She laughed. “I never know what kind of terrain I'll be showing a house inâI try to be prepared.”
Alan reached in and withdrew a thigh-high red-patent leather boot. He lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Where's the matching leash?”
She smirked and yanked the boot away from him. Pam hastily rummaged through the pile and came up with one light-colored high-heel pump and slid her foot into it, then stood on one leg while she searched for its long-lost mate. “Aha!” she said, finally retrieving it, then tossed in the pair with the broken heel and slammed the trunk with vigor. It bounced back up and she slammed it twice more before it held. “The catch is tricky,” she informed him, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Let's go.”
They garnered more than a little attention as they made their way through the airport and settled into a booth at a tacky lounge. To send him off right, Pam ordered a pitcher of margaritas on the rocks, then poured one for each of them. She licked the back of her hand and sprinkled salt on it. He did the same and lifted his glass to hers.
“You make the toast,” she said, her eyes bright.
Her beauty struck him at that moment, and his tongue stumbled slightly. “Uh, to being single,” he said, clinking her glass heartily.
“I'll drink to that,” she seconded, then downed half her drink, licked the salt from her hand and sucked on a lime wedge.
He followed her lead, squinting when the sour juice drenched his tongue. “I really didn't want to get married anyway,” he mumbled.
“So why did you propose?” she asked.
Alan shrugged. “It sounds silly now, but at the time it seemed like the thing to do.”
Her look was dubious, but she didn't question him further. Instead, she laughed. “You're a mess.”
Alan glanced down at his wet, disheveled tuxedo and chuckled, then scanned her rumpled appearance and grinned. “So are you.”
They both laughed and he loosened his bow tie, letting the ends hang down the front of his stained, pleated shirt. “What a hell of a day,” he said, shaking his head and cradling the frosty glass of pale green liquid.
“Yeah,” she agreed. She swallowed the rest of her drink, licked her hand and sucked a fresh lime wedge. “Did you have any idea she was hung up on John Sterling?”
He frowned. “I knew he was hung up on
her
, but I never suspected she'd even consider a man with so many kids.” He finished his drink, licked, then sucked. “Did you know?”
She shook her head and refilled their glasses. “I knew something was bothering her, but I assumed it was just prewedding jitters.” She lifted the glass and downed a good portion of the margarita. He watched with interest as her tongue removed more salt from her hand. She sunk small white teeth into the lime and her cheekbones appeared as she drew in the juice.
“I feel like a fool,” he announced, swallowing more of the tangy drink and performing the same ritual. “I know everyone is laughing at me.”
She shook her head again, dislodging another strand from her stiff hairdo. “They probably feel sorry for you.”
“Oh, thanks, that makes me feel
tons
better.”
“Everyone will forget about it by the time you return,” she said in a soothing tone as she topped off their glasses again.
The alcohol was beginning to take effect on his empty, nervous stomach. His tongue and the tips of his fingers were growing increasingly numb. He pushed his water-spotted glasses back up on his nose. “I hope so, but I doubt it. Maybe I should move.”
She scowled, an expression which did not diminish the prettiness of flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. “That's ridiculousâyou've lived in Savannah all your life. Your parents would be hurt. And your consulting businessâ” she lifted her glass again and squinted at him “âyou can't leave before you get old Mr. Gordon's computer account. I went to a lot of trouble linking up the two of you at the children's benefit.”
“I know,” he said mournfully, swirling the liquid in his glass before taking another deep drink. “You're right, of course. But let me wallow a littleâmy ego is pretty tender at the moment.”
“You'll bounce back,” she said with confidence. “There'll be debutantes lined up at your door by the time you return from your trip.”
Her words were slightly slurredâor was his hearing becoming somewhat warped? “Nope.” He sat up straight and jerked his thumb to his chest awkwardly. “I'm never getting married. As of today, wife is a four-letter word.”
“Alan,” Pamela said, leaning forward, “
wife
has always been a four-letter word.”
He frowned. “You know what I mean.”
Feeling a little tipsy herself, Pamela looked across the sticky table at her drinking companion and a feeling akin to envy crept over her. She wondered what it would feel like to have a man so in love with you that he'd swear off marriage completely if he couldn't have you. Pam bit her bottom lip. She'd known Jo Montgomery for years, and her best friend had always demonstrated remarkable good senseâuntil today.
What could have possessed her to abandon her faithful boyfriend of three years at the altar to marry a widower with three kids? Granted, Jo had confided that her and Alan's sexual relationship left a little to be desiredâand personally, Pam found Alan quite bookish and dull, but even a boring man didn't deserve to be jilted. But she knew Jo felt bad because she'd asked Pam to go after him. Even though she didn't say it, Pam knew Jo feared Alan might do something impulsive and self-destructive.
She watched as Alan tilted his head back and emptied his glass. In high school, Pam had triumphantly dubbed him “the Ken doll”, a nickname she still used in conversations with Jo, much to Jo's consternation. His fair hair was cut in a trendy, precision style, and his round wire glasses were like everything else in his wardrobe: designer quality.
The man was painfully clean-cut, his skin typically scrubbed within an inch of its life, his preppie clothes stiff enough to stand in a corner. She perused his slim, chiseled nose and squared-off chin, complete with an aristocratic cleft. He was handsome in an Osmond kind of way, she supposed, but everything about him screamed predictable.
Alan Parish came from thick money, as her mother would say. She doubted if he'd ever experienced belly-hurting hunger, missed school because his shoes had finally fallen completely apart, or scraped together money to post bail for three family members in one week. The worlds they came from were so far apart, they were in separate dimensions.
Then she bit back a smile. Right now, with his hair mussed, his glasses askew and a narrow streak of mud on his jaw, he looked more like one of her stray loversâdisorderly and disobedient. Only she knew better. Alan was an uptight computer geekâshe'd bet the man had a flowchart on the headboard of his bed.
“What's so funny?” he asked, his expression hurt.
“Nothing,” she said as fast as her thick tongue would allow while waving for the waiter to bring them more drinks. Then they spent the next half hour extolling the virtues of being footloose and commitment-free while they drained the second pitcher.
At last, Alan tossed a spent lime wedge onto the accumulated pile and looked at his watch, moving it up and back as if he was trying to focus. “Time to go,” he said, standing a little unsteadily.
Pam stuck out her hand. “I think I'll stick around and sober up for the drive home.”
“With your driving, who could tell?”
She scowled. “Have a great time, Alan.”
“Yeah,” he said dryly. “I'm off on my honeymoon all by myself.” He bowed dramatically.
“Maybe you'll meet someone,” she said.
Alan straightened, then frowned and pursed his lips.
“What?” she asked, intrigued by the expression on his face.
“Go with me,” he said.
Pam nearly choked on her last swallow of margarita.
“What?”
“Go with me,” he repeated, giving her a lopsided smile.
“You're drunk,” she accused.
He hiccuped. “Am not.”
“Alan, I'm
not
going on your honeymoon with you.”
“Why not?” he pressed. “My secretary booked a suite at a first-rate hotel, and it's all paid forâroom, meals, everything.” He pulled the plane tickets from inside his jacket and shook them for emphasis. “Come on, I could use the company and you could probably use a vacation.”
A week away from Savannah was tempting, she mused.
His smile was cajoling. “Long days on the beach, drinking margaritas, steak and lobster in the evening.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Skimpily dressed men.”
At last he had her attention. “Yeah?”
He nodded drunkenly. “Yeah, you might get lucky.”
But she couldn't fathom spending a week with Alan, and she'd
never
share a bed with the man, no matter how roomy. She shook her head. “I can't.”
“I'll sleep on the pullout bed,” he assured her.
She set down her drink. “But what will people think? What will
Jo
think?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Pam squirmed on the uncomfortable bench seat. “Well, you knowâus being together for a week.”
His shocked expression didn't do much for her ego. “You mean that someone might think that we're...that we're...
involved?”
His howl of laughter made her feel like a fool.
Of course no one would jump to that conclusionâa high-bred southern gentleman and a trashy white girl from the projectsâit was ludicrous.
“And as far as Jo is concerned,” Alan continued, “if she ever thought there was a remote possibility we'd be attracted to each other, she'd never have trusted me to escort you to your business functions.”
Pam's fuzzy brain told her an insult was imbedded in his rambling. “I suppose you're right, but a few people might jump to conclusions.”
Alan shrugged. “It's not like the whole town of Savannah is going to know, Pam.”
She glanced down at the horrid peach-colored dress. “But I don't have any clothes.”
“We'll go shopping when we get there,” he said simply. “Come on, will you go or won't you?”
She had accrued vacation time. And only one deal in progress that she could probably handle over the phone. And Jo
had
asked her to keep an eye on Alan. She pressed a finger to her aching temple. It hurt to think too deeply.
Pamela emptied her glass and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then looked up at him and smiled. “Well, I could use some new sandals...why the heck not?”
2
A
LAN SALUTED the head flight attendant, then dropped into his seat, wincing when the jolt threatened to scramble his furry brain. He felt as if he was forgetting something, but the answer hovered on the fringe of his memory, eluding him. His neck suddenly felt rubbery. Laying his head back, he closed his eyes and slowly reached up to pat the wallet in his breast pocket. That wasn't it. Hmm, what then?
“Ex-schuse me,” came a loud female voice. He opened his eyes a millimeter and Pamela Kaminski slowly came into focus, just as her purse whacked some poor businessman upside the head. “Sorry, sweetie.” She leaned over to place an apologetic kiss on the man's receding hairline.
Alan smiled and tried to snap his fingers, but missed. Pamela! He'd forgotten Pamela.
“There you are!” Pamela said, her eyes glassy. “When I came out of the ladies' room, you'd disappeared. Thank God, my middle name is Jo. Then all I had to do was convince a woman at the gate that the last name on my license and the name on the ticket were different because I'd just gotten married.” She giggled. “Whew!” She swung into the seat next to Alan, then leaned against him and squealed. “I've never flown first-class before.”
“Unlimited drinks,” he informed her; rolling his head.
Her grin was lopsided. “No fooling? I'm up for another pitcher.”
“You'll have to settle for one drink at a timeâand they don't serve margaritas.”
She pouted, sighing at the inconvenience, then noisily fumbled with her seat belt until Alan lifted his head and offered to help. “It's twisted,” he announced, reaching across her lap to straighten the strap. The chiffon ruffles at her plunging neckline tickled his jaw. He valiantly tried to concentrate on the silver buclde, but his eyes kept straying to her cleavage. The tiny embroidered rose front and center on her black bra made an appearance every time she inhaled. After three clumsy attempts, he finally clicked the belt together, then settled back into his seat heavily.
The flight attendant eyed them warily when they ordered bourbon and water, but served them promptly enough. They finished the weak drinks before takeoff, and Alan found himself beginning to doze as they taxied down the runway. An iron grip on his arm startled him fully awake.
Pamela's left hand encircled his right wrist so tightly her knuckles were white. Her long peach-colored nails were biting into his flesh. And her face was turning as green as the many limes they'd sucked dry.
“What's wrong?”
“Remember when I said I'd never flown first-class?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I've never flown before, period.”
“No kidding? Why not?”
“I just rememberedâit's a phobia of mine.” She put her fingers to her mouth. “Oh, dear.”
He leaned forward and twisted in his seat. “What?”
“I'm going to throw up.”
Alan panicked. “Oh, don't do that.”
Still holding her mouth, she nodded in warning, her eyes wide. Alan fumbled for the airsick bag, and jerked it under her mouth just as the plane banked. She unloaded, missing the bag more than hitting it, although Alan accepted some of the blame for holding the paper bag somewhat less than stone still. He heard a groan go up from surrounding passengers.
When her retching gave way to dry heaves, Pamela slumped back into her seat, frightfully pale. A flight attendant was at their side as soon as the plane leveled off, extending a warm, wet towel to Pamela. “I'm going to need more than one,” Pam muttered, eyeing the mess she'd made.
Organza was more absorbent than it looked, Alan decided, fighting the urge to vomit, himself, as he handed the bag to the attendant. Insisting she was too weak to make a trip to the lavatory, Pam cleaned up as well as she could sitting in her seat. The attendant, obviously at a loss, murmured the two-hour trip would pass by quickly.
“Oh, God,” Pam breathed, laying her head back. “It's an omenâI should have never gotten on this plane.”
“Relax,” Alan said, reaching forward to pat her arm, then decided it would be more sanitary to pat her head. Her hair was stiff and had pulled free from the clasp that hung benignly above one ear. “It'll be a smooth flightâI travel all the time and I've never had any problems.”
Suddenly the plane dipped, then corrected, then dipped and banked again. The Fasten Seat Belt sign dinged on, and the pilot's voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have encountered some turbulence.” The attendant was thrown out of her fold-down wall seat, but she recovered and continued smiling as she fastened her own belt. “Please bear with us while the captain climbs to a higher altitude.”
It was the worst flight Alan had ever experienced. The plane continued to pitch and roll, eliciting gasps and moans from the passengers. A cabinet door in the small galley gave way, sending trays of food into the aisles.
Alan felt terrible, willing his stomach to stay calm, and pressing his throbbing head back into the seat to keep it as immobile as possible. He felt terrible, too, for inviting Pam to come along. She'd probably be traumatized for life. He heard others seated around them getting sick, and he glanced anxiously at Pam to see if she would lose it again.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her lips were moving. “Hail Mary, full of...full of gr-grace...” She opened one eye and whispered to Alan, “I've never said my prayers while I was loadedâdo you think it cancels out?”
Alan pursed his lips and considered the question, then shook his head and she continued to stumble through the prayer, finishing with “Pray for us s-sinners now and...and at the hour of our death. Amen.” Then she crossed herself.
“Hey,” he whispered soothingly. “We're going to be fine. It'll level out here in a few minutes.”
On cue, the plane made a sickening dip. Pam swallowed and jerked her head toward him. “Are you crazy, Alan? We're all going to die and I'm going to be buried in this horrid dressâ
if
they find our bodies.”
He sighed. “Of course they'll find our bodâ” He stopped and shook his head to clear it. “Wait a minuteâwe're not going to die, okay? I refuse to die in a plane crash on my wedding day.”
Her eyes widened and she gestured wildly with her hands. “Oh, Mr. Moneybags, I suppose you're going to buy your way out of this?”
Alan frowned. He'd spent his entire life trying to make his own way, only to be frequently reminded he was a Parish, and therefore was forced to share the credit for his accomplishments with his family name. He crossed his arms, closed his eyes and refused to be provoked. “I'm not going to argue with you because I'm drunk and tomorrow this conversation won't matter.”
“Does anything affect you, Alan?” Pam asked, her voice escalating. “You got jilted today and you still came on this honeymoon like nothing happened. Now we're getting ready to crash and you sit there like a dump on a log.”
“That's lump,” he corrected, his eyes still closed. “A lump on a log. Or is it bump?”
“I meant what I said,” she retorted. “I'm drunk, but I'm not incoherent...I'm...I'm...oh, God, I'm going to be sick again.”
His eyes snapped open. He reached for the airsick bag on his side and thrust it under her chin. “Arrgghhh!” he cried when she missed the bag again. He looked away and tried to reach the attendant bell with his elbow. Once the remaining contents of her stomach appeared to have been transferred to the bag, the floor and all surfaces in between, she fell back into her seat, completely exhausted. At last the pilot located a more comfortable altitude, and the turbulence ceased. The passengers cheered, and within seconds, Pam fell into a deep sleep.
Alan surveyed his traveling companion and winced. If his head didn't hurt so much, he'd probably be laughing. Pam Kaminski, the perpetual playmate, looked like a rag doll in her stained, smelly, ugly gown. Her hair was lank and damp, her mouth slack in slumber. He flagged the busy attendant and quietly asked for more towels, then carefully leaned toward Pam, trying not to wake her.
With fierce concentration, he delicately wiped her face, admiring the fine texture and translucence of her creamy complexion, and the long fringe of lashes on her sleep-flushed cheeks. She never once stirred, not even when he dabbed at the corners of her upside-down mouth. But for the first time ever in the presence of Pamela Kaminski, Alan felt
himself
stir.
He shifted in his seat, trying to stern the rush of inappropriate feelings for his ex-fiancée's best friend. But sitting there in her mussed gown with her mussed hair, she looked like the grubby little tigress she'd been in high school, all piss and vinegar, and she made his blood simmer.
Passing a hand over his face, Alan blamed the lapse on his own lingering drunkenness. He hadn't made a big enough fool out of himself already todayâwhy not make a pass at Pam and watch her laugh until she vomited again.
Â
PAM WAS A BIRD flying over a landfill, dipping and diving, the stink of rotting trash permeating the air. She started awake and blinked, disoriented at first, then realized with a jolt that she was on a plane hurtling toward a shared honeymoon with Alan Parish, and that the stink was
her
.
“Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust, and pulled herself straighter in the seat, flinching at the explosion of pain in her temples. She turned her head oh-so-slowly to see Alan zonked out, snoring softly and leaning against the wall. His expensive black tux was probably beyond cleaning, but his mottled jacket still lay folded neatly across his lap. Embarrassment flooded her when she remembered how he'd held the airsick bags as she filled them. She smiled wryly. Alan had surprised her.
A ball of white fuzz dangled in his hair, and she reached forward impulsively to remove it. Awareness leaped through her when she touched the silky blond strands, which was almost as alarming as the feeling of warmth that flooded her as she watched his chest rise and fall. Awake, he was Alan the Automaton. But relaxed in sleep, he looked downright sexy. A memory surfaced...she'd had an absurd crush on him for the short time she had attended the private school his family practically owned.
Before she had time to explore the amazing revelations, the attendant who had earlier emptied the linen closet on Pam's behalf, touched her arm and murmured, “Are you feeling better, ma'am?”
Pam nodded gingerly.
The woman smiled gently. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Parishâthis flight wasn't a very promising start to a honeymoon.”
Confusion clouded her brain. “But I'm notâ” She glanced up at the woman and smiled tightly. The situation was too convoluted to explain. “It'll be fine once we get to Fort Myers.”
“Congratulationsâwas it a long engagement?” the woman pressed.
“N-no,” Pam stammered, suddenly nervous. “This was all quite sudden. Could you direct me to the bathroom, please?”
The blue-suited attendant pointed and smiled, then walked back down the aisle.
Pam slowly pulled herself to a standing position, but the movement stirred up a fetid smell from her dress. Swallowing her urge to gag, she gathered her skirt in her hands, hiked her dress up to her knees and sidled her way to the lavatory.
Not sure what she expected, she was nonetheless disappointed by the cramped booth. “People actually have sex in here?” she mumbled. A glance in the mirror evoked a shocked groan. Her makeup had disappeared, except for mascara that rimmed her eyes. Her hair was a sky-high rat's nest of tangles. Miserable, she looked down at her dress and shudderedânothing much she could do there.
After washing her face with cool water, she opened her makeup bag to repair as much damage as possible. At the last minute, she held up a perfume bottle and gave her dress a couple of squirts. Too late, she realized she'd only intensified the stench. Cursing under her breath, she exited the cubicle and made her way self-consciously back to her seat, aware of passengers recoiling in her wake.
Alan was still dozing when she lowered herself into the seat. The pounding in her head had lessened, making room for reality to ooze into the crevices of her brain. In her occupation, vacations were hard to come by because time off meant missed commissions on home deals that were possibly months in the making. She'd passed up a week in Jamaica with Nick the All-Nighter, and a long weekend in San Francisco with Delectable Dale.
Only to squander seven days in close, romantic quarters with Annoying Alan.
The captain's voice came over the intercom and announced they were beginning their final descent to Fort Myers. Beside her, Alan roused and started to smile, then his nostrils flared. “Oh my,” he said, his eyes watering.
Pamela frowned sourly. “You're no fresh breeze yourself.”
“A shower would feel pretty good right now,” Alan agreed, then touched his forehead. “Not to mention a couple of aspirin. We really tied one on.”