his own jacket, which she still wore. He didn’t really want a drink. But it seemed wise to reduce the supply so Pamela wouldn’t drown her sorrows by drinking every single one of them.
Since the jacket pocket was just about even with one of her curvy hips, he did not reach out to help himself. Touch her and you’re a goner!
“I think I’ve had enough,” she finally said, studying the empty container in her hand.
Considering she’d downed two by herself, he thought she was right.
“But help yourself,” she continued, pulling one of the remaining miniatures out of the pocket and handing it to him.
Ken took it from her fingers, noting the coolness of her smooth, pale skin against the slick glass. He took a quick step back, then busied himself opening the bottle.
“So, Peter pretended to be the perfect guy…but why on earth did you feel the need to show up at his bachelor party and jump out of his cake?” Ken asked, still not completely clear on what had led up to this evening’s performance.
She sighed. “I don’t know. The way it turned out, it would have almost been easier to accept if Peter was gay.”
Ken almost choked on a sip of the whiskey. “You thought your fiancé was gay?”
“No,” she insisted. “I didn’t think so! My friends wondered if he might be, though, when I told them that I’d never…that he’d never…uh…”
“You weren’t lovers,” he stated, still feeling like a slimeball for not admitting that he’d witnessed the entire awful scene in the hotel.
“No,” she replied, a note of defiance in her voice. “He seemed to think that I was destined to be pure as the driven snow on my wedding night, and my father insisted I remain that way. Thank God he did—at least I never slept with the creep!”
Ken nearly echoed the sentiment.
One thing Pamela hadn’t mentioned during all her explanations was her one final, defiant gesture as she’d left the party. Not that he was surprised. He didn’t know many women who’d have had the nerve to do what she’d done—and then talk about it!
“So,” he asked as he put the cap back on the miniature bottle, “you going to give your father a chance to explain?”
“Nope,” she replied succinctly.
“Are you going to at least tell him there’s not going to be any wedding tomorrow?”
She scowled, looking as though she wanted to do just that. Then her shoulders drooped. “Do you have a cell phone?”
“Right-hand pocket.”
He watched her pull his phone from his jacket and dial some numbers. She took a few deep breaths, looking up at the stars overhead while she waited for an answer. Ken watched, knowing the pain this phone call would reveal—and the pain it would inflict. Though he hated what Jared had done to his daughter, Ken knew how much the man loved her. This was gonna be bad.
“Hello, Daddy? No, no, I’m fine. Yes, I know what time it is.” She looked at her wrist, but she wore no watch. Ken held his arm toward her and showed her his.
“No, please listen,” she continued. “I want to tell you I hope you and your five hundred friends have a wonderful time eating the surf and turf tomorrow afternoon at the club. Hope it’ll be worth it. Unfortunately, I won’t be there so I’ll have to count on everyone else to tell me how the reception goes. Be sure to have someone save me a piece of cake.”
She laughed, a desperate sound that held no joy. “Oh, Peter called, did he? So you understand, of course, why there will be no wedding.”
She shook her head. “No. Dad, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear a single word you have to say.” Her voice caught with unshed tears. “You betrayed me—Peter used me, but you betrayed me.”
She cut the connection, turned off the phone, and promptly burst into tears.
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