spring-break atmosphere was just another in
a long series of surprises this trip had brought, she thought wryly,
sneaking a sideways glance at Alan.
Bent over a book he'd bought at the mall, he looked relaxed and
untroubled. Pam frowned sourly. She was wrestling with lewd and
inappropriate thoughts, and he was reading a book.
"What is it now?" he asked, raising his head. "Is my breathing
bothering you?"
Her gaze flicked across his oiled chest, watching defined bone and
muscle expand and contract every
few seconds, the sun dancing over
every ripple. She could see her twin reflection in his gray lenses and
wondered if he had' any idea what he was doing to her. Unable to
withstand the strain and confusion any longer, she swung her feet down,
then stood, .wrapping a short black sarong around her hips. "I'm going
to stretch my legs."
Alan closed his book, keeping his place with one finger. "Want me to go
along?"
Noting his uninterested tone, she shook her head. "I'll be back in an
hour or so."
The strip of beach where fingers of water rolled in offered the
clearest path for walking. She picked her way down to the front,
ignoring a couple of low catcalls, then dug her toes in the cool, silky
sand. Water hissed over her-feet and frothed around her ankles, sending
chills up her legs.
The beach snaked ahead of her, the people growing increasingly tiny in
the distance, the shoreline curving left, then right again and
disappearing about a mile away. Pam inhaled deeply, then set off at a
brisk pace. Nothing cleared a person's head like the wind, water and
sky.
As she made her way down to the water's edge, more than one
good-looking man passed her, jogging or walking the other way, and more
than one looked interested. A small smile curved her lips. One way to
fight her ridiculous distraction with Alan was to find another man to
distract her. A Robert Redford look-alike ran by her and grinned. Pam
turned to watch him run away from her. A little on the short
side, but
he was definitely a looker. He had turned around and was running
backward,
scanning her
figure up and down. After plowing into a group of
teenagers, he saluted and went on his way.
"Don't tell me you're alone," a deep, accented voice said behind her.
Startled, Pam turned and looked up into the glinting eyes of a
dark-eyed, dark-haired stranger. He looked to be of Latin American
descent, his deep brown skin set off by gleaming gold jewelry at his
throat, wrist and left earlobe. He grinned, exposing amazingly white
teeth. Pam shivered. Dark, dangerous, good-looking... just her type.
"Uh, yes," she said, then added, "at the moment." A girl had to be
careful in strange surroundings.
The man extended his long-fingered hand. He wore a diamond-studded
horseshoe ring on his middle finger. "Enrico." The "r" rolled off his
tongue seductively.
Pam smiled and put her hand in his. "Pamela."
"Ah, Pamela. Do you live here or are you on vacation?"
"Vacation."
"Then surely you have just arrived—I could not have overlooked such a
beauty."
Enrico massaged her fingers between his. "I flew in from Savannah
yesterday."
"A southern belle. I thought I detected a slight, how do you say—drawl?"
"Yes," she said, then gently extracted her hand. "Where are you from?"
"Puerto Rico, originally, but I have lived in the United States for
several years."
Pam nodded congenially. "In Fort Myers?"
"No, I am vacationing, same as you." He leaned toward her and lowered
his voice to a husky whisper. "And 1 was becoming very bored."
Odd, she felt nothing but indifference as he looked into her eyes. Not
a sizzle or a zing. Not even a stir. "Well, I'd like to finish my
walk," she said pleasantly, stepping around him. "It was nice to meet
you, Enrico."
His eyes devoured her. "Until next time, Pamela."
She gave him a shaky smile, then trotted away. Pumping her arms to
elevate her heart rate, she kept
her eyes averted from passersby and
walked two miles, past rows of resorts that ranged in appearance from
posh to worse-than-the-Pleasure-Palisades. Finally, the crowds thinned
and the sand became
coarse and strewn with sea debris.
Pam waded into the waves up to her knees to cool off, watching a group
of wet-suited windsurfers in
the distance. It looked like fun—maybe
she'd try it before they left. Sighing, she wondered if she'd be able
to find enough entertainment to fill the hours between now and
Saturday. Anything to keep her
mind off Alan.
Anything but Enrico, that is—the guy gave her the willies. Turning to
retrace her steps, she felt a surge
of anticipation at seeing Alan
again, then instant remorse. So much for clearing her head. She spotted
him while she was still several hundred yards away—he was hard to miss
since he stood at attention smiling down at a willowy brunette.
Absurd barbs of jealousy struck her low, but she squashed them. The
woman was striking, thin and elegant in a simple black one-piece,
wearing a large hat that shaded her face. The thought struck Pam
that
the woman might have been Jo's sister, she resembled her friend so
closely.
Regal, demure, classy...definitely Alan's type.. Pam bit her lower lip,
wondering if he wanted privacy, but knowing she needed sunscreen. Oh,
well, she'd just swing by to. pick up the lotion, then perhaps she
could find the Robert Redford runner again.
Alan smiled and nodded to the lady, his book abandoned, Pam noted
wryly. Above the music and the general din of the crowd, his voice
floated to her in snatches as she approached the couple. "Show
companies... become more productive...automation...accessibility."
The woman looked very impressed, nodding thoughtfully and lifting her
expressive eyebrows. Her voice was lilting and definitely interested.
"Client-servers...centralization...remote stored procedures."
Aha—a she-nerd. Out of all the people on
this beach, how had they found
one another? Pam sighed.
Just like Enrico, the tongue-rolling Romeo,
had found her— birds of a feather, yada, yada, yada. Oh, well, if Alan
was occupied, the temptation to jump his bones would definitely be
removed...or at least reduced. "Hi," Pam said cheerfully as she
approached the computer couple.
"Oh, hi," Alan said, smiling awkwardly.
''Don't mind me,'' Pam said, waving a hand. ''I just came back-to get
sunscreen."
"Um, this is Robin," he said, gesturing to the woman, who pursed her
lips at the sight of Pam.
"Hiya, Robin," Pam said, nodding to the woman. "Nice hat"
"Thanks," Robin replied slowly, then turned to Alan. "I guess I'll be
going."
"Don't leave on my account," Pam assured her, holding up her lotion
triumphantly.
"No, that's all right," the woman continued. "My friends will be
wondering where I've gone." She smiled at Alan and swept his figure,
head to toe. "I certainly hope we run into each other again."
Alan's tongue appeared to be tied, so Pam stepped in. "I'm sure you
will—he'll be here until Saturday." She leaned toward the woman and
lowered her voice conspiratorially. "He's available, you know."
The woman smiled awkwardly, then glanced from Pam to Alan.
"Pam—" Alan protested, but she waved her hand frantically to shut him
up.
"And you are...?" the woman asked with a small laugh.
"Alan's sister," Pam said without missing a beat. "I'm Pamela." Alan
made a small choking noise,
but she ignored him.
"Oh." The woman nodded agreeably. "Well, it's nice to meet
you...Pamela." She winked. "And I'll see you later, Alan."
"Don't be a stranger," Pam sang as the woman walked away.
"What was that all about?" Alan demanded when she turned around. His
arms were crossed over his broad chest, his pale eyebrows high over his
shades.
Pam shrugged, her movements mirrored twice in his dark lenses. "It's
plausible—we have the same coloring. Besides, who's going to believe
the real story?"
Alan threw his hands up in the air. "I give up trying to follow your
logic."
Falling into the chaise, Pam smeared sunscreen all over, down to the
crevices between her peach-lacquered toes. Alan
reclaimed his chair and his place in the book he was reading. She
glanced
at the cover and smiled. "Hey, Dr.
Moonshadow. I thought it was
the best book in the entire series."
He glanced over. "You've read the Light Years series?"
She nodded enthusiastically. "Have you gotten to the part where the
light Knights return with the king's head in a box?"
He dropped his head back on the chair, looking mortified. "That would
be, I take it, the ending?"
Pam bit her lip. "Oh...yeah, I guess it would be."
Tossing the book in the sand a few feet away, Alan cursed and pushed
himself to his feet. ''Now I'm
going for a walk."
Pam watched him stride off, admiring his defined hamstrings and calves.
And she didn't miss the head-turning that spread through the women on
the beach like "the wave" as he walked by. Oh, well,
she decided as she
fished in her purse for her cellular phone and a pad of paper, maybe
he'd run into Robin the RAM/ROM woman.
Pam pulled out the phone's antenna, then stabbed in a number with the
end of a pencil. Then maybe
she could stop thinking about how much she
enjoyed teasing Alan, how many interests they shared,
how sexy—
"Hello?" she responded to the voice on the end of the line, then
realized her client,
Marsha Wingate, had updated the message on her
service.
"Hello, this is Madame Marsha, psychic in training, Monday, February
twelfth. If this is Ronald, son, wear your guardian pendant today. I
communed with the weatherman this morning through the television and
the winds today in
Syracuse are definitely
unfriendly. If this is Sara, dear,' don't talk
to any Aries
men today, and don't drink the tap water. If this is Lew,
give me a trifecta twenty-dollar bet on the number three, four and
seven greyhounds in the fifth race. And if this is Pamela, I drove by
the Sheridan house last night precisely at midnight, and the bad vibes
coming from that place—jeez, Louise! I want
an expert's opinion,,
though, so I arranged to have a crystal reader from Atlanta drive down
tomorrow.
If this is anyone else, I have nothing to say, so don't
bother to leave a message."
After the tone, which sounded vaguely like the theme from "The Twilight
Zone," Pam left an upbeat message telling Mrs. Wingate she was out of
town for a few days, but could be reached through her cellular phone if
she decided to scoop up the Sheridan house before someone else got wise
to what
a steal it was. Smiling wryly at her own transparent sales
tactic, Pam then checked into the office
to let them know she didn't
have her pager.
When she had exhausted every nit-picking phone call she could think of,
she winced at the still-strong recharged battery light on her phone,
then sighed and dug out the scrap of paper on which she'd written her
friend Jo's new phone number. With her heart pounding guiltily, Pam
punched in the numbers and prayed no one would
answer.
"Heh-wo?" said a young voice.
"May I speak to Jo, please?"
"Jo-mommy?"
Pam blinked. Boy, did that sound weird—her friend Jo, a mommy. The
littlest one must have picked
up the phone, she
decided. And although she was no expert on kids, he seemed way too
young to be answering the phone. "Yes, Jo-mommy," she said carefully.
"Go-get
Jo-mommy."
"Hello?" another voice said, this one slightly older. "Who is this?"
Pam frowned. "Who is this?"
"This is Peter Pa—I mean, this is Jamie Sterling. Who do you want?"
The middle one, she decided. "I need to speak with Jo."
"What for?"
Taking a' deep breath, Pam forced a soothing lilt into her voice. "Just
to talk—I'm a friend of hers."
Then she heard the sound of the phone
being ripped from his hand, followed by a scuffle and at least
two
raised kid voices as they tried to claim ownership of the phone, which
was being bounced around
the room.
"Hello?" A girl's voice came over the line. Jamie was still yelling
something in the background.
The oldest one, Pam remembered. An owlish-looking little thing. "May I
speak with Jo, please?"
"May I ask who's calling?"
At least she was polite. "This is her friend Pamela."
"She's indisposed at the moment."
Pam pulled back and looked at the phone. Indisposed? Quite a vocabulary
for a tyke. "I'm calling long distance—are you sure she can't come to
the phone?"
"She and my daddy are upstairs jumping on the bed,"
With pursed lips, Pam nodded to herself. Of course. Where else would
they be? Before she could
think of an appropriate reply, Jo's voice came on the line. "Hello?''
she
asked breathlessly.
"Gee, Jo, can't you guys control yourselves at least until the kids go
to bed?"
"Pam!" Jo laughed. "It's not what you think—John is testing the springs
on the new mattress."
"Oh, is that what married
folk call it?"
Jo laughed again, this time harder. She sounded almost giddy, Pam
thought irritably, despite the clatter
in the background. "Oh, never
mind, Pam. I called your office this morning and they said you were
out
of town. Let me guess—Nick the All-Nighter?"
Pam squirmed on the lounge chair. "No."
"Delectable Dale?"
Sweat beaded on her upper lip. "Uh, no."
"Someone new?"
After mustering her courage, Pam muttered, "I'm with Alan in Fort
Myers."
"Excuse me? Hang on a minute." Jo put down the phone, then Pam heard
the sound of a police whistle peal shrilly, followed by,
"QUI-I-I-I-I-I-ET!" The clatter ceased, then Jo picked up the phone.
"Sorry. Now, what did you say?"
Pam tried again. "I'm with Alan in Fort Myers."
"You're with Alan in Fort Myers?" Jo asked, her voice richly colored
with surprise.
"Yes, I'm with Alan in Fort Myers." It was getting easier to say, but
she still felt as if she was going to have a stroke. She took another
deep breath. "He decided to take the trip anyway. I gave him a ride
to
the airport, and he talked me into coming along. I haven't had a
vacation in over a year, and he was acting a little desperate—"
"Pam," Jo cut off her rambling. "You are the best friend a woman could
ask for."
Swallowing guiltily, Pam ventured, "I—I am?"
"I've been so worried about Alan. Now I can relax because I know you're
looking out for him. How
is he?"
Pam paused, thinking of all the just plain looking at him she'd been
doing since they arrived. "He's
a little depressed, which is normal, I
guess."
"I'm sure his ego is bruised," Jo said mournfully. "I feel terrible.
Can you try to cheer him up?" she pleaded. "Maybe take him dancing or
do something fun?"
Pam's hands were so sweaty she nearly dropped the phone. Manufacturing
a little laugh, she said,
"Well, I'm not so sure the words Alan
and fun
can coexist, Jo, but I'll give it a shot"
"Make him extend himself a little," Jo urged. "Maybe he'll meet his
soul mate while he's there—or
at least have a little beach fling."
"He's certainly getting a lot of female attention," Pam agreed, failing
to mention how much of it had derived from her.
"Good. Eventually Alan will realize we weren't right for each other,
and that our marriage would never have worked. But for now, he could
probably use a diversion."
"Right," Pam said as if she were receiving an assignment. "So, how's
married life?"
"Wonderful," Jo said. On cue, a hellacious howl erupted in the
background. "Oops, gotta run. Thanks again, Pam—you're a savior. Bye!"
Pam frowned at the silent phone. Savior? Sinner, perhaps, with all the
wicked thoughts about Alan spinning in her head.
She bit her lower lip—she should have gone to mass yesterday morning.
''What's wrong?" Alan asked as he dropped into his lounge chair, his
body gleaming with perspiration.
He picked up a towel and wiped his
face. "Did the FDA issue a moratorium on fried
foods?"
She smirked. "No. I talked to Jo."
He stilled, then pressed his lips into a straight line. "You mean, Jo
Sterling?"
"Um, yeah."
Alan lay his head back and Pam's heart twisted at the hurt on his face.
"And how are the newlyweds?"
"Busy, from the noise in the background."
"Did you tell her where we are?"
Pam studied her nails. "Yeah. She seemed relieved."
He made an indignant sound. "You mean that I haven't self-destructed?"
"Well, she didn't use those words."
"She wouldn't have."
"I think she really does feel bad about what happened, Alan."
A deep sigh escaped him. "I'd rather not talk about it."
"Fine," Pam said, also eager to drop the subject. She glanced toward
the water, then noticed a young
man had set up shop on the beach,
guarding a half-dozen Wave Runners bobbing in shallow water.
He picked up a megaphone and yelled, "Rent a Wave Runner, by the hour,
by the half hour."
"Let's do it," Pam said, clambering out of her chair.
"Do what?"
"Rent a Wave Runner," she said, tugging on his hand.
"They look dangerous," Alan said with a frown.
"Can you swim?"
''Yes,'' he answered indignantly.
"Then come on, take a risk for once in your life."
He pushed himself up slowly, then followed her at a leisurely pace.
"I'm a risk-taker," he defended himself tartly.
"Oh, sure, Alan," she said over her shoulder. "You're a regular
daredevil." . Alan bit his tongue. She
was the most infuriating woman!
He wanted to shake her, but he suspected that putting his hands on
her
arid giving her breasts an excuse to jiggle would probably undo him in
his current state. She strutted away from him, giving movement to the
rub-on flower tattoo he'd watched her apply to her hip this morning in
the room—a performance he'd been able to endure only by virtue of much
teeth-grinding.
His jaws still ached.
The young rental man was so bedazzled by Pam and her little bikini, he
could scarcely speak. Amidst
the boy's nods and a dancing Adam's apple,
Alan halfheartedly negotiated a price for a Wave Runner
and two wet
suits, still unconvinced he would relish the ride.
Pam poured herself into a full-length neon pink wet suit with a
built-hf life jacket whose front zipper simply could not accommodate
her chest. But leaving the zipper down a few inches only lifted her
breasts higher and further emphasized her deep cleavage. Alan pulled on
his own rubber suit, which
was about six inches too short in the arms and legs. He performed a
deep knee bend to loosen the
material.
"I'll drive," Pamela announced, grabbing the handlebars and floating
the Wave Runner out a few
feet into the shallows.
"Oh my God," Alan gasped when he waded into the bracing cold water.
"Are you sure this is going to
be enjoyable?"
She scrambled up on the bobbing machine, straddling the bright yellow
vinyl seat and plugging in the ignition starter. After slipping the
stretchy key ring over her wrist, she turned around and held out her
hand. "Would you stop complaining and get on?"
"What's that for?" he asked, pointing to the wristband that connected
her to the machine.
"It's like a kill switch," she said with a grin. "If I throw us off,
the engine dies."
"Oh, that's comforting," he said as he gingerly climbed up on the back
and settled behind her on the
long padded seat.
She pushed a button and the engine purred to life. "Better hang on,"
she warned over her shoulder
as she turned the handlebars quickly and
revved the engine, sending them into a sideways spin.
Alan grabbed the strap across the seat and managed to. hang on, barely.
"Have you ever done this before?" he shouted into the wind.
"Too many times to count," she yelled, leaning low and feeding the gas
until they were hurtling across
the waves at a breathtaking speed. They
caught a wave, rode off the edge into the air, then landed
with a
teeth-jarring—and frigid—splash. Pam squealed in delight, then shouted,
"You're throwing us
off balance. Hang on to me!"
Too shaken and waterlogged to refuse, he wrapped his arms around her
waist, twining his fingers into
the buckles of her wet suit She was
going to kill him. Was drowning a painful way to die? In this case,
he'd probably have a heart attack first. The air whooshed from his
lungs as they landed hard and a
wave of freezing water swelled over the
back and drenched him. At this rate, he might suffer both tragedies in
the space of the next few seconds.
Several hundred feet offshore, they zigzagged the water many times, and
Alan could feel her confidence growing with each pass. He could have
simply let go to escape the frenzied ride, but he had to admit
the
experience was rather thrilling. He jammed his body up behind hers,
holding fast to her waist and pressing his face into her wet hair,
giving in to the sexual zing that pierced his abdomen at holding her
so
close and bumping against her with every jump and spin.
She drove faster and faster, jumping higher and higher, landing with
belly-flipping spinouts. When they caught the underside of a
particularly deep wave, Alan sensed impending doom. Pam screamed in
delight, and they were airborne for what seemed like a minute, when
Alan decided they would be safer to land separate from the Wave Runner.
He lifted his arms to clasp her, harness-style, then twisted off to the
side, taking her with him, but releasing her before they hit the water.
He plunged in, bubbles fizzing around his ears, his senses temporarily
clogged with the glug, glug of enveloping water: With two powerful
kicks, he reached the surface, then slung water from his eyes
and immediately looked for
Pam.
Alan spun all around, treading water, frantically searching for a flash
of neon pink, but he saw nothing except the silent wave runner several
yards away and endless foamy green-gray waves.
Seven
Alan's heart slammed against the wall of his chest and panic coursed
through his veins. "Pam!" he shouted, "Pam, where are you?" He swam
toward the Wave Runner using long strokes, swallowing
great gulps of
cold, salty water as waves pushed and pulled at him, elevating his
terror. She could have
hit her head on the machine when he pulled her
off...she could have hit the water at an odd angle and broken her silly
neck...she could have been dragged down by an undertow... she could
have—
"Of all the...stupid...things...to do!"
Alan stopped, then went weak with relief as he realized her voice came
from the other side of the
Wave Runner. She coughed fitfully until she
gagged, then coughed more, wheezing, cursing him with every breath. He
swam around to find her clinging to the side of the water bike, her
golden hair molded
to her head and neck, her mouth open to take in as
much air as possible. She confronted him with wide, blazing blue eyes.
"Were you trying to kill me?" she croaked, then another coughing spasm
overtook her.
"Me?" Alan yelled. "I was
trying to keep you from killing us both!
We
would have been thrown off
for sure on that last kamikaze maneuver!"
"Would not!"
"Would too!"
"Would not!"
"Would too!"
Pam stuck her tongue out at him, then reached up to climb back on the
Wave Runner. "Next time I'll leave you on the beach with your book."
Alan shook with fury. First she'd given him the scare of his life when
he thought she'd drowned, then
she yelled at him for spoiling her fun!
"Wait just a minute," he said, grasping her arm and pulling her
back
into the water.
"Let go of me!"
"I'm driving back."
"Oh no you're not!"
He squeezed her upper arm and pulled her face near his. "Oh yes,", he
said with finality, "I am."
Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, then her mouth tightened, but
she didn't argue. A drop of water
slid off the end of her nose and Alan
once again marveled at the smoothness of her skin. The thought crossed
his mind that she was close enough to kiss, but he was pretty sure
she'd drown him if he tried. Her chest heaved with her still-labored
breathing, straining the already taxed wet-suit zipper to near
bursting. His body leaped in painful response because there was nowhere
in his wet suit to expand.
But the flash of pain brought him back to
reality and he released her slowly, then moved away to a
safer distance.
His brain had been scrambled from Pamela's joyride, Alan reasoned as he
pulled himself out of the
water to straddle the Wave Runner. He took a
deep, head-clearing breath before turning around to
offer his hand to help Pamela climb up. Her mouth quirked left, then
right, but
finally she let him help
her up. She slipped a couple of times, which
made him laugh, then she went limp with giggles and
sank back into the
water.
"You," he said, shaking his head, "are wearing me
out."
''Then you,'' she said, heaving herself up far enough for him to pull
her onto the seat, "don't have
much endurance." She handed him the
wristband.
"I never needed it with Jo," he said as she slid behind him. He bit the
inside of his cheek and turned
over the engine, immediately regretting
mentioning his
ex.
But Pamela simply reached around his waist and laced her hands
together, then said close to his ear,
"But I'm not Jo, am I, Alan?"
Her breath felt warm against his cold, wet ear, and her words swirled
round in his head, taunting him.
I'm not Jo, am I, Alan? An
understatement of gigantic proportions.
I'm not Jo, am I, Alan? As if
he weren't electrically aware of the fact. I'm not Jo, am I, Alan? And
he realized with a jolt that he was having fun, more fun than he'd had
in a long time—and he was very glad that Pam was, well...just
Pam.
His heart strangely buoyed, he tossed a mischievous smile over his
shoulder and said, "Hang on."
Then he leaned low over the handlebars
and mashed the gas with his thumb, sending them lunging forward. Pam
squealed in surprise and delight, ramming herself up against him, which
tempted Alan
to squeal with delight. He mimicked her earlier technique,
driving fast, catching waves and landing
with a spin, drenching them
with walls of water that surged over the back.
Adrenaline pumped through him and, combined with the sheer physical
thrill of being close to Pamela,
for the-firsf time in his life he felt
blatantly cocky.
Alan threw back his head and whooped, reveling in the pressure of Pam's
thighs squeezing his. For several minutes, he sent them skimming and
jumping over the sun-drenched- water, slowing at last as their time
remaining slipped to less than ten minutes.
Hating to see the ride end, he adjusted the speed to idle and guided
them toward the rental stand several hundred yards away. All sorts of
strange and inappropriate emotions were running rampant through his
body, and they were all directed toward Pam, who hadn't relaxed her
hold around his waist. Waves slapped against the sides of the Wave
Runner, and the sounds of beach music rolled out to meet them. Although
sunset was still hours away, the beach was emptying rapidly as the
locals packed up their families to go home for the evening meal.
"Did you have fun?" she asked, resting her chin on his left shoulder.
For a split second, Alan considered lying—he had an uneasy feeling that
admitting he enjoyed Pam's company was not in his immediate best
interests. But for the past hour, he had laughed more than he would
have thought possible only a few hours ago, and for that, he owed her
the truth. "Yeah, I did
have fun. Thanks for taking my mind off... you
know."
"What, are friends for?" Pam asked lightly, closing her eyes and
swallowing her guilt. She'd promised
Jo she'd make sure he had fun. But
at some point during their outing, she had forgotten she was
supposed
to be entertaining Alan because she was having such a good time
herself. And now, putting
back toward shore, she felt deflated and
angry with herself for even thinking there wouldn't be too
many excuses
this week to hold Alan so close.
"Maybe we can take it out again tomorrow," Alan suggested, turning his
head and inadvertently
bringing his smooth cheek next to her mouth.
"Sure," she said casually, already looking forward to the ride. "Unless
you'd rather take Robin."
"Who?" he asked, his tone innocent.
"My, what a short memory we have," she noted dryly. "You know, the
smart woman in the hat."
"What makes you say she's smart?"
"Well, she works with computers, doesn't she?"
"The computer industry has its share of incompetents."
Pam brightened. "So she isn't smart?"
"Oh no, she's smart," he corrected, evoking a little stab of jealousy
in her. "But don't assume anything just because someone talks in
acronyms."
"You're getting sunburned," she said irritably.
He laughed and they pulled up next to the rental stand. "Are you sure
it isn't the reflection from your suit?"
The young rental man had walked out into the shallows to meet them.
Pam reluctantly relinquished
her hold on Alan and dropped into the
water up to her knees, already tugging at the confining zipper.
By the
time she reached the warm sand, she'd only managed to peel the rubber
suit from one shoulder and she was already exhausted. She fell to the
sand, knowing the grit would only make things worse,
but she didn't
care.
Lying on her back, she squinted against the sun and watched Alan
extricate his magnificent body from
his too-small suit
with great sucking sounds as the rubber relented. Her breasts tightened
in awareness
and desire struck her low as he dragged the suit down,
yanking his conservative navy trunks low on-his hips. Standing in the
sun with gleaming wet skin, his fair hair dry and tousled, he looked
healthy and
sexy, and Pam acknowledged for the first time that she was
very attracted to him. And in more than
just a physical sense, although
simply looking at him had become a favorite pastime.
Today when he'd driven the Wave Runner, she had seen a side of him
she'd never glimpsed before: carefree and spontaneous. He was actually
fun to be with.
"Need a hand with your suit?" he asked, standing over her and grinning.
Pam nodded and took the hand he offered her, allowing herself to be
pulled to her feet. She tugged at
the opposite shoulder of the suit and
succeeded in budging it an inch or so. Alan reached for the collar.
"It's harder now that your skin is wet and the suit is heavy."
His fingers felt like branding irons against the cold flesh of her
collarbone. He gripped the thick material and peeled the suit down her
arm, turning the sleeve inside out. With both arms free, Pam was able
to work the suit past her hips with some self-conscious wriggling, but
had to admit defeat at her thighs.
Then she lost her balance and sat
down hard in the sand. Alan howled with laughter, but before she
could
get her breath to chew him out, she was thrown to her back because he
had yanked her legs
in the air to finish stripping off the stubborn
suit. Sprawled in the awkward position and at his mercy,
Pam felt like
a too-big toddler being changed, and bristled at the hoots and laughter
of the
sparse but
rapt audience staked out under umbrellas in the sand around
them.
Alan also appeared to be enjoying her discomfort. At last he held up
the pink garment as if it were a trophy and said, "I don't think this
suit will ever be the same,", then gestured to the deformed top
of the
fatigued-looking rubber suit. The comment brought him cheers from the
members of the male gallery within earshot.
Pam scrambled to her feet, not sure if she liked this new, cocky side
of Alan. "Well, while you strut for the other roosters," she said with
a deceptively sweet smile as she brushed the sand from her bottom,
"I'm
going to find a beer."
Then she turned to march back to their blanket and chaise lounges they
had rented for the day.
"Better go after her," some guy yelled to Alan behind her back.
"I'll go," another male voice piped up, triggering more laugher. But
Pam had to acknowledge a little
thrill that everyone assumed she and
Alan were together.
"Hey," Alan said, jogging up beside heir with a sheepish grin. "I'm
thirsty, too."
Pam glanced at him, increasingly alarmed at the pull she felt toward
him. "You. need sunscreen."
He scrunched up his face and rubbed his cheek. ''My skin does feel a
little tight."
"Uh-oh," she warned. "Wait until after sundown."
He stepped in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. With eyebrows
raised, he asked, "What will
happen after sundown?"
Pam's pulse skipped and, not without a certain amount of panic,
realized Alan was also feeling the
sexual pull between them. His eyes
searched her face, and she sensed that, ever the gentleman, he
was
waiting for a signal. They had reached the sticky point where
everything they said to each other
could be stretched, warped and
misshapen to mean something else, an unstable area that might lead
them
to ruin unless one of them took control. And since Alan was freshly
wounded from Jo's rejection,
he was vulnerable to sexual revenge, even
if he wasn't conscious of his motivation. And it was Pam's
job to make
sure that she wasn't a physical party to his retaliation for being
dumped at the altar.
She forced, lightness into her tone, ignoring his invitation to prolong
the flirtation. "Sunburns are always worse after sundown," she said
quietly, glad they had reached their chairs. She tossed him a bottle of
sunscreen and pulled a short mesh cover-up over her head. Pointing up
the sandy incline, she said,
"I'm going to get a beer."
"Sounds great," he said, grabbing a T-shirt, but Pam held up her hand.
"Stay here and I'll bring them back," she said, desperate to escape his
proximity. She practically ran
up the stone path to the grill, but told
herself she'd have to find a way to steel herself against the magnetism
that had materialized between them—they would be here another four days!
The grill turned out to be a charming little outside eatery comprising
a long bar and three weathered multilevel decks covered with
latticed-wood "ceilings" that allowed the sun and wind to filter
through. Pam glanced over the crowded tables, then walked to the bar
and ordered two
draft beers.
"Ah, Pamela, we meet again," came a deep, rolling voice behind her. Pam
turned to see the handsome Enrico standing with an umbrellaed drink in
his bejeweled hand.
"Er, yes," Pam said, offering him a small smile. As dangerous as the
man appeared, at the moment he seemed the safer of two choices.
"Have you been enjoying the afternoon?" he asked conversationally,
straddling a stool next to where
she stood. His chest was
well-developed and covered with dense, black hair. Pam made a
split-second comparison to Alan's sleek physique, then bit the inside
of her cheek when she acknowledged her preference.
"Sure," she answered casually, as the bartender slid two beers toward
her.
"A two-fisted drinker?" he asked, his dark eyes dancing.
''For a friend,'' she explained, lifting one of the cups to her mouth
with a shaky hand. Her revelations about Alan had her completely
rattled.
"A male friend?"
Pam nodded.
Enrico formed a pout with his curvy mouth. "Is he jealous?"
Pam pressed her lips together, stalling. "I don't know," she said,
licking the bittersweet liquid from
her lips.
He made a clicking sound with his cheek. "Silly man." Then he leaned
forward and wrapped a long
blond lock around his forefinger. "I would
never let you out of my si—iiiiIHIEEE!" Enrico jerked back
as a large arm descended between them on the bar with a resounding
smack.
Pam swung her head up and gasped to see Alan standing between them,
nursing a smirk. ''I was
getting thirsty," he said.
Anger flashed through her. How dare he show up while she was trying to
forget about him! "Alan,
what are you doing?"
He nodded at the dark man he towered over. ''Is this guy bothering you?"
"No!"
"Excuse me," Enrico said, pushing away from the bar slowly. "Perhaps
I'll see you later," he said,
lifting his bronzed hand in a wave. Then
he walked away, sipping his drink.
Alan watched him, then muttered, "Someone should tell him his back
needs a trim."
"What the heck was that all about?" Pam demanded.
"I was defending your honor," Alan declared hotly. "Again. And a lot of
thanks I get—again."
"Well, I guess I'm finally getting a glimpse of the real you, Alan P.
Parish," she said through clenched teem. "Tell me, does the 'P' stand
for 'prehistoric'?"
He glared.
"Or 'paternal'?"
He glared.
"Or just plain 'putz'?"
He straightened and picked up his beer. "I can take a hint—if you want
that...that gorilla with all his
gold chains, then who am I to stand
in your way. But if you start choking on a hairball, don't come
crying
to me."
A shrill ringing stopped him. Pamela reached inside her purse and
pulled out her cell phone, then
flipped down the
mouthpiece. "Hello?"
"Pam?" Jo asked.
"Oh, hi, Jo," she said for Alan's benefit.
He frowned and took a huge gulp of beer.
"I was hoping I could talk to Alan," Jo said. "'You know, explain what
happened."
"Alan?" Pam asked, raising her eyebrows.
He shook his head no and waved his arms frantically, mouthing the words
"No way."
"Uh, you just missed him," Pam said. "He went to get a beer."
"Are you both having fun?"'
"Oh, yeah," Pam said, laughing merrily. "Fun, fun, fun."
"Oh, good. Would you tell Alan I called and that I hope we can talk
when he gets back?" She hesitated. "And that I'm really sorry for
how
things turned out?''
"Sure thing," Pam said, giving Alan a tight smile.
"And Pam," Jo said. "Thanks again for being such a good friend to me
and to Alan."
"Don't mention it," Pam answered, then folded up the phone. "Jo said
she hopes the two of you can
talk when you get back, and that she's
really sorry for how things turned out."
Alan downed the rest of his beer, then slid the plastic cup across the
bar for a refill. "On second thought,
I think I'll stay right here and
get drunk," Alan said, settling on the stool Enrico had vacated.
Pam rested one hip on the comer of the neighboring stool. "I don't know
if that's such a good idea," she warned with a half smile. "The last
time you got drunk, you invited me to go on your honeymoon."
One comer of his mouth lifted. "This is. one for the record books," he
said, shaking his head. "Do you suppose I'm the only man in history who
won't get laid on his honeymoon?"
''Well,'' Pam said slowly, 'it doesn't have to be that way." When his
eyes widened, she stammered,
"I m-mean, there are lots of women on the
b-beach..." Flustered, she swept her hand in the air.
"Take
what's-her-name in the hat."
"Robin," he said, then began draining his second beer.
"Robin!" she seconded, nodding. "Nice teeth."
"Cute figure," he said.
"If you go for the boyish look," Pam agreed, still nodding.
"Nice legs," he said.
"Thick ankles," she murmured.
"Pretty hair."
"Sloppy dye job."
"Are we talking about the same woman?" Alan asked, angling his head. "I
talked to her for twenty minutes and you saw her for what—twenty
seconds? How did you notice all those things?"
Pam shrugged. "A woman knows."
"I thought she was nice."
"She was nice," Pam agreed, "if you're going to settle for nice."
"What's wrong with nice?" Alan asked.
"It's boring."
"One person's boredom is another person's reliability."
She sighed, exasperated. "We're talking about a beach fling, Alan.
Reliability doesn't even make the
list" She turned and gestured to the crowd around them, deciding she'd
have .to get the ball rolling for him. "Look—women everywhere—just
pick one."
Alan turned slowly on the stool. ''You make it sound so, so..."
"Spontaneous?"
"I was going to say cheap."
"What about the redhead in the corner?" she asked, pointing her pinkie.
"She's cute," Alan agreed with a halfhearted shrug.
"Well, don't get too excited," she warned sarcastically. "I suppose you
prefer brunettes."
"Not really," he said, draining his beer and smiling. "It's been a
while since I went looking for a woman, but I don't think I
discriminate."
Pam finished her beer and accepted a refill. She was already getting a
buzz since she hadn't eaten much all day. "How about the one in the
green bikini?"
He looked and squinted. "She's kind of skinny, don't you think?"
"I thought men liked skinny women."
"Slender, great. Curvy, even better. But skinny, no way," he said,
shaking his head.
"The yellow shorts and piled-up hair?"
"A definite possibility," he conceded slowly.
Pam frowned and gulped her beer. "She laughs like a seal, though. I can
hear her barking from here."
"Wow, look at the one in the red suit," he said, leaning forward
slightly.
Pam squinted, then dismissed her with a wave. "They're fake," she said
with confidence.
"How do you know?"
"Can't you tell? They don't move."
"Well, she isn't on a trampoline. Besides—" he turned a wolfish grin
her way "—I hate to break it
to you, Pam, but most men don't care if
they're real or not."
"You don't have to tell me
about men," she said.
He adopted an expression of mock remorse. "Sorry—I forgot I was talking
to the source." He frowned. "I'm curious—is there a straight man in
Savannah who isn't after you?"
She grinned. "Two Baptist reverends, and you.''
Alan saluted her with his drink. "Gee, thanks—you do wonders for my
ego. Ever been married?"
"Nope."
"How have you managed that?"
Pam ran a finger around the rim of the plastic cup and pursed her lips.
Then she gave a little shrug and said, "I've never fallen in love."
He scoffed. "I think falling in love is a vicious rumor that was
started thousands of years ago by the world's first wedding director."
She giggled, then sighed as memories washed over her. "I came close
once—I was seventeen and
looking for a way out of the projects. He was
nineteen and had the world by the tail."
"What happened?"
"He also had two other girls by the tail."
"Oh."
"That's when I decided it was much safer to play the field rather than
risking it all on one horse. And
I've been hedging my bets ever since."
"Hey," he said, holding up his hand. "Forget the horses—I don't want to
hear about the kinky stuff."
Pam giggled.
Alan polished off another beer. "What's your secret for staying
single?!'
"It's easy," she said. Leaning forward, she whispered, "Don't close
your eyes."
"What?"
"When you kiss—don't close your eyes."
He looked dubious. "That's your secret weapon?"
She nodded emphatically, and noticed the room still bounced slightly
even when she stopped. "When
you close your eyes during a kiss, your
mind starts playing all kinds of games. You start to imagine a
make-believe world where love conquers all. And you forget that most
marriages end in divorce—or worse."
"My parents seem pretty happy," he said.
"That's nice," she said, and meant it. "My dad split when we were
little, so I barely remember my
folks together."
"I'm sorry."
She smiled sadly. "Me, too. That's why I'd rather stay single and
childless than risk dragging kids
through a mess."
"I'm for the childless part," Alan noted wryly. "A toast," he said,
lifting his cup to hers, "to keeping your eyes open."
"Hear, hear," she agreed, touching her cup to his, then giggled when
beer sloshed over the side. A gust
of cold air blew over them and Para
shivered. Dusk was approaching, and the temperature had dropped
dramatically. "I mink I'll go back to the room and change."
Alan climbed down from the stool slowly. "I need to check in with my
secretary and see if she found
us a room. I'm not anxious to spend another night in Hotel Hell."
"It's not so bad," she said as .they walked, picking . their way
carefully back down the unlit path. The clear night and bright moon
made the going easier, and the now-deserted white beach stretched below
them like a wide satin ribbon. "Ooh, look at all the stars," she said,
waving her hand overhead. "Let's
go for a walk."
"Anything to avoid going back to the room," he agreed, falling in step
behind her.
She pulled loose pants from her canvas bag and stepped into them, then
decided to carry her sandals. "The sand looks like snow," she said,
digging in her toes. The tide was coming in, eating away at the beach
and forcing them to choose a higher path. The air felt cool and
invigorating and Pam tried hard
to focus on anything but the romantic
atmosphere as they headed down the beach toward their hotel. Millions
of stars twinkled overhead and, as always, simply thinking about the
distances their mere existence represented left her breathless. And
coupled with the sight of Alan's handsome face
silhouetted in the
moonlight, she was left downright light-headed. "Alan, do you really
think there's
life on other planets?"
"Sure," he said without hesitation. "I think it's pretty arrogant to
think the entire universe was created
just for us."
She tingled in appreciation of his honesty—she could never broach this
subject with any of the men
she dated. "I agree but it's a little
scary, don't you think?"
He shook his head. "Nah, if they were going to harm us, they would have
done it by now." Then he grinned.
''Besides, with all our societal and environmental problems, Earth is
probably the laughingstock of the universe."
"What you're telling me," she said with a chuckle, "is that I clawed my
way out of one slum simply to exist in a larger one?"
"In a manner of speaking," he conceded with a laugh.
"Okay, the P stands for 'pessimistic,' right?"
He laughed again, something she was beginning to look forward to. "So
I'm not the most upbeat
person, especially this week." He brushed
against her accidentally and her arm burned from the
contact. They
walked past several tall dunes, which cast tall shadows over them,
throwing them
into almost complete darkness.
''What doesn't kill you will make you stronger,'' she said, wondering
for whose benefit she was speaking— Alan's or hers? She stumbled on a
clump of grass and yelped, grabbing Alan's arm on the
way down. But she
caught him off guard and he fell with her. Pam grunted when she landed,
then was struck with the thought that being horizontal felt pretty
good. She gingerly lifted her head and saw Alan sprawling face first
next to her. When he raised onto his elbows, his face was covered with
a layer of white sand. Pam burst out laughing.
"You," he said with mock fierceness, "are dead meat."
She shrieked and tried to scramble to her feet, but he grabbed her bare
ankle and yanked her down
to the sand. Weak with laughter, she tried to
crawl away from him, but he dragged her back and rolled her over,
pinning her arms down.
Her laughter petered out at the closeness of his face to hers in the
darkness, and a warning siren
screamed in her head. He
lay half on top of her, his chest against hers. His T-shirt had worked
up and
she felt the warm skin of his stomach through the flimsy
cover-up she wore. Every muscle in her body tensed and her pulse
pounded in her ears. "Alan—" she said in a shaky voice.
"Pam," he cut in with a hoarse whisper, his breath fanning her lips.
"Please don't tell me to stop,
because then I'll have to."
She couldn't see his eyes, but she could hear the loneliness, the
desperation in his voice. "Alan," she croaked with as much strength as
she could muster.
He sighed slowly and lifted his head a few inches in resignation.
"What?"
Seconds stretched into a minute as the waves crashed behind them and
the love scene in From Here
To Eternity passed before her
eyes. God,
Alan was so sexy and so...so...so here.
Who cared about eternity? "Kiss
me," she said breathlessly.
For a while, he was completely still, and she wondered if perhaps he
hadn't heard her. But then he lowered his mouth with such sweet
slowness, she was able to anticipate the feel of his lips on hers and
ready herself for his taste. His lips were like velvet, she thought, as
her mouth opened for his. When his mouth met hers, Pam moaned at the
surge of desire that swelled in her chest. If she had expected
tentativeness, those expectations were banished immediately. It was as
if his lips knew hers, as if they
had explored the surface and depths
of her mouth many times. His tongue boldly tangled with hers in a
slashing, grinding dance and he shuddered, offering a deep groan that
echoed down her throat
The urgency of their kiss increased and he released her arms to seek
out more forbidden areas. He caressed her collarbone, then blazed a
trail south to cup her breast and thumb the beaded nipple, practically
the only skin her bathing-suit top covered. She arched her body into
him, and slid her
hands under his shirt to feel the hard wall of muscle
across his back. He kneed her legs open, then
shifted to lie cradled
between her thighs.
Longing pulsed through her body and moisture gathered at her core where
he pressed the hard ridge
of his erection against her. Slipping her
hands below his waistband, she gripped the smooth rounds of
his hard
buttocks, her mind spinning with the responses he evoked from her body.
He lifted his head
and gasped, "Not here. Someone might—"
She cut him off with a deep kiss, then whispered, "The beach is
deserted, no one will see us. Besides," she murmured, yanking his
T-shirt over his head, "I think it's kind of exciting."
In a flurry of sand, she pushed down his trunks and dragged them off
with her feet He lay naked on
top of her, kissing her deeply and
kneading her covered breasts with a slow intensity that told her he
planned to take, his time undressing her, enjoying her. She writhed
beneath him, urging him on with
her wandering hands, anxious to explore
his body.
Then a blinding light flashed over his shoulder, directly in Pam's
eyes. "Hold it right there, mister,"
said a gruff male voice.
Alan stiffened, then lifted his head and swung to look over his
shoulder. He raised his arm to shield his eyes. "What the
hell?"
"Police," the man boomed, thumping his badge unnecessarily since the
uniform said it all. "Stand up slowly and put your hands in the air."
Alan scoffed. "You can't be serious—"
"I said, on your feet!"
Pam's heart pounded in her chest and she squeezed her eyes shut, unable
to watch. When she finally chanced a glance, Alan stood squinting into
the cop's light with his arms in the air, hosting a monster erection.
"God," the cop said, wincing.
"I hope that means you'll let me find my pants," Alan snapped, outraged.
"Make it quick," the officer said. "I'd hate to haul you in naked."
"What?" Alan barked. Pam sprang up, her heart in her throat.
The cop gave him a sneering smile and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
"This is a family beach, you pervert. You're under arrest for indecent
exposure."
Eight
"I've never been so humiliated in my life," Alan declared as he
followed Pam out of the city jail and squinted into the late-afternoon
sun. She looked chipper in her crisp white shorts and red silk blouse.
He, on the other hand, still sported the sand-crusted swimming trunks
and T-shirt he'd been wearing
last night when the cop hauled him into
jail like a common criminal. Between the cot he'd slept on and
the
realization that he and Pamela Kaminski had been minutes away from
sharing carnal knowledge,
he hadn't slept a wink.
"No one will find out," Pam said in a soothing voice.
"Oh, really?" he asked. "Is that like, 'It's deserted, no one will see
us'?"
She frowned. "I said I was sorry a hundred times— didn't you hear me?"
"One hundred thirty-six times," he corrected. "I heard you during the
entire walk to the squad car last night, and as you ran alongside the
police car when we drove away, and
this morning in the courtroom while
the judge was lecturing me—" He stopped and stared toward the street in
disbelief, then pressed
his palms against his temples. "Pam, are you
nuts?"
"What?" She pushed the cheap sunglasses high on her forehead and
unlocked the door to the powder
blue limo.
"You left this pimpmobile parked in a fire zone in front of the jail
for two hours?"
She shrugged her lovely shoulders. "I turned on the hazard lights."
"Oh, well," he said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "I didn't
realize you'd turned on the
hazard lights." He summoned a dry laugh.
"After all, everyone knows that hazard lights cancel out
every broken
law. Mow down a pedestrian? No problem, just turn on your hazards."
"Well, it's still here, isn't it?" she demanded hotly.
"Who the hell else would want it?" he cried, feeling on the verge of
hysteria.
She pointed to the passenger side. "Just get in, will you?"
"Oh, no," he said, holding out his hand for the keys. "You are not
driving."
"I drove here without any problems!"
"Oh, really?" Alan crossed his arms, then nodded toward the front
fender. "And I suppose that
telephone pole-size dent just appeared from
nowhere?"
She bit her bottom lip, and handed over the keys in silence.
"Thank you," he said, then opened the driver-side door just as a police
car pulled up behind the limo
with its siren silent but flashing. When
the young cop stepped out, he had already begun writing the
ticket.
"Sir," he said in a pleasant voice. "Do you have any idea what the fine
is for parking in a fire lane in
front of a government building?" Alan
closed his eyes and counted to ten.
A few minutes later, Pam studied the pink carbon copy the police
officer had given him and whistled
low. "A hundred and forty-five
dollars?"
"Do me a favor," he said calmly, gripping the steering wheel so hard
his hands hurt. "Just sit over
there and don't talk."
"Look, Alan, I know you're upset—"
"Upset?" he crowed. "Just because
I'm now considered a sex offender? Why would that upset me?"
"It's not
as bad as you make it sound."
"Before yesterday, I'd never even
received a speeding ticket."
Pam lay her head back. "Do you realize you can rearrange the letters in
your name to spell 'anal'?"
He scowled in her direction. "I'm not going to apologize for being a
law-abiding citizen."
"Your secretary called last night." His stomach
twisted. "You talked to Linda?"
''Relax, I told her I worked for the
hotel and all your calls were being routed to me. She found you a
room."
"Finally, some good news," he said, his shoulders dropping in
relief.
"I told her you changed your mind."
He weaved over the centerline.
"What?"
"She needed an answer immediately, and I didn't know how long
you'd be in jail..." Her voice trailed
off and she raised her hands in
a helpless gesture. Her manicured nails had gone from peach to bright
red during his incarceration.
"I'll call her later to see if the room is still available," he said.
"Right now, even the broken couch in
Hotel Hell sounds good." Then the
thought struck him that Pam might think they'd be sharing the
same bed, after what nearly transpired last night. Except now that he'd
had a few
idle hours to ponder their lapse, he realized what a huge mistake it
would have been. No matter how much he wanted to
sleep with Pam, only a
jerk would have rebound sex with his ex-fiancee's best friend. Besides,
he admitted begrudgingly, as infuriating as she could be, Pam was
starting to grow on him, and he didn't want to tread on their
burgeoning friendship, didn't want to be relegated to her bottomless
dating pool.
"I'll call and see if the pullout bed can be fixed."
"Done," Pam said with a little smile. "This morning I slipped the
maintenance man a twenty and he
fixed it in no time."
"Great," Alan said, nodding.
"Yeah," she said.
After a pregnant pause, they both spoke at the same time.
"About last night—" she said.
"I want to apologize—" he said, then stopped and they both looked away
and laughed awkwardly.
"It was the moon and the stars—"
"—and the beer and the ocean," she added.
"I was still feeling a little rejected over the wedding—"
"—and I was feeling lonely."
"What a big mistake it would have been," he said, attempting a casual
laugh.
"Huge," she agreed.
"Gigantic—"
"Colossal—"
"What with you being Jo's best friend—"
"—and you being Jo's ex-fiance"
Feeling relieved, Alan inhaled deeply. "So we're in agreement." Then he
glanced over and realized with
a sinking feeling that despite his new
resolve, he still wasn't immune to her remarkable beauty.
"Completely in agreement," she assured him with a bright smile.
* * *
She had done a lot of stupid things in her relatively short life, Pam
decided the next day as she lay in
a rental chaise on the beach and
watched a kidney-shaped cloud move across the otherwise clear sky.
But
all of them rolled into one wouldn't have compared to the absolute
brainlessness she would have exhibited if that cop hadn't shown up the
night before last.
Luckily, Alan seemed to agree with her and they had touched on, danced
around and sidestepped the issue of their sexual attraction while
somehow agreeing that the sex act itself would have been a grievous
error. The logical side of her brain had no problem going along with
that argument, but the emotional
side of her brain kept remembering the
feelings raging through her that night when Alan kissed her—after all
her bragging, she had actually closed her eyes! And though she had
definitely responded to him on a physical level, he had also stirred
something deep inside her. Alan had accidentally managed to blaze a
trail where no man had gone before, and the realization saddened her
because a relationship between them was impossible. Unthinkable.
Inconceivable.
He was still in love with her best friend, for God's sake. And she
wasn't about to return to Savannah arm in arm with Alan and have Jo
think they had been carrying on behind her back all these years.
Besides,
Alan P. Parish came from Savannah's most prosperous family, while she
came from Savannah's most prose-cuted family. He wouldn't be interested
in anything other than a sexual relationship with her. Typically, such
a revelation wouldn't bother her, but she was starting to feel a weird
sort of affection
for the man, striking a memory chord from when she'd
first known him in high school. Warning bells chimed in her head and
some untapped part of her soul telegraphed increasingly urgent
distress signals.
SUBJECT IS DANGEROUS STOP HEART IN JEOPARDY STOP PROCEED WITH CAUTION
STOP
"Our paths keep crossing." Enrico's undulating voice wafted above her.
Pam opened her eyes to see
him standing over her, surveying her new red
two-piece suit with open admiration. He wore a straw
hat and snug
little bikini swim trunks that Europeans seemed fond of wearing. Pam
pressed her lips together in amusement at the recollection of Alan's
scoffing reference to the shiny, elastic garments as "nut-huggers."
"It must be destiny," the dark-skinned man continued with a charming
grin.
"Or just a small beach," she offered, making no movement to encourage
him to stay. She had enough
on her mind, and she felt her patience
dwindling.
"Could I interest you in dinner tonight?" he asked. "I know a
restaurant where the lobster is fresh and
the drinks are strong." He
wagged his dark eyebrows and Pam wondered where he or any other man
had
gotten the idea that women found the gesture provocative.
"I already have dinner plans," she lied. "Thanks anyway."
Enrico's expression grew sultry as he dipped his head. "And do you also
have plans for dessert?" he asked, his meaning clear in the husky
timbre of his voice.
"I'm on a diet," she said, smiling tightly. "Thanks anyway." Then she
retrieved a book from her canvas bag and opened it.
"That man in the bar yesterday, he is your boyfriend?" Enrico pressed.
Pam glanced up from the book, suddenly at the end of her fuse. "No,"
she said with quiet authority.
"He's my husband."
"Oh?" He looked surprised, then pulled a sad face.. "And he has left
you alone yet again."
"I wore him out," she said evenly, then looked back to her book.
Enrico must have taken the hint because he moved away after a
tongue-rolling farewell, but she felt his dark gaze linger over her and
shivered.
The book was one that Alan had purchased, one she'd devoured years ago,
but it was worth another
read. Especially if it took her mind off Alan,
who lay spread-eagle on the water bed where he'd slept
since returning
from jail yesterday afternoon. She had eaten dinner alone last night
and crawled into the lumpy pull-out bed where she'd lain awake for
hours thinking about the man only a few feet away.
She sighed and immersed herself in a world of fantasy and science
fiction, caught up in interstellar
wars, life and romance in the next
millennium.
In the early afternoon, she gave in to hunger pangs and walked up the
path to the grill. After ordering
a messy hot dog, she sat down at a
table overlooking the beach to sort through the last few days'
disturbing turn of events.
The crowds had thinned a bit since the locals had resumed their midweek
work schedules, leaving
behind vacationers and snowbirds who seemed to
group almost exclusively by twos. With a start, she remembered that
today was Valentine's Day, so no wonder everyone was paired off—lots of
folks were probably here for their anniversary since February
fourteenth seemed to be a popular date for weddings. The bartender
con-finned her theory by announcing a couples' sand castle-building
contest for the remainder of the afternoon, with the winning pair to
receive a-romantic dinner at a local seafood restaurant.
Her mind wandered to Alan and she hoped he was resting. As if on cue,
he emerged from the trees that hid the pebbly path below their balcony.
To her dismay, her pulse kicked up as. she watched him move with
natural athleticism down the slight incline and out onto the white
sand. A towel lay around his wide shoulders, and he carried a small gym
bag, which she surmised was full of books. His head pivoted as he
scanned the area. Was he looking for her? she wondered with a little
smile. Then he waved to someone farther down the beach and Pam forgot
to chew the food in her mouth as she spotted Robin the Computer Lady
and her big floppy hat.
Swallowing painfully, she watched as Robin stopped and waited for Alan
to walk to her, which he
seemed eager to do, she noted wryly. Today
Robin wore a high-necked tank suit of boring brown, but Pam conceded
her legs were long and slim. From a distance, the woman's resemblance
to Jo was uncanny. She held on to her hat with one hand as she tilted
her head back to smile up at
Alan. Pam stabbed her chili dog with enough force to snap the plastic
fork.
And Alan seemed to have recovered from his ill mood, she noticed as he
offered the woman a broad smile. Robin gestured in the direction from
which she'd come and Alan nodded happily, seemingly anxious to follow
her...where? To her blanket? Pam sank her teeth into her bottom lip. To
lunch? She shredded the paper napkin in her lap. To her room? Pam felt
something akin to gas pain in her stomach. At least if he had a fling
with Robin, she reasoned, the sexual tension hanging between herself
and Alan would be relieved. And maybe they'd be able to get through the
rest of the week and arrive back in Savannah with all friendships intact
The computer couple stopped after a few steps and Robin squirmed,
pointing to her shoulder. Alan stopped, investigated and brushed away
the offending object. Oh,
brother—the old "something's on
me, will you
get it off, you big strong he-man" trick. Pam rolled her eyes. Amateur.
But Alan must have been convinced because he inched closer to Robin as
they strolled away. When
Pam could no longer see them from her chair,
she stood up. When they disappeared past tiptoe level,
she walked to
the corner of the deck. "Go for it, Alan," she muttered as she hung out
over the edge
with her back foot hooked around the railing to keep from
falling. "I couldn't care less."
The pool at the resort where Robin was staying glimmered blue and
white, interrupted only by a few
adults who lounged in one coiner, with firm grips around their drinks.
Alan sat next to Robin, bored
with shoptalk and hoping something
conversational would pop into his head. Accepting her invitation
to
join her at the pool had seemed like a good idea an hour ago, but now
he was feeling restless. For
some maddening reason, Alan couldn't keep
his mind off where and with whom Pam had found entertainment for the
afternoon.
"What's wrong?" Robin asked cheerfully.
"Nothing," he assured her. She was very attractive, and had pulled her
chair so close to his she'd
pinched her fingers between the two arms.
And if he had any doubts she was interested in him
physically, they
were banished when he felt her bare foot caress his leg from calf to
ankle. Startled,
he stiffened.
She flashed him a flirty smile. "Want to take a swim? The pool is
heated."
"Sure," he said, pushing back from the table, suddenly wanting to
escape. He followed her into the shallow end, then swam the length of
the pool, not at all surprised when she surfaced near him at the other
end. With the concrete wall at his back, he closed his eyes and raised
his face to the sun.
"Great day," she said, allowing her body to graze his beneath the water.
"Mmm." He really should find Pamela and apologize for being so cross
yesterday.
"I always stay in this resort when I'm in town," she continued.
"Nice," he murmured.
"My room has a fabulous view," Robin said near his ear, and several
seconds passed before her
meaning sank in. She robbed her breast against his arm and his eyes
popped open.
Her mouth curved provocatively. "Want to go up for a look?"
Alan glanced at her and realized with a sinking feeling that she
reminded him of Jo—in more ways
than one. Although Jo had never been as
forward as Robin, he experienced the same mild stirring of sexual
interest when he looked at the slim woman in her sensible brown bathing
suit All the time he
had dated Jo, he'd hoped their relationship would
become more sensual, but now he had to admit that their chemistry had
never been quite right. And while he had loved Jo from the beginning,
he had never been in love with her...had never craved her company so
much that he experienced physical pain when
he was away from her...had
never been tempted to get naked with her on a dark beach.
"Alan?" Robin whispered, moving in for a kiss. Her mouth shifted
against his pleasantly and Alan tried
to conjure up some level of
desire, especially in light of his new revelation. He absolutely
couldn't be falling for Pam....
Robin's mouth became more insistent and Alan awkwardly pulled her
against him, running his hands
over her slight curves and waiting for
his body to respond.
She lifted her head, breathing heavily. "How about that view?"
Alan's mind raced.. Do it, Parish.
Get Pam out of your head and out of
your system. "Um, sorry," he said, withdrawing and pushing
himself up
and out of the pool. "I promised Pam I'd...take her shopping."
Robin stared at him from the water. "You'd rather go shopping with your
sister?"
"No," he said hurriedly, grabbing his towel and gym bag. "It's just
that I promised...I'll see you later, Robin."
"Count on it," she said pointedly, as if next time he would not get
away so easily.
Alan trotted off in relief, then slowed to a walk when he reached the
beach. He made his way back up
the shore, keeping an eye on the horizon
for a Wave Runner rider in an overflowing neon pink wet suit and
wrestling with the bombshell of the feelings he harbored for his
ex-fiancee's best friend.
Along the way, he noticed several sand castles, some simple, some
intricate, and realized a contest was under way. A few hundred yards
later, he noticed a loose knot of men had gathered to watch a work in
progress. But as he approached, he recognized the fake flower tattoo on
the firm hip of Pamela Kaminski. She crawled on all fours and stretched
to add yet another tower to the elaborate castle she had created. He
smiled wryly at the realization that although her sand fortress was by
far the most impressive he'd seen, Pam's turrets were gaining far more
attention than her castle's.
Seemingly oblivious to the attention, her head was bent in
concentration, although she kept brushing
back a strand of golden hair
that.had escaped the high ponytail. The red bikini was a masterpiece,
he acknowledged, marveling at the way she filled it to bursting yet
managed to keep everything, safely in place as she moved around. His
body began to harden at the memory of her lying beneath him in the
sand. But knowing that train of thought led to a dead end, he forced
himself to squash the provocative vision. Uncomfortable with the
thought of being a part of the ogling crowd, he stepped forward and
announced, "There you are!" in a loud voice.
Pam glanced up and smiled, then sat back on her heels, offering a
mouth-drying view of her cleavage. Her breasts were confined by two
tiny triangles of cloth that had to be much stronger than they looked.
"Hi," she said, and Alan could almost hear the groans of dismay as the
men realized their up-close
perusal had come to an end. One by one,
they drifted away.
"Are you alone?" she asked, peering around him.
"Yeah," he said, suddenly wondering how he could have been so angry
with her yesterday.
She turned her attention back to the sand castle. "Have you been in bed
all this time?"
"Pretty much," he said, shrugging. "But I feel much better."
"That's nice," she said tightly, but she didn't look up.
She was probably still miffed at him for the way he'd behaved yesterday
afternoon, he reasoned. "I'm sorry I was so grouchy when you came to
pick me up,'' he said, not sure why he felt the need to get
back into
her good graces. "I did appreciate it."
"It's okay," she said in a tone that didn't sound okay. Then she
glanced over her shoulder. "You got it
all out of your system, right?"
"Right," he said, hoping he looked properly contrite.
"Truce?"
.
"Truce," she said with a suddenly cheerful smile, then stood and dusted
sand from her knees.
"Hey," he said, studying her design. "You need a moat." He took one of
the buckets she'd been using
as a mold and filled it with water, then
fed the small channel she'd dug around the perimeter of the castle.
After several
trips, the moat was filled, and she nodded, satisfied with his
contribution.
"That's quite a spread, little lady," the bartender from the grill said
as he made his way toward them. "Nice castle, too," he muttered to Alan
with an envious wink as he walked by. The chubby fellow shook her hand
and gave her an envelope. "The best sand castle by far—you two have a
real nice Valentine's Day dinner." Then his expression turned serious.
"Be careful after dark, though—I hear we have a pervert on the loose,
some naked guy scaring women and little kids."
Alan frowned, but at least Pam managed to restrain herself until the
man had walked away. "Pervert?" She threw her head back and laughed.
"Is that what the 'P' stands
for?"
"Ha, ha, very funny."
"Here," she said, handing him the envelope and wiping her eyes. "You
and Robin have a nice evening."
"Robin?" He shook his head. "I've spent all the time with her today
that I want to. What about Enrico?"
"Somehow I don't think he'd be much of a dinner companion," she said,
and Alan got her meaning
loud and clear: the man was a lover, not a
talker. He tried to stem the jealousy that flooded his chest,
but the
thought of Pam with another man was crushing. Had she rendezvoused with
the hairy horndog last night or this morning—or both?
"Looks like we're stuck with each other, then," he said with a casual
shrug that belied the emotions
raging through him.
"Looks like it," she said, falling a little short of looking happy at
the prospect herself.
Pier Twenty-Eight was bustling with couples celebrating Valentine's
Day. Boasting a large bar, a roving Italian quartet and a great
oceanside view, Pam could see why. As they waited at the bar for their
table, she noticed Alan's gaze lingering on her again. Although she had
hoped his little diversion with Robin would ease the situation, she had
felt more on edge than ever while they were getting ready fbr dinner.
Just to be safe, she had emerged from the bathroom already dressed in a
simple deep pink sleeveless sheath, but she'd felt him watching her
while she piled her hair on her head with various combs. And
she had to
admit she struggled to keep her attention elsewhere while he applied
lotion to his reddish shoulders before donning a dress shirt.
He did look fabulous, she decided, and allowed herself a bit of pride
to be on his arm tonight. When
they had attended functions together in
Savannah, it had been different—everyone knew he was
devoted to Jo, so
Pam had never entertained thoughts of what kind of couple she and Alan
might make. But now she knew they were garnering a fair share of
attention, and she conceded they looked like a classic "match": tall
with blond hair and glowing tans. But looks could be deceiving, she
noted with a
little twist of her heart.
''Well, if it isn't the newlyweds,'' a man's voice said behind, her.
Pam registered Alan's slight frown
before she turned to see Cheek and
Lila, the senior-citizen couple who, thankfully, they hadn't seen
naked in a while.
"Cheek," Lila said with a motherly smile. "They're not married,
remember? They're just friends, right?"
"Right," Alan and Pam said in unison.
"Wasn't it a lovely day?" Lila continued, waving vaguely toward the
beach.
"Great dress," Cheek said bluntly, talking to Pam's breasts.
"Er, thanks," Pam said as Alan cleared his throat.
"You're getting a nice tan," Lila commented.
"I was on the beach all day," Pam told her.
"This beach?" Cheek asked in amazement He leaned forward then glanced
around as if he were about
to divulge military secrets. "There's a nude
beach about twenty miles away," he said in a conspiratorial tone. "It's
five bucks a head, but it's worth it," he finished with an emphatic
curt nod.
"We'll keep that in mind," Alan said tightly.
The man turned to Pam and said, "If you decide to go, we'd be glad to
give you a ride."
"I said," Alan said, his tone louder and his expression harder, "we'll
keep it in mind."
"Great," Cheek said, completely missing the rebuff. "You want to see if
we can get a table for four?"
"No!" Pam and Alan nearly shouted together.
"Uh, it's a very special occasion for us," she said with a smile,
leaning into Alan.
He put his arm around her waist and nodded. ."We really wanted to be
alone tonight."
''Oohhhhhhh,'' Lila sang, her eyes twinkling and her finger wagging.
"Friends indeed! Do I hear
wedding bells?"
Pam scrambled for something to say to get rid of the couple without
embarrassing Alan further.
"I guess you could say it was the idea of
wedding bells that brought us to Fort Myers, right, Alan?"
He hesitated only a few seconds. "Oh...right."
Lila laughed delightedly. "Dingdong, dingdong." Her head bounced left,
then right.
Pam tingled at the intimacy and awkwardness of the conversation.
Thankfully, their name was called
and they said a hasty goodbye.
"Talk about dingdongs," Alan
muttered as they followed a waiter to
their table.
"They're harmless," she said, waving off his concern.
"They should be somewhere playing shuffleboard instead of scaring up
entertainment for a nude-beach matinee," he said as he held out her
chair.
The waiter handed them their menus, took their wine order and left.
Pam laughed and opened her menu. "Percy," she said.
"What?"
"Your middle name—Percy?"
He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "No."
"Pendleton?"
"No."
"Pernicious?"
He laughed. "No. Forget it—I'm not telling you."
"Will you tell me if I guess it?"
He dropped his gaze to his menu. "Sure, because you'll never guess it."
"Pembroke?"
"No—and that's enough."
"Who knows it?"
"Only my parents and siblings—and they're sworn to secrecy."
"Jo doesn't even know?"
"Nope. What looks good?"
Pam bit her tongue to keep from saying that he looked mighty tasty.
"Probably the orange roughy."
"Fried, of course."
"Of course."
"How about lobster?"
Pam winced at the price. "I don't think the gift certificate will cover
lobster."
"Screw the certificate—last night I slept through dinner, and the night
before I had a roll of breath
mints in jail". He folded the menu and
gave it a light smack. "I'm having lobster."
She watched as Alan craned his neck, looking all around. "Our waiter
said he'd be right back," she reminded him.
"I know—I'm making sure they didn't seat us near a bunch of kids. I
specifically asked for no kids."
"Relax—I don't see any kids."
"They can hide," he assured her, lifting the tablecloth for a peek.
"The 'P' stands for 'paranoid,'" she declared.
"Would you stop with the 'P' stuff already?"
"Alan, kids have to eat, too."
"Fine—as long as they're not sitting near me. Nearly every time Jo and
I—" He stopped and a strange look came over his face. "There I go
again."
Pain's heart twisted at the hurt that flashed in his eyes. "Alan, you
have a lot of history with Jo—you
can talk about her. Nearly every time
you and Jo what?" Jo had divulged that her and Alan's sex life
had been
practically nonexistent, so she was relatively sure he wasn't going to
say something too
personal. Because of Jo's comments, Pam had always
labeled Alan as a wet fish, but now she was doubting her best friend's
judgment.
He straightened, but his cheer seemed forced. "Nearly every time Jo
and I ate out, it seemed like some spoiled kid would ruin it—screaming,
throwing food." He passed his hand over his face and a dry laugh
escaped his mouth. "Now I'm wondering if things were going sour between
us, and I was simply looking for any excuse to explain the awkwardness."
"What's so bad about kids anyway?" she asked.
He opened his mouth to answer, then looked puzzled. "I don't
know—they're loud—"
"I'm
loud."
"And messy—"
"I'm messy."
"And the diapers—"
"Okay, you got me there," she said with a grin.
"Do you like kids?" he asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
Pam shrugged. "I practically raised my kid sister."
"I didn't know you had a kid sister."
Pride swelled in her chest every time she thought of Dinah. "She's ten
years younger—twenty-two.
I sent her to your high
school, except I made
sure she finished," she added with a laugh.
"Where is she now?"
"Finishing up at Notre Dame," she said with satisfaction. "But she'll
probably start law school this fall."
Alan whistled low. "Not bad."
"Well, I wanted to make sure one of the Kaminskis ended up successful
and on the right side of the
law," she said, thinking about her thuggy
brothers.
"You're doing all right for yourself," Alan said. "Top sales producer
for the largest realty company in Savannah."
Pam tingled under his praise, put knew that no matter what her
achievements, she was, and would
always be, a Kaminski. Dinah had
informed her she would not be coming back to Savannah to practice, and
Pam suspected the blight on the family name had influenced her
decision. Looking across the table
at a man whose name alone put him
out of her reach, Pam suddenly felt queasy.
"Will you order for me?" she asked, then excused herself to the ladies'
room, telling herself she had to banish the ridiculous thoughts that
galloped through her head every time she looked at Alan.
In the rest room, she splashed cold water on her neck, then pondered
the wisdom of leaving Alan in
Fort Myers and returning to Savannah
early. Once she was back in her normal surroundings, these
crazy
feelings for Alan would evaporate. She could fabricate something about
being needed at her
office, and make her getaway. The fact that she
didn't want to leave him was frightening enough to
cinch her decision.
She left the ladies' room feeling sad but resolute.
On the way back to the table, a male voice stopped her. "We must stop
meeting like this, Pamela."
She turned to find Enrico dressed in black slacks and a shiny red
shirt. Annoyance fueled her temper.
"I can't stop to chat—I need to get
back to my table."
His smile was slow and syrupy as he fell in step beside her. "Did your
husband bring you or has he abandoned you once
again?"
"No," Pam said through clenched teeth as she walked. "We're having a
quiet, romantic dinner."
But he followed her around the corner, where
she came up short.
Alan stood by their, table, sharing a deep kiss with Robin the computer
lady.
Nine
Several seconds passed before Alan registered the fact that Robin, who
had appeared from nowhere,
was kissing him very hard and very
invasively. After he managed to untangle his tongue from hers, he
clasped her arms and gently pushed her away. Her eyes held the slight
glaze of drunkenness. "Robin,"
he said with a little laugh, "I don't
think this is the place."
"Oh? Then how about here?" she slurred, yanking his waistband hard. The
button on his fly popped
off and flipped up in the air.
A gasp sounded behind him. "Alan, how could you?" He wheeled to see
Lila and Cheek standing near him, being led to a table. Lila stood with
her hand over her heart "I thought you were going to propose
to Pamela
tonight."
"Prrrropose?"
Alan turned the opposite direction, toward Enrico's rolling voice. The
dark-haired man stood just a few steps away, with a possessive hand on
Pamela's waist. Alan frowned. Where had he come from?
Enrico's expression was black as he stared at Pam. ''I thought the two
of you were already married!"
Pam looked at Alan. Her mouth opened and
closed, but no sound came out.
"Married?" Robin yelped, jerking his attention back to her. "I thought
she was your sister!"
"Sister?" Lila shrieked, and he swung his head back to see the older
woman's face twisted in distaste. "That's disgusting."
Cheek appeared slightly less distraught. "Well, it's illegal anyway."
Everyone started talking at once, and Robin advanced on him, her eyes
narrowed, and her steps
wobbly. "Alan, what the hell is going on?"
Alan held up his hands. "Wait a minute. Wait a minute!" The group
quieted. He took a deep breath
and a step backward, then fell over a
potted fern, landing on his tailbone hard enough to set his glasses
askew. The waiter hurried over to help him up, but Alan, clawing the
air in frustration, brushed him
off. He scrambled to his feet,
straightened his clothes, then made chopping motions in the air to
punctuate his point.
"Look...you...you people!
Pamela and I came to have a nice, quiet
Valentine's Day dinner." He felt
a vein bulging at his temple. "The
nature of our relationship is nobody's business!" He yanked up his
pants by his sagging waistband. "Now, I'll thank everyone to move
along!"
Lila and Cheek were the first to bustle away, then Robin and Enrico
slipped off in the same direction. Alan had the brief thought that the
two of them should get together, then he looked at Pam and swept
an arm
awkwardly toward the table. "Shall we?"
She nodded, then stooped and picked up his wayward button. She handed
it to him, then moved
stiffly to her place at the table. After pulling
out her chair, Alan reclaimed his seat, snapping the
napkin before settling it over his lap. For several long minutes, they
toyed with
their wineglasses and fingered the silverware.
Although he couldn't fathom why, Alan felt as if he owed Pam an
explanation. When he could stand
the silence no longer, he cleared his
throat. "I wasn't kissing her, you know."
"Not that it matters," she said, sipping the wine that had been served
in her absence. "But the lipstick
on your mouth, nose, ear arid eyelid
proves otherwise."
He swiped the napkin across his face, frowning at the reddish stain
that transferred. "I mean I wasn't kissing her back."
"Like I said, it doesn't matter."
"I guess not," he conceded with a wave, "since you were skulking in the
hall with your Latin lover."
She frowned. "My lover? Where on earth did you get that idea?"
His heart lifted a notch. "You haven't been messing around with him?"
Pam rolled her eyes. "If I wanted to mess around with him, why would I
have told him you and I
were married?"
Unexplained relief flooded through him. "And he believed it?"
"Crazy, huh?" she asked with a little laugh. "That someone would think
we were husband and wife?"
"Yeah," he said, joining her laughter. "Ridiculous."
"I mean, you and me—" Pam's giggles escalated.
"Right," he said, laughing harder. "Mr.
and Mrs. Alan Parish."
She roared. "P-Pamela P-Parish!"
Alan wiped his eyes and took a big gulp of wine. "The way the last
couple of days have been going,
I suppose anything seems possible."
"It's been an adventure," she agreed.
He sighed and glanced across the table, struck anew by her glowing
beauty. Pam looked like a movie
star, her hair and skin wrought with
gold, her mouth wide, her eyes shining. Her gaze met his and
Alan's
ears started ringing. He felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a
precipice, in danger of falling into a pit so deep he might never
return. The notion skating through his mind, the emotion blooming
in
his chest was nothing short of insanity. He was falling for Pamela
Kaminski.
Pam's smile evaporated and she squirmed in her chair. Looking into her
glass, she said, "I was thinking about leaving tomorrow."
Alan stopped and choked on the wine in his throat "Leaving? You mean,
going back to Savannah?"
She nodded.
He experienced the panicky feeling that something wonderful was about
to slip through his fingers.
"B-but why?"
Pam abandoned her glass and rolled her eyes heavenward, counting on her
beautifully manicured
fingers. "A bad flight, a flat tire, a
dilapidated hotel, a powder blue limo, a police record..." Her voice
trailed off. "You came to the beach for a week of R&R," she said.'
'And so far it's been more like a
week of S&M.''
"Well, it hasn't been your fault," he offered generously.
But she simply smirked.
"Not totally," he added weakly.
"Lying is not one of your talents."
Spotting an opening, he leaned forward with eyebrows raised. "Is that a
concession that I have talents elsewhere?"
"No."
Deflated, he sat back. "Oh."
Surprised at the wounded look on his face, Pam scrambled to soothe his
hurt feelings. "I mean,
I wouldn't know if you had talents
elsewhere..." She swallowed and searched for firmer footing.
"It's not
like Jo and I ever discussed your, uh...anything."
He shifted in his seat. "Well, I should hope not."
"Oh, no," she assured him hurriedly. "Jo and I never talked about what
you and she did—or didn't do."
Alan pursed his lips. "Didn't do?"
A flush burned her neck on its way up. "I didn't say 'didn't.'"
"Yes, you did."
Panic fluttered in her stomach. "Well, I didn't mean 'didn't' I
meant...oh, damn."
He closed his eyes and downed the rest of his wine. After setting his
empty glass on the table with a thunk, he inhaled deeply. "So, Jo
wasn't happy with our sex life."
Pam shook her head. "She never
said that." He flagged the waiter for
more wine, then gave her a dry laugh. "Well, I have to admit we didn't
exactly keep the sheets ablaze."
She held up her hands. "I don't want to hear this."
"I can't explain it. Jo is a beautiful woman, but when it came to-"
Pam put her hands over her ears and started to hum, but she could still
read his lips, and what she saw made her squeeze
her eyes shut. "I'm not listening," she sang. "I'm noooooooooooooot
liiiiiissstennnnniiiiing. I'm noooooooooooooot
liiiiiissstennnnniiiiing. I'm noooooooooooooot
liiiiiissstennnnniiiiing." When she opened her eyes, Alan sat staring
at her, along with two waiters who stood by the table, their arms
loaded with trays. She smiled sheepishly, straightened her napkin, then
gestured for them to serve.
During dinner, neither she nor Alan mentioned the subject of her
returning to Savannah early. They
talked about their respective jobs,
mutual acquaintances and state politics. They talked about the Braves
and the Hawks and the Falcons and the Thrashers, one advantage Of
having sports-minded brothers,
she noted. They laughed and argued and
laughed some more, and Pam hated to see the pleasant meal come to an
end.
For dessert, they decided to split a rich, velvety cheesecake with
cinnamon topping, which reminded
Pam of the unused bottle of body
liqueur in their room.
She picked up her utensil and with every luscious bite, she imagined
devouring him—biting, licking and swallowing him whole. She savored
every succulent bite, allowing the sweetness to melt on her tongue
before letting it slide down her throat. The more she ate, the more
moist her flimsy panties grew until
she nearly moaned aloud. At the
sound of Alan's chuckle, she glanced up, afraid she had. Instead, he
was simply watching her.
"Was it
good?"
.
"Wonderful," she said, smiling to herself.
"You're killing me," he said, shifting in his seat.
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Pam," he said, leaning close and lowering his voice. "Do you always
eat dessert with a knife?"
With a start, she stared at the huge, blunt dinner knife in her hand.
She glanced up with a sheepish
smile, enormously relieved to see the
roving Italian musicians were approaching their table.
The men were dressed in brilliant costumes of red, black and gold, with
snow-white shirts. The violinist nodded to Alan and kissed Pam's hand,
then put his instrument to his shoulder and began to play a
sweet,
haunting melody, accompanied by the other musicians.
It was almost too much for her—the great food, the good wine, the
beautiful music...and Alan's
company. She glanced over at him and
inhaled sharply at the desire she saw in his blue eyes. He abandoned
his napkin, stood and swept his hand toward the tiny vacant area by
their table. "May
I have this dance?" Then he leaned forward and
whispered conspiratorially, "Of course, I'll have to
hold you close to
keep my pants up."
She grinned, then accepted his hand and allowed him to pull her into
his arms for a slow waltz. He was
a surprisingly good dancer, with
natural rhythm and perfect form. It was a good thing he could lead, she
decided with her chin resting on his shoulder, because she was too
weak-kneed to do little more than follow. He smelled wonderfully spicy
and she ached to taste die skin on his neck. He melded her body
to his
until she felt every muscle beneath his clothing. They might have been
the only two people in the universe. When the music ended, she sensed
his reluctance to part was as strong as hers, but with an audience,
they had little choice. While the other diners applauded, Alan raised
her hand and
kissed her fingertips.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he whispered.
Later, on the way back to the hotel, Pam was quiet, consumed by raging
desire for the man next to her, yet lamenting the ramifications of her
actions. Coriversely, Alan seemed downright cheerful, whistling
tunelessly under his breath and fidgeting with all the gadgets on the
limousine panel until she was ready to scream. The walk from the
parking lot to their door seemed interminably long to her.
"Couldn't get that room Linda had reserved, huh?" Pam said, laughing to
hide her nervousness as she stepped through the door onto the familiar
shag carpet
"Actually," Alan said with a smile, "I told her I'd changed my mind
since we only have two more nights. Want to go down to the beach for a
walk?"
Remembering the disastrous results of their last moonlit stroll, she
shook her head.
"How about the hot tub?" he asked.
"I'm not fainthearted, Alan, but even I am not brave enough to climb
into that algae-infested wading
pool. Besides, Cheek might be in it,
naked."
"Which could account for the algae," he said. "Then let's make our own
hot tub."
She laughed. "What?"
He gestured toward the bathroom. "That ridiculous tub in there—it's
plenty big enough if we fill it up
with hot water."
Amazed at the change in his demeanor, she reached up and lifted his
glasses. "Who are you and what have you done with Alan
P.—the-'P'-stands-for-tight-as-a-pin—Parish?"
His mouth quirked to the side. "You better get your bathing suit before
he comes back."
Pam looked into his blue eyes and studied his- boyish face. He was so
incredibly handsome...and had turned into such a surprise. Ignoring the
warning flags that sprang up en masse at the periphery of her brain,
she grinned and said, "I'll meet you in the deep end."
She grabbed her suit, went into the bathroom, then turned on the hot
water, unable to ignore the
pounding of her heart. Biting her lip hard,
she stared at herself in the mirror as she tucked her curves
into the
gold bikini that had sparked a light in Alan's eyes at the department
store. Beneath the harsh illumination of the bare bulb in the room, she
looked raw and vulnerable. Her eyes stung from indecision. She wanted
Alan so much her chest hurt. ' 'If mis is wrong,'' she whispered, "send
me a sign."
The bulb popped, then went dark with a sizzling sound.
She stood in the dark for several seconds, then said, ''I need to be
really, really sure. Would you mind sending another sign?"
"Pam?" Alan knocked lightly on the door. "Who are you talking to?"
"Uh, no one," she yelled. "The light went out."
His chuckle reverberated through the door. "I'll get the Elvis candles
you bought."
Pam looked heavenward. "I gave it my best shot."
He was back within a few seconds, wearing trunks and bearing matches.
She placed "Love Me
Tender" candles around the room strategically,
growing increasingly alarmed at the romantic
atmosphere they were creating. She. lowered herself into the hot water
just as Alan
reappeared with a bottle. "Ta-dah!"
"Champagne?"
He uncorked the bottle, spilling foam on the pink tile. "Since I didn't
get a drop at the wedding reception,
I gave Twiggy fifty bucks to find
a bottle of my favorite. Happy Valentine's Day." Alan handed her a
full
glass, then stepped into the water, only to jump back out. "Good Lord,
Pam! Are you cooking
shrimp in there?"
Already light-headed at the sight of the candlelight dancing on his
sleek, muscled chest, she sipped the champagne and giggled as the
bubbles went up her nose. "Ease in, Alan, you'll get used to it"
He tried again, gasping and wincing, sending her into fits of laughter
as he squatted into the water inch
by inch. "It's a good thing I don't
like kids," he muttered as he settled in up to his armpits. "Because
my
sperm have been parboiled."
"Is that what the 'P' stands for?"
"Cute, real
cute."
"Is it 'Parker'?"
"No."
"Preston?"
"No."
"Palmer?"
"No! Enough already. Either turn on the cold water or the egg timer
because I'll be done in a few minutes."
Pam turned on the cold water to let it drip. "What's the big deal about
your middle name?" She started
as his leg brushed against hers beneath
the water.
"It's private," he said with a smile. His leg brushed hers again, and
she nearly groaned with the desire
that welled within
her. "Don't you have something private, something you don't share with
everyone?"
She manufactured a laugh. "Private? You forget who you're talking to.
My life has been public property in Savannah since I was sixteen. Don't
tell me you haven't heard, the stories."
"I have," he admitted, raking his gaze over her. "But I'm not sure how
many of the stories are true and how many of them are pure fantasy on
the part of the men who told them."
Her neck felt rubbery, so she laid her head back and looked at him
through slitted eyelids. "Alan, have you ever fantasized about me?"
His eyes widened and he cleared his throat, then drained his champagne
glass. Pam's skin tingled in anticipation.
"I've always thought you were beautiful, Pam," he said finally, moving
lower in the water and settling
his leg against the length of hers.
"But I've never fantasized about you."
She pressed her lips together in disappointment. He wasn't attracted to
her, after all. The sexual current she'd felt between them had been a
figment of her teenage imagination, dating back to the time when she'd
dreamed that Alan P. Parish would notice her, ask her out, take her to
his fine home—
"Until this week," he added quietly.
Pam lifted her head.
"I know what you think of me, Pam—that I'm an automaton, a computer
geek—"
"A tight-ass," she added with a smile.
He smirked. "Thanks." Then he moved closer, and set her glass aside
with his. He floated inches over
her in the water
before lowering himself against her, setting the warm water into
motion. "But I'm not
a machine, Pam."
His face was only inches from hers, and she felt his breath fan her
cheek. The water lapped around
them, warming her skin, then falling
away to leave her covered with goose bumps. Her nipples hardened. His
proximity crowded her senses and she had never felt so close to losing
control. "Are you sure? Because I— I can certainly feel your hard
drive."
"I want you."
Pam closed her eyes, trying to recall any shred of relief she had felt
the morning after their near lapse
on the beach, any rationalization
that she shouldn't be feeling like this. But now his hands on her
obliterated all doubts, negated all concerns, neutralized all
complications. And her hands moved of their own volition to the nape of
her neck to loosen the ties of her bikini top. She allowed the water to
float
the material away from her breasts, and Alan crushed her against
him, claiming her mouth in a
plundering kiss.
Pam raised her body to meet his and he clasped her urgently, squeezing
her hips against his, whispering her name into her throat. After a
thorough exploration of her mouth, he set aside his fogged glasses and
drew back to view her breasts.
"You are magnificent." The sheer wonder in his voice sent waves of
desire flooding her limbs. He
dragged her breath from her lungs by
pulling a puckered nipple into his mouth.
"Oh, Alan." She pushed her fingers through his hair and arched into
him, urging him to take as much
of her into his mouth as possible. His erection strained against her
thigh,
and she ran her hands down
his neck, over his muscled back, and under
the waistband of his trunks.
Their moans echoed off the walls of the small room and Pam had never
felt so aroused. The combination of the heated water, the candlelight
and the man were incredibly erotic. Every nerve ending, every muscle,
every sense burned and throbbed with raw desire and she raked her hands
over his body. His name emerged from her throat over and over, as if
some part of her suspected their time together was short and she wanted
to experience as much of him as possible.
He devoured her, drawing on her breasts one at a time, rolling her
sensitized nipples between his finger and thumb. His hands skated over
her body, assuming the rhythm of the water until their movements became
so frenzied, the now-lukewarm water splashed over the edges and onto
the tile.
Alan felt his body growing more engorged, yearning for release. The
feelings she had unleashed in him were so staggering, he prayed he
could maintain control long enough to please her, "Let's go to bed,"
he
said thickly against her neck and she moaned her agreement.
He drew back and tried to stand, fell, and succeeded in dunking them
both before they gained their footing. Pam stopped long enough to grab
a towel for her sopping hair. The sight of her standing bare-breasted
was enough to make him grit his teeth.
"We'd better hurry," he said, tugging on her hand.
They slipped and slid across the tiled floor, laughing and cursing
until they crossed the threshold of the bedroom. They tumbled onto the
bed, launching a small tidal wave. Alan
kicked off his trunks and rolled down her bikini bottoms, groaning when
he uncovered the nest of wet blond curls between her firm, tanned
thighs. He raised himself above her, pushing her wet hair back from her
face. "You are so beautiful," he whispered hoarsely. "I need to make
love to you now—are you protected?"
She nodded, her blue eyes luminous, her luscious upside-down mouth soft
and swollen. With utmost restraint, he lowered himself, rubbing his
straining shaft against her. Oh so carefully, he probed her wetness,
then sank inside her slowly, capturing her mouth with his and absorbing
her gasps as their
bodies melded.
Heaven. She felt like pure heaven around him, pulsing, kneading,
drawing his life fluid to the surface much too quickly. He slowed and
clenched his teeth, wanting their lovemaking to last, postponing the
moment she would pull away from him. For now he wanted to be inside
her, wrapped around her, smelling her, tasting her. When he found a
slow rhythm, she began to pant beneath him, clawing as his back. He was
so stunned at the level of her response, he was momentarily distracted
from his own building release and concentrated on making her climax
powerful.
He laved her earlobe and whispered erotic words he'd never uttered
before, phrases loosened from his tongue by the fantasy woman writhing
beneath him. He moved with her, responding to every moan and gasp with
more intense probing until her cries escalated and she climaxed around
him, her contracting muscles finally breaking his restraint and
unleashing the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced.
They rode out the vestiges of their explosive pleasure, slowing to a
languid grind.
At last they stilled,
but the water mattress bumped them against each
other, eliciting gasps as their tender flesh met.
He gingerly lifted himself from her and rolled to spoon her against
him, half to hold her close for a while longer, half to avoid facing
her until he had time to sort out a few things for himself. The
regrets, the remorse, the self-recrimination had not yet set in, and
for the time being, he simply wanted to enjoy the intimacy of lying
with this wonderful creature, however fleeting the time might be.
Alan sighed and closed his eyes, pushing his nose into her damp hair,
inhaling her scent. He couldn't remember feeling more content, but he
blamed his thoughts of spending the rest of his nights like this
on the
fog of sleep that ebbed over him. His dreams were restless, fraught
with stress-packed, nerve-shattering days of living with Pamela
Kaminski.
Ten
When Pam'S eyes popped open, the first light of dawn had found its way
between the heavy opaque curtains over the window and sliding glass
door. Despite the sunny warmth, a cold blanket of dread descended over
her. She craned her neck slowly toward the mirrored ceiling, muttering
words of
denial until she was faced with the naked truth.
"Oh...my...God," she murmured, groaning at the tangle of bare tanned
arms and legs they presented. They'd done
it—the deed, the wild thing,
the horizontal bop—they'd had sex. She and Alan. Her and
her best
friend's ex. Panic ballooned in her chest and she pushed herself up,
frantically whispering,
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God."
Alan stirred and rolled to his back, displaying a pup-tent erection
beneath the thin sheet. She averted
her eyes, cursed the erotic scenes
that kept replaying in her head and began to extricate herself from
his
grasp as gently as possible.
"Hey," he mumbled in complaint, pulling her against him.
She punched his arm. "Let me go," she protested, scrambling to get out
of the rolling bed.
"You really should work on that morning disposition," he muttered with
a yawn.
She bent and scooped a towel from the floor, which she wrapped around
herself. Astounded at his nonchalance, she bounced a pillow off his
face. "Get up! Can't you see we're in big trouble here?"
He blinked and sat up, shaking his head as if to clear it, then swung
his feet to the floor. "Excuse me?"
"Alan, we had sex last night"
"I was there—or don't you remember?" he asked wryly, standing for a
full-body stretch.
That was the problem—she remembered his mind-blowing participation all
too well. Pam glanced down
at his raging morning erection, then
expelled an explosive sigh. "Put a towel on that rack, would you?"
She tossed him a pillowcase they had somehow managed to work free
during their lovemaking, then jammed her hands on her hips. "What are
we going to do now?"
Holding the crumpled cloth over his privates, Alan scrubbed his hand
over his face, then ventured,
"Go to Walt Disney World?"
"That's not even remotely funny."
"Could I have a few seconds to wake up? And maybe relieve myself?"
It had meant nothing to him, she realized with a jolt And why should
it? He wasn't the one who would have to face Jo on a regular basis when
they returned home. In fact, from a man's point of view,
sleeping with
the best friend of the woman who had ditched him at the altar was
probably the most perfect revenge he could exact Hurt stabbed her deep,
and she felt like a fool for not seeing the situation so clearly last
night. Pam swept her hand toward the bathroom. "Be my guest" she said
with as much indifference as she could muster.
When he had closed the door, she strode to the closet, yanked out her
large canvas beach bag and
started stuffing her personal articles
inside. Most of the clothes she could leave here, she decided—
since
Alan had bought them, he could dispose of them however he wished.
Not relishing another plane ride so soon after their turbulent
experience a few days ago, she decided
that the bus sounded like the
best alternative home—even if it took two days, which she presumed it
would. Today was Thursday, so she'd still be back in Savannah by late
Friday, or Saturday at the
latest. Which would give her plenty of time
to decide what—or if—she was going to tell Jo.
She jammed her Elvis paraphernalia into the bag and practiced her
speech. "Gee, Jo, you were finished with him and he was just so darned
sexy. No, I promise we weren't sleeping together behind your back while
you and Alan were an item."
"Pam."
Alan's voice sounded behind her, jangling her already clanging nerves
so badly she dropped the bag, and her towel with it. Yanking the towel
back in place, she wheeled to find Alan leaning on the doorjamb.
"What are you doing?" he asked quietly.
She retrieved the bag and continued rooting through the tiny closet.
"What does it look like I'm doing?
I'm packing."
"To go home? Why?"
She turned and leveled her gaze on him.
He did, at least, have the grace to blush. "I mean, I can guess why,
but I don't think this is the best
way to handle what just happened, do
you?"
"You have a better plan?"
Alan shrugged. "Try not to blow it out of proportion. I was lonely, you
were lonely. We had a romantic evening—everyone treated us as a couple.
We drank half a bottle of wine, then topped it off with good
champagne." He looked contrite. "I owe you an apology—I feel guilty as
hell for dragging you down
here, and now..."
"Now look at the fine mess we've made," she finished for him, ending
with a sigh. "There's no need to apologize, Alan. You didn't exactly
hold a gun to my head."
He pressed his lips together in a tight line. ''Sleeping together
wasn't particularly smart, considering the touchy circumstances, but
we're adults and surely we can exercise enough control to make sure it
doesn't happen again."
"Oh, it can never happen again," she said emphatically.
"Agreed," he said, walking to stop an arm's length away from her.
"Since we have that settled, now
you can stay."
"It's not settled, Alan," she said, dropping her gaze. "What am I going
to tell Jo?"
"We," he said firmly, "aren't going to tell Jo anything. She's married,
Pam. She doesn't care about
my sex life—or yours. And even if she did,
it's none of her business."
"But how will I face her?"
"As if nothing happened," he said simply, affirming her earlier
suspicion that their lovemaking had
shaken her far more than it had
affected him.
"But I can't lie to her, Alan. She's my best friend."
He lifted his hands. "Fine—if we get home and Jo asks you, 'Pam, did
you and Alan sleep together?',
you can say, 'Yes, as a matter of fact,
Jo, we did.'"
"It would never occur to Jo to ask," Pam said with a wry smile.
''My point exactly,'' he said. ''But you might arouse her curiosity if
you went scurrying home early." He gave her a lopsided smile. "So put
down your bag and I promise to stay out of your way until Saturday.
Hopefully we can still go home as friends."
He made it sound so simple—they had made a mistake, and they wouldn't
do it again. Period. That was Alan—Mr. Practical. She lifted a corner
of her mouth. Maybe that's what the 'P' stood for. Even though he
obviously wasn't wrestling with the same troubling issues their
lovemaking had unearthed in her psyche, perhaps he was right. Maybe
they needed a couple of days to get back on a casual footing. Although
she would never look at Alan in quite the same way, it would be a shame
to lose his friendship because she simply couldn't cope with their
lapse.
"I'll stay," she said lightly. "And of course we'll go home as
friends." She dropped the bag and gave him her brightest smile. "I'll
go shopping today, and do some sight-seeing.''
"And I'll find something to do," he said. "And if you're out late—"
"—or if you're out late..."
"—we'll see each other..."
"—tomorrow," she finished.
He nodded. "Fine."
She nodded. "Fine."
"Do you want to shower first?"
"Sure," she said, and walked past him. The pink-tiled room did not seem
nearly so electric this morning, although the vestiges of their
interlude were scattered throughout: her bikini top, die burnt-down
candles, the half-empty bottle of champagne. She closed her eyes for a
few seconds and squashed the mushrooming regret when it threatened to
overwhelm her.
"By the way," Alan said behind her.
She whirled to see him squinting at her from the open doorway, just as
something crunched under her foot.
"Have you seen my glasses?"
Pam looked down, picked up her foot, then winced and nodded.
Alan pushed his glasses higher on his nose, frowning when he
encountered me bulky piece of masking tape that held the broken bridge
of his frames together. He sank lower in die upholstered seat of me
nearly empty movie theater and smirked at me corny previews. Witii a
sigh he glanced at the vacant
seat next to him and imagined Pam sitting
mere, munching popcorn and giggling like a teenager.
It was funny how much his perception of her had changed in the last few
days. She was still me sexy bombshell who made him a little nervous,
but now...now he had glimpsed the warm, funny, smart
woman who lurked
beneath me showy facade. Sure, her showy side inflamed his baser needs,
but it
was her squeal of laughter when they'd ridden me Wave Runner and
her shining face when he'd filled
me moat of her sand castle that
stayed with him every waking minute.
The ear-numbing, teeth-jarring, bone-melting, mind-blowing sex was
simply a bonus.
He smiled a slow, lazy grin. The sex was a big, fat cherry on top of a
sundae more delectable than any
he could have imagined as a kid. Which
presented an interesting paradox, he noted as the main feature bounced
onto the screen. If Pamela Kaminski was such a catch, what was keeping
him from pursuing
her with gusto?
He imagined Pam counting off the reasons on her brightly colored
fingernails. "Because my friendship with your ex-fiancee means more to
me than any relationship we could ever have, Alan. Because I
have
dozens of men waiting for my return, Alan. And most important, because
you're not the kind
of guy I'd settle for, Alan."
The flick started, a splashy good-guys bad-guys film with several
gorgeous women and just enough one-liners to make it amusing. But his
mind wandered from the movie plot to Pamela so often, he lost track of
which double agent crossed which federal bureau so when the movie
credits rolled, he wasn't quite sure what had happened or who had
gotten the girl. But he had the sinking feeling it wouldn't be him.
He sat through another matinee he couldn't follow, at the end of which
he had to admit that for the
first time in his thirty-odd years, he was
completely consumed with, distracted by and besotted over a woman. A
woman who was beyond his reach.
When he walked outside, he squinted into the light, even though dusk
was already falling. Oh well, he thought as he joined the mingling
crowd on the sidewalk, things would be different when they got back
to
Savannah. He would return to his demanding job running his consulting
business, and she would
return to the frantic pace
of real-estate sales, along with her bottomless pool of boyfriends.
They would probably see each other occasionally at charity functions.
He would wave and she would smile, and no one would ever know they had
made passionate love in a gaudy room in Fort Myers on Valentine's Day.
Determined to stay away from the beachfront area to avoid running into
Robin, Alan strolled along the retail district, browsing in music and
electronics stores. He wandered by a jewelry-store window and stopped
when he spotted a gold sand-castle pendant. He desperately wanted to
give Pam something to remember him by, and the pendant seemed to call
him. He walked inside and left fifteen minutes later with the pendant
and a matching gold chain. He wasn't sure "when or if he'd give it to
her, but for now, buying the pendant seemed like the right thing to do.
He bought a couple of CD's by local artists, then stopped at a sports
bar and ordered a sandwich and a beer. The ponytailed bartender who
served him found a Georgia State basketball game on one of the many TV
screens and made small talk while he washed glass mugs.
The barkeep wore a tight T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off to show
his many tattoos to their best advantage. Alan tried not to stare, but
he must have failed because the guy quirked a bushy eyebrow and asked,
' 'You ever had a tattoo?''
Alan shook his head and pointed to one on the man's arm, squinting. '
'Is that an ad?''
"Yep—best tattoo parlor in town is just down the street. I get a
discount for wearing the ad."
"Human billboards," Alan acknowledged with a tip of his bottle. "Now
there's an untapped industry." He figured he must be getting a buzz
because the idea of someone selling their skin to advertisers, inch by
inch, actually sounded plausible. In which case, Pam's body would be
worth a fortune, he noted dryly, wondering how much her cleavage would
command on the open market. Location,
location, location.
The bartender leaned on the bar and asked, "Hey, man, are you busy
later tonight?"
Alan frowned and deepened his voice. "You're barking up the wrong tree,
fella."
"Huh?" The bartender pulled back, then scoffed. "Nah, man, my
girlfriend's swinging by and bringing
a friend with her. You like
redheads?"
"Sure, but—"
"Great! Her name's Pru."
"Thanks anyway, but I'm really not—"
"Saaaaaaaaay." Something past Alan's shoulder had obviously claimed the
man's attention. "I could go
for some of that," the bartender whispered
in a husky voice.
Alan turned on his stool to see Pamela walking toward the bar wearing
an outfit of walking shorts and sleeveless sweater that would have been
unremarkable on ninety-nine percent of the female population. She
seemed intent on finding something in her purse and hadn't spotted him
yet. If Alan had been quick—and motivated—he could have thrown some
cash on the bar and left. But his reflexes were a
little delayed, he
conceded, and the sheer pleasure of seeing her after spending the day
apart disintegrated his thoughts of leaving.
When she looked up, she did a double take and stopped midstride, then
approached him with a wary expression on her
face. "Small world," he offered along with a smile. He patted the stool
next to him. "Have a seat—I'll buy you a beer."
She leaned one firm hip. against the stool and gestured vaguely.
"Thanks anyway—I actually came in
to find a pay phone. My cell-phone
battery died in the middle of a conversation with Mrs. Wingate."
"Is she ready to*buy the Sheridan house?"
"Not yet—she's got a priest over there now consecrating the flower
beds."
"Don't let me keep you."
"That's all right," she said with a wave. "She probably took getting
cut off as some kind of omen and might not come to the phone anyway."
Pam glanced at the bartender. "Nice artwork," she said,
nodding toward
his colorful arms.
Wearing a wolfish grin, the man flexed his biceps and leaned toward
Pam. "Thanks."
Jealousy barbed through Alan and he glared at the beefy man. "Pam, what
did you do all day?"
She told him about her day of sight-seeing. "There are some beautiful
homes here and over on Sanibel Island," she declared. "The real-estate
market seems to be very strong—lots of money to be made."
He bit the inside of his cheek as a disturbing thought struck him.
"You're not thinking about moving?"
"Not here," she said. "Even though I like it. I always thought Atlanta
would be nice—I have lots of
friends there."
So she had lovers all over the state, he mused. "Atlanta's a fun city."
She nodded and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear—the ear in which
he'd murmured unmentionables only last night "As
long as my mother is alive, I guess I'll stay in Savannah."
"I can't imagine the state my mother will be in by the time I return,"
Alan said with a wry grin.
"She liked Jo, didn't she?"
He nodded and peeled off the curling corner of the label on his beer
bottle. "She thought Jo would
make an excellent wife and hostess, an
asset to my career."
"She doesn't want grandchildren?"
"My sister has two kids, and my mother thinks that's plenty enough
people in this world to call her Granny."
Pam giggled. "Mom doesn't have grandkids—that we know of. Gf course,
knowing my brothers, who knows how many Kaminskis could be running
around."
Alan laughed and tipped his bottle for another drink. Every family,
rich or poor, had its dysfunction. "Have you had dinner?"
"I'm not really very hungry," she said, dropping her gaze again.
"Thanks anyway. I'm tired—I think
I'll get back to the hotel and turn
in early."
Their eyes met and the reason behind her fatigue hung in the air
between them. Alan gripped the bottle hard to keep from reaching for
her. "Ah, come on," he said. "Why don't you stay for a beer—what's
one
beer between friends?"
The corners of her uneven mouth turned up slowly, then she relented
with a nod. "Okay, one beer."
Alan started awake, then winced at the sour taste in his mouth. But the
movement of his facial muscles
sent an explosion of pain to his temples and he groaned aloud, which
sounded like a gong in his ears.
He closed his eyes and waited until
most of the pain and noise subsided before attempting to put two
thoughts together.
He was in the hotel room, and he could hear Pam's snore beside him, so
it appeared they had slept in
the same bed. Straining, he remembered
they had consumed large quantities of beer and had left the sports bar,
but that's when his memory failed him. Had they gone directly back to
the room? And
then what?
He opened his eyes one at a time in the early-morning light and
gingerly reached up to adjust his broken glasses, which were somehow
still on his face. He moved his head to see the reflection in the
ceiling. Another gonging groan escaped him when he saw they were indeed
naked and intimately entwined.
Not again.
Pam lay on her stomach and the sheet had fallen down to expose the
rub-on rose tattoo on her tanned hip. When his scrutiny triggered
inappropriate responses beneath his half of the sheet, he pulled
himself up a millimeter at a time and stumbled to the bathroom in
search of a glass of water.
His hip ached from the unaccustomed lusty exercise, and he rubbed it as
he downed the water. But at
the sharp tenderness of his skin, he turned
to glance in the mirror and smiled dryly. He must have been blitzed
because he'd allowed Pam to rub one of her fake tattoos on his hip. A
wet washcloth and a little soap would take care of it, he figured.
Except when he scrubbed at the tattoo, the pain increased and the
stubborn design refused to budge. "I must be allergic to the dye," he
muttered, and scrubbed harder. But minutes later when he
lifted the cloth and saw the tattoo still had not faded, terror twisted
his stomach.
"No," he said frantically. "It can't be real!"
He backed up to the mirror for a better look, but he couldn't make out
the tattoo. Letters of some kind?
It was backward in the reflection, so
he snatched up Pam's hand mirror and positioned it to read the
reflected word. His eyes widened and his hands started to shake.
''Paaaaaaaaaaaaaammmm!''
Pamela jerked awake, unable to pinpoint the origin of the invasion into
her peaceful sleep. She
swallowed painfully and lifted her head. The
sound of breaking glass from the bathroom made her sit
up. "Alan," she
called, holding her head. ''Are you okay?''
The door swung open and he emerged naked, his face puckered and red.
"No, I am not okay. In fact,
I'm about as far from okay as I've ever
been!"
Pam rubbed her tender hip and grimaced. "Don't make me play twenty
questions, Alan. It hurts to talk."
"You!" he bellowed, shaking his finger at her. "You talked me into it!"
She sighed. "Did we do it again?"
"Yes!" he roared. "But that's not what I'm talking about."
Her frustration peaked. "Then what are you talking about?"
"This!" he yelled, then turned around and pointed to his bare hip.
She leaned forward and squinted. "A tattoo? You got a tattoo?" Laughter
erupted from the back of her throat. "You got a tattoo!" Then she
stood, twisted to look at her own hip and squealed in delight. "No—we
both got tattoos! A
rose! Isn't it great?" She strode over to him and glanced down. "What
does yours say?" Then she stopped and stumbled backward at the sight of
the name etched on Alan's skin, enclosed in a red heart. "P-Pam's?" She
covered her mouth with both hands and lifted her gaze to his.
"There are all kinds of new laser procedures to remove tattoos," she
assured him as they moved down
the path toward the beach. Alan walked
woodenly beside her, occasionally stabbing at his taped glasses.
"But I think we're skirting the bigger issue here," she continued,
trotting to keep up with him, even
though he was limping
slightly,.favoring his tender hip. "What happened last night absolutely
cannot happen again."
"I agree," he said curtly, staring straight ahead.
"We've only got one more day and one more night, so we should be able
to stay sober and keep our hands to ourselves."
"Right."
"Let's try to enjoy the time we have left," she said amiably as they
stepped onto the warm white sand.
He stopped and turned to her. "How about 'Let's just try to make it
through tomorrow with as few calamities as possible'?"
Pam swallowed and smiled weakly.. "That's fine, too."
They rented chaise lounges and Pam couldn't help noticing that Alan
waited until she had hers situated, then planted his several feet away.
"Safety precaution," he said flatly, then snapped open the newspaper
he'd brought to
read.
Frowning, Pam turned to her own reading material and tried to blot the
disturbing thoughts of Alan
from her mind. She had missed him
yesterday, and the realization had shaken her badly. So when
she'd
stumbled across him in the sports bar, she had allowed herself to be
persuaded to stay for a drink because she simply wanted to spend time
with him. And although the rest of the night remained fuzzy, some
incidents she recalled rather clearly.
Such as the fact that she had
been the one who suggested they get
tattoos, inspired, possibly, by the bartender's impressive collection.
And Alan had been hesitant, but she had dragged him down the street,
and sent him into one booth while she entered another one for her
design of choice. Where he'd gotten "Pam's" was less clear to her, and
the fact that they'd made whoopee again last night only added to the
confusion.
Her heart lay heavy in her chest and she tried to convince herself that
things would be better once they returned to Savannah. For one thing,
she would rarely see him, if at all, since their connection to each
other— Jo—no longer existed. It was for the best, she knew, because she
didn't want to be running into him at every turn...didn't want to be
reminded of the few days they were together when names, backgrounds and
at-risk relationships were irrelevant and all that mattered was the
powerful sexual chemistry between them.
"Hello."
Pam looked up and smothered a cringe when she saw Enrico standing over
her chair, his lips curved
into a sultry smile. Resplendent in orange
nut-huggers, the
man nodded toward Alan who was still
hidden behind a newspaper. "I see
your man is neglecting you once again." He wagged his eyebrows.
"Perhaps I can remedy that situation."
Annoyed, Pam began rummaging in her bag. "I doubt it."
"Could I interest you in a walk up the beach?"
She jammed on her sunglasses. "No."
"How about a drink?"
She lay her head back. "No."
He leaned close to her and the stench of alcohol rolled off his breath.
"You like to tease, no?"
"No," Alan said behind him.
Pam lifted her head and looked up at Alan who stood with his paper
under his arm, glaring at Enrico. How like a man to ignore a woman
until someone else comes sniffing around. She smiled tightly.
"I can
handle this, Alan."
His gaze darted to her, then he lifted his hands in retreat and
reclaimed his chair.
But Enrico folded his arms and followed him back to his chair. "She is
not worth fighting for, señor?"
"That is enough," Pam declared, sitting up. "I think you'd better
leave, Enrico."
Enrico stood over Alan, taking advantage of the situation. "She is too
much woman for you, eh?"
Pam's patience snapped and she scrambled to her feet. "Leave, Enrico!"
He sneered and jerked a thumb toward Alan, who had risen to his feet.
"Perhaps your man is weak?"
Just as he lunged for Alan, Pam launched
herself at the man with an angry growl, climbing his hairy
back. She
propelled him into Alan and they all went down in the sand. Once the
breath returned to her lungs, Pam pummeled the man's
back.
Sand flew as they rolled around, scrambling for leverage. Alan splayed
his hand over Enrico's face and pushed him back, trying to avoid the
man's swinging arms. Pam yelped, clawing the grit out of her eyes while
showering Enrico with the blinding stuff. Alan rolled behind the man
and grabbed him in a choke-hold. The man grabbed handfuls of sand and
threw them in the air.
Somewhere in the background she heard a voice yell for the police.
Incensed, she wanted to land one good jab while Alan held him. Pam made
a fist, drew back and threw the hardest punch she could through the
swirling sand, eliciting a dull groan when she made contact with skin
and bone.
She stepped back to blink her eyes clear. But when she massaged her
throbbing knuckles in satisfaction, she saw Enrico several yards down
the beach, jogging away, and he appeared unfazed by Pam's right hook.
When she glanced back to the site of the scuffle, her stomach twisted.
Alan sat in the sand, glaring
at her, holding his hand over his right
eye.
Whatever apology she might have conjured up was cut short by the
arrival of a uniformed officer. "Hello." the cop said, standing over
Alan with a tight smile. "Again."
"Well, look on the bright side," Pam said as she led the way to the
double-parked limo the following morning. Numb from another night in
jail and a head full of contradicting thoughts, Alan gingerly
touched his swollen right eye and
asked, "And that would be?"
"We didn't have sex last night," she said brightly.
Which would have been the only redeeming event of the past twenty-four
hours, Alan thought miserably.
"And we're leaving today," she sang, obviously anxious to return home.
"I checked us out of the hotel—Twiggy said goodbye. I bought a suitcase
and packed your things—they're in the car."
He stopped and stared at two new dents and the Kaminiskiesque parking
job that left only two tires
of the pimpmobile on the street, but he
didn't say anything. Instead, he opened the back door of the
limo and
climbed in, banging the door closed behind him.
"You're letting me drive to the airport?" Pam yelled from the driver's
seat after she buzzed down the divider panel.
Alan clicked his seat belt into place, pulled the strap tight and laid
his head back. "Your definition of driving is a loose interpretation,
but I'm too drained to argue."
"Okay," she said excitedly, revving the engine. "I'm starved—do you
mind if we stop and get something to eat on the way? We've got plenty
of time before the flight."
"Go for it," he said, removing his broken glasses so he couldn't
witness the driving event.
Of course, he hadn't anticipated she would attempt to take the limo
through a drive-through window—they were stuck in a tight curve by a
squawking monitor for forty-five minutes. No longer surprised by any
stunt she pulled, Alan ordered an ice-cream sandwich to hold against
his puffy eye
and munched a hamburger in the back seat during the melee. When the
scraping sounds became too
unbearable, he turned up the TV and watched a rerun of "Laugh-In" until
she finally eased the car by
the metal posts and the high curbs.
She buzzed down the panel when they were on the expressway again. "We
still have over an hour,"
she yelled cheerfully. "We'll make it."
He buzzed up the panel and unwrapped the icecream sandwich.
Five minutes later they were at a dead standstill. She buzzed down the
panel. "It's a freaking parking
lot out here—the radio says there's a
tractor-trailer overturned and we won't move for at least an hour.
Don't worry— we'll still make it." She smiled, then buzzed up the panel.
Alan sighed and picked up the remote control. Then a thought struck him
and he buzzed down the panel. "Hey, Kaminski?"
She twisted in her seat. "Yeah?"
"Have you ever gotten naked in a limo?"
Her smile was slow in coming, but broad and mischievous. "No."
"Want to?"
In answer, she buzzed up the panel. Alan sighed again and laid his head
back. "Can't blame a guy for asking," he muttered. Especially since
she'd go back to her stud stable once they returned to Savannah.
Suddenly the door opened and she bounded inside, toppling over him,
laughing like a teenager. She straddled him and kissed him hard, then
asked, "Do you think an hour is enough time?"
"We'll have to hit the highlights," he whispered, locking the door.
"What about the lowlights?" she said, pouting.
"In the interest of time," he murmured, pulling at her waistband, "I'll
have to give them a lick and a promise."
Running through the parking lot of the car-rental return, Pam yelled,
"That can't ever happen again."
"Right," Alan yelled back. "Never."
They rushed into the building. Alan forked over an obscene deposit to a
pinched-nose man in case his insurance company wouldn't cover the
various damages to the limo, then they sprinted through the
airport as
fast as his still-aching hip would allow. When they dropped into their
seats on the plane, he found it unbelievable that only a few days had
passed since they'd left Savannah. It seemed like a
lifetime ago—not to
mention a small fortune ago, he noted wryly.
After takeoff, he donned a set of headphones, not to ignore Pam, but
hoping to put some perspective
on the week before they reached
Savannah. Indeed, the more distant the Fort Myers skyline became,
the
more painfully clear the answers seemed.
Instead of trying to dissect the roller coaster of emotions she had
evoked in him this week, he simply needed to consider the facts: he had
been vulnerable, she had been eager to comfort a friend. Besides, even
if the circumstances were ideal—which they weren't— and even if he had
the intention of taking
a wife— which he didn't—he couldn't imagine any
woman more unsuited to marriage than Pamela Kaminski.
Thankfully, their flight was uneventful—the little mishap when Pam sent
an entire overhead bin of luggage pounding down on two passengers
didn't even merit an eye twitch on his new scale of relativity.
Rankling him
further, she seemed oblivious to his brooding, chatting with the flight
attendants and somehow managing to paint her toenails during the flight
It was only when they were landing and he glanced over to see her death
grip on the padded arms of
her seat that he conceded to himself how
extremely fond of her he'd become. Alan reached over to squeeze her
hand, and the grateful smile she gave him made his heart lurch crazily.
He knew in that moment that even if his eye healed, the tattoo was
safely removed, the charges were dropped and his
car insurance wasn't
canceled, he still might never fully recover from his week with Pamela.
She was her usual cheery self through baggage claim and on their way
back to her car, reinforcing
Alan's suspicion that, for Pam, the week
had simply been a casual romp—the woman had no earth-shattering
revelations weighing her down. And despite the trouble that seemed to
follow her
around, he was going to miss her. Perhaps, he decided, after
a few weeks had passed and he had
shaken this somber, life-evaluating
mood, he'd call her, just to see how she was doing.
He offered to call a cab, but she insisted on driving him home, saying
she needed to check on some
new home listings in his neighborhood, anyway. On the way, she ran two
red lights, but stopped traffic
on the bypass to let a mother duck and her ducklings cross.
When she pulled onto the long driveway, Alan stared at his imposing
home and realized with a jolt
that only one week ago, he had
anticipated returning to carry his bride, Jo Montgomery, across the
threshold. Now he felt almost giddy with relief at the change in
circumstances. He and Jo would have been content, but not entirely
happy. She
had never looked at him the way she looked at John Sterling. And he
owed it to himself to find a woman he could care about that much.
"Are you okay?" Pam asked, jarring him out of his reverie.
"Uh, yeah," he said, realizing she was waiting for him to get out. But
when he grasped the handle, she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Alan," she said softly.
"Yeah," he said, his heart thudding against his chest.
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry?"
"For breaking your glasses and denting the limo and getting the ticket
and having you tattooed and blacking your eye and getting you arrested."
"Twice," he amended.
"Twice," she agreed. »
Her blue eyes were wide, and her upside-down mouth trembled. She was so
beautiful, she was
impossible to resist. He inhaled deeply and gave her
a wry smile. "Forget it." Her happy grin was
worth every misery he'd
experienced over the week.
He opened the door and retrieved the dark suitcase she had purchased
and packed for him. When he walked around to the driver's side, his
mind racing for something to say, he suddenly remembered the pendant he
had bought for her. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said, rooting through his
gym bag until he
came up with the black box. "For you."
"For me?" she asked quietly, taking her lower lip in her teeth. She
slowly lifted the lid and stared at the
gold sand castle, then ran her finger over the surface. "It's
beautiful," she whispered, then raised shining eyes. "But why?"
Because I want you to remember me, to
remember us. "Because," he said
with a shrug, "I wanted to thank you for keeping me company. It was
fun," he lied. It wasn't fun—it was surprising, disturbing,
stimulating, stressful and amazing, but it wasn't fun.
"I love it."
She pulled the necklace from the box and fastened the clasp around her
neck. The pendant disappeared into her cleavage and Alan swallowed hard.
"Thank you, Alan."
"I'll see you..." His voice trailed off because he didn't want to
appear as desperately hopeful as he felt.
"Sometime," she finished for him.
"Right," he said with a nod.
"Fine," she said with a nod.
Alan watched as she rolled up the window, backed over several hundred
dollars' worth of landscaping
and pulled onto the road directly in the
path of a luxury car whose owner stood on the brake to avoid
a
collision. Then, with a fluttery wave and a grind of stripped' gears,
she was gone.
Eleven
Pam slapped her jcnee and laughed uprolariously. "That's the best April
Fool's gag I've heard today,
Dr. Campbell."
Eleanor Campbell pursed her lips and steepled her fingers together over
her desk. "It's no joke, Pamela. You're pregnant."
Shock, alarm and stark terror washed over her. Her throat closed and
her fingers went numb. "H-how
is that possible?"
Dr. Campbell smiled. "Do you want layman's terms or the scientific
version?"
"Whichever will make it less true," Pam whispered. "I take my birth
control pills faithfully."
"But if you had read the warning brochure for the antibiotics I
prescribed for that ear infection a couple
of months ago," she said
sternly, "you would have known the medication can reduce the
effectiveness
of birth control pills." She sighed and gave Pam a sad
smile. "I take it this is not a happy occasion for
you and the father."
Pam closed her eyes and swallowed. "When did it happen?"
"According to the information you gave me regarding your last cycle,
I'd guess on or about Valentine's Day."
If she didn't open her eyes, she decided, she wouldn't have to face it.
Wouldn't have to face the fact
that she was living up to the tainted
Kaminski name by conceiving an illegitimate child. Wouldn't have
to
face the fact that life as she knew it was over. Wouldn't have to face
the fact that Alan, whom she'd not seen or spoken to since returning to
Savannah—and who hated
kids—was the father of the baby growing inside
her. "
"Mr. Parish?" Alan's secretary's voice echoed over the speakerphone.
Alan left what had become his favorite post, the high-backed chair by
the window, to push a button
on his desk panel. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry, sir. Tickets to the scholarship social are sold out."
He cursed under his breath safely out of range of the microphone. "How
about the hospital golf
benefit?"
"Sold out."
"The lighthouse-preservation dinner?"
"Gone. The only tickets I could find for this weekend were for the
podiatrists' political-action campaign dinner and the bird-watchers'
society all-night skate at the roller rink."
Alan frowned. Feet or feathers—not much of a choice. "Get me two of
each," he said. He dropped
into his leather chair, then flipped to
Pam's business card in his Rolodex—as if he hadn't memorized it. Hell,
he'd dialed it twenty-eight times in the weeks since they'd returned to
Savannah, but he'd always hung up before the first ring. Now he had a
good excuse. Well, maybe not good—but reasonable.
He sighed. Okay, it wasn't even reasonable, but he prayed his ploy
didn't come across as desperation... even though it was.
After punching in her number, he cleared his voice, fully expecting to
have to leave a message on her voice mail, but to his surprise, Pam's
voice came on the line. "Hello, this is Pamela. How can I help you?"
"Uh, hi, Pam. This is Alan...Parish."
A few seconds of silence passed. "Hi, Alan. What's up?"
"Oh, not much," he said, summoning a nervous laugh. "I just called to
wish you a happy April Fool's Day."
More silence, then, "That's nice."
He picked up a pen and started doodling on a pad of paper. "So, how
have you been?"
"Fine, I guess," she said. "How's your eye?"
"It healed."
"And, uh, the other end?"
"Well," he said, shifting in his seat, "it's a delicate operation—I'm
still trying to choose the best doctor."
"Jo told me the two of you talked things through."
"That's right." Not that there were any unresolved issues in his mind.
But he knew it had made Jo feel better to explain why she had canceled
their wedding.
"She seems really happy being a mom," Pam said.
He tried to concentrate on what she was saying, but he kept picturing
her nude in the limo. "Yeah, can you imagine taking care of three kids?"
"Um, no, I can't."
And her breasts—God, he shuddered just thinking about them. "Just the
thought sends chills up my spine."
"I remember your view on kids, Alan."
Funny, but right now he could legitimately say the most difficult part
about having a baby would be sharing his wife—emotionally and
physically. Pam was the kind of woman that made a man selfish.
Alan
shook his head to clear it. Pam, a wife? What was he thinking?
"Alan, are you still there?"
"What? Sure, I'm here." He cleared his throat. "Say, Pam, are you free
this weekend to attend a
business function?"
During her few seconds of hesitation, he died a thousand times. "What
kind of business function?"
His mind raced—what the devil had Linda said? "Uh, there's a feet
convention at the skating rink."
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, a political fund-raiser for birds."
"What?"
Where was his brain? "Forget business—can we have dinner tonight at the
River Plaza Hotel?"
"Is something wrong, Alan?"
She obviously thought the idea of them having a date was so far-fetched
there had to be some other compelling reason for them to get together.
"I need to talk to you...about Jo," he said, wincing at his choice of
subject matter, but it was too late.
"Jo?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, rushing ahead. "I'm having trouble working through
some things and I hoped you
could help me."
The silence stretched on.
"Pam?" he urged.
"Sure," she said softly. "What are friends for?"
His heart jumped for joy. "Really? I mean—" he swallowed "—that's
great. Uh, seven o'clock?"
"Seven sounds fine."
She didn't sound too happy about it, but he didn't care. He just wanted
to see her again. Alan's mind raced for another topic to prolong the
conversation. "Have you sold the Sheridan house?"
"Not yet. Mrs. Wingate hired a poltergeist-detection team to
spend the
night there. We're waiting
on the results. Listen, Alan, I really need
to run."
"Oh, sure," he said, fighting to keep the disappointment out of his
voice. "I'll see you tonight." He hung
up the phone slowly, trying to
be optimistic, but he'd heard the distance in her voice. Alan looked
down
at the pad of paper he'd been doodling on and stopped, then jammed
his fingers through his hair and sighed.
He'd drawn the outline of a heart and inside, in slanting letters, he'd
written the word Pam's.
Pam settled the phone in its cradle and blinked back hot tears. How
ironic that after all these weeks,
he had chosen today to qall. Today,
when she was wrestling with how to break the news to him that
he had
fathered a child while on a fake honeymoon with his ex-fiancee's best
friend.
How could she face him? How could she present him with the news of a
child he did not want by a woman he did not want? Wouldn't the Parish
family be proud. She could hear the whispers now,
see the sneers on her
brothers' faces.
She dropped her head into her hands. How could she face Jo? Since Pam's
return, her friend had
thanked her profusely for
offering Alan a comforting hand during a very trying period in his
life. Only
it would soon become clear that she had offered Alan more
than her hand.
How could she face her child? How could she tell her child that he or
she was conceived in lust by a father who had just been jilted and by a
mother whose dreams were too outlandish to be realized?
And how could she face herself? She had been careless with her heart,
and careless with her body. She had known Alan was in love with her
best friend. He'd used her to get over the hurt, and she had let
him.
She had let him on the slimmest hope that the man who represented
everything she wanted in a partner—security, integrity, heritage and
nobility--would recognize in her what no man had ever seen
and fall in
love with her.
Perhaps she had loved him ever since he'd hauled her off Mary Jane
Cunningham's back in high school. He had taken up for her, but she'd
given him a shin-shiner because she didn't know how else to react to
someone in his social class. She couldn't very well act as though she
liked him.
Since that day, she had found it easier to make fun of him rather than
admit he had something she
envied. And when their paths had crossed
again as adults, she had simply picked up where she'd left off. Only in
the wee hours of the morning when she was alone with her thoughts and
fears and dreams had she been honest with herself. Only then had she
admitted that Alan was the man she wanted but knew she'd never have, so
she'd filled her dance card with has-beens and wannabes and
never-would-bes.
Just like Alan had filled his dance card with her in the wake of Jo's
rejection.
She shoved her hands into her hair. Now what? Pam wiped her eyes and
pulled her address book
from a desk drawer. After dialing an Atlanta
extension, she sniffed mightily, feeling better just at the
anticipation of hearing the voice of a dear old friend. Someone with a
little objective distance.
Someone she could trust to set her straight.
Someone with big, broad, undemanding shoulders.
"Hello?"
"Manny? It's Pamela."
"Well, hello, baby doll!" He clucked. "You'd better have a good excuse
why I haven't heard from you lately."
She smiled at the laughter in his voice. "Would you settle for a good
excuse for calling now?" As much
as she tried to maintain control, she
could not keep her voice from breaking on the last word.
"What's wrong?" he asked, immediately serious. "Oh, God, it's a man,
isn't it?" He sighed dramatically. "The straight ones all seem
programmed to seek and destroy."
"I need to get away for a few days," she whispered.
"I'll alert the pedestrians of Atlanta that you're on your way."
* * *
Alan checked his watch for the twentieth time. Where was she? Pam was
only a few minutes late, but after he'd talked to her, the rest of the
afternoon had crawled. He was impatient to see her, to talk to
her. He
drummed on the surface of the hotel bar, feeling ready to come out of
his skin with anticipation. The bartender slid a shot of whiskey across
the bar and he downed it,
hoping it would give him the courage he needed.
He loved her. It sounded ridiculous and she'd probably laugh in his
face, but he didn't care. The week in Fort Myers, although admittedly
fraught with disaster, had given him a taste of her spice for life, and
he had become addicted. Every day since returning home, he had told
himself the restlessness would pass, that they had simply been caught
up in the romance of a beach fling. But he finally had to admit to
himself that he wanted Pamela, that he needed Pamela in his life.
And he refused to share her with other men—he wanted a commitment.
Marriage seemed a bit ludicrous considering he had been standing at the
altar with another woman just a few weeks ago. Besides, Pam had made it
perfectly clear that she wasn't looking to become anyone's wife. But he
hoped she would at least move in with him, a public declaration that
they were a couple. Then perhaps someday they would both be ready for
marriage...and a family.
Alan stopped and shook his head. He still had to get through
tonight—he'd worry about the heavy stuff later. His imminent concern
was the risk of her choking from laughing too hard. In his mind he
reviewed the Heimlich maneuver, then checked his watch again. She was
worth waiting for.
* * *
Around eight O'clock Pam found a parking place a half block from
Manny's apartment building. Her
back ached and her feet were swollen
from the five-hour drive, an omen of the months to come, she knew.
She'd cried off her makeup by the time she'd reached Macon, but Manny
wouldn't mind. City sounds greeted her when she opened the
door and lifted herself out of the car. Little Five Points was
one of
her favorite areas in Atlanta, and ablaze with crimson, pink and white
azaleas, it was certainly
one of the prettiest this time of year.
She rolled her shoulders and stretched her legs, then grabbed her bag.
Although it was only a short
walk to Manny's building, followed by a
brief flight of stairs, her feet felt as though they were made
of
concrete by the time she arrived at her friend's apartment. He swung
open the door before she'd finished knocking and swept her into a huge
hug.
When he set her on her feet, he chucked her lightly under the chin.
"Pam, one of these days you
simply must begin to age."
Pam smiled at the tall, fair-haired man she'd met at a club several
years ago. They'd hit it off and had maintained contact over the years,
visiting at every chance. Manny Oliver was a confirmed homosexual and a
world-class good guy. Pam looked at his dancing eyes and sighed.
"Manny, if you ever decide to jump ship, I want to be the first to
know.''
"Darling, you and Ellie would be the only women in my lifeboat."
"How is Ellie?" Pam asked, referring to his former roommate.
"Disgustingly happy," he said, rolling his eyes. "Married less than a
year and she and Mark are already expecting a baby." He shuddered. "I
ask you—what woman could possibly endure those hideous maternity
fashions?"
Pam pursed her lips and dropped her gaze. ''Got any dos and don'ts for
me?"
"Oh, no," he murmured, sinking into a chair. "Not you, too."
She nodded, her eyes welling with tears.
He simply opened his arms and shooed her inside, then rocked her
through another crying jag. Only
after she'd blown her nose twice and
gotten over the hiccups did he question her.
"Who is the proud papa?"
"His name is Alan Parish."
"Does he know?"
She shook her head.
"Are you going to tell him?"
Pam nodded.
"Tell me this guy is husband
material."
She laughed dryly. "He had a wedding in February:"
"Pam," he chided. "Even I don't mess around with married men."
"No, he was marrying my best friend, but she called off the wedding at
the last minute."
"Ah. And you picked up the pieces?"
"Something like that. But I don't think he's ready to make another trip
to the altar." She laughed softly, then added, "Not with me anyway."
"How do you think he will react to the news?"
She bit her bottom lip to stem another flood of tears. "He hates kids."
Manny frowned. "Well, if that's the ease, he should keep his pants
zipped."
"It's my fault—my pills failed."
"That's a moot point. Now you have to make plans for this baby. Are you
going to keep it or give it
up for adoption?"
"I'm keeping it"
"And can you expect any help from this Parish
guy?"
"I'm not sure."
Manny squinted and angled his head. ''Pam, is there something you're
not telling me?"
"I'm in love with him."
"The plot thickens. And his feelings for you?"
"Zilch."
"Not true—he got naked with you, didn't he?"
"Okay, I suppose he's physically attracted to me."
"It's a start."
"But he's still in love with my best friend."
"He told you this?"
"No, but he hasn't called since we were together— until today when be
asked me to meet so we could talk about his feelings for her."
"Sounds like a jerk to me."
"Oh, no—he's really a great guy. In fact, one of the reasons I admire
him so much is that he was so committed to my friend."
"If the man doesn't scoop you up and count his blessings, he's obtuse,"
Manny insisted.
"He's a little uptight," Pam admitted, smiling fondly. "But when he
lets go, he can be very endearing."
Manny handed her a cup of tea and lifted one eyebrow. "And good in bed,
I certainly hope."
She nodded miserably.
He sighed. "Promise me you won't wear stripes in the last trimester."
* * *
Alan struggled to keep his voice calm. "But you don't understand," he
explained to the receptionist at Pam's office. "I have left voice-mail
messages. I've left fourteen
voice-mail messages."
"Perhaps her cellular phone—"
"She's not answering. Pam was supposed to meet me last night and she
didn't show. I'm worried
about her."
The receptionist didn't seem particularly sympathetic that he'd been
stood up. "Sir, all I can tell you is
that Ms. Kaminski said she'd be
out of the office for a few days. I can give you her pager number—"
"I called her pager number—she's not answering!"
"Then I'll transfer you to her voice mail."
"Wait—" he yelled, but he heard a click and Pam's voice message, which
he'd now memorized. Alan slammed down the phone and cursed. He reared
back and kicked his desk as hard as he could,
bellowing when the pain
shot up his leg.
"Mr. Parish," Linda said, sticking her head through his doorway. "Are
you okay?"
Alan inhaled deeply. "I'm fine, Linda." Then he limped to his valet and
yanked on his jacket. "Cancel
my appointments for the rest of the
afternoon."
* * *
Pamela lived in a neat little town house in an artsy part of town—Alan
suspected she'd made a good investment, considering her line of work.
He had been there only twice to pick her up for some event
they had
attended together, but he hadn't gone inside. The tiny driveway was
vacant, and the shades
were drawn. The outside light glowed weakly in
the bright mid-morning sun, as if to fool someone into thinking she was
home.
He walked up the steps and retrieved her untouched morning paper, then
knocked on her front door several times before going around to the back
and doing the same. After ten minutes, Alan climbed
back into his car
and pounded his steering wheel in frustration. "Pam, where are you?" he
shouted
into the cab of his car. "Where are
you?"
He laid his head back and exhaled, then straightened and turned the
key. Within minutes, he was
heading toward Jo Montgomery's office, not
sure what he was going to tell her, but absolutely certain
that he had
to find Pam.
As luck would have it, Jo was in a deep embrace with her new husband,
John Sterling, when Alan knocked and stuck his head through her open
doorway. They quickly parted, although John kept a possessive arm
around Jo's waist while she straightened her clothing.
"Alan," she gasped. "What a nice surprise."
"We didn't hear you come in," John said with a tight smile.
"I wonder why," Alan said dryly. "Jo, could I have a word with you?"
"Of course," she said quickly, then glanced at her husband, who wore a
wary frown.
"It's about Pam," Alan informed him impatiently.
"Jo, I'll see you at home," John said, dropping a quick kiss on her
mouth. He nodded curtly to Alan
as he left.
"Do you want some coffee?" Jo asked politely.
Alan shook his head. "I'm looking for Pam and I thought you might know
where she is."
Jo averted her gaze and relief swept through him. Jo knew, which meant
at least Pam was okay.
"Did you leave her a voice message?" she asked.
"Sure did."
"Maybe she hasn't had a chance to return calls."
"Where is she?"
"Alan—"
"I have to see her, Jo. It's important."
"She asked me not to tell anyone—"
"Jo, there's something you should know."
Jo frowned. "Alan, what's wrong?"
He exhaled noisily, suddenly unsure of himself. "Something happened
when Pam and I were in Fort Myers."
"Alan, I don't think this is any of my—"
"I fell in love with her."
Her eyes widened slightly, and a slow smile climbed her face. "What?"
"I fell in love with her." He raised his hands in the air. "Jo, I swear
to you on everything I hold sacred
that nothing ever went on between us
when you and I were together." He pursed his lips and gritted his teeth
before continuing. "But when we were in Fort Myers, I saw Pam in a new
light. She's warm and funny and smart—" He broke off and shrugged
helplessly. "She makes me happy, Jo, and when I'm
with her, I
understand what you must feel when you're with John."
Jo's eyes were full of unshed tears. "Alan, nothing would make me
happier than to see the two of you together."
"I have to find her, Jo, and tell her how I feel. Even if she doesn't
love me, I can't go another day
with this on my heart."
She smiled, displaying a dimple. "How about five hours?"
"Five hours?"
"She's in Atlanta, staying with a friend for a few days."
Alan frowned. "A male friend?"
She nodded, and hurt stabbed him hard in the chest. He laughed softly
and shook his head. "What's the point if she's with another man?"
Jo walked over to him and touched his arm. "It's a good thing John
didn't let that stop him," she said quietly. "For both our sakes."
Twelve
After a morning of, hugging the toilet, Pam napped away the afternoon,
then dragged herself toward
the tub. A shower, she'd discovered, was a
heartbroken, pregnant woman's solace because there she could cry freely
and it didn't matter.
Not that she didn't cry everywhere else anyway. Throughout the day,
Manny pampered her with cool cloths for her forehead, warm cloths for
her neck, pillows for her feet, pillows for her back, the latest
magazines and nice, bland food when her stomach could stand it. She
felt lumpy and frumpy in one
of Manny's old sweat suits, but being
enveloped in his big, masculine clothes gave her comfort.
When dusk began to fall, he dragged a cushiony chair out onto the fire
escape and planted her there
while he brushed her hair. The spring
breeze was unusually balmy, inspiring Pam to inhale great lungfuls Of
fresh air. A zillion stars glittered overhead, triggering memories of
the night she and Alan strolled
along the moonlit beach and the passion
that had swept them away.
Well, actually, Alan had been swept away to jail, but that night had
been an awakening for her, and she would never forget it. She toyed
with the sand-castle pendant that hung around her neck, where it had
been since the day
they'd returned to Savannah.
"Maybe I need a change of scenery," she said, sipping the cup of
peppermint tea Manny had prepared
for her.
"You're welcome to this apartment," he offered. "But in a couple of
months you'll have to find another roommate."
She twisted in her chair. "You're moving?"
"To San Francisco, in June."
"Why didn't you say something?" Pam demanded.
"Darlin', you've got enough on your mind." He clucked. "I was planning
to send you a change-of-address card."
"What's in San Francisco?"
"A career path," he said flatly. "On New Year's I took a glimpse into
my future, and believe me, there's nothing pretty about a
senior-citizen drag-queen performer."
Pam laughed—Manny hadn't yet seen his fortieth birthday and was an
exceptionally handsome guy. "What will you do?"
He bowed. "Concierge at the Chandelier House, at your service, madam."
"Manny, that's wonderful—you'll be a big hit!" Then she made a face.
"I'll miss you though."
"You and the bebe will have to come out for a visit."
"We will," she declared, grinning at him in the mirror. .
Manny cocked his ear toward the apartment and held up a finger. "I
think I heard a knock, I'll be right back."
Pam sank deeper into the seat and wrapped her hands over her stomach.
Imagine, she thought with
a little smile, Alan's baby growing
inside
me. And although she wasn't foolish enough to believe raising
a child
on her own would be easy, she would do what she had done all her
life—make the best of her circumstances. This child would be loved, if
by no one else, then by her.
"Pam," Manny said from the doorway, "you have a visitor."
She jerked her head around in surprise, then gasped when she saw Alan
standing in the living room, his suit jacket over his shoulder and his
face grim. To see him after so many weeks was a shock to her senses,
and she couldn't fathom why he was here. Standing on wobbly legs, she
stepped into the doorway, aware that Manny hovered an arm's length
behind her.
* * *
Alan straightened when Pam stepped into view. His heart slammed against
his chest painfully. She
looked beautiful, but different. Softer,
perhaps, with no makeup and her hair loose around her shoulders.
Wearing her lover's clothes, she looked dewy-eyed and vulnerable.
Jealousy ripped through him and he tried not to think about the rumpled
covers and pillows on the couch. Seeing their recent sex venue only
strengthened his resolve that under no circumstances would he share her
with another man.
"Alan, this is my friend Manny—"
"We already met, sweetheart," Manny assured her, but his eyes never
left Alan.
Alan's hands twitched at the casual term of endearment, but he tried to
focus on the reason he'd come.
"Alan," Pam asked, taking another step toward him. "What are you doing
here?"
"Looking for you."
Her smile was shaky. "Obviously, but why?"
Alan glanced to her tall boyfriend, but the man wasn't about to budge
from the room. "Would you
excuse us, um, Manny?"
The guy poked his tongue into his cheek, then glanced to Pam with
raised eyebrows for confirmation.
She nodded.
"I'll be in the bedroom," the man said, glaring at Alan. "Yell if you
need me, Pam."
"Thanks, Manny."
Alan waited until he heard the bedroom door close before speaking, and
then he didn't know where,
to start. "I waited for you the other night."
"Something came up—I should have called."
"I was worried."
"I'm fine," she said with a nervous laugh. "How did you know where to
find me?"
"Jo."
She nodded, lowering her gaze.
"Look, Pam," he said, stepping closer but maintaining a safe distance.
"I didn't mean to embarrass
you in front of your boyfriend, but—"
"He's not my boyfriend. Manny's gay."
Relief swept through him. "Really? Hey, that's great—I say a man's got
to do what a man's got to do,
and if that means marching—"
"Alan, what do you want?"
He mentally went down the list he'd made and left in the car. "I didn't
mean to embarrass you in front
of your boyfriend—"
"You said that already," she said, lifting a comer of her mouth. "Don't
tell me you've got a script."
Panic flooded his vocal cords. "I love you, dammit!"
She stood stock-still while he hung out swinging in the breeze, waiting
for her answer. Seconds ticked by.
"Say something," he said.
"I'm pregnant with your baby."
He froze and glanced around the room, absorbing her words, but finding
them too unbelievable to comprehend.' "Come again?"
"I'm pregnant with your baby."
Strange, but the words sounded exactly the same the second time. Alan
felt his jaw drop, close, then
drop again. Intelligent words to combine
into an appropriate response had to reside somewhere deep
in his brain,
but they didn't seem to be forthcoming.
She waited.
His mind raced. Men became fathers every day— coming up with a reply
for the woman he loved couldn't be that hard.
"Gee," he said with a shaky laugh, then felt the room close in around
him. "I think I'm going to pass
out." But even though the trip to the
floor seemed to be in slow motion, the thump of his head against
the
wood revived him somewhat.
Alan heard Pam scream for Manny, then heard the man tell her to get a
pitcher of water from the refrigerator.
Manny slapped him lightly on the cheeks, then a stinging blast of ice
water hit his face, taking his breath. His temple throbbed with a new
pain.
His eyes popped open and through his water-speckled lenses, he saw Pam
standing over him holding
a glass pitcher.
"Uh—Pam," Manny said. "You could have taken out the ice first." He
handed her a chunk as large as
a man's fist, tinged with blood. "He
might have a concussion."
"I'm fine," Alan mumbled. "Help me up."
Manny helped him to the couch then gave him a cloth to hold to his
bleeding temple. "You're going to have a heck of a goose egg, man."
Alan smiled and shrugged, looking at Pam. "It comes with the
territory."
"I hope your insurance is paid up," Manny muttered on his way out of
the room.
"Sounds like I'm going to need the family plan," Alan said, locking
gazes with Pam.
"Alan—"
"Why didn't you tell me about the baby?" He clasped her by the upper
arms. "I've missed you like
crazy these past few weeks, and I was
nearly insane wondering what happened to you last night."
"When you called, I was trying to decide how to break the news, then
you said you wanted to talk
about your feelings for Jo—"
"It was an excuse—I didn't think you'd meet me
otherwise."
She blinked. "That was dumb."
"I was desperate!"
Pam winced. "How much does Jo know?"
"Everything."
"Oh no."
"And she said she couldn't be happier. In fact, she encouraged me to
come after you." His Adam's apple bobbed. "Pamela
Kaminski, will you marry me?"
Her eyes widened. "M-marry?"
"You know—you'd be the wife, I'd be the husband."
"Wife?" she whispered, then smiled tremulously. "I hadn't planned on
ever being anyone's wife." Then she laughed, her eyes filling with
tears. "But I hadn't planned on ever being anyone's mother, either."
He grinned. "I've noticed lately that life is full of surprises."
"Alan, I know you don't like kids—"
"Unless they're mine," he corrected,
"But kids are loud..."
"So are you."
"—and messy..."
"So are you."
"—and the diapers..."
He winced. "You got me there."
"It won't be easy."
Alan curled his fingers around her neck and p'ulled her face close to
his. "Is that a yes?"
Her eyes were luminous as she studied his face, then she dabbed at the
blood on his temple. "That's a yes," she whispered, then added, "The
'P' stands for 'papa.'"
* * *
The church was somewhat less crowded this time, Alan noticed from his
view at the altar. Which was fine with him, as long as the people who
mattered were there.
His parents sat on the front pew, crying happy tears because Pam had
enchanted them as much as she had enchanted him. Pam's mother sat on
the opposite side, dabbing her eyes.
Her two brothers stood
next to him, fingering their tight collars,
waiting for Pam to make her entrance. Her older brother, Roy, pointed
to Alan's bandaged hand. "What happened?"
"A little mishap when we tried on rings," Alan explained with a shrug.
"Sounds like Pam," Roy affirmed with a nod. "You'd better lower your
deductible. By the way, where
the devil is she?"
Alan tried not to betray the nervousness that wallowed in his stomach.
"She must be here, or the
director wouldn't have let them start the
music."
"They've played that song so many times, I know it by heart," Roy
whispered hoarsely.
"Maybe she had a sudden case of morning sickness," Alan said, trying to
squelch humiliating flashbacks from the last time he stood at the altar.
"It's two in the afternoon."
"Well, you know women's bodies can be...unpredictable."
Roy grinned. "Not the word I would have used, but whatever."
After another five minutes of "O Promise Me," Alan glanced at Jo, who
stood an arm's length away
in a simple bridesmaid dress. She chewed on
her lower lip and shrugged slightly, then mouthed, "Want
me to go
check?"
Alan sighed, feeling sick to his stomach. If Pam had changed her mind
about becoming his wife, he wanted to be the one to know. He walked
down the aisle, trying to block out the concerned murmur
that swept
through the guests, then marched through the back doors of the chapel.
His hand shook as he opened the door to the bride's waiting room, and
his heart pounded when he saw it was empty. He checked the bathroom,
but found it abandoned, as well. With a sinking heart, he realized she
must have changed her mind. He gritted his teeth, then laughed
bitterly. He was zero for two.
His eyes stung with emotion as he walked back toward the chapel once
again to tell everyone to go
home, but as he walked past the open doors
of the church entrance, he heard a familiar beeping horn.
He glanced
outside in time to see Pam's Volvo jump the curb and come to a
screeching halt, mere
inches from a stone statue of some
important-looking saint.
Dressed in full bridal regalia, with a voluminous veil and enormous
train, she took quite a while to extricate herself from the car. When
she did, she gathered the skirt in her arms, hiking it up to her
thighs
to run across the churchyard in bare feet. Carrying her shoes in one
hand, she waved when she saw him in the doorway. "I'm coming!" she
yelled. "I'm coming!"
"Where have you been?" he demanded when she came to a halt in front of
him. God, she was gorgeous, especially with her slightly rounded tummy.
"Mrs. Wingate paged me," she said breathlessly. "Her head psychic told
her she had a one-hour window of safety to buy the Sheridan house." She
panted for air. "I was already dressed, and I figured I could leave and
get the papers signed before anyone missed me." She smiled happily, her
chest heaving. ''Did anyone miss me?"
He sighed, wanting to shake her. "You scared me to death—I thought you
had changed your mind."
She looped her arms around his neck. "Not on your life—you're stuck
with me, Mr. Alan P. Parish."
She pulled his mouth to hers for a deep
kiss.
He raised his head, then bent down and lifted her into his arms. "Let's
go make you my wife before anything else happens." Then he turned,
carried her toward the chapel and whispered, "I have a confession to
make."
"What?"
"I told the guy at the tattoo parlor that the 'P' stands for 'Pam's.'"
Epilogue
Alan raised hii hands. "Pam," he said in a soothing voice. "Put down
the nail file."
"You!" she yelled at him from
the hospital bed. "You did this to me!"
"Honey," he said, "don't you think it was a combined effort?"
He ducked as the vase of flowers flew past his head and crashed against
the wall at his back.
"You're right!" he affirmed hurriedly, raising his arms in surrender.
He put on a mournful expression
and gestured vaguely toward her huge
stomach. "It's all my fault—I did this to you and I am the lowest scum
on the face of the earth."
Her face contorted with pain and Alan's heart twisted in agony. His
beautiful wife was lying in abject misery, and he couldn't even get
close enough to the hospital bed to practice the Lamaze they had
learned together.
"Do you have your focus point, sweetie?" he called, inching closer.
She lay back, panting, then pinned him with a deadly look. "I'm
focusing on a life of celibacy!"
"Honey, you don't mean that." he said in his most cajoling voice, but
stopped when she held up the makeshift dagger. "Celibacy is good," he
assured her with a nervous laugh. "We can make it work."
Alan retreated the few inches
he'd advanced. "How about an ice chip?" he asked.
"How about I chip your tooth?" she offered, smiling sweetly.
The door swung open and Dr. Campbell strode in with a smile. "How're we
doing?"
Alan, weak with relief to have an ally, smiled broadly. "Just great,"
he said, then glanced at Pam's murderous expression. "I mean, not very
well at all."
"Let's see where you are, Pam." To Alan's alarm, the doctor eased Pam's
swollen feet and ankles into
the stirrups, giving him a bird's-eye view
beneath her hospital gown.
He swallowed and cleared his throat. "I think I'll wait outside."
"Oh no you don't," Pam said, ominously. "You're not going anywhere."
Alan nodded obediently and wiped his sweaty hands on his slacks.
"Right—wild horses couldn't drag
me out of here."
The doctor glanced at the monitor. "Here comes another contraction,
Pam. Just try to relax."
"Remember to breathe, sweetie," Alan called. "Hee-hee—"
"Shut up!" she shouted.
"I'm shutting up," he said, nodding vigorously.
"If the pain's getting to be too much," the doctor said to Pam, "I can
go ahead and give you an epidural."
"Thanks anyway, Dr. Campbell," Alan said from the wall. "We decided
from the beginning to go for natural childbir—"
"Give me the needle, Dr. C," Pam cut in, "and I'll give it to myself."
"Oh my," the doctor said, moving her hands beneath the gown.
Alan glanced over, then squeezed his eyes shut, muttering thanks to the
heavens for the thousandth time today that he was not a woman.
"Forget the epidural," the doctor said, depressing the nurse call
button with her elbow. "You're ready to start pushing."
Alan's eyes popped open. "Already?"
"Already?" Pam shrieked. "It's been nine hours!"
But I'm not ready, I'm not wise
enough yet to be a father. Perspiration
popped out on his hairline and panic rose in his chest, suffocating him.
The nurses rushed in and dressed him in sanitary garb as if he were a
kid going out in the snow. He
was relegated, happily, to a corner as
they prepared Pam for the final stages of labor. Alan had never
felt so
guilty and helpless in his life. She agonized through two more
contractions before the doctor
said, "Daddy, you come jump in anytime."
Alan glanced to Pam for affirmation, but her eyes were squeezed shut to
ward off the pain. Her hands were on the bed railing, so at least her
weapon had been confiscated.
"Pam?" he said weakly, stepping closer. "Sweetie?"
She didn't open her eyes, but she lifted a hand toward him, and he went
to her side with relief.
"Alan," she whispered, lolling her head toward him.
"Yes, dear?"
"What does the 'P' stand for?"
"Pam, now doesn't seem like the time—"
She twisted a handful of his shirt and pulled him close to her. "I
said, what does the 'P' stand for?"
"Pam, you need to push," Dr. Campbell said. "On the count of three."
"Alan—" Pam said through clenched teeth.
"One—"
"—what does—" Her face reddened.
"_two—"
"—the 'P' stand for?"
"—three—push!"
Her face contorted in pain and she screamed: Alan, scared half out of
his wits, yelled, "Presley!
The 'P' stands for 'Presley!'"
She grunted, bearing down for several seconds, then relaxed on the
pillow and opened her eyes. "Presley?" she panted.
He nodded miserably. "My mom was a huge fan."
She laughed between gasping for air, readying herself for another push
at the doctor's urging. He held
her hand tight and whispered loving
words in her ear.
"Here comes the head," said the doctor.
She bore down and squeezed his hand until he was sure she'd broken
several bones. His heart thrashed
in his chest and he looked around to
see what he would hit when he passed out.
"One more push, Pam," the doctor urged.
She took a deep breath and screamed loud enough to rattle the windows.
Alan held on, wondering if his hearing would return.
"Here we are," the doctor said triumphantly. "It's a big boy."
Relief and elation flooded his chest and he kissed Pam's face,
whispering, "It's a boy. It's a boy."
Pam, exhausted but beaming, held her hands out to accept the wrinkled,
outraged infant Alan's heart
filled to bursting as he looked down at
his son, whose lusty cries filled the air.
"Do you have a name?" the doctor asked.
"Not yet—" he said.
''Of course we do,'' Pam said as she raised her moist gaze to her
husband. "Our beautiful son's name
is Presley."