Relentless. Leslie Kelly

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 have been the night before her wedding.

      “You’d probably be better off leaving,” she muttered ruefully. “I’m not great company right now. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty miserable.”

      “Not thinking of pulling a Jaws scene, are you?” he asked, looking at her bare feet, then at the surf lapping closer toward them on the sand.

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ