PAMELA WASN’T THINKING, wasn’t quite coherent and probably wasn’t even completely sane when she burst out of the cake. She was acting on instinct, driven by rage-induced adrenaline. Thought played no part. She’d certainly never have made the conscious decision to emerge from the cake, dressed as she was, in front of a roomful of men.
When the drunken fool who’d found the cake had brought her in, Pamela had sent up every prayer she knew that her bridesmaids would come to her rescue. She’d stayed snug inside, peeking through the holes left by the man who’d tried to coax her out, wondering how darn long it could take them to find a bar in a beachfront hotel in a party town like Fort Lauderdale!
Seeing her fiancé holding a blond hooker had started her blood temperature rising. But she’d waited, giving him the benefit of the doubt, knowing it was his bachelor party. The woman had probably just planted herself on his lap.
Then he’d begun groping her.
She’d been furious, watching in sick disbelief. Her fiancé was feeling up some woman less than twelve hours before he was set to marry her. The fingers that had never once touched a single part of Pamela’s body, other than her hands or a casual squeeze around her waist, had been buried in the plump folds of flesh exposed by the blond floozy’s leather miniskirt. She’d begun to have major doubts about the whole wedding thing even before the stupid fathead had opened his mouth.
Once he’d done that…well, Pamela’s blood had gone from simmer to raging boil in a matter of seconds. She’d been no more able to stay inside that cake than a volcano full of molten lava could keep from erupting. And erupt she did.
“Pamela,” Peter exclaimed as she burst through the top with enough force to shatter the tack-wood cake frame into tiny pieces. Peter pushed the blonde off his lap so fast she landed in a heap at his feet.
“Shut up, Peter. Just shut up,” Pamela ordered as she pushed her way through the paper and sticky icing, feeling it matting in her hair and smearing onto her thighs. Her foot got stuck under the cart shelf where she’d been sitting. Pamela had to tug it free, silently cursing the shoes, her fiancé, her father and her life.
Peter reached out a hand. “Pamela, let me explain.”
“Touch me and I’ll rip your arm off,” she snarled, feeling it was entirely possible she could do just that.
“Darling…”
“I’m not your darling!” Pamela finally got her foot free and stepped over the legs of the blonde, who watched with wide eyes from her position on the floor. “I was never your darling. And I’m not my father’s princess. So you can go tell the king the wedding’s off! I guess that makes you the jester, huh, Peter?”
She glared at every man in the room, noting that most of them dropped their eyes, ashamed to meet her stare. She didn’t suppose a single one of them had been too ashamed to look away when she’d first gotten out of the cake. No, she imagined they’d gotten quite an eyeful. Her face flushed scarlet and she tugged the filmy pink shirt tightly around her body, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
Slowly, the men began turning away. Some reached for coats, some left the living area altogether, going toward another room in the suite. She ignored them and began walking toward the door.
“Please, Pamela, don’t be rash. You misunderstood.”
“I heard you perfectly well, Peter,” she replied as she reached the foyer. “My father hired you, coached you on how to get me interested and promised you a big payoff for pretending you were madly in love.” Her voice broke, and she forced herself to straighten her shoulders. “What’s not to understand?”
He took a step toward her. “It wasn’t like that.”
Pamela pointed her index finger at him. “Ah-ah. I meant it. Don’t you come near me. Maybe it won’t be your arm I rip off.”
Peter visibly gulped. Hearing one of the men chuckle, Pamela swung her gaze toward them. Most were still huddled in the back corner, near the interior hallway. There was also apparently some kind of kitchen area that she couldn’t see, and she figured more of the weasels were huddled in there, listening to every word, peeking around corners or through archways like the nasty little vermin they were.
She’d never forget their laughter, the way they cheered Peter on, seemingly proud of him for his plan. She’d never forget their faces, knowing they probably derived some sort of satisfaction in her humiliation, since so many of them had made a play for her at one time or another. Yes, she imagined they were enjoying seeing her brought down to size.
Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back, determined not to let a single one fall free of her lashes—at least not until after she got out of this room, away from their knowing faces, far from the echo of Peter’s sickeningly self-satisfied voice.
From where she lay on the floor, the blonde cleared her throat. Forcing herself into a surreal sense of calm despite the raging intensity building inside her, Pamela met the woman’s eye. “You have something to contribute to this conversation?”
“Them are Nona’s favorite shoes you got on,” the woman said matter-of-factly as she stared at Pamela’s legs.
Not pausing, Pamela bent down and slipped one then the other of the glittery red spike-heeled pumps off her feet. She gently tossed one into the center of the room. The heel caught in the remnants of the cake and hung there, dangling inches above the floor. The other shoe flew out of her hand with a bit more speed and precision. It caught Peter right in the middle of his gut. He bent forward, gasping for air. Pamela was unable to stop a snort of satisfaction as she reached for the door handle.
Pamela opened the door, but before she stepped out of the suite, she paused and looked back at her former fiancé. Peter looked unsteady. He still breathed deeply, swaying and blinking hard, as if unable to believe everything he’d worked so hard for was collapsing around him in a matter of ninety seconds. His shoulders slumped, and he raised a hand to cover his eyes. The hooker watched from below. The cowardly men still huddled in their corners.
“Oh, Peter?” Pamela called sweetly.
He immediately lowered his hand and looked toward her, a faint light of hopefulness in his beady little eyes that had once seemed so truthful and gentle.
Once she was sure she had his full attention, Pamela gave him a wicked smile. Uncrossing her arms, she tugged the filmy shirt open, flashing him. His jaw fell open.
“You’re an idiot,” she said as she ran one flat palm across the curve of her hip, concealed only by the thin red strap of her thong panties.
“And I’m definitely not a virgin.”
THOSE IN THE SUITE remained silent after Pamela slammed out, as if the reverberations of the door had frozen them where they stood. In the kitchen, Ken was as shocked by her sudden appearance—and disappearance—as everyone else. Her parting shot hung in the air, though Ken knew he, Peter and the prostitute were the only ones who could have seen her last defiant gesture.
It took a half minute before Ken could breathe again. He’d only caught a glimpse of Pamela through the leaves of an artificial plant hanging in an arched opening between the kitchen and living room. But he’d never forget the sight of her. Never.
She
