Wife Is A 4-Letter Word (13 page)

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Authors: Stephanie Bond

BOOK: Wife Is A 4-Letter Word
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“Great! Her name's Pru.”
“Thanks anyway, but I'm really not—”
“Saaaaaaaaay.” Something past Alan's shoulder had obviously claimed the man's attention. “I could go for some of that,” the bartender whispered in a husky voice.
Alan turned on his stool to see Pamela walking toward the bar wearing an outfit of walking shorts and sleeveless sweater that would have been unremarkable on ninety-nine percent of the female population. She seemed intent on finding something in her purse and hadn't spotted him yet. If Alan had been quick—and motivated—he could have thrown some cash on the bar and left. But his reflexes were a little delayed, he conceded, and the sheer pleasure of seeing her after spending the day apart disintegrated his thoughts of leaving.
When she looked up, she did a double take and stopped midstride, then approached him with a wary expression on her face. “Small world,” he offered along with a smile. He patted the stool next to him. “Have a seat—I'll buy you a beer.”
She leaned one firm hip against the stool and gestured vaguely. “Thanks anyway—I actually came in to find a pay phone. My cell-phone battery died in the middle of a conversation with Mrs. Wingate.”
“Is she ready to buy the Sheridan house?”
“Not yet—she's got a priest over there now consecrating the flower beds.”
“Don't let me keep you.”
“That's all right,” she said with a wave. “She probably took getting cut off as some kind of omen and might not come to the phone anyway.” Pam glanced at the bartender. “Nice artwork,” she said, nodding toward his colorful arms.
Wearing a wolfish grin, the man flexed his biceps and leaned toward Pam. “Thanks.”
Jealousy barbed through Alan and he glared at the beefy -man. “Pam, what did you do all day?”
She told him about her day of sight-seeing. “There are some beautiful homes here and over on Sanibel Island,” she declared. “The real-estate market seems to be very strong—lots of money to be made.”
He bit the inside of his cheek as a disturbing thought struck him. “You're not thinking about moving?”
“Not here,” she said. “Even though I like it. I always thought Atlanta would be nice-I have lots of friends there.”
So she had lovers all over the state, he mused. “Atlanta's a fun city.”
She nodded and brushed a lock _ of hair behind her ear—the ear in which he'd murmured unmentionables only last night. “As long as my mother is alive, I guess I'll stay in Savannah.”
“I can't imagine the state my mother will be in by the time I return,” Alan said with a wry grin.
“She liked Jo, didn't she?”
He nodded and. peeled off the curling corner of the label on his beer bottle. “She thought Jo would make an excellent wife and hostess, an asset to my career.”
“She doesn't want grandchildren?”
“My sister has two kids, and my mother thinks that's plenty enough people in this world to call her Granny.”
Pam giggled. “Mom doesn't have grandkids—that we know of. Of course, knowing my brothers, who knows how many Kaminskis could be running around.”
Alan laughed and tipped his bottle for another drink. Every family, rich or poor, had its dysfunction. “Have you had dinner?”
“I'm not really very hungry.” she said, dropping her gaze again. “Thanks anyway. I'm tired—I think I'll get back to the hotel and turn in early.”
Their eyes met and the reason behind her fatigue hung in the air between them. Alan gripped the bottle hard to keep from reaching for her. “Ah, come on,” he said. “Why don't you stay for a beer—what's one beer between friends?”
The corners of her uneven mouth turned up slowly, then she relented with a nod. “Okay, one beer.”
 
ALAN STARTED AWAKE, then winced at the sour taste in his mouth. But the movement of his facial muscles sent an explosion of pain to his temples and he groaned aloud, which sounded like a gong in his ears. He closed his eyes and waited until most of the pain and noise subsided before attempting to put two thoughts together.
He was in the hotel room, and he could hear Pam's snore beside him, so it appeared they had slept in the same bed. Straining, he remembered they had consumed large quantities of beer and had left the sports bar, but that's when his memory failed him. Had they gone directly back to the room? And then what?
He opened his eyes one at a time in the early-morning light and gingerly reached up to adjust his broken glasses, which were somehow still on his face. He moved his head to see the reflection in the ceiling. Another gonging groan escaped him when he saw they were indeed naked and intimately entwined.
Not again
.
Pam lay on her stomach and the sheet had fallen down to expose the rub-on rose tattoo on her tanned hip. When his scrutiny triggered inappropriate responses beneath his half of the sheet, he pulled himself up a millimeter at a time and stumbled to the bathroom in search of a glass of water.
His hip ached from the unaccustomed lusty exercise, and he rubbed it as he downed the water. But at the sharp tenderness of his skin, he turned to glance in the mirror and smiled dryly. He must have been blitzed because he'd allowed Pam to rub one of her fake tattoos on
his
hip. A wet washcloth and a little soap would take care of it, he figured. Except when he scrubbed at the tattoo, the pain increased and the stubborn design refused to budge. “I must be allergic to the dye,” he muttered, and scrubbed harder. But minutes later when he lifted the cloth and saw the tattoo still had not faded, terror twisted his stomach.
“No,” he said frantically. “It can't be real!”
He backed up to the mirror for a better look, but he couldn't make out the tattoo. Letters of some kind? It was backward in the reflection, so he snatched up Pam's hand mirror and positioned it to read the reflected word. His eyes widened and his hands started to shake.
Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmmm!
.
Pamela jerked awake, unable to pinpoint the origin of the invasion into her peaceful sleep. She swallowed painfully and lifted her head. The sound of breaking glass from the bathroom made her sit up. “Alan,” she called, holding her. head. “Are you okay?”
The door swung open and he emerged naked. his face puckered and red. “No, I am not okay. In fact, I'm about as far from okay as I've ever been!”
Pam rubbed her tender hip and grimaced. “Don't make me play twenty questions, Alan. It hurts to talk.”
“You!” he bellowed, shaking his finger at her. “You talked me into it!”
She sighed. “Did we do it again?”
“Yes!” he roared. “But that's not what I'm talking about.”
Her frustration peaked. “Then what
are
you talking about?”
“This!” he yelled, then turned around and pointed to his bare hip.
She leaned forward and squinted. “A tattoo? You got a tattoo?” Laughter erupted from the back of her throat. “You got a tattoo!” Then she stood, twisted to look at her own hip and squealed in delight. “No—we both got tattoos ! A rose! Isn't it great?” She strode over to him and glanced down. “What does yours say?” Then she stopped and stumbled backward at the sight of the name etched on Alan's skin, enclosed in a red heart. “P-Pam's?” She covered her mouth with both hands and lifted her gaze to his.
 
“THERE ARE ALL KINDS of new laser procedures to remove tattoos,” she assured him as they moved down the path toward the beach. Alan walked woodenly beside her, occasionally stabbing at his taped glasses.
“But I think we're skirting the bigger issue here,” she continued, trotting to keep up with him, even though he was limping slightly, favoring his tender hip. “What happened last night absolutely
cannot
happen again.”
“I agree,” he said curtly, staring straight ahead.
“We've only got one more day and one more night, so we should be able to stay sober and keep our hands to ourselves.”
“Right.”
“Let's try to enjoy the time we have left,” she said amiably as they stepped onto the warm white sand.
He stopped and turned to her. “How about ‘Let's just try to make it through tomorrow with as few calamities as possible'?”
Pam swallowed and smiled weakly. “That's fine, too.”
They rented chaise lounges and Pam couldn't help noticing that Alan waited until she had hers situated, then planted his several feet away. “Safety precaution,” he said flatly, then snapped open the newspaper he'd brought to read.
Frowning, Pam turned to her own reading material and tried to blot the disturbing thoughts of Alan from her mind. She had missed him yesterday, and the realization had shaken her badly. So when she'd stumbled across him in the sports bar, she had allowed herself to be persuaded to stay for a drink because she simply wanted to spend time with him. And although the rest of the night remained fuzzy, some incidents she recalled rather clearly.
Such as the fact that she
had
been the one who suggested they get tattoos, inspired, possibly, by the bartender's impressive collection. And Alan had been hesitant, but she had dragged him down the street, and sent him into one booth while she entered another one for her design of choice. Where he'd gotten “Pam's” was less clear to her, and the fact that they'd made whoopee again last night only added to the confusion.
Her heart lay heavy in her chest and she tried to convince herself that things would be better once they returned to Savannah. For one thing, she would rarely see him, if at all, since their connection to each other—Jo—no longer existed. It was for the best, she knew, because she didn't want to be running into him at every turn...didn't want to be reminded of the few days they were together when names, backgrounds and at-risk relationships were irrelevant and all that mattered was the powerful sexual chemistry between them.
“Hello.”
Pam looked up and smothered a cringe when she saw Enrico standing over her chair, his lips curved into a sultry smile. Resplendent in orange nut-huggers, the man nodded toward Alan who was still hidden behind a newspaper. “I see your man is neglecting you once again.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Perhaps I can remedy that situation.”
Annoyed, Pam began rummaging in her bag. “I doubt it.”
“Could I interest you in a walk up the beach?”
She jammed on her sunglasses. “No.”
“How about a drink?”
She lay her head back. “No.”
He leaned close to her and the stench of alcohol rolled off his breath. “You like to tease, no?”
“No,” Alan said behind him.
Pam lifted her head and looked up at Alan who stood with his paper under his arm, glaring at Enrico. How like a man to ignore a woman until someone else comes sniffing around. She smiled tightly. “I can handle this, Alan.”
His gaze darted to her, then he lifted his hands in retreat and reclaimed his chair.
But Enrico folded his arms and followed him back to his chair. “She is not worth fighting for,
señor?”
“That is enough,” Pam declared, sitting up. “I think you'd better leave, Enrico.”
Enrico stood over Alan, taking advantage of the situation. “She is too much woman for you, eh?”
Pam's patience snapped and she scrambled to her feet. “Leave, Enrico!”
He sneered and jerked a thumb toward Alan, who had risen to his feet. “Perhaps your man is weak?” Just as he lunged for Alan, Pam launched herself at the man with an angry growl, climbing his hairy back. She propelled him into Alan and they all went down in the sand. Once the breath returned to her lungs, Pam pummeled the man's back.
Sand flew as they rolled around, scrambling for leverage. Alan splayed his hand over Enrico's face and pushed him back, trying to avoid the man's swinging arms. Pam yelped, clawing the grit out of her eyes while showering Enrico with the blinding stuff. Alan rolled behind the man and grabbed him in a choke-hold. The man grabbed handfuls of sand and threw them in the air.
Somewhere in the background she heard a voice yell for the police. Incensed, she wanted to land one good jab while Alan held him. Pam made a fist, drew back and threw the hardest punch she could through the swirling sand, eliciting a dull groan when she made contact with skin and bone.
She stepped back to blink her eyes clear. But when she massaged her throbbing knuckles in satisfaction, she saw Enrico several yards down the beach, jogging away, and he appeared unfazed by Pam's right hook.
When she glanced back to the site of the scuffle, her stomach twisted. Alan sat in the sand, glaring at her, holding his hand over his right eye.

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