The monosyllable hung in the air between them.

“She couldn’t be more wrong. And what you saw—well, that was her last-ditch effort to persuade me.”

“It was effective.” The memory of Bobby Joe caressing the girl with the unbuttoned blouse and no bra popped into Mary Beth’s mind. Anger consumed her. “You looked very persuaded.”

“I made a mistake.” He reached for her hand, grasping it hastily before she pulled away. “I want you to be my wife. Give me another chance, baby. I love you.”

Bobby Joe looked pitifully sincere. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. Mary Beth wondered cynically if he had stolen that move from his older brother’s playbook. She felt nothing, absolutely nothing. When Parr had kissed her palm last night, tingles of pleasure had spread through every nerve in her body.

Her remorseful fiancé delved into his pocket to retrieve her diamond engagement ring. Without asking, he slipped it onto her finger.

She stared at him briefly, then gazed down at the sparkling gem in its exquisite setting, remembering when Bobby Joe had formally proposed and placed this token of his love and symbol of their betrothal on her finger for the first time. She had been happy. Bobby Joe Weston was handsome, fun, made good money what with one business deal and another, and he had seemed to adore her. What more, she’d thought at the time, could any woman want?

After meeting Parr Weston, she knew.

“I . . .” She hesitated, unsure of her reply. “I can’t give you the answer you want. I can’t simply forget about last night.”

He started to move closer, frowned at her instant retreat as she pushed her chair away from the table. “Sweetheart?”

“I need time.”

She wanted to see Parr—alone. To talk to him, to find out how he felt. She’d spent a restless night reliving every awful moment of the disastrous party, from when she’d opened the storage room door on Bobby Joe and Luellen until her father had whisked her out of Parr’s arms and away from the hotel.

Her dad had been understanding when she had refused to discuss what had happened, but he’d insisted that she take Alma’s phone call this morning.

Mary Beth loved Alma Weston, and he knew it. Though the two of them had little in common. The older woman was past sixty, with no more than a grade-school education, a bawdy laugh, and a taste for polyester pantsuits. Mary Beth at twenty-four had two college degrees, a soft laugh, and a love for silk, linen, and cotton. She knew that Bobby Joe was often ashamed of his mother’s shortcomings, as he called them, and his shame had hurt the woman who had given him life.