Marriage by Mistake(7)

"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.