Although Dallie made several halfhearted attempts to smooth his relationship with Teddy, the two of them were like oil and water. When his father was around, Teddy bumped into furniture, broke dishes, and sulked. Dallie was quick to criticize the child, and the two of them grew increasingly miserable in each other's company. Francesca tried to act as a conciliator, but so much tension had built up between herself and Dallie since the evening they had danced at the Roustabout that she only succeeded in losing her own temper. The afternoon of her third and final day in Wynette, she confronted Dallie in the basement after Teddy had run upstairs and kicked a chair across the kitchen. "Couldn't you sit down and do a puzzle with him or read a book together?" she demanded. "What in God's name made you think he could learn to shoot pool with you yelling at him the entire time?" Dallie glared at the jagged tear in the green felt that covered his pool table. "I wasn't yelling, and you stay out of this. You're leaving tomorrow, and that doesn't give me much time to make up for nine years of too much female influence." "Only partial female influence," she retorted. "Don't forget that Holly Grace spent a lot of time with him, too." His eyes narrowed. "And just what do you mean by that remark?" "It means she was one hell of a better father than you'll ever be." Dallie stalked away from her, every muscle in his body taut with belligerence, only to reappear at her side moments later. "And another thing. I thought you were going to talk to him—explain about how I'm his father." "Teddy's not in the mood for any explanations. He's a smart kid. He'll catch on when he's ready." His eyes raked her body with deliberate insolence. "You know what I think's wrong with you? I think you're still an immature child who can't stand not getting her own way!" Her eyes raked him right back. "And I think you're a brainless jock who's not worth a damn without a bloody golf club in his hand!" They threw angry words at each other like guided missiles, but even as the hostilities between them mounted, Francesca had the vague sensation that nothing either of them said was hitting its target. Their words were merely an ineffective smoke screen that did little to hide the fact that the air between them was smoldering with lust. "It's no wonder you never got married. You're about the coldest woman I ever met in my life." "There are a number of men who'd disagree. Real men, not glamour boys who wear their jeans so tight you have to wonder what they're trying to prove." "It just shows where you've been putting your eyes." "It just shows how bored I've been." The words flew around their heads like bullets, leaving both of them seething with frustration and putting everyone else in the household on edge. Finally Skeet Cooper had had enough. "I've got a surprise for the two of you," he said, sticking his head through the basement door. "Come on up here." Not looking at each other, Dallie and Francesca climbed the steps to the kitchen. Skeet was waiting by the back door holding their jackets. "Miss Sybil and Doralee are gonna take Teddy to the library. You two are coming with me." "Where are we going?" Francesca asked. "I'm not in the mood," Dallie snapped. Skeet threw a red windbreaker at Dallie's chest. "I don't give a good goddamn whether you're in the mood or not, because I guaran-damn-tee you that you're gonna be shy one caddy if you don't hustle yourself into my car in about the next thirty seconds." Grumbling under his breath, Dallie followed Francesca out to Skeet's Ford. "You ride in the back," Skeet told him. "Francie's riding up here with me." Dallie grumbled some more, but did as he was told. Francesca did her best to drive Dallie even crazier during the ride by indulging in a pleasant conversation with Skeet and pointedly leaving him out. Skeet ignored Dallie's questions about where they were going, saying only that he had the solution to at least some of their problems. They were nearly twenty miles outside of Wynette on a road that looked vaguely familiar to Francesca, when Skeet pulled the car over to the side. "I've got something real interesting in the trunk of my car that I want both of you to see." Sliding up on one hip, he pulled a spare key from his pocket and tossed it back to Dallie. "You go look, too, Francie. I think this'll make the two of you feel a whole lot better." Dallie regarded him suspiciously, but opened the door and climbed out. Francesca zipped up her jacket and did the same. They walked along opposite sides of the car to the back, and Dallie reached toward the trunk lock with the key. Before he could touch it, however, Skeet hit the accelerator and peeled away, leaving the two of them standing at the side of the road. Francesca stared at the rapidly vanishing car in bewilderment. "What—" "You son of a bitch!" Dallie yelled, shaking his fist at the back end of the Ford. "I'm going to kill him! When I get my hands on him, he's gonna regret the day he was born. I should have known— That rotten no-good—" "I don't understand," Francesca cut in. "What's he doing? Why is he leaving us?" "Because he can't stand listening to you argue anymore, that's why!" "Me!" There was a short pause before he grabbed her upper arm. "Come on." "Where are we going?" "My house. It's about a mile or so down the next road." "How convenient," she said dryly. "Are you sure the two of you didn't plot this together?" "Believe me," he snarled, starting to walk again, "the last thing in the world I want is to be stuck in that house with you. There's not even a telephone." "Look on the bright side," she replied sarcastically. "With those Goody Two-shoes rules you've laid down, we won't be able to fight once we get in the house." "Yeah, well you'd better stick to those rules or you'll find yourself spending the night on the front porch." "Spending the night?" "You don't really think he's going to come back and get us before morning, do you?" "You're kidding." "Do I look like it?" They walked for a little bit, and then, just to aggravate him, she started humming Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again." He stopped and glared at her. "Oh, don't be such a sourpuss," she chided. "You have to admit this is at least a little amusing." "Amusing!" Once again his hands slammed down on his hips. "I'd like to know what's so damned amusing about it! You know just as well as I do what's going to happen between the two of us in that house tonight." A truck whipped by them, tossing Francesca's hair against her cheek. She felt her pulse jump in her throat. "I don't know any such thing," she replied haughtily. He gave her a scornful look, telling her without words that he thought she was the world's biggest hypocrite. She glared at him and then decided the best course lay in advance rather than retreat. "Even if you're right—which you're not—you don't have to act as if you're heading for a root canal operation." "That'd probably be a hell of a lot less painful." One of his barbs had finally pricked, and now she was the one who stopped walking. "Do you really mean that?" she asked, genuinely hurt. He shoved one hand in the pocket of his parka and kicked a stone with his foot. "Of course I mean it." "You do not." "I absolutely do." She must have looked as upset as she felt, because his expression softened and then he took a step toward her. "Aw, Francie . . ." Before either of them quite knew what was happening, she was in his arms and he was gently lowering his mouth to hers. The kiss began soft and sweet, but they were so hungry for each other that it changed almost immediately. His fingers plowed into her hair, sweeping it back from her temples to fall over his hands. She wrapped her arms around his neck and, standing on tiptoe, parted her lips to welcome his tongue. The kiss shattered them. It was like a great typhoon sweeping away all their differences with its strength. One of his hands reached beneath her hips, lifting her just off the ground. His kiss moved from her mouth to her neck and then back to her mouth. His hand found the bare skin where her jacket and sweater had risen above her slacks, and he stroked upward along her spine. Within seconds, the two of them were hot and wet, full of juice, ready to eat each other up. A car sped past, horn blasting, catcalls sounding out the window. Francesca released her grasp around his neck. "Stop," she moaned. "We can't. . . Oh, God . . ." He lowered her slowly to the ground. Her skin was hot. Slowly, Dallie withdrew his hand from beneath her sweater and let her go. "The thing of it is," he said, his voice slightly breathless, "when this sort of thing happens between people—this kind of sexual chemistry—they lose their common sense." "Does this sort of thing happen to you often?" she snapped, suddenly as nervous as a cat with its fur being stroked the wrong way. "The last time was when I was seventeen, and I promised myself I'd learn a lesson from it. Damn, Francie, I'm thirty-seven years old, and you're—what—thirty?" "Thirty-one." "Both of us are old enough to know better, and here we are, acting like a couple of horny teenagers." He shook his blond head in self-disgust. "It'll be a miracle if you don't end up with a sucker bite on your neck." "Don't blame me for what happened," she retorted. "I've been on the wagon for so long that anything looks good to me right now—even you." "I thought you and that Prince Stefan—" "We're going to. We just haven't gotten around to it yet." "Something like that you probably shouldn't put off much longer." They started walking again. Before long, Dallie took her hand and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. His gesture should have been friendly and comforting, but it sent threads of heat traveling up Francesca's arm. She decided that the best way to dissipate the electricity between them was to use the cold voice of logic. "Everything is already so complicated for us. This—this—sexual attraction is going to make it impossible." "You could kiss good ten years ago, honey, but you've moved into the major leagues since then." "I don't do that with everybody," she replied irritably. "No offense, Francie, but I remember back all those years ago that once the serious business got started, you still had a few things to learn—not that you weren't a real good student. Tell me why I get the feeling that you've pretty much put yourself on the honor roll since then?" "I haven't! I'm terrible at sex. It—it messes up my hair." He chuckled. "I don't think you care too much about your hair anymore—not that it doesn't look real good—and your makeup, too, by the way." "Oh, God," she moaned. And then, "Maybe we should pretend none of this happened, just go back to the way things were." He tucked his hand, along with hers, into the pocket of his parka. "Honey, you and I have been circling each other ever since the second we got back together—sniffing and snarling like a couple of mongrel dogs. If we don't let things take their natural course pretty soon, we're both going to end up half crazy." He paused for a moment. "Or blind." Instead of disagreeing with him, as she should have, Francesca found herself saying, "Assuming we decide to go ahead with this, how long do you think it will take for us to—to burn out?" "I don't know. We're entirely different people. My guess is if we do it two or three times, the mystery'll be gone, and that'll pretty much be the end of it." Was he right? She chastised herself. Of course he was right. This kind of sexual chemistry was just like a brushnre —it burned hot and quickly, but had no real staying power. Once again she was making too big a deal out of sex. Dallie was acting completely casual about the whole thing and so should she. This was a perfect opportunity to get him out of her blood without losing her dignity. They walked the rest of the way to the farmhouse in silence. When they got inside, he performed all the rituals of a host—hanging up their jackets, adjusting the thermostat so the house would be comfortable, pouring her a glass of wine from a bottle he'd brought in from the kitchen. The silence between them had begun to feel oppressive, and she took refuge in sarcasm. "If that bottle has a screw top, I don't want any." "I took the cork out with my very own teeth." She repressed a smile and sat down on the couch, only to discover that she was too nervous to sit still. She got back up. "I'm going to use the bathroom. And, Dallie ... I didn't—bring anything with me. I know it's my body and I consider myself responsible for it, but I didn't plan to end up in your bed—not that I've actually made up my mind about that yet—but if I do—if we do—if you're not better prepared than I am, you'd better tell me right now." He smiled. "I'll take care of it.". "You'd better." She gave him her most ferocious scowl, because everything was moving too quickly for her. She knew she was getting ready to do something she would regret, but she didn't seem to have the willpower to stop herself. It was because she'd been celibate for a year, she reasoned. That was the only explanation. When she returned from the bathroom, he was sitting on the sofa, with one boot crossed over his knee, drinking a glass of tomato juice. She sat at the opposite end of the couch, not pressed up against the arm exactly, but not cuddled next to him, either. He looked over at her. "Jeez, Francie, I wish you'd loosen up a little bit. You're starting to make me nervous." "Don't give me that," she retorted. "You're as nervous as I am. You just hide it better." He didn't deny it. "You want to take a shower together to warm up?" She shook her head. "I don't want to take off my clothes." "It's going to be pretty difficult—" "That's not what I mean. I'll probably take off my clothes—eventually—maybe—if I decide to—it's just that I plan to be already warmed up before I do it." Dallie grinned. "You know what, Francie? This is sort of fun, just sitting here talking about it. I almost hate to start kissing you."