He bit the inside of his cheek, his frustration mounting. One half roll of his body would put him face-to-breast with the most beautiful, sexual woman he knew. Maybe all he needed to do was make the first move. Maybe she’d rip off her clothes and he’d get to see what half of Savannah was raving about. Maybe they’d be great together and he’d give her a blinding orgasm.
His confidence surged, and he made a split-second decision. For once in his life, he would seize the moment and let the chips fall where they might. Before he could change his mind, he drew a quick breath and rolled onto his side, realizing the instant his chin met soft, pliant skin that he’d underestimated the distance and the size of her breasts. Her light floral scent filled his lungs, and his mind spun. His eyes darted to her face as he scrambled to think of something witty to say. Panic exploded in his chest...until he saw that she was sleeping.
He pulled himself up and expelled a small, disappointed sigh as he studied her lash-shadowed cheeks and the eternal pout of her fuller upper lip. He allowed his gaze to rove over her slender neck, then down to her breasts. The dark crescents of her nipples were barely visible beneath the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Elvis smiled at him, obviously happy to be stretched over Pam’s ample bosom.
Alan’s body hardened and he fought back a groan. He lifted his free hand and let it hover over an area where her shirt had risen high on her thigh. Was she wearing panties? Did he dare peek? After all, she’d seen him all but buck naked.
No, he decided. He wasn’t a voyeur—he wanted anything that transpired between them to be consensual. “Pam,” he whispered, his voice scratchy.
She moaned and moved down on the pillows and slightly toward him, but didn’t rouse.
“Pam,” he repeated a little louder.
He held his breath as her eyelashes fluttered for a second and her mouth opened as if she was going to speak. His desire for her swelled even more and his heart thumped in anticipation.
“Alan?” she murmured, her eyes still closed.
“Y-yes?” he whispered hopefully.
She wet her lips, and he thought he might go mad with wanting her. He moved toward her open mouth, intending to kiss her awake, but the sound emerging from her throat stopped him cold.
She was snoring...loud enough to shake the mirror on the ceiling above them.
5
PAM’S LEG itched. Trying to ignore it, she floated deeper into the pillow, enjoying the last fuzzy minutes of sleep. But the itch persisted until at last she reached down and scratched her knee vigorously. The thought that she needed to shave skittered across her mind, but was obliterated when she realized she hadn’t even felt her fingernails against her skin.
Her eyes flew open, and she froze at the image in the mirror ceiling. Alan, stripped down to his boxers, lay wrapped around her like a koala bear in a eucalyptus tree, his arm resting comfortably across her chest, his bent leg heavy upon her abdomen. She could feel his warm breath upon the side of her neck. Her mind spun and panic welled within her. The last thing she remembered was watching television—had she...did they...oh, God, what was that stabbing into her side?
She pushed at his arm, dragging him with her as she attempted to roll away from his body. The fluid mattress surged, grabbed her, then slammed their bodies back together, abruptly rousing Alan from his slumber.
“Huh?” he muttered, lifting his head.
His glasses sat askew on the top of his head and his hair had finished drying in every direction but down. “Get off of me,” Pam said, enunciating clearly.
Squinting, he appeared not to have heard her. “Alan,” she repeated more loudly. “I’m not Jo—get off of me.”
She knew the precise second her words registered because he stiffened and his nearsighted eyes rounded. “Pam?”
Throwing him a smile as dry as her mouth, she said, “Afraid so.”
He wasted no time disentangling himself from her, but floundered a few seconds before propelling himself off the bed. Pam followed him with her eyes, averting her glance from the bulge straining at the front of his underwear. To avoid aggravating her mushrooming headache, she lay still until the waves stopped.
Patting furniture surfaces, presumably searching for his glasses, Alan walked into the half-unfolded sofa bed. Flesh collided with metal in a sickening thunk. “Son of a—” He broke off and bit his lower lip, wincing.
“They’re on the top of your head, Einstein.”
Alan fumbled for his glasses, jammed them on and looked back to the bed as if he still hadn’t seized the situation.
She lifted her band and fluttered her fingers at him. “I trust you slept well,” she said in a sarcastic tone.
Patting down his hair, he scowled and bent over to scoop up his sweatpants. “How could I, with you snoring loud enough to rattle my teeth?”
Annoyance bolted through her, and she shot up, grimacing at the pain exploding in her temples. “Do you always curl into a fetal position when you’re in agony? Our deal was you would sleep on the sofa bed!”
He reached down to massage his shin. “I tried to pry open the damn thing, but it wouldn’t budge.”
She rubbed her forehead, glancing around the sunlit room. “What time is it?”
He held the sweatpants in front of his waist with one hand and picked up his watch with the other. “Almost ten o’clock.”
She sighed, pushing tangled hair out of her eyes. “At least the stores should open soon.”
“Forget the stores, give me a restaurant.”
“Fine. We’ll have a bite to eat, then I can go shopping.” Thankfully, the awkwardness was dissolving. “Wonder what the weather will be like this week?”
Alan picked up the remote and found the weather channel, then tossed the control on the bed. Without another word, he turned and limped into the bathroom.
Pam frowned after him. He didn’t have to be so snotty—after all, he had invited her. He wasn’t being a very gracious host.
Oh, well, at least Mother Nature was smiling on them. According to the chipper weatherwoman, they had arrived smack in the middle of a February heat wave: temperatures in the low nineties, and sun, sun, sun.
Pam gingerly pulled herself out of bed and walked to the far end of the room, away from the bathroom. In the light of day, the kaleidoscope room really was horrid. Groaning, she reached overhead in a full-body stretch, wriggling her toes in the chocolate shag carpet, then drew aside the yellow brocade curtain covering a sliding glass door. The balcony Twiggy promised was a tiny wooden structure about the size of a refrigerator enclosed by worn railings. Despite the slight pain caused by the morning sunlight, she unlatched the door and stepped out into the cool air, feeling her spirits rise along with the gooseflesh on her arms.
A set of questionable-looking narrow stairs descended to a pebbly path that disappeared into palm trees and sea grass. She took a step forward, then stopped, rubbed one bare foot over the other, and decided not to chance it. If she fell and broke a leg, Alan might shoot her to put her out of his misery.
Without the wide sign from the neighboring Grand Sands Hotel, they might have had a very good view. Despite the obstruction, a slice of the white beach was visible, dotted with morning walkers and shell-seekers. The air, full of sand and salt dust, blew sharp against her bare arms and legs. Inhaling deeply, she drew in the tangy ocean breeze and was suddenly very glad she had come. Maybe the circumstances weren’t ideal, but she loved the ocean and Savannah’s beaches were a bit too cold to enjoy this time of year.
Humming to herself, she turned and reentered the room, closing the sliding door behind her. Then her gaze landed on the bathroom door and her smile evaporated. Obviously, Alan already regretted the invitation to share his honeymoon. She was a poor replacement for the woman he loved. But she was here, and she’d promised Jo she’d keep an eye on him. She blushed guiltily—the amount of time she’d spent eyeing him since their arrival probably wasn’t what her friend had had in mind. Lifting her chin, she gathered her wil
lpower. She could keep her lust at bay for a lousy week, but darn it, she wasn’t going to let him mope and ruin the only vacation she’d had in over a year!
She took in her appearance in one of the many mirrors at her disposal and groaned out loud. As if he’d be interested, anyway. Her friend Jo rolled out of bed looking great. She, on the other hand, looked as if she’d been dragged backward through a hedgerow.
Dropping onto the unmade bed, she grabbed the phone. She needed to check her messages and see if old Mrs. Win-gate had made up her mind about buying the Sheridan house, haunts and all. She retrieved her answering service with a few punched buttons. The message from Nick the All-Nighter was wicked enough to fry the phone lines. And Jo had called, concern in her voice—had Pam seen Alan and was he all right?
She shot a look toward the bathroom door just as it opened. Speak of the devil. Swallowing, she scanned the tempting length of Alan in black running shorts and a tight touristy sweatshirt. He offered her a small smile, apparently in a much better mood. She lifted her finger, then turned away from him and tried to concentrate on Jo’s rambling, heartfelt message. With a sigh, Jo thanked Pam for going after Alan and asked Pam to call her at John’s house—Jo laughed—make that her house. Pam smirked into the phone, happy for her friend, but disturbed by the sticky mess she’d left behind.
She felt contrite as she replaced the handset. It wasn’t Jo’s fault that she was having these inappropriate feelings for Alan. “Jo left me a message.”
Alan’s handsome face remained impassive—perhaps a little too nonchalant. “What did she say?”
Pam hesitated, then said, “She was wondering if I’d seen you and how you’re doing.”
He exhaled loudly and cracked his knuckles in one quick movement. “What business is it of hers?”
“She’s just worried about you—”
“Well, I’m not suicidal,” he snapped.
Pam stood, jamming her hands on her hips. “You don’t have to shoot the messenger.”
“Sorry—I’m not feeling very well.”
“Join the crowd,” Pam yelled back, then touched a hand to her resurrected headache.
His expression softened a bit. “You don’t look too bad—I mean, uh, you look...fine.”
She smiled wryly, then turned toward the bathroom. “Nice try. I’ll be out in two shakes.”
Alan watched her retreat into the bathroom, the curves of her hips tugging at the hem of her T-shirt. A little more than two shakes, he amended silently, making fists of frustration at his side.
“This is insane,” he said to the frantic-looking man in the mirror.
“Why are you worried about it?” his image asked. “Just bed the woman, for heaven’s sake.”
“I can’t—she’s my ex-fiancée’s best friend.”
“Even better.”
Alan squeezed his eyes shut and cursed, then slowly opened them to address his argumentative reflection. “This is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into.” Oh, well, maybe his secretary would come through with less evocative accommodations.
True to her word, Pam showered quickly, emerging like a ray of sunshine, her skin glowing, her golden hair caught up in a high; swishy ponytail. He groaned inwardly. She was even gorgeous in running shorts and a baggy white jersey sporting a multicolored parrot. “Ready?” she asked.
“And willing,” he mumbled, picking up his wallet.
At the last minute, they both shoved their feet into hard, ill-fitting plastic thongs, then stumbled downstairs to find the reservation desk deserted. A fiftyish woman sprawled in one of the lobby chairs, smoking a long cigarette and watching a church program on television. She was happy to nod in the direction of the restaurant, and as soon as they smelled food their clumsy steps quickened.
Alan’s stomach rumbled when he saw how packed the restaurant was. Grasping Pam’s elbow, he pointed to the buffet line. “If you’ll get us something to eat, I’ll try to find a table.” She nodded and he cased the area, his eyes lighting on a family of four wiping their chins over emptied plates. He scrambled toward the table, arriving at the same time as a busboy and an older couple holding laden plates.
The silver-haired man smiled. “Share?”
“Sure,” Alan agreed.
“We’re the Kessingers,” the man supplied. “I’m Cheek and this is Lila.”
Alan introduced himself as he pulled out the older woman’s chair. “Another person will be joining me.”
“We’re from Michigan,” Lila offered.
“Savannah,” Alan told her, as he took a seat opposite her. The Kessingers seemed nice enough, divulging they were devoted snowbirds who migrated south every January until spring.
“There you are,” Pam said, precariously balancing two plates piled high with food. Alan relieved her of half her burden, then introduced the senior couple.
“Hi,” Pam said cordially as she swung into her seat.
Alan frowned down at the plate in front of him. Every single item was fried. “I see you got plenty of the brown food group.”
“Eat,” Pam said pointedly, stabbing a sausage patty with her fork.
With visions of whole-wheat bagels and fresh fruit dancing in his head, Alan ate, stopping frequently to sop the grease from his food with paper napkins. Lila Kessinger proved to be quite chatty, which gave Cheek plenty of time to ogle Pam, he noticed, surprised at the needle of jealousy that poked him.
“Are you newlyweds?” Lila asked.
Pam glanced at him. “No, we’re just...uh...”
Alan’s stomach fluttered. “Buddies,” he offered.
“Pals,” Pam affirmed.
“Oh,” the woman responded. “I assumed you were married since you’re in the honeymoon suite.”
Alan stopped. “How did you know we’re in the honeymoon suite?”
Lila grinned. “We’re right across the plaza from you, in room 400. Remember—we waved.”
He frowned, trying to recall, then grunted as Pam kicked him under the table. One look at her raised eyebrows and his memory flooded back. The naked couple! He dropped his fork with a clatter and a burning flush crept up his neck. “Oh, I didn’t recognize you—”
“Because we’re both nearsighted.” Pam cut in. “We couldn’t see much.” She looked at him for reinforcement. “Isn’t that right, Alan?”
“Y-yes,” he said, a picture of the wrinkled nude couple emblazoned on his mind. “In fact, we didn’t see anything at all. You waved, did you say?” He brought a glass of room-temperature water to his mouth for a drink.
Lila beamed and nodded. Cheek leaned forward, his eyes devouring Pam.
Lifting his wrist, Alan pretended to be shocked. “Look at the time. We have to go,” he said, eyeing Pam.
“But I’m not finished,” she protested.
“We’ll get a stick of butter for the road,” he said through clenched teeth, casting his eyes toward the door.
“Okay,” she relented sullenly, wiping her mouth and standing. “It was nice to meet—”
Alan pulled on her arm, and nearly dragged her back through the restaurant.
“Let go of me,” she said angrily, then jerked away from him. “What the devil is wrong with you?”
He stared at her and exclaimed, his frustration high, “That’s the thanks I get?”
“Thanks? For what?”
“That dirty old man looked like he was getting ready to have you for breakfast!”
Pam tilted her head and laughed. “You’re jealous!”
“What?” Alan scoffed, embarrassment thickening his tongue. “That’z we—ridiculous!”
“Weally?” Pam teased.
Grunting, Alan sputtered, “I thought you wanted to go shopping.”
She grinned, looking triumphant. “I do.”
“Then let’s go see what the car rental agency delivered.” He pivoted as quickly as the stupid sandals would allow, then flapped back toward the lobby, fuming. Damn, he hated her teasing, filing him in the same category as h
er bevy of besotted suitors.
Twiggy had returned to her post, and looked as bored as usual when he asked about the car. Without a word, she held up a key and pointed to the parking lot.
“Finally,” he breathed, taking the key. “Something is going right.”
He walked stiffly across the lobby and out into the parking lot, unable to took at Pam, still smarting from her taunt. He knew she was behind him, but he didn’t know how close until he spotted their car, stopped dead in his tracks and felt her body slam into his.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, stepping up beside him. Then she gasped. “A limo?” She whooped, then laughed until her knees buckled.
Alan, however, did not share her mirth. “This is unbelievable.” He removed the letter tucked under the windshield wiper and read aloud. “Dear Mr. Parish, please accept this upgrade vehicle as our apology for your unfortunate breakdown—” He broke off and glanced at the powder blue stretch limousine. “They sent me a damn pimpmobile!”
Pam laughed even louder, clapping her hands. “What a blast!”
He stood paralyzed in shock as she swung open the back door. “Ooooh,” she breathed, her eyes shining. “A television and everything!”
I’m in the twilight zone. “We’re taking it back.”
Her head jerked around. “What? We can’t!”
“Oh, but we can.”
Pam’s eyebrows crumpled, and she pulled out her secret weapon: the pout. Damn! Surely she knew what that mouth did to him. He wavered. “Maybe we’ll keep it just for the day.”
She brightened and tumbled inside, then stuck her head back out. “I’ll ride in the back.” He felt the vacuum of air as she slammed the door.
Feeling like a colossal fool, he glanced around, opened the front door and slid behind the wheel. Pam had already found the button that operated the divider between them and was zooming the panel up and down.
“This is amazing,” she squealed.
He glanced in the rearview mirror at her smiling face, watched her pressing buttons and exploring, and felt a strange tug at his heart. As exasperating as she could be, Pam’s unflagging enthusiasm was undeniably charming. Somewhere between childhood and yuppiehood, he’d lost his zest for simple things...now he wondered how many wonderfully pure pleasures he’d overlooked the last several years.
Wife Is A 4-Letter Word Page 6
