Kelly was still burning as she braced for liftoff in the crowded jet out of Logan. Hypnotized! How — how outrageous could a man get? Claimed he didn't even remember her! Glaring out the plane window, Kelly thought of the hours they'd spent together, the outpourings of their souls, so fast, so deep.
She'd told him everything; from her strict, but loving, upbringing as a preacher's kid in a small town outside of St. Louis, to how she'd nearly flunked out of school but had won every dance contest around. He knew how lucky she'd felt to get the Las Vegas gig, but how frustrated she was in finding a man who was serious about a relationship, and not one who simply wanted an affair with a dancer.
He was going to forget all that? Her soul stripped bare?
And what about the other parts of her she'd stripped bare? What about the hours they'd spent in her bed, hot, entwined, pleasured? Was he going to 'forget' that!
Throughout the plane flight Kelly nursed her anger, although every so often a stray thought crept in. Why had Dean looked so strange? With that grim slash of a mouth and corporate demeanor, he'd seemed like a completely different person. And a whole building was named after him?
That was when, for one tiny, wing beat of an instant, Kelly would wonder if he'd been telling the truth in that big fat office of his, if he'd really been hypnotized and had done everything while in a trance.
But the instant of such credulity would pass quickly. Her anger would burn through again. She wasn't that stupid. Oh, she'd let men feed her some pretty incredible lines, but she wasn't about to eat this one. Hypnotized.
And to think she was married to him!
In her cramped airplane seat, Kelly grimaced. Unfortunately, she had to recall that she'd been the one to bring up marriage. After her last disastrous relationship, with a musician who'd strung her on for months without committing, she'd decided to go back to basics, back to the values with which she'd been raised. She'd decided she could no longer go to bed with a man unless he was her husband.
Last Saturday night in the back seat of her car and locked in a hot, wet kiss with Dean, the temptation had been strong to abandon this quaint little policy. He'd felt so good around her; his arms so strong, his hands so clever.
But Kelly had forced herself out of her sensual haze. Panting, she'd pushed back from Dean. The look in his eyes then — Oh, not disappointed, not angry, but stricken. Yes, he'd looked as if her pulling away hurt as much as a blow.
So Kelly had explained the problem. She'd been terrified he would laugh. She was a Las Vegas dancer, after all. She wasn't loose, but hardly a virgin. So — holding out for marriage? She'd expected an argument, persuasions.
Instead Dean had given her one long, intense look — and then asked her to marry him.
At the time, oh! — Kelly had thought it so romantic. Sure, she hadn't believed him at first. But Dean had talked fast. He'd talked hard. And he'd truly seemed to be absolutely, positively serious. He'd been so serious he'd made Kelly feel that way, too. As if they were meant to be together, not just for that night but for forever.
Serious! All he'd been serious about was getting her into bed.
Kelly's anger kept her going through the plane flight, the landing, and a cab ride home. By the time she got to her apartment, however, it all began to catch up to her. She hadn't slept the night before, or the night before that. She was worn to the bone.
At the front door, her key wobbled in the lock. "Come on, come on," Kelly muttered. "Don't get picky on me now." The tumblers caught and she pushed the door open.
She nearly tripped on the pale green sweatshirt trailed across the threshold.
"Oh, no," she whispered. She could feel the muscles of her face contort as she kicked the sweatshirt to one side. She remembered, too well, how it had gotten there. After the wedding, they'd both been laughing, giddy with the gamble they'd taken. Married, after a courtship of only two days. Dean had pressed her against the door. "Now," he'd crowed, nuzzling her. His hands had lifted the hem of Kelly's sweatshirt. "Now I'm allowed to take this off."
Kelly fell back against the same door. Her purse dropped and she threw her hands over her eyes. She'd promised herself she wasn't going to cry over him, not over some rock-bottom worm like that, but she could feel the hot moisture building anyway, could feel the spasms starting in her chest.
What had she been thinking to fly out to Boston? Had she expected to get the better of such a super-class bum?
Well, yes, she had imagined that. And something even worse.
She'd imagined — oh, she hated to admit it, even to herself — but she'd imagined, deep down in the most naïve part of herself, that he was going to be happy to see her. Yes! She'd dreamed he was going to have some magical explanation to take away the hurt of what he'd done. His betrayal was going to vanish into thin air.
In one, secret, wishful part of herself, she'd envisioned him flying home with her on the plane.
Stupid. Utterly delusional and stupid.
All Dean had wanted in Boston was to see the back of her — forever. And he hadn't cared how much more he had to hurt her to achieve that result.
Kelly hiccupped painfully. Lord, she'd been brought up better than this, better than to accept less than complete commitment and respect. Her minister father and his devoted wife, her mother, had given Kelly a glorious example of a truly loving relationship. It certainly wasn't their fault Kelly was failing completely in the romance department.
She was almost — almost — glad they were no longer alive to see what a mess she'd made of her own 'marriage.'
Kelly allowed herself one last sob, then gave her head a brisk shake. All right. Enough. She'd made her mistake in insisting on a ring, and then compounded it by flying out to Boston. It didn't accomplish anything now to feel sorry for herself. All she could do was...move on. Put Dean Singleton and her bad judgment behind her.
Next time she'd be smarter. Next time she'd find out for sure whether or not the guy really loved her.
Kelly sniffled, rubbed her nose, and bent to snag the green sweatshirt off the floor. The simple act made her feel better. A crumb cake, Kelly decided. She almost smiled as she mashed the sweatshirt into a ball.
Tomorrow she'd ask the girls for the crumb cake. With her boots pinching, Kelly limped toward her bedroom. A good crumb cake ought to clean Dean Singleton right out of her system.
###
Seated in a rental car parked in a lot behind one of the biggest hotels in Las Vegas, Dean lifted his wrist and checked his watch. According to the private detective's report, Kelly — yes, that was her name, Kelly — would be getting out of her required workout just about now.
Dean lowered his wrist. He'd been surprised to learn the number of hours Kelly put in at her job. It was clear she was in a show that demanded real dancing and not a simple display of physical attributes. In fact, according the detective's report it was family oriented, no nudity. That made Dean feel marginally better.
Not completely better, of course. He still couldn't believe the cold facts of the matter, all he'd done his two lost days. The whole affair was so pathetically tawdry. But at least he was facing it now, dealing with the consequences. Part of that involved sitting here, waiting to speak to the woman who had not, after all, been hired by cousin Troy to interrupt his vice presidents meeting.
Dean looked out the car window and chewed the inside of his cheek. This was duty. The sooner he got to it, the better.
Suiting action to words, he clicked his car door open. Desert air hit him as he unfolded from the car. Cool for Vegas in May, but warm for a New Englander. He took a moment to adjust to the temperature, then shut the car door and straightened his tie. With a deep breath, he started through the parked cars toward the gym door.
His palms sweated and his neck felt stiff. Everything depended on his doing this right; his sense of honor, his self-respect — everything.
He slowed when he saw the crowd. About a dozen women, hair bands and sweat suits, gathered in the parking lot around the back of a car. They were laughing and excited. Among them Dean saw Kelly. That's when his feet stopped. Partially hidden behind a red Bronco, Dean stared his fill.
Kelly's hair was loosely bound in a ponytail high on top of her head and she was dressed just as sloppily as everybody else, in a sweat jacket with the sleeves pushed up, but Dean felt the wind knocked out of him all the same. There was something about her, the way she stood, an angle of head — it simply cried out: sex.
He hadn't expected that. For some reason, he hadn't thought the same reaction would assail him now that had hit him in his office on Monday. Dean drew in a deep, slow breath. He could handle this, get past it. He could still prove that he was not just like his father.
Meanwhile Kelly took control of the crowd. "Now, now," she called, raising her hands. "Calm yourselves, girls."
"But you said you were ready," complained a woman in a purple jogging suit.
"So blow him out," a redhead in shorts recommended.
Dean frowned, peering to see what they were talking about. A sheet cake was laid on the back of a car. Thanks to the angle of the car's trunk he could see the orange-frosted concoction was cut in the shape of a human figure. A single candle was stuck in just the right place to create an anatomically correct male figure.
The women in the parking lot laughed. A few jumped up and down. "Blow!" came the cry. That's when understanding finally hit Dean. His face went red.
Kelly, her attention on her comrades, was shaking her head, smirking, and clearly milking the situation for all it was worth.
"Blow! Blow! Blow!"
Kelly patted the air with her hands, then drew in a deep breath and blew the candle out.
There were cheers and a few whistles.
"Now slice him up!" someone shouted.
"Bloodthirsty," Kelly scolded, but she had no trouble accepting a huge kitchen knife that was handed her way. Indeed, she lifted it high.
Dean couldn't help flinching when her blade hit the cake man.
"And this one's yours." One of the women picked up the piece with the candle still stuck in it.
Kelly bit the tip of her finger. "Oh no, I couldn't."
"You already did," somebody called out.
There was ribald laughter and Dean felt a pull down in his loins as Kelly accepted the proffered cake. She eyed the half-melted candle. "It's true," she sighed. "The only part of the fellow worth remembering."
Heat suffused Dean then; embarrassment, he told himself. He moved, needing to make his presence known, even as Kelly plucked the candle from the cake and tossed it, laughing, over her shoulder.
Reflex. Dean lifted his right hand. Before he knew what was happening, his fingers closed mid-air around that damned candle. Worse, he was completely out from behind the Bronco. Everything suddenly went quiet.
"What?" Kelly asked, looking at her friends. "What is it?"
No one answered. Dean felt as conspicuous as the moon in a starless sky. Finally, Kelly turned. Her eyes were wide. Horrified, Dean thought. His own face remained flushed. He didn't know which was worse; that he'd just watched her complete a ritual to get rid of him, or that he still held that cursed candle in his hand.
"Miss Williams?" He flushed even more at the mistake. "I mean, Mrs. Singleton." Stupidly, he held forth the candle. "If it wouldn't be too anti-climactic — I came to offer an apology."