Slowly, the men began turning away. Some reached for coats, some left the living area altogether, going toward another room in the suite. She ignored them and began walking toward the door.
“Please, Pamela, don’t be rash. You misunderstood.”
“I heard you perfectly well, Peter,” she replied as she reached the foyer. “My father hired you, coached you on how to get me interested and promised you a big payoff for pretending you were madly in love.” Her voice broke, and she forced herself to straighten her shoulders. “What’s not to understand?”
He took a step toward her. “It wasn’t like that.”
Pamela pointed her index finger at him. “Ah-ah. I meant it. Don’t you come near me. Maybe it won’t be your arm I rip off.”
Peter visibly gulped. Hearing one of the men chuckle, Pamela swung her gaze toward them. Most were still huddled in the back corner, near the interior hallway. There was also apparently some kind of kitchen area that she couldn’t see, and she figured more of the weasels were huddled in there, listening to every word, peeking around corners or through archways like the nasty little vermin they were.
She’d never forget their laughter, the way they cheered Peter on, seemingly proud of him for his plan. She’d never forget their faces, knowing they probably derived some sort of satisfaction in her humiliation, since so many of them had made a play for her at one time or another. Yes, she imagined they were enjoying seeing her brought down to size.
Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back, determined not to let a single one fall free of her lashes—at least not until after she got out of this room, away from their knowing faces, far from the echo of Peter’s sickeningly self-satisfied voice.
From where she lay on the floor, the blonde cleared her throat. Forcing herself into a surreal sense of calm despite the raging intensity building inside her, Pamela met the woman’s eye. “You have something to contribute to this conversation?”
“Them are Nona’s favorite shoes you got on,” the woman said matter-of-factly as she stared at Pamela’s legs.
Not pausing, Pamela bent down and slipped one then the other of the glittery red spike-heeled pumps off her feet. She gently tossed one into the center of the room. The heel caught in the remnants of the cake and hung there, dangling inches above the floor. The other shoe flew out of her hand with a bit more speed and precision. It caught Peter right in the middle of his gut. He bent forward, gasping for air. Pamela was unable to stop a snort of satisfaction as she reached for the door handle.
Pamela opened the door, but before she stepped out of the suite, she paused and looked back at her former fiancé. Peter looked unsteady. He still breathed deeply, swaying and blinking hard, as if unable to believe everything he’d worked so hard for was collapsing around him in a matter of ninety seconds. His shoulders slumped, and he raised a hand to cover his eyes. The hooker watched from below. The cowardly men still huddled in their corners.
“Oh, Peter?” Pamela called sweetly.
He immediately lowered his hand and looked toward her, a faint light of hopefulness in his beady little eyes that had once seemed so truthful and gentle.
Once she was sure she had his full attention, Pamela gave him a wicked smile. Uncrossing her arms, she tugged the filmy shirt open, flashing him. His jaw fell open.
“You’re an idiot,” she said as she ran one flat palm across the curve of her hip, concealed only by the thin red strap of her thong panties.
“And I’m definitely not a virgin.”
THOSE IN THE SUITE remained silent after Pamela slammed out, as if the reverberations of the door had frozen them where they stood. In the kitchen, Ken was as shocked by her sudden appearance—and disappearance—as everyone else. Her parting shot hung in the air, though Ken knew he, Peter and the prostitute were the only ones who could have seen her last defiant gesture.
It took a half minute before Ken could breathe again. He’d only caught a glimpse of Pamela through the leaves of an artificial plant hanging in an arched opening between the kitchen and living room. But he’d never forget the sight of her. Never.
She was, quite simply, glorious. The tawdry costume that should have appeared cheap had been heart-poundingly enticing instead. There was too much class in the woman, from her proud shoulders to the line of her jaw and the arch of her brow, for her ever to appear less than a lady.
He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more beautifully shaped woman—not in magazines, not in the flesh. The full curve of her hips begged for a man’s hands, while the sweet indentation of her belly cried out to be kissed. And the long line of her thighs invited hours of delightful exploration.
But it was the pain in her eyes that spoke to Ken’s soul.
“Screw the coat,” he muttered as he stepped out of the kitchen to go after her. No way was he going to just stand there while she ran through the hotel, dressed like that, devastated and alone. He might not know her. He did, however, know hurt when he saw it, and the woman needed someone to help her deal with what had happened.
As he stepped by, the blond hooker slowly rose from the floor. “She a workin’ girl? She sure got the body for it.”
Peter looked stunned. “How could this have happened?”
Ken gave him a frown of disdain. His fingers curled into a fist; he itched to slug the man in the jaw, even if Pamela wasn’t here anymore to need protecting. Though sorely tempted, he refrained, wanting nothing more than to get out of the suite.
When he glanced at the chair where Peter and his ladyfriend had been sitting, he spotted his jacket and grabbed it.
“You sure she don’t dance? Gawd, she could be making some big bucks,” the blonde said.
Peter shook his head. “Why didn’t I do her when I had the chance?”
This time Ken didn’t listen to any inner voice of reason. He answered Peter’s question with his fist.
AFTER PAMELA slammed out of the suite, she had to stop for a moment, in the empty, silent hotel hall. She leaned her forehead against the wall as the tears built in her eyes, the sobs choked her chest, and the hot rage completely gave way to pain and humiliation.
She gave herself no more than a few seconds to wallow. Then she dashed down the empty corridor. Ignoring the elevator, she burst through the door to the stairs instead. There, safe for the moment from prying eyes, she hugged her arms tightly around her body and gave in to tears.
“You rotten bastard,” she muttered. Only she didn’t know who she was talking to at that moment. Peter? Or her father? Which one had hurt her more? Which one had thrust the knife into her heart, and which had turned it?
She didn’t have to think about it for long. Her father was the one who really loved her. So he was the one who’d really betrayed her. And she was never going to forgive him for it.
Nor would she ever forgive herself. Stupid! She’d been such a fool to let Peter get away with his scheme. God, she’d almost married the man!
Amazingly, there was no emotional pain at the loss of her fiancé yet. There was pain, oh, yes, but it was pain at being used, at being made a fool of. Mostly at being betrayed by her father. There was also anger, embarrassment and shock.
But did her heart hurt? Was she emotionally devastated? Not yet. At least not as much as she’d expect to be upon learning the man she was pretty doggone sure she loved had been using her.
Maybe that would come later. Or maybe she wasn’t so doggone sure after all, and it wouldn’t.