Fancy Pants (20 page)
Francesca was beginning to feel as if she'd confessed to a series of
mass murders. "It's not a crime, Dallie."
"It is around here." He chuckled maliciously. "Boy, are you ever in for
it."
The house on Cherry Street had high ceilings, heavy walnut moldings,
and light-flooded rooms. The old wooden floors were scarred in places,
a few cracks marred the plaster walls, and the interior decoration
lacked even a modest sense of coordination, but the house still managed
to project a haphazard charm. Striped wallpaper coexisted alongside
floral, and the odd mix of furniture was enlivened by needlework
pillows and afghans crocheted in multicolored yarns. Plants set in
handmade ceramic pots filled dark corners, cross-stitch samplers
decorated the walls, and golf trophies popped up everywhere—as
doorstops, bookends, weighing down a stack of newspapers, or simply
catching the light on a sunny windowsill.
Three days after her arrival in Wynette, Francesca slipped out of the
bedroom Miss Sybil had assigned to her and crept across the hallway.
Beneath a T-shirt of Dallie's that fell to the middle of her thighs,
she wore a rather astonishing pair of silky black bikini underpants
that had miraculously appeared in the small stack of clothing Miss
Sybil had lent her to supplement her wardrobe. She had slipped into
them half an hour earlier when she'd heard Dallie come up the stairs
and go into his bedroom.
Since their arrival, she'd barely seen him. He left for the driving
range early in the morning, from there went to the golf course and then
God knew where, leaving her with no one but Miss Sybil for company.
Francesca hadn't been in the house for a day before she'd found a copy
of Tender Is the Night pressed into her hands along with a gentle
admonition to refrain from pouting when things didn't go her way.
Dallie's abandonment upset her. He acted as if nothing had happened
between them, as if they hadn't spent a night making love. At first she
had tried to ignore it, but now she
had decided that she had to start fighting for what she wanted, and
what she wanted was more lovemaking.
She tapped the tip of one unpainted fingernail softly on the door
opposite her own, afraid Miss Sybil would awaken and hear her. She
shuddered at the thought of what the disagreeable old woman would do if
she knew Francesca had wandered across the hall to Dallie's bedroom for
illicit sex. She would probably chase her from the house screaming
"Harlot!" at the top of her lungs. When Francesca heard no response
from the other side of the door, she tapped a bit harder.
Without warning, Dallie's voice boomed out from the other side,
sounding like a cannon in the still of the night. "If that's you,
Francie, come on in and stop making so damned much noise."
She darted inside the bedroom, hissing like a tire losing its air.
"Shh! She'll hear you, Dallie. She'll know I'm in your room."
He stood fully dressed, hitting golf balls with his putter across the
carpet toward an empty beer bottle. "Miss Sybil's eccentric," he said,
eyeing the line of his putt, "but she's not even close to being a
prude. I think she was disappointed when I told her we wouldn't be
sharing a room."
Francesca had been disappointed, too, but she wasn't going to make an
issue of it now, when her pride had already been stung. "I've barely
seen you at all since we got here. I thought maybe you were still angry
with me about Beast."
"Beast?"
"That bloody cat." A trace of annoyance crept into her voice. "He bit
me again yesterday."
Dallie smiled, then sobered. "Actually, Francie, I thought it might be
better if we kept our hands to ourselves for a while."
Something inside her gave a small lurch. "Why? What do you mean?"
The bail pinged against the glass as his putt found its mark. "I mean
that I don't think you can handle a whole lot more trouble in your life
right now, and you should know that I'm pretty much unreliable where
women are concerned." He used the head of the putter to reach out for
another ball
and draw it close. "Not that I'm proud of it, you understand, but
that's the way things are. So if you've got any ideas about
rose-covered bungalows or His and Her bath towels, you might want to
get rid of them."
Enough of the old proud Francesca still lingered that she managed to
slip a condescending laugh past the lump in her throat. "Rose-covered
bungalows? Really, Dallie, what on earth can you be thinking of? I'm
going to marry Nicky, remember? This is my last fling before I'm
permanently shackled." Except she wasn't going to marry Nicky. She'd
placed another call last night, hoping that he would have returned by
now and she could talk him into advancing her a small loan so she
wouldn't be so dependent on Dallie for money. Her call woke the
houseboy, who said Mr. Gwynwyck was away on his honeymoon. Francesca
had stood with the receiver in her hand for some time before she'd hung
up the phone.
Dallie looked up from the floor. "Are you telling me the truth? No His
and Hers? No long-term plans?"
"Of course I'm telling the truth."
"Are you sure? There's something funny in your face when you look at
me."
She tossed herself down into a chair and gazed around the room as if
the caramel-colored walls and floor-to-ceiling bookcases were far more
interesting than the man in front of her. "Fascination, darling," she
said airily, draping a bare leg over the arm of the chair and arching
her foot. "You are, after all, rather one of a kind."
"It's nothing more than fascination?"
"Gracious, Dallie. I don't mean to insult you, but I'm hardly the kind
of woman who would fall in love with an impoverished Texas golf pro."
Yes, I am, she admitted silently. I'm exactly that kind of woman.
"Now, you do have a point there. To tell you the truth, I can't imagine
you falling in love with an impoverished anybody."
She decided the time had come to salvage another small remnant of her
pride, so she stood and stretched, revealing the bottom edge of the
black silk underpants. "Well, darling, I think I'll leave, since you
seem to have other things to occupy your
time."
He looked at her for a minute as if he were making up his mind about
something. Then he gestured toward the opposite side of the room with
his putter. "Actually, I thought you might want to help me out here. Go
on and stand over there, will you?"
"Why?"
"Just you never mind. I'm the man. You're the woman. You do what I say."
She made a face, then did as he asked, taking her time as she moved.
"Now slip off that T-shirt," he ordered.
"Dallie!"
"Come on, this is serious, and I don't have all night."
He didn't look at all serious, so she obediently pulled off the
T-shirt, taking her time and feeling a warm rush through her body as
she revealed herself to him.
He took in her bare breasts and the silky black bikini underpants. Then
he gave an admiring whistle. "Now, that's nice, honey. That is real
inspiring stuff. This is going to work out even better than I thought."
"What's going to work out?" she inquired warily.
"Something all us golf pros do for practice. You arrange yourself lying
down in the position of my choice on the carpet right there. When
you're ready, you slip off those panties, call out some specific part
of your body, and I see how close I can get with my putt. It's the best
exercise in the world for improving a golfer's concentration."
Francesca smiled and planted one hand on her bare hip. "And I can just
imagine how much fun it is to fetch the balls when you're done."
"Damn, but you British women are smart."
"Too smart to let you get away with this."
"I was afraid you'd say that." He propped his putter up against a chair
and began to walk toward her. "Guess we'll just have to find something
else to occupy our time."
"Like what?"
He reached out and pulled her into his arms. "I don't know. But I'm
thinking real hard."
Later, as she lay in his arms drowsy from lovemaking, she considered
how strange it was that a woman who had turned down the Prince of Wales
had fallen in love with Dallie Beaudine. She tilted her head so that
her lips touched his bare chest and gave his skin a soft kiss. Just
before she drifted off to sleep, she told herself that she would make
him care for her. She would become exactly the woman he wanted her to
be, and then he would love her as much as she loved him.
Sleep didn't come so easily to Dallie—either that night or for the next
few weeks. He could feel Halloween beating down on him, and he lay
awake trying to distract himself by playing a round of golf in his head
or thinking about Francesca. For a woman who painted herself as one of
the world's great sophisticates just because she'd run around Europe
eating snails, Miss Fancy Pants would have learned a hell of a lot
more, in his opinion, if she'd spent a few half-times on a stadium
blanket under the bleachers at Wynette High.
She didn't seem to have logged enough hours between the bedposts to
really relax with him, and he could see her worrying about whether she
had her hands in the right place or whether she was moving in a way
that would please him. It was hard for him to enjoy himself with all
that single-minded dedication coming his way.
He knew she had half convinced herself she was in love with him, even
though it wouldn't take her more than twenty-four hours back in London
before she would have forgotten his name. Still, he had to admit that
when he finally got her on that plane, part of him was actually going
to miss her, despite the fact that she was a feisty little thing who
wasn't giving up her stuck-up ways easy. She couldn't pass a mirror
without spending a day and a half looking at herself, and she left a
mess everywhere she went, as if she expected some servant to come along
after her and clean up. Even so, he had to admit that she seemed to be
making an effort. She ran errands into town for Miss Sybil and took
care of that damned walleyed cat and tried to get along with Skeet by
telling him stories about all the movie stars she'd met. She'd even
started reading J. D. Salinger. More important, she finally seemed to
be getting the idea that the world hadn't
been created just for her benefit.
One thing he knew for sure. He would be sending old Nicky back a hell
of a better woman than the one Nicky'd sent him.
desk and dancing a jig as she set down her telephone. She'd found her!
After an incredible amount of work, she'd finally found her
Sassy Girl!
Quickly she called in her secretary and dictated a list of instructions.
"Don't try to contact her; I want to approach her in person. Just
double-check my information to make certain it's right."
Her secretary looked up from her steno pad. "You don't think she'll
turn you down, do you?"
"I hardly think so. Not for the kind of money we're offering." But for
all her confidence, Naomi was a natural worrier, and she knew she
wouldn't relax until she had a signature on the dotted line of an
ironclad contract. "I want to fly out as quickly as possible. Let me
know as soon as the arrangements are set."
After her secretary left her office, Naomi hesitated for a moment and
then dialed the number of her apartment. The phone rang again and
again, but she refused to hang up. He was there; her luck wasn't good
enough to make him magically disappear. She should never have agreed to
let him stay in her apartment. If anyone at BS&R found out—
"Answer, dammit."
The line clicked. "Saul's Whorehouse and Crematorium. Lionel speaking."
"Can't you just say hello like a normal person?" she snapped. Why was
she putting herself through this? The police wanted Gerry for
questioning, but he had received a tip that they planned to frame him
on trumped-up charges of drug dealing, so he refused to go in to talk
to them. Gerry didn't even smoke grass anymore, let alone deal in
drugs, and she hadn't had the heart to turn him back out on the street.
She also retained enough of her old distrust of the police to be
unwilling to submit him to the unpredictability of the legal system.
"Talk to me nice or I'll hang up," he said.
"Terrific," she retorted. "If I get really nasty, does that mean you'll
move out?"
"You got a letter from Save the Children thanking you for your
contribution. Fifty lousy bucks."
"Dammit, you have no business reading my mail."
"Trying to buy your way into heaven, sis?"
Naomi refused to jump to his bait. There was a moment of silence, and
then he made a grudging apology. "Sorry. I'm so bored I can't stand
myself."
"Did you look over that information on law school I left out for you?"
she asked casually.
"Aw, shit, don't start this again."
"Gerry . . ."
"I'm not selling out!"
"Just think about it, Gerry. Going to law school isn't selling out. You
could do more good by working inside the system—"
"Knock it off, okay, Naomi? We've got a world out there that's ready to
blow itself up. Adding another lawyer to the system isn't going to
change a thing."
Despite his vehement protests, she sensed that the idea of going to law
school wasn't as distasteful to him as he pretended. But she knew he
needed time to think it over, so she didn't press him. "Look, Gerry, I
have to go out of town for a few days. Do me a favor and try to be gone
when I get back."
"Where are you going?"
She looked down at the memo pad on her desk and smiled to herself. In
twenty-four hours, the Sassy
Girl would be signed,
sealed, and delivered. "I'm going to a place called Wynette, Texas,"
she said.
blouses, Francesca sat next to Dallie in a honky-tonk called the
Roustabout. After nearly three weeks in Wynette, she had lost count
of
the number of evenings they had spent at the town's favorite night
spot. Despite the raucous country band, the cloud of low-hanging smoke,
and the tacky orange and black Halloween crepe paper hanging from the
bar, she had discovered she actually liked the place.
Everyone in Wynette knew the town's most famous golfer, so the two of
them always entered the honky-tonk to a chorus of "Hey, Dallie's"
ringing out over the Naugahyde stools and the twang of the steel
guitars. But tonight, for the first time, there had been a few "Hey,
Francie's" thrown in, pleasing her inordinately.
One of the Roustabout's female patrons pushed her witch's mask to the
top of her head and planted a boisterous kiss on Skeet's cheek. "Skeet,
you old bear, I'm going to get you to the altar yet."
He chuckled. "You're too young for me, Eunice. I couldn't keep up with
you."
"You said a mouthful there, honey." Eunice let out a shriek of laughter
and then went off with a friend who was unwisely dressed in a harem
costume that left her chubby midriff bare.
Francesca smiled. Although Dallie had been in a surly mood all evening,
she was having fun. Most of the Roustabout's patrons were wearing their
standard outfits of jeans and Stetsons, but a few wore Halloween
costumes and all the bartenders had on glasses with rubber noses.
"Over here, Dallie!" one of the women called out. "We're going to bob
for apples in a bucket of draft."
Dallie slammed the front legs of his chair down to the floor, grabbed
Francesca's arm, and muttered, "Christ, that's all I need. Quit
talking, dammit. I want to dance."
She hadn't been talking, but his expression was so grim that she didn't
bother pointing that out. She just got up and followed him. As he
dragged her across the floor toward the jukebox, she found herself
remembering the first night he'd brought her
to the Roustabout. Had it only been three weeks ago?
Her memories of the Blue Choctaw had still been fresh that night, and
she was nervous. Dallie had dragged her onto the dance floor and, over
her protests, insisted on teaching her the Texas two-step and the
Cotton-Eyed Joe. After twenty minutes, her face had felt flushed and
her skin had been damp. She had wanted nothing more than to escape to
the rest room and repair the damage. "I've danced enough, Dallie," she
had told him.
He had steered her toward the center of the wooden dance floor. "We're
just warming up."
"I'm quite warm enough, thank you."
"Yeah? Well, I'm not."
The tempo of the music had picked up and Dallie's hold on her waist had
tightened. She had begun to hear Chloe's voice taunting her over the
country music, telling her that no one would love her if she
didn't
look beautiful, and she had felt the first flutters of uneasiness
spread out inside her. "I don't want
to dance anymore," she had
insisted, trying to pull away.
"Well, that's just too bad, because I do." Dallie had snatched up his
bottle of Pearl as they passed by
their table. Without losing a beat,
he had taken a drink, then pressed the bottle to her lips and tilted it
up.
"I don't—" She had swallowed and choked as beer splashed into her
mouth. He had raised the bottle to his own mouth again and emptied it.
Sweaty tendrils had clung to her cheeks and beer had run down her chin.
"I'm going to leave you," she had threatened, her voice rising. "I'm
going to walk off this floor and out of your life forever if you don't
let me go right now."
He had paid no attention. He had held on to her damp hands and pressed
her body up against his.
"I want to sit down!" she had demanded.
"I don't really care what you want." He had moved his hands high up
under her arms, right where the perspiration had soaked through her
blouse.
"Please, Dallie," she had cried, mortified.
"Just shut your mouth and move your feet."
She had continued to plead with him, but he ignored her. Her lipstick
had disappeared, her underarms
had become a public disgrace, and she
had felt absolutely certain that she was going to cry.
Just then, right in the middle of the dance floor, Dallie had stopped
moving. He had looked down at her, dipped his head, and kissed her full
on her beery mouth. "Damn, you're pretty," he had whispered.
She remembered those gentle words now as he pulled her none too gently
through the orange and black paper streamers toward the jukebox. After
three weeks of posturing, posing, and trying to work miracles with dime
store cosmetics, she had only once wrung a compliment about her
appearance out of him—and that had been when she looked terrible.
He bumped into two men on his way to the jukebox and didn't bother to
apologize. What was the matter with him tonight? Francesca wondered.
Why was he acting so surly? The band had taken a break, and he dug into
the pocket of his jeans for a quarter. A chorus of groans rang out
along with a few catcalls.
"Don't let him do it, Francie," Curtis Molloy called out.
She tossed him a mischievous smile over her shoulder. "Sorry, luv, but
he's bigger than I am. Besides, he gets dreadfully ornery if I argue
with him." The combination of her British accent with their lingo made
them laugh, as she'd known it would.
Dallie punched the same two buttons he'd been punching all night
whenever the band stopped playing, then set his bottle of beer on top
of the jukebox. "I haven't heard Curtis blabber so much in years," he
told Francesca. "You really got him going. Even the women are starting
to like you." His words sounded more grudging than pleased.
She ignored his bad mood as the rock tune began to play. "What about
you?" she asked saucily. "Do you like me, too?"
He moved his athlete's body to the first chords of "Born to Run,"
dancing to Springsteen's music as gracefully as he did the Texas
two-step. "Of course I like you," he scowled.
"I'm not so much of an alley cat that I'd still be sleeping with you if
I didn't like you a whole lot better than I used to. Damn, I love this
song."
She had hoped for a somewhat more romantic declaration, but with Dallie
she'd learned to settle for what she could get. She also didn't share
his enthusiasm for the song he kept playing on the jukebox. Although
she couldn't understand all of the lyrics, she gathered that the part
about tramps like us who were born to run might be what Dallie liked so
much about the song. The sentiment didn't fit well with her own vision
of domestic bliss, so she shut out the lyrics and concentrated on the
music, matching her body movements to Dallie's as she was learning to
do so well in their own deep night bedroom dance. He looked into her
eyes and she looked into his, and the music swept up around them. She
felt as if some kind of invisible lock had snapped them together, and
then the mood was broken as her stomach gave one of its queer pitches.
She wasn't pregnant, she told herself. She couldn't be. Her doctor had
told her very clearly that she couldn't get pregnant until she started
having her menstrual periods again. But her recent nausea had worried
her enough that the day before at the library she'd looked through a
Planned Parenthood pamphlet on pregnancy when Miss Sybil wasn't
watching. To her dismay, she had read the exact opposite and she found
herself desperately counting back to that first night she and Dallie
had made love. It had been almost a month ago exactly.
They danced again and then went back to their table, the palm of his
hand cupped over the small of her back. She enjoyed his touch, the
sensation of a woman being protected by the man who cared about her.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she actually was pregnant, she thought
as she sat down at the table. Dailie wasn't the kind of man who would
slip her a few hundred dollars and drive her to the local abortionist.
Not that she had any desire to have a baby, but she was beginning to
learn that everything had a price. Maybe pregnancy would make him
commit himself to her, and once he made that commitment everything
would be wonderful. She would encourage him to stop drinking so much
and apply himself more. He would begin to win tournaments and make
enough money so they could buy a house in a city
somewhere. It wouldn't be the sort of fashionable international life
she'd envisioned for herself, but she didn't need all that running
about anymore, and she knew she would be happy as long as Dallie loved
her. They would travel together, and he would take care of her, and
everything would be perfect.
But the picture wouldn't quite crystallize in her mind, so she took a
sip from her bottle of Lone Star.
A woman's voice with a drawl as lazy as a Texas Indian summer
penetrated her thoughts. "Hey, Dallie," the voice said softly, "make
any birdies for me?"
Francesca sensed the change in him, an alertness that hadn't been there
a moment before, and she lifted her head.
Standing next to their table and gazing down at him with mischievous
blue eyes stood the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever seen.
Dallie jumped up with a soft exclamation and enveloped her in his arms.
Francesca had the sensation of time frozen in place as the two dazzling
blond creatures pressed their heads together, beautiful American
thoroughbreds in home-grown denim and worn cowboy boots, superhumans
who suddenly made her feel incredibly small and ordinary. The woman
wore a Stetson pushed back on a cloud of blond hair that fell in sexy
disarray to her shoulders, and she'd left three buttons on her plaid
shirt unfastened to reveal more than a little of the impressive swell
of her breasts. A wide leather belt encircled her small waist, and
tight jeans fit her hips so closely they made a V at her crotch before
clinging in a smooth line down a nearly endless expanse of long, trim
leg.
The woman looked into Dallie's eyes and said something so quietly only
Francesca overheard. "You didn't think I'd leave you alone for
Halloween, did you, baby?" she whispered.
The fear that had seemed like a cold fist clutching Francesca's heart
abruptly eased as she realized how much alike they looked. Of course .
. . she shouldn't have been so startled. Of course they looked alike.
This woman could only be Dallie's sister, the elusive Holly Grace.
A moment later, he confirmed her identity. Releasing the tall blond
goddess, he turned to Francesca. "Holly Grace, this is Francesca Day.
Francie, I'd like you to meet Holly Grace
Beaudine."
"How do you do?" Francesca extended her hand and smiled warmly. "I
would have recognized you as Dallie's sister anywhere; you two look so
much alike."
Holly Grace pulled the brim of the Stetson forward a bit on her head
and studied Francesca with clear blue eyes. "Sorry to disappoint you,
honey, but I'm not Dallie's sister."
Francesca regarded her quizzically.
"I'm Dallie's wife."
mass murders. "It's not a crime, Dallie."
"It is around here." He chuckled maliciously. "Boy, are you ever in for
it."
The house on Cherry Street had high ceilings, heavy walnut moldings,
and light-flooded rooms. The old wooden floors were scarred in places,
a few cracks marred the plaster walls, and the interior decoration
lacked even a modest sense of coordination, but the house still managed
to project a haphazard charm. Striped wallpaper coexisted alongside
floral, and the odd mix of furniture was enlivened by needlework
pillows and afghans crocheted in multicolored yarns. Plants set in
handmade ceramic pots filled dark corners, cross-stitch samplers
decorated the walls, and golf trophies popped up everywhere—as
doorstops, bookends, weighing down a stack of newspapers, or simply
catching the light on a sunny windowsill.
Three days after her arrival in Wynette, Francesca slipped out of the
bedroom Miss Sybil had assigned to her and crept across the hallway.
Beneath a T-shirt of Dallie's that fell to the middle of her thighs,
she wore a rather astonishing pair of silky black bikini underpants
that had miraculously appeared in the small stack of clothing Miss
Sybil had lent her to supplement her wardrobe. She had slipped into
them half an hour earlier when she'd heard Dallie come up the stairs
and go into his bedroom.
Since their arrival, she'd barely seen him. He left for the driving
range early in the morning, from there went to the golf course and then
God knew where, leaving her with no one but Miss Sybil for company.
Francesca hadn't been in the house for a day before she'd found a copy
of Tender Is the Night pressed into her hands along with a gentle
admonition to refrain from pouting when things didn't go her way.
Dallie's abandonment upset her. He acted as if nothing had happened
between them, as if they hadn't spent a night making love. At first she
had tried to ignore it, but now she
had decided that she had to start fighting for what she wanted, and
what she wanted was more lovemaking.
She tapped the tip of one unpainted fingernail softly on the door
opposite her own, afraid Miss Sybil would awaken and hear her. She
shuddered at the thought of what the disagreeable old woman would do if
she knew Francesca had wandered across the hall to Dallie's bedroom for
illicit sex. She would probably chase her from the house screaming
"Harlot!" at the top of her lungs. When Francesca heard no response
from the other side of the door, she tapped a bit harder.
Without warning, Dallie's voice boomed out from the other side,
sounding like a cannon in the still of the night. "If that's you,
Francie, come on in and stop making so damned much noise."
She darted inside the bedroom, hissing like a tire losing its air.
"Shh! She'll hear you, Dallie. She'll know I'm in your room."
He stood fully dressed, hitting golf balls with his putter across the
carpet toward an empty beer bottle. "Miss Sybil's eccentric," he said,
eyeing the line of his putt, "but she's not even close to being a
prude. I think she was disappointed when I told her we wouldn't be
sharing a room."
Francesca had been disappointed, too, but she wasn't going to make an
issue of it now, when her pride had already been stung. "I've barely
seen you at all since we got here. I thought maybe you were still angry
with me about Beast."
"Beast?"
"That bloody cat." A trace of annoyance crept into her voice. "He bit
me again yesterday."
Dallie smiled, then sobered. "Actually, Francie, I thought it might be
better if we kept our hands to ourselves for a while."
Something inside her gave a small lurch. "Why? What do you mean?"
The bail pinged against the glass as his putt found its mark. "I mean
that I don't think you can handle a whole lot more trouble in your life
right now, and you should know that I'm pretty much unreliable where
women are concerned." He used the head of the putter to reach out for
another ball
and draw it close. "Not that I'm proud of it, you understand, but
that's the way things are. So if you've got any ideas about
rose-covered bungalows or His and Her bath towels, you might want to
get rid of them."
Enough of the old proud Francesca still lingered that she managed to
slip a condescending laugh past the lump in her throat. "Rose-covered
bungalows? Really, Dallie, what on earth can you be thinking of? I'm
going to marry Nicky, remember? This is my last fling before I'm
permanently shackled." Except she wasn't going to marry Nicky. She'd
placed another call last night, hoping that he would have returned by
now and she could talk him into advancing her a small loan so she
wouldn't be so dependent on Dallie for money. Her call woke the
houseboy, who said Mr. Gwynwyck was away on his honeymoon. Francesca
had stood with the receiver in her hand for some time before she'd hung
up the phone.
Dallie looked up from the floor. "Are you telling me the truth? No His
and Hers? No long-term plans?"
"Of course I'm telling the truth."
"Are you sure? There's something funny in your face when you look at
me."
She tossed herself down into a chair and gazed around the room as if
the caramel-colored walls and floor-to-ceiling bookcases were far more
interesting than the man in front of her. "Fascination, darling," she
said airily, draping a bare leg over the arm of the chair and arching
her foot. "You are, after all, rather one of a kind."
"It's nothing more than fascination?"
"Gracious, Dallie. I don't mean to insult you, but I'm hardly the kind
of woman who would fall in love with an impoverished Texas golf pro."
Yes, I am, she admitted silently. I'm exactly that kind of woman.
"Now, you do have a point there. To tell you the truth, I can't imagine
you falling in love with an impoverished anybody."
She decided the time had come to salvage another small remnant of her
pride, so she stood and stretched, revealing the bottom edge of the
black silk underpants. "Well, darling, I think I'll leave, since you
seem to have other things to occupy your
time."
He looked at her for a minute as if he were making up his mind about
something. Then he gestured toward the opposite side of the room with
his putter. "Actually, I thought you might want to help me out here. Go
on and stand over there, will you?"
"Why?"
"Just you never mind. I'm the man. You're the woman. You do what I say."
She made a face, then did as he asked, taking her time as she moved.
"Now slip off that T-shirt," he ordered.
"Dallie!"
"Come on, this is serious, and I don't have all night."
He didn't look at all serious, so she obediently pulled off the
T-shirt, taking her time and feeling a warm rush through her body as
she revealed herself to him.
He took in her bare breasts and the silky black bikini underpants. Then
he gave an admiring whistle. "Now, that's nice, honey. That is real
inspiring stuff. This is going to work out even better than I thought."
"What's going to work out?" she inquired warily.
"Something all us golf pros do for practice. You arrange yourself lying
down in the position of my choice on the carpet right there. When
you're ready, you slip off those panties, call out some specific part
of your body, and I see how close I can get with my putt. It's the best
exercise in the world for improving a golfer's concentration."
Francesca smiled and planted one hand on her bare hip. "And I can just
imagine how much fun it is to fetch the balls when you're done."
"Damn, but you British women are smart."
"Too smart to let you get away with this."
"I was afraid you'd say that." He propped his putter up against a chair
and began to walk toward her. "Guess we'll just have to find something
else to occupy our time."
"Like what?"
He reached out and pulled her into his arms. "I don't know. But I'm
thinking real hard."
Later, as she lay in his arms drowsy from lovemaking, she considered
how strange it was that a woman who had turned down the Prince of Wales
had fallen in love with Dallie Beaudine. She tilted her head so that
her lips touched his bare chest and gave his skin a soft kiss. Just
before she drifted off to sleep, she told herself that she would make
him care for her. She would become exactly the woman he wanted her to
be, and then he would love her as much as she loved him.
Sleep didn't come so easily to Dallie—either that night or for the next
few weeks. He could feel Halloween beating down on him, and he lay
awake trying to distract himself by playing a round of golf in his head
or thinking about Francesca. For a woman who painted herself as one of
the world's great sophisticates just because she'd run around Europe
eating snails, Miss Fancy Pants would have learned a hell of a lot
more, in his opinion, if she'd spent a few half-times on a stadium
blanket under the bleachers at Wynette High.
She didn't seem to have logged enough hours between the bedposts to
really relax with him, and he could see her worrying about whether she
had her hands in the right place or whether she was moving in a way
that would please him. It was hard for him to enjoy himself with all
that single-minded dedication coming his way.
He knew she had half convinced herself she was in love with him, even
though it wouldn't take her more than twenty-four hours back in London
before she would have forgotten his name. Still, he had to admit that
when he finally got her on that plane, part of him was actually going
to miss her, despite the fact that she was a feisty little thing who
wasn't giving up her stuck-up ways easy. She couldn't pass a mirror
without spending a day and a half looking at herself, and she left a
mess everywhere she went, as if she expected some servant to come along
after her and clean up. Even so, he had to admit that she seemed to be
making an effort. She ran errands into town for Miss Sybil and took
care of that damned walleyed cat and tried to get along with Skeet by
telling him stories about all the movie stars she'd met. She'd even
started reading J. D. Salinger. More important, she finally seemed to
be getting the idea that the world hadn't
been created just for her benefit.
One thing he knew for sure. He would be sending old Nicky back a hell
of a better woman than the one Nicky'd sent him.
Chapter
14
Naomi Jaffe Tanaka had to restrain herself from jumping up from her14
desk and dancing a jig as she set down her telephone. She'd found her!
After an incredible amount of work, she'd finally found her
Sassy Girl!
Quickly she called in her secretary and dictated a list of instructions.
"Don't try to contact her; I want to approach her in person. Just
double-check my information to make certain it's right."
Her secretary looked up from her steno pad. "You don't think she'll
turn you down, do you?"
"I hardly think so. Not for the kind of money we're offering." But for
all her confidence, Naomi was a natural worrier, and she knew she
wouldn't relax until she had a signature on the dotted line of an
ironclad contract. "I want to fly out as quickly as possible. Let me
know as soon as the arrangements are set."
After her secretary left her office, Naomi hesitated for a moment and
then dialed the number of her apartment. The phone rang again and
again, but she refused to hang up. He was there; her luck wasn't good
enough to make him magically disappear. She should never have agreed to
let him stay in her apartment. If anyone at BS&R found out—
"Answer, dammit."
The line clicked. "Saul's Whorehouse and Crematorium. Lionel speaking."
"Can't you just say hello like a normal person?" she snapped. Why was
she putting herself through this? The police wanted Gerry for
questioning, but he had received a tip that they planned to frame him
on trumped-up charges of drug dealing, so he refused to go in to talk
to them. Gerry didn't even smoke grass anymore, let alone deal in
drugs, and she hadn't had the heart to turn him back out on the street.
She also retained enough of her old distrust of the police to be
unwilling to submit him to the unpredictability of the legal system.
"Talk to me nice or I'll hang up," he said.
"Terrific," she retorted. "If I get really nasty, does that mean you'll
move out?"
"You got a letter from Save the Children thanking you for your
contribution. Fifty lousy bucks."
"Dammit, you have no business reading my mail."
"Trying to buy your way into heaven, sis?"
Naomi refused to jump to his bait. There was a moment of silence, and
then he made a grudging apology. "Sorry. I'm so bored I can't stand
myself."
"Did you look over that information on law school I left out for you?"
she asked casually.
"Aw, shit, don't start this again."
"Gerry . . ."
"I'm not selling out!"
"Just think about it, Gerry. Going to law school isn't selling out. You
could do more good by working inside the system—"
"Knock it off, okay, Naomi? We've got a world out there that's ready to
blow itself up. Adding another lawyer to the system isn't going to
change a thing."
Despite his vehement protests, she sensed that the idea of going to law
school wasn't as distasteful to him as he pretended. But she knew he
needed time to think it over, so she didn't press him. "Look, Gerry, I
have to go out of town for a few days. Do me a favor and try to be gone
when I get back."
"Where are you going?"
She looked down at the memo pad on her desk and smiled to herself. In
twenty-four hours, the Sassy
Girl would be signed,
sealed, and delivered. "I'm going to a place called Wynette, Texas,"
she said.
* * *
Clad in jeans, sandals, and one of Miss Sybil's brightly colored cottonblouses, Francesca sat next to Dallie in a honky-tonk called the
Roustabout. After nearly three weeks in Wynette, she had lost count
of
the number of evenings they had spent at the town's favorite night
spot. Despite the raucous country band, the cloud of low-hanging smoke,
and the tacky orange and black Halloween crepe paper hanging from the
bar, she had discovered she actually liked the place.
Everyone in Wynette knew the town's most famous golfer, so the two of
them always entered the honky-tonk to a chorus of "Hey, Dallie's"
ringing out over the Naugahyde stools and the twang of the steel
guitars. But tonight, for the first time, there had been a few "Hey,
Francie's" thrown in, pleasing her inordinately.
One of the Roustabout's female patrons pushed her witch's mask to the
top of her head and planted a boisterous kiss on Skeet's cheek. "Skeet,
you old bear, I'm going to get you to the altar yet."
He chuckled. "You're too young for me, Eunice. I couldn't keep up with
you."
"You said a mouthful there, honey." Eunice let out a shriek of laughter
and then went off with a friend who was unwisely dressed in a harem
costume that left her chubby midriff bare.
Francesca smiled. Although Dallie had been in a surly mood all evening,
she was having fun. Most of the Roustabout's patrons were wearing their
standard outfits of jeans and Stetsons, but a few wore Halloween
costumes and all the bartenders had on glasses with rubber noses.
"Over here, Dallie!" one of the women called out. "We're going to bob
for apples in a bucket of draft."
Dallie slammed the front legs of his chair down to the floor, grabbed
Francesca's arm, and muttered, "Christ, that's all I need. Quit
talking, dammit. I want to dance."
She hadn't been talking, but his expression was so grim that she didn't
bother pointing that out. She just got up and followed him. As he
dragged her across the floor toward the jukebox, she found herself
remembering the first night he'd brought her
to the Roustabout. Had it only been three weeks ago?
Her memories of the Blue Choctaw had still been fresh that night, and
she was nervous. Dallie had dragged her onto the dance floor and, over
her protests, insisted on teaching her the Texas two-step and the
Cotton-Eyed Joe. After twenty minutes, her face had felt flushed and
her skin had been damp. She had wanted nothing more than to escape to
the rest room and repair the damage. "I've danced enough, Dallie," she
had told him.
He had steered her toward the center of the wooden dance floor. "We're
just warming up."
"I'm quite warm enough, thank you."
"Yeah? Well, I'm not."
The tempo of the music had picked up and Dallie's hold on her waist had
tightened. She had begun to hear Chloe's voice taunting her over the
country music, telling her that no one would love her if she
didn't
look beautiful, and she had felt the first flutters of uneasiness
spread out inside her. "I don't want
to dance anymore," she had
insisted, trying to pull away.
"Well, that's just too bad, because I do." Dallie had snatched up his
bottle of Pearl as they passed by
their table. Without losing a beat,
he had taken a drink, then pressed the bottle to her lips and tilted it
up.
"I don't—" She had swallowed and choked as beer splashed into her
mouth. He had raised the bottle to his own mouth again and emptied it.
Sweaty tendrils had clung to her cheeks and beer had run down her chin.
"I'm going to leave you," she had threatened, her voice rising. "I'm
going to walk off this floor and out of your life forever if you don't
let me go right now."
He had paid no attention. He had held on to her damp hands and pressed
her body up against his.
"I want to sit down!" she had demanded.
"I don't really care what you want." He had moved his hands high up
under her arms, right where the perspiration had soaked through her
blouse.
"Please, Dallie," she had cried, mortified.
"Just shut your mouth and move your feet."
She had continued to plead with him, but he ignored her. Her lipstick
had disappeared, her underarms
had become a public disgrace, and she
had felt absolutely certain that she was going to cry.
Just then, right in the middle of the dance floor, Dallie had stopped
moving. He had looked down at her, dipped his head, and kissed her full
on her beery mouth. "Damn, you're pretty," he had whispered.
She remembered those gentle words now as he pulled her none too gently
through the orange and black paper streamers toward the jukebox. After
three weeks of posturing, posing, and trying to work miracles with dime
store cosmetics, she had only once wrung a compliment about her
appearance out of him—and that had been when she looked terrible.
He bumped into two men on his way to the jukebox and didn't bother to
apologize. What was the matter with him tonight? Francesca wondered.
Why was he acting so surly? The band had taken a break, and he dug into
the pocket of his jeans for a quarter. A chorus of groans rang out
along with a few catcalls.
"Don't let him do it, Francie," Curtis Molloy called out.
She tossed him a mischievous smile over her shoulder. "Sorry, luv, but
he's bigger than I am. Besides, he gets dreadfully ornery if I argue
with him." The combination of her British accent with their lingo made
them laugh, as she'd known it would.
Dallie punched the same two buttons he'd been punching all night
whenever the band stopped playing, then set his bottle of beer on top
of the jukebox. "I haven't heard Curtis blabber so much in years," he
told Francesca. "You really got him going. Even the women are starting
to like you." His words sounded more grudging than pleased.
She ignored his bad mood as the rock tune began to play. "What about
you?" she asked saucily. "Do you like me, too?"
He moved his athlete's body to the first chords of "Born to Run,"
dancing to Springsteen's music as gracefully as he did the Texas
two-step. "Of course I like you," he scowled.
"I'm not so much of an alley cat that I'd still be sleeping with you if
I didn't like you a whole lot better than I used to. Damn, I love this
song."
She had hoped for a somewhat more romantic declaration, but with Dallie
she'd learned to settle for what she could get. She also didn't share
his enthusiasm for the song he kept playing on the jukebox. Although
she couldn't understand all of the lyrics, she gathered that the part
about tramps like us who were born to run might be what Dallie liked so
much about the song. The sentiment didn't fit well with her own vision
of domestic bliss, so she shut out the lyrics and concentrated on the
music, matching her body movements to Dallie's as she was learning to
do so well in their own deep night bedroom dance. He looked into her
eyes and she looked into his, and the music swept up around them. She
felt as if some kind of invisible lock had snapped them together, and
then the mood was broken as her stomach gave one of its queer pitches.
She wasn't pregnant, she told herself. She couldn't be. Her doctor had
told her very clearly that she couldn't get pregnant until she started
having her menstrual periods again. But her recent nausea had worried
her enough that the day before at the library she'd looked through a
Planned Parenthood pamphlet on pregnancy when Miss Sybil wasn't
watching. To her dismay, she had read the exact opposite and she found
herself desperately counting back to that first night she and Dallie
had made love. It had been almost a month ago exactly.
They danced again and then went back to their table, the palm of his
hand cupped over the small of her back. She enjoyed his touch, the
sensation of a woman being protected by the man who cared about her.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if she actually was pregnant, she thought
as she sat down at the table. Dailie wasn't the kind of man who would
slip her a few hundred dollars and drive her to the local abortionist.
Not that she had any desire to have a baby, but she was beginning to
learn that everything had a price. Maybe pregnancy would make him
commit himself to her, and once he made that commitment everything
would be wonderful. She would encourage him to stop drinking so much
and apply himself more. He would begin to win tournaments and make
enough money so they could buy a house in a city
somewhere. It wouldn't be the sort of fashionable international life
she'd envisioned for herself, but she didn't need all that running
about anymore, and she knew she would be happy as long as Dallie loved
her. They would travel together, and he would take care of her, and
everything would be perfect.
But the picture wouldn't quite crystallize in her mind, so she took a
sip from her bottle of Lone Star.
A woman's voice with a drawl as lazy as a Texas Indian summer
penetrated her thoughts. "Hey, Dallie," the voice said softly, "make
any birdies for me?"
Francesca sensed the change in him, an alertness that hadn't been there
a moment before, and she lifted her head.
Standing next to their table and gazing down at him with mischievous
blue eyes stood the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever seen.
Dallie jumped up with a soft exclamation and enveloped her in his arms.
Francesca had the sensation of time frozen in place as the two dazzling
blond creatures pressed their heads together, beautiful American
thoroughbreds in home-grown denim and worn cowboy boots, superhumans
who suddenly made her feel incredibly small and ordinary. The woman
wore a Stetson pushed back on a cloud of blond hair that fell in sexy
disarray to her shoulders, and she'd left three buttons on her plaid
shirt unfastened to reveal more than a little of the impressive swell
of her breasts. A wide leather belt encircled her small waist, and
tight jeans fit her hips so closely they made a V at her crotch before
clinging in a smooth line down a nearly endless expanse of long, trim
leg.
The woman looked into Dallie's eyes and said something so quietly only
Francesca overheard. "You didn't think I'd leave you alone for
Halloween, did you, baby?" she whispered.
The fear that had seemed like a cold fist clutching Francesca's heart
abruptly eased as she realized how much alike they looked. Of course .
. . she shouldn't have been so startled. Of course they looked alike.
This woman could only be Dallie's sister, the elusive Holly Grace.
A moment later, he confirmed her identity. Releasing the tall blond
goddess, he turned to Francesca. "Holly Grace, this is Francesca Day.
Francie, I'd like you to meet Holly Grace
Beaudine."
"How do you do?" Francesca extended her hand and smiled warmly. "I
would have recognized you as Dallie's sister anywhere; you two look so
much alike."
Holly Grace pulled the brim of the Stetson forward a bit on her head
and studied Francesca with clear blue eyes. "Sorry to disappoint you,
honey, but I'm not Dallie's sister."
Francesca regarded her quizzically.
"I'm Dallie's wife."
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