Relentless. Leslie Kelly

She didn’t want to see them; she didn’t want to see anyone who might demand an explanation. Pamela just wanted to find something to pull on over the ridiculous stripper’s outfit and go home. Since she’d left her purse, money, clothes and car keys in the locked trunk of LaVyrle’s car, she didn’t see much chance of that happening anytime soon.

      The stairwell ended near a back elevator, not far from the lobby. Nearby, Pamela heard the sounds of laughter and tinkling glasses from the hotel bar, and she wondered if her bridesmaids—ex-bridesmaids—were there. Doubtful. They’d probably already gone upstairs, discovered the cake cart was missing, and were wondering where she was.

      Pamela took a few seconds to indulge a fantasy of how LaVyrle would react if she went into the suite and heard what had happened. “Wonder if Peter’s health insurance is paid up,” she whispered with an evil grin. Thinking of his pride in his big, white, flashy smile, she hoped LaVyrle went for the mouth.

      The lobby was nearly deserted, but she had to assume someone was working behind the check-in counter. That person would be unlikely to miss a half-naked woman running toward the exit. Pamela avoided the lobby.

      She also steered clear of the bar. As much as she would have loved a good stiff drink, she couldn’t exactly see going in and ordering one. Nor could she have paid for it. “Bet someone would buy me one,” she muttered sourly.

      Instead, she made her way out the back door of the hotel, which obviously led to the pool area and the beach. Sending up a silent prayer that some careless tourist had forgotten an old T-shirt or cover-up, she prowled around in the darkness.

      “Bingo!” she chortled when she found a colorful beach towel lying forgotten near the kiddie pool. It was better than nothing, and she wrapped it around herself, covering the obscenely thin shirt and spangled undergarments.

      With no one around, no money and no means of transportation, Pamela knew she was going to have to call for help. But who to call? Her best friends were somewhere inside the hotel. Her ex-fiancé was probably consoling himself in the arms of the hooker.

      That thought sent another chill through her body, and Pamela realized she wasn’t ready to see anyone she knew yet. She needed to be alone, to think, to absorb what had happened and what she was going to do about it.

      “Well, the wedding’s off, first of all,” she muttered aloud.

      Stepping away from the pool, she glanced at the wooden steps that led down to the beach. The gently lapping waves and the glimmer of moonlight shining on the surface of the water offered peace and seclusion, a way to soothe her turbulent emotions.

      Without even hesitating, she walked down the steps onto the beach. The sand, cooled by the night air, felt sharp against her bare feet. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, trying to remember the relaxation techniques Sue had taught her when her friend had been going through her “female empowerment” stage. That had been between Sue’s stages of “I’m going to astronaut training school” and “I’m going to get artificially inseminated and raise a baby by myself”.

      “Focus on the sensations of each moment,” Pamela reminded herself. “Think about nothing but the salty taste of the air on your lips, the froth of the waves lapping your feet, the churning surf filling your ears.”

      She closed her eyes, trying to focus. It worked for about six seconds. Then she snorted in disgust because all she could think about was her lying, cheating bastard of an ex-fiancé.

      “You rotten louse!” she shouted to the sky, knowing no one was nearby to hear her. Shouting made her feel better. Punching something would have helped, too.

      Pamela didn’t realize she wasn’t alone on the beach until someone spoke.

      “Have we met?”

      Shocked, she opened her eyes and jerked her attention over her shoulder. A man stood behind her, a few feet away on the beach. He watched her, nearly hidden by the shadow of the nearby dune crossover.

      “No,” Pamela said, casting a quick look around to see if she could spot anyone else. This wasn’t exactly a safe situation. She stood, nearly undressed, on a dark beach, late at night, and a strange man was behind her. Uh-oh.

      “How can you know I’m a louse then?” he asked.

      She frowned. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was having a private moment.”

      “Looked more like a private meltdown,” he said.

      As he stepped closer, out of the shadows and into the light cast by the streetlamp above them in the parking lot, Pamela got her first good look at him. She sucked in a breath, more concerned than she’d been before.

      He wore the south Florida businessman’s summer uniform. A white dress shirt, with sleeves rolled up, revealed thick, tanned forearms. He wore no tie, and his shirt collar was undone, displaying a neck corded with muscle and the hint of dark hair at the hollow of his throat. Though he also wore light-colored trousers, and carried a matching suit jacket slung over one shoulder, Pamela knew this was no normal happy-hour executive out for a late-night stroll. The blasé businessman clothes lied.

      He was all dark intensity. From the thick hair—likely black though she couldn’t be sure in this light—that curled past his collar, to the piercing darkness of his eyes, he defied the image of polished executive that her ex-fiancé had cultivated. The strong line of his determined jaw warned of a man who wouldn’t be easily coerced. The thickness of his arms and the breadth of his chest told of his strength.

      He looked like a cop, or a soldier.

      But as those amazingly well-defined lips curled upward into a teasing smile, she realized he did not look like an ax-murdering rapist. She managed to smile a little in response.

      “Okay, I’m having a private meltdown. The key word being private.”

      “I take it you want me to take a hike?”

      “If you please,” she said, tugging the beach towel tighter around her body and turning her attention toward the surf.

      She sensed his hesitation and glanced at him. He pointed toward her head. “Did you know you’ve got a clump of white stuff in your hair?”

      Pamela reached a hand up and dug a fistful of icing off the top of her head and threw it into the surf.

      “Rough night?”

      “Beyond belief,” she said with a snort.

      “Anything I can do?”

      “Not unless you’re a hit man.”

      The man didn’t seem shocked. “Sorry,” he said with a rueful smile. “Forgot my assassin gear. I guess you’re out of luck.”

      “Now there’s an understatement! Tonight has been just about the worst night I’ve ever experienced. All I want is my bed and a good stiff one.”

      The man laughed out loud, obviously hearing a sexy submeaning in her innocent comment.

      “I mean a good stiff drink!”

      “Yeah, I knew that,” he said, trying hard to keep a straight face. The grin on his lips begged for a response, and Pamela’s own smile widened.

      “I’m not trying to flirt with you,” she said, trying to sound stern, but laughing instead.

      “Good thing, because you’d be doing a pretty pathetic job,” he said. “I mean, first the louse thing, then you basically told me to get lost.”

      “Which you didn’t do.”

      “Touché. Do you still want me to go?”

      For some reason, though she’d come down to the beach to be alone, she found herself wanting him to stay. There was something so appealing about his crooked grin, the self-deprecating laugh and the warmth of his stare.

      A few minutes with a stranger on a dark secluded beach. She could think of worse ways to spend what should