Leslie Kelly - Relentless

Ken stood frozen, rivulets of water running down his perfect body. “Ever learn how to knock?” he asked, his voice a low, husky drawl.

Pamela’s tirade ended as her breath exited her lungs. “Oh, my,” she whispered, unable to look away. She had already seen his beautiful bare torso and flat stomach so rippled with muscles, but now she saw the rest of him—the lean hips, the long legs and, oh, the rest of him.

Pam began to shiver. “I want you, Ken McBain,” she said, tugging off her T-shirt and tossing it to the floor. “But your nobility is killing me. So take me or leave me.”

He’d been able to hold firm before. But there was no way he could resist her now, the burning look in her eyes, the anguished need in her voice.

He nodded toward a basketful of condoms on the bathroom counter. “Grab a handful of those, would you?”

Dear Reader,

What could be more irresistible to a woman than coming across a gorgeous single man whose eyes tell her how much he wants her? That’s the dilemma facing Pamela Bradford on what should have been the worst night of her life. A bride without a groom, a woman who’s spent her entire life denying her sensual nature, she’s now ready to indulge in her wildest fantasies. And sexy Ken McBain is just the man with whom she’d like to indulge.

Ken, however, just wants to look after Pamela. Sure, his libido kicks into high gear every time he’s around her, but as far as he’s concerned, there’s going to be no sex!

It’s going to take some serious convincing—in a resort that promises to “wash away every inhibition”—for Pamela to change his mind. Let’s just say she’s relentless in her pursuit.

This is my first Temptation HEAT novel, and I’ve had a lot of fun writing it. Where else could I have come up with a setting like The Little Love Nest—a resort with round beds, mirrored ceilings, suggestive statuary and a hostess named Madame Mona. I think I like pushing the envelope. I might just have to try it again.

I’d love to hear what you think of Pamela and Ken’s amorous adventures. You can write to me at P.O. Box 410787, Melbourne, FL 32941–0787, or e-mail me through my Web site—www.lesliekelly.com.

Enjoy,

Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicated with love to Ray Smith….

Dad, thanks from the bottom of my heart

for always encouraging me to be a dreamer.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

SUFFOCATING BENEATH ten pounds of buttercream icing in a paper, cardboard and wood-framed tomb, Pamela Bradford noticed immediately when her whiskey sour buzz wore off. Her mind suddenly cleared, her stomach began rolling around and her hands started to shake.

“Get me the heck out of here,” she ordered in a loud whisper, not even knowing if any of her bridesmaids were still nearby. A giggle and a muttered “hush” told her they were. “Sue? Sue, I’ve changed my mind. I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can,” someone replied.

That wasn’t the voice of Sue, her sweet-natured maid of honor, who was timid as a rabbit about everything except her passion for romance novels. No, the voice sounded cynical but amused, gravely and authoritative, as only the voice of a strong, confident, two-hundred pound African American woman could.

“LaVyrle, please, this was a bad idea. Peter’s not going to be very happy about this.”

“Not happy? Girlfriend, puh-lease! That man’s going to bust into a raging ball of male heat when he sees you come outta this cake. And if he doesn’t, well, at least you’ll know tonight, rather than tomorrow after you marry the pansy. Now be quiet, we’re still working on our evacuation plan.”

Pamela sighed, knowing LaVyrle would not take pity on her. Sue, yes. Pamela’s best friend Sue, who’d been a perfect little angel as a child—except, of course, when Pamela was around—would have let her out in a heartbeat. But not with LaVyrle and Wanda in the room. She’d be no match for Pamela’s two friends and coworkers from the teen center in downtown Miami.

Since Pamela had once seen LaVyrle physically tackle and take down a street dealer who’d approached some of their boys leaving basketball practice, she didn’t think she wanted Sue to try standing up to her.

She could burst out of the cake now, she supposed, avoiding the bachelor party altogether. But since her friends had pushed her into a hallway of the Fort Lauderdale hotel, she figured that wasn’t such a great idea. With her luck, she’d run smack dab into the local gossip columnist or a vacationing family with six young kids, complete with Mickey Mouse caps, big eyes and a camera!

“Good grief,” Pamela muttered, knowing she was stuck, in more ways than one.

Folded in half, with her knees tucked under her chin, she couldn’t move an arm to scratch an itch without risking a heaping headful of icing. She glanced up, seeing that the top of the paper cake, just inches above her eyes, was lower than before. The wooden frame wasn’t dealing well with the weight of the gooey icing. “I didn’t think they put real icing on these stupid things,” Pamela said and glared at the frame, hoping like hell it would hold up a few minutes longer.

“They don’t, usually,” LaVyrle said. “The best man, or whoever the dude was who hired my friend Nona to strip tonight, paid extra for the icing. Some guys do that, you know. Then the birthday boy—or the groom—has to lick the stuff off the dancer.”

Pamela swallowed hard.

“Of course, we all know Peter wouldn’t do that,” Sue chimed in. Thank heaven for sweetly optimistic Sue.

“Well, he’d sure better now,” Wanda retorted. “Pamela, I bet Peter’s gonna want to lick off every speck. Unless he don’t like girls…uh…I mean, sweets!”

Pamela’s stomach rolled again. “Please let me out.”

“You just have cold feet. Quit whining!” LaVyrle ordered.

“I have a cold butt is what I have,” Pamela muttered. Her friend’s low chuckle told her she’d heard. Pamela shifted a little and wondered how she’d gotten into this mess.

Though she couldn’t move her head too well, she did cast a quick glance down at herself, and shuddered. Yes, she still wore the ruby-red, glittery pasties and matching thong, plus the spiked high heels LaVyrle called “do-me shoes.”

Okay, so she had a top on over the getup. But the filmy, nearly sheer shirt fell only to her thighs. It was also so thin it offered no protection for her nearly naked backside seated directly on the cold metal shelf of the pushcart.

This was one heck of a way to spend the night before her wedding. She still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to it. What had she been thinking?

Well, actually, she knew what she’d been thinking. She’d been listening to that teeny tiny voice in her brain that had been nagging at her lately, asking why Peter hadn’t tried to move their relationship from emotionally intimate to physically intimate.

Her fiancé hadn’t so much as attempted a single grope in the entire six months of their relationship! He’d kissed her, yes, sweetly gentle kisses that hinted at a restrained passion. But nothing more.

So why are you marrying him? she asked herself in a rare moment of pessimism brought on by whiskey sours and itchy spangled underclothes.