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Authors: Stephanie Bond

Wife Is A 4-Letter Word (4 page)

BOOK: Wife Is A 4-Letter Word
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A large red sunken tub dominated the room, appropriately set off by pale pink tile. It appeared that the sink, shower and commode had been miniaturized to make room for the tub, which could easily accommodate three adults.
“Hmm,” Alan said behind her. “Another novelty.” His voice was still laced with sarcasm.
“But not the last,” Pam said, pointing out the picture window over the tub.
Their room was the last one set in a U formation, giving them a perfect view over an open plaza of the brightly lit room on the opposite side. Though not as spectacular as theirs, the room was furnished in the same style and occupied by an elderly couple who clearly had a disdain for clothing. Pam stared, fascinated, as the couple moved around in the kitchen, completely nude—with no tan lines. “It's like watching a car crash,” she murmured. “You don't want to look, but you can't help yourself.”
The woman turned her gaze directly toward them, then nudged her husband. Pam and Alan stood frozen, like two animals caught in headlights. Then the couple smiled and waved.
Alan reached forward and yanked the curtain closed over the tub. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Those people are old enough to be my parents.”
Pam leaned over and turned on the hot-water faucet. The first few trickles of water looked a little rusty, but it ran clear within a few seconds, so she stopped up the tub and poured in a handful of scented salts from a gold plastic container.
“Not everyone loses interest in sex when they get older, Alan.” Then her best friend's comments about her drab intimate relationship with Alan rattled around in her head. “Assuming a person was ever interested in sex in the first place,” she added dryly.
She reached around the back of her dress to capture the zipper in her fingers, and began to ease it downward. Suddenly, she remembered Alan was still in the room, and stopped. Holding up her neckline, she sighed. “Alan, I don't have the energy to throw you out, but I'm warning you—these clothes are coming off in the next few seconds, so if you don't want to be embarrassed twice in one evening, you better vamoose.”
He paled, then groped for the doorknob and bolted out of the room. Pam giggled, then slid the zipper down and escaped from the hideous, rancid dress. After ripping off her shredded panty hose, she unhooked her bra and stepped into the heavenly, hot bubbles.
“Ahhhh,” she breathed, sinking in up to her neck. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes, her hands moving over her body to dislodge the day's grime. She automatically lapsed into a series of isometric exercises she always performed in the tub or shower for toning and relaxing. After a few minutes, her limbs grew languid, but her skin tingled.
Gingerly, she lifted her head and looked toward the closed door. Scooping up a handful of bubbles, she trickled them across her raised leg. Alan Parish was the most conservative, stuffy man she'd ever met under the age of sixty. Of course, he did have a lot to live up to, being the oldest son of such a prominent Savannah family. A subdivision had even been named for them—Parish Corners. He was a regular pillar of the community, unlike herself, who had nowhere to go in the world but up.
And here they were, two opposing forces, thrown together in a tacky hotel room. Paper and matches. Roses and switches. Uptown and downtown.
She smiled wryly. Inviting her to come on the trip was no doubt the most spontaneous thing Alan had ever done in his life. How ironic that he was probably the only man in Savannah who would invite her to spend a week with him, without having anything sexual in mind. Pam eased her head back. She could relax—Alan Parish's relationship with her was even less than platonic.
 
ALAN PASSED A HAND over his face and paced the length of the room. He wouldn't have believed it possible to be so tired and yet so awake at the same time. His hungover head was screaming for sleep, but the rest of his body was rigidly aware that Pamela Kaminski, a woman who had a sexual position named for her—the Kaminski Curt—was in the next room, naked...and lathered.
He swore and ripped off his bow tie, then tossed it across the room. When he caught a glimpse of himself in one of the many mirrors, he came up short, surprised at the anger he saw in his face. He prided himself on always remaining calm, regardless of the situation, but today—he sighed and shoved his fingers through his hair—today he'd been put through the wringer by two different women. His laugh was short and bitter. If he didn't know better, he'd suspect it was a conspiracy.
His empty stomach rolled, prompting him to call the front desk. Twiggy's bored drawl was instantly recognizable. “Yeah?”
Alan bit back a tart comment, and instead mustered a pleasant tone. “My—uh, our package includes meals, and I was wondering if the hotel restaurant is still open.”
“Just closed,” she said cheerfully.
He groaned. “We're starved—can we get room service?”
Twiggy sighed dramatically. “What do you want?”
“A couple of steaks and a bottle of wine.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and frowned sourly at the phone. How had his secretary found this place? Remembering he still needed to find accommodations for the rest of the week, he called Linda's voice mail and left her a message to call him. Then he contacted the car rental agency who promised to have another car delivered to their hotel first thing in the morning.
Trying mightily to forget the events of the last few hours, Alan removed the black studs from his buttons, shrugged out of his wrinkled shirt and folded it neatly over the back of a stiff kitchen chair. He slipped off his shoes and socks, then lowered himself to the dreadful carpet and performed fifty push-ups. Breathing heavily, he pulled himself to his feet, wincing at the odor of his own sweat. A shower before dinner would feel terrific. Glancing at his watch, he frowned and hesitated, then went to the bathroom door and rapped lightly. Steam curled out from under the door, warming his bare toes. Alan swallowed. “Pam?”
He heard her moving in the water, splashing lightly.
“I ordered room service and it should be here soon.”
She didn't answer. Alan shifted from foot to foot, wondering if she'd fallen asleep in the water. Suddenly, the door swung open and Pam stood before him, holding the ends of a dingy white towel above her breasts, her hair dripping wet. His breath caught in his throat, and the room seemed to close in around them.
Pamela smiled benignly. “I left my new clothes out here,” she said, pointing to a bag on the floor. She brushed by him, her clean, soapy scent rising to fill his nostrils. He watched with blatant admiration as she walked over to retrieve the articles. Her long, slender legs were glowing with bath oil and speckled with water. His heart skipped a beat when the towel sagged low enough in the back to expose her narrow waist and the top of her—
“Astringent,” she mumbled, rummaging in the bag.
“Wh-what?” he croaked.
“Remind me to buy astringent tomorrow when we go shopping,” she said, bending over, the towel inching up to reveal the backs of her thighs.
Alan felt his knees weaken, and averted his glance to the ceiling as he cleared his throat. “Okay.” The plastic bag rattled.
“And a hair dryer.”
“Sure.” He sneaked another peek. Her back was still turned, and she was still standing butt up, the towel barely covering her. Squeezing his eyes shut, he suppressed a groan.
“Are you okay?”
His eyes snapped open. Pam was staring at him, squinting.
“Uh, tired and hungry, same as you, I suppose.”
She nodded toward the bathroom. “You'll feel better once you shower.”
Gratefully, he escaped to the bathroom, where he leaned heavily against the closed door for a few seconds to compose himself. But he was still muttering to himself a few minutes later when he stepped under the cold spray of the cramped shower. Any other man would have ripped off that towel and carried Pam to the bed... so why hadn't he? Sighing, he massaged his tired neck muscles. Because Pam would have welcomed it from any other man. But he'd been around Pam enough to realize she saw him as little more than a big brother—completely asexual. Why else would she have sashayed into the room practically naked, as if he wasn't there? She hadn't acknowledged his masculinity enough even to be modest around him. It was downright insulting. Just because he wasn't like the Neanderthals she typically dated didn't mean he wasn't alive.
A tapping sound on the shower glass startled him. “Alan?”
He froze, then whirled, instinctively crossing his hands over his privates.
4
P
AM BUNKED. She'd seen so-so bodies and she'd seen good bodies. But who would have thought this magnificent specimen had been walking around Savannah all this time disguised as Alan Parish? Wide, muscled shoulders, smooth chest, washboard stomach...now if only he'd move his damn hands out of the way.
Through the steamed glass of the shower door, his face was screwed up in anger. “Pam!” he yelled. “Do you just walk in on a person no matter what they're doing?”
Pam gave him a wry smile. “Don't get your bowels all twisted, Alan. Unless yours is green, you don't have anything I haven't seen before. Your secretary is on the phone.”
“Linda?” he asked, talking above the noise of the water.
“How many secretaries do you have?”
“Has she found another place for me—us—to stay?”
Pam sighed impatiently. “I didn't ask, Alan. I think she's still recovering from the fact that a woman answered the phone.”
His eyes widened. “Did you think to disguise your voice?”
She planted her hands on her hips in annoyance. “Sorry, I was fresh out of helium, but I think we're safe.”
Alan nodded, the water streaming down his face. “You're probably right—she'd never suspect you were here with me.”
“No one would,” Pamela agreed dryly. “Not in a million years.”
He stared at her, nodding and dripping, then sputtered, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, hand me a towel!”
Pam grinned, enjoying his self-consciousness, then reached for the remaining bath towel folded not so neatly on the toilet tank. She dangled the flimsy cloth in front of the shower door and watched as he considered uncovering himself to retrieve it. Thirty seconds passed.
Alan shifted and blushed deep pink. “Just drape it over the top of the stall, will you?”
Pressing her lips together to control her smirk, Pam tossed the towel over the top of the shower door and Alan grabbed it just as it passed his waist. She laughed and exited the room shaking her head.
Imagine, she thought as she collapsed on a yellow beanbag chair and began to untangle her wet hair, Alan was
modest.
It was actually kind of... refreshing in an attractive man, quite the opposite from the chest-pounding antics of her transient lovers. Then she frowned. Maybe Alan was more than just a “lights off” kind of guy—maybe he harbored a host of hang-ups that kept him from enjoying sex. Her friend Jo had never gone into specifics, and even though Pam had been dying to know details, she'd respected her friend's privacy.
The sound of the bathroom door opening broke into her thoughts. Alan emerged in a pair of navy sweatpants and strode over to the phone. He was polishing his glasses with the bath towel and didn't look at her, but the set of his shoulders told her he was still ruffled by her invasion. He shoved aside the wet hair hanging in his eyes, yanked up the handset and turned his back to Pam.
“Hello, Linda?”
Unabashed, Pam used the opportunity to more closely scrutinize his startling physique. His skin was damp and glowing, golden and sleek, like a swimmer's.
“You just got back from the wedding? They must have had a blowout reception.”
His shoulders were wide and covered with knotty muscle that rolled under his skin as he paced around the nightstand, gripping the phone.
“No, Linda, don't feel bad—I'm glad you enjoyed the champagne...well, thanks for the condolences, but it's probably for the best.”
She could smell the clean, soapy scent of him even at this distance, stirred up every time he pivoted on his bare feet.
“Yeah, I decided to take the trip anyway.”
Pam squinted at the length and width of his feet, made a few mental calculations, then pursed her lips in admiration.
“Let's just say this place is not exactly what I expected.”
The baggy sweatpants dipped low to reveal the top of his hard-won boxers and a narrow waist. Being a computer nerd must be more physically demanding than she thought.
“Actually, Linda, it's a dump.”
Now that she thought of it, she
had
passed him going in and out of the workout club a couple of times.
“What do you mean, this is the only room available?”
His butt was narrow and hard, like a greyhound's... aerodynamic...built for speed. Desire struck low in her abdomen, shocking her.
“The woman who answered?” Alan glanced at her over his shoulder, then quickly back to the phone. “Uh, nobody... that is...nobody you'd know.” He laughed nervously. “A m-maid.”
Pam frowned, but a knock at their door and thoughts of food distracted her. She scrambled up and swung open the door, then practically snatched the covered food tray from Twiggy's hands. When the girl stuck out her skinny foot to prevent Pam from shutting the door, Pam smirked, set down the tray and shoved a five-dollar bill into her bony hand.
She slammed the door with a bang and motioned for Alan to get off the phone. He nodded, his face a mask of frustration. “Just keep checking, Linda, and let me know when you find something.”
By the time he hung up, Pam was already sitting cross-legged on the water bed and lifting the lid from their meal.
“Bad news.” He sat on the edge of the mattress and triggered a small tidal wave.
“I know—no pickles,” Pam said, staring down at a platter of grilled-cheese sandwiches.
“Linda says it's the height of the season, and with Valentine's Day only a few days away, everything is booked.”
“Damn,” she mumbled, sinking her teeth resignedly into the surprisingly good sandwich. “I really wanted pickles.”
“She's going to call if something opens up.”
“Mmphh,” Pam said, licking gooey orange cheese from her finger.
Alan stared at the food tray. “I ordered steak. That is not steak.”
“But it's good,” she mumbled, cracking open a can of cold soda.
“And that is definitely not wine.”
She glanced up at him. “You ordered wine?”
He blushed, then stammered. “W-well, you know, the meals are already paid for.”
“I thought I was too tired to eat, but I was wrong.” She stuffed in the last bite of her sandwich.
Alan picked up a sandwich by the corner and sniffed it. “Cholesterol city.”
“My hometown,” Pam said with a smile, then she tore off a huge chunk of a second greasy sandwich. “Live a little, Alan.”
He wrinkled his nose and took a tentative bite, then chewed slowly. “Linda said the wedding was a big hit.”
At the serious tone of his voice, Pam stopped munching and searched for something comforting to say, but nothing came to mind.
“I thought Jo really loved me,” Alan said without self-pity. He seemed genuinely perplexed.
“She did,” Pam quickly assured him. “She told me so many times.”
“Then she fooled us both.”
Pam shook her head, then finger-combed her wet bangs. “That's not true—Jo doesn't have a deceitful bone in her body. Look how close she came to marrying you because she thought it was the right thing to do.”
Alan gave her a wry smile. “Pam, don't ever go into motivational speaking.”
“Okay, that didn't come out just right, but you get the gist—she really does care about hurting you.”
His blue eyes darkened. “I knew John Sterling was trouble the minute I laid eyes on him.”
Pam chose her words carefully. “It takes two to tango, Alan.” Then she muttered to herself, “Three in France.”
He sighed heavily. “You're right. She certainly fell hard for him.”
Sympathy barbed through Pam—the man had been robbed of the future he'd planned. She felt compelled to say something. “Well, if you ask me, Jo missed out.” Pam leaned sideways to give Alan's shoulders a friendly squeeze, but she was unprepared for the electricity beneath her fingers when she made contact with his smooth skin. Alan jerked his head around and their faces were mere inches apart.
For a few seconds, neither one spoke. Pam swallowed audibly.
“Do you really think she missed out?” Alan asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze locked with hers.
Sirens went off in Pam's head. She fought the waves of awareness that flooded her—his scent, his warmth, his incredible physique. Her body softened and hardened in response. Sexual energy flamed to the surface and singed the fringes of her mind. Incredibly, a message was delivered to her brain amidst the smoke and fire.
It's Alan. Alan—who's still in love with your best friend.
Pam inhaled sharply and pulled back carefully, not wanting to make the moment even more awkward. The fluid mattress bumped them up and down. She laughed nervously. “Yeah, I do,” she said brightly, then swept her arm out toward the room. “She missed all of this on her wedding night.”
To her relief, Alan smiled and looked around. “Something tells me she wouldn't have appreciated all this, um, atmosphere as much as you do. Jo would never have climbed into that ridiculous tub.”
“It was fun.”
“And she would never have sat on a beanbag chair.”
“The most underrated furniture on the market, in my opinion.”
“And this bed...” He laughed, smacking the shiny comforter, then bobbing up and down with the waves. “She would
never
—” He stopped midlaugh and glanced up, then blushed.
Pam grinned and shrugged. “She might have surprised you. Water beds aren't so bad.”
With one eyebrow raised, Alan reached for another sandwich. “You speak from experience, I take it.”
She nodded amiably. “My first experience, as a matter of fact. Which was so unremarkable, it's a wonder I don't have a bad association with water beds.”
He laughed again. “My first time was less than memorable, too. To this day I have an aversion to spiral stairs.”
Surprise shot through her, and she couldn't keep it out of her voice. “Spiral stairs?
You
, Alan?”
His smile was sheepish. “I seem to remember that was also my first introduction to Kentucky bourbon.”
“Ah,” she said knowingly. “Been there, done that.” She dropped her half-eaten cheese sandwich onto the platter and stifled a huge yawn. “I think the day is catching up with me, but it's scarcely ten-thirty.”
He glanced toward the television cabinet. “How about a movie before we, um, turn in?”
“Sure,” she said, shifting on the bed, flashing forward to their sleeping arrangements. She felt restless and uncomfortable with her newfound attraction to Alan, and grateful he didn't share her momentary indiscriminate horniness. But the thought of sleeping with Alan and then returning to Savannah to face her friend Jo was enough to have her begging her guardian angel for strength.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as Alan removed the food tray and slid it onto the dresser. He moved with casual elegance, running a hand through his drying hair, separating the glossy strands. Pam groaned and crossed her arms over her saluting breasts, squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, “Oh Holy Angel, forsake me not...”
At the sound of his moan, she peeked. Alan leaned over and arched his back, cracking and popping the stretched vertebrae, flexing his well-toned upper body. Sweat broke out on her upper lip. “...give no place to the evil demon to subdue me...”
“I hope this free video library has something decent to offer.” He straightened, then walked over to the cabinet and swung open the door. When he knelt down to finger the row of black video cases, his baggy sweatpants inched even lower, revealing more of the new pale blue boxers.
“...take me by my wretched and outstretched hand...”
“Oh, great,” he scoffed, his back to her. “
Denise Does Denver, Long, Dark, and Lonesome
, and the soon-to-be-classic
Tripod Man.”
“...and keep me from the front—I mean, every affront of the enemy...”
“Did you say something, Pam?”
Her eyes widened. Alan was squinting back at her over his shoulder. She straightened and smiled, her mind racing. “N-no, just reciting my to-do list for tomorrow.”
He frowned. “To go shopping?”
“No, I, uh...I have a big home deal in the works that I have to check on.” Which was the absolute truth, although she hadn't given it any thought until now.
“Anyplace I'd know?”
“The Sheridan house.”
BOOK: Wife Is A 4-Letter Word
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