“No. I’m not going for a late-night swim. I’m, uh…just thinking. It’s been a pretty bad night and, to top it all off, I now find myself stranded, without my purse, real clothes or a buck to buy a beer I can cry into.”
Surprisingly, the man didn’t ask about the clothes comment. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his sports coat and drew out a few minibottles of whiskey. “Would this help?”
Though she wasn’t ordinarily a drinker, Pamela grabbed for a bottle, unsealed it and took a hefty sip.
“I hate this stuff,” she said between choking coughs after she swallowed. The rush of warmth descended from her throat to her belly, and Pamela took it in, needing it to calm her nerves. Another sip brought the same reaction. This time, as she bent over in a small coughing fit, the towel came untucked and fell open. She snatched it back up, covering herself, looking at the man to see if he’d noticed.
He didn’t comment on her clothes—or lack thereof. Instead, he took his suit jacket off his shoulder and held it out to her. “Here. At least it won’t fall off.”
Pamela stared at his hand, and the jacket, wondering why his simple, chivalrous offer brought tears to her eyes. She looked up at him, trying to find an indication of his thoughts in his expression. She saw only kindness. Concern. A gentle look of tenderness in eyes that she sensed could sometimes be as cold as a gray winter’s sky. But tonight, under the light of the glowing moon and what seemed to be a million stars reflecting off the water, they were infused with warmth.
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking the jacket from his hand. He turned slightly, so that he faced the ocean. When she saw him avert his gaze, she knew he was offering her privacy. She took it, dropping the towel and slipping the jacket on over her shoulders. “You really are a gentleman. Unlike every other man I’ve run across this evening.”
From where he stood, silently watching the surf as she donned his coat, Ken cringed. She’d sounded very bitter when she talked about the other men she’d spent the evening with. He had to imagine she was never going to forgive Peter’s friends, the men who had witnessed what had happened in the suite.
How the hell could he tell her he was one of them?
“I don’t know about that,” he murmured finally. “But at least I know I’m not a louse.”
Which she should feel pretty damn lucky about. Standing out here at almost midnight, dressed as she was, the lady could have found herself in some very serious trouble if the wrong kind of man had happened by.
“No, the louse…or is it lice?” she said with a bitter laugh, “would be my ex-fiancé and his friends. Plus my father.”
“So it’s not all males you’re hating at this moment?”
“No. Just a handful,” she admitted as she took another drink from the small bottle, draining it.
He took the empty bottle from her and watched as she popped open the second one. “Easy there.”
“I’m entitled. You can’t imagine the night I’ve had.”
Actually, he could. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. Pamela’s embarrassment was already easy enough to see. If he told her he’d witnessed her entire humiliation, she’d stalk away from him. Now, after she’d had a drink, she would probably be even more vulnerable than she’d been before! He was thankful he’d been the one to find her after he’d left the party, leaving Peter laid out on the carpet behind him.
Ken flexed his hand, thankful he hadn’t broken any fingers. Whatever bruises or stiffness he had tomorrow would be well worth the satisfaction he’d gotten knocking Peter on his arrogant ass. He hadn’t stuck around to see how long it took the other man to get up. He’d been totally focused on finding Pamela.
She hadn’t been hard to locate. How many places were there in a beachfront hotel for a half-naked female to hide? Certainly not the bar or the restaurant. He’d doubted she’d booked a room. There had been no place she could have possibly concealed any cash, ID or keys in that getup she’d been wearing, so he didn’t imagine she’d hopped into a cab or her car.
Putting himself in her shoes, er, her bare feet, he’d figured the beach was where he’d have gone. He hadn’t been surprised that was where he’d found her. “So, want to talk about it?” He looked back at her, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
She shrugged. “My name’s Pamela Bradford. Tomorrow was supposed to be my wedding day.”
“And what, you and the groom argued over the wedding cake and started throwing icing around?” he said, trying to make her laugh, trying to avoid letting her know that he knew all about the cake incident.
“That’s not so far from the truth,” she muttered glumly.
Ken didn’t know Pamela very well—heck, he didn’t know her at all. But he had three younger sisters. Growing up, all three of them had considered him the representative for every male on the planet, heaping all the praises—but, more often, all the sins—of his sex right on top of his head.
One thing he’d learned—aside from never going near his sister Diana’s chocolate stash around the time of the full moon—was that in moments of emotional crisis, females needed to get things off their chest or they’d explode. Not wanting his boss’s daughter blown to a million bits on a Fort Lauderdale beach, he urged her on. “So tell me all about your wedding plans.”
She snorted. “They’re off!”
“The wedding’s been called off?”
“Well, unofficially, yes. I guess I’ll leave it to Peter to explain to all our guests why the bride couldn’t make it.”
Ken glanced at his watch. “He’s going to have to come up with a reason pretty quick…or will he tell them the truth?”
“That he’s a womanizing jerk who basically accepted a bribe from my father to get me to marry him?”
Ken winced at the anger in her voice. “Guess not.”
Suddenly, without warning, Pamela was spilling out the whole story. Her childhood. Her relationship with her parents. Her dedication to her job, which had her interacting on a daily basis with teenagers the city of Miami seemed disinclined to help. She even told him about her disillusionment with her fiancé.
Ken listened, finally understanding why Pamela would ever have gotten involved with a guy like Peter Weiss. The man had played her like an instrument, using her father’s advice on her likes and dislikes to appeal to her. How could any woman resist a man who agreed with every word she said, who was completely supportive and anticipated her every need?
“Didn’t that get boring? A guy who never said no to you?”
“It wasn’t like that,” she retorted. “There was security in knowing we were so much alike.”
“Sounds like a yawnfest.” Ken shrugged. “Stepford Groom.”
“So what would you know about it?” she retorted, her fist on her hip. “Are you a relationship expert or something?”
“Nope. My relationships have basically blown lately.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“But I do know I would never be able to stand being with a woman who agreed with every word I said!”
“As if that’d ever happen,” she muttered, seeming to forget her own problems for the moment.
“Are you saying I’m difficult to get along with? And here I thought I’d been the soul of cordiality.”
She suddenly looked contrite. “You have. I’m so sorry. You’ve been wonderful, and I don’t even know your name. I didn’t mean to be critical. It’s just that the men