Heaven, Texas (2 page)

The surroundings might be prehistoric, but the guests were thoroughly modern. There were perhaps thirty people in the mixed group. All of the women were young and beautiful, while the men, both black and white, had bulging muscles and thick necks. She knew nothing about football players except for their unsavory reputations, and as she observed the scanty bikinis worn by most of the women, she couldn't suppress a small spark of hope that some sort of orgy might be about to take place. Not that she would ever participate in such a thing—even supposing anyone should ask her to—but it would be interesting to observe.

Shrill female squeals drew her attention to the foaming hot tub that sat inside a cluster of boulders on a raised platform near the windows. Four women frolicked in the bubbles, and Gracie experienced both envy and admiration as she observed their glistening, suntanned breasts bouncing in brief bikini tops. And then her gaze moved beyond the women to the lone man occupying the platform, and everything inside her went still,

She recognized him at once from his photographs. He stood next to the hot tub like a sultan surveying his harem, and as she watched him, all her deepest and most secret sexual fantasies came to life. This was Bobby Tom Denton.
Dear Lord.

He was the embodiment of every man she'd ever dreamed about; all the high school boys who'd ignored her, all the young men who never remembered her name, all the handsome professional men who complimented her on her clear thinking, but never thought to ask her out for a date. He was a glittering superhuman creature who must have been put on earth by a perverse God to remind homely women like herself that some things were unobtainable.

She knew from the photographs she had seen that his Stetson concealed a head of thick blond hair, while the brim shadowed a pair of midnight blue eyes. Unlike her own, his cheekbones could have been chiseled by a Renaissance sculptor. He had a strong, straight nose, a determined jaw, and a mouth that should have come with a warning label. He was utterly and supremely masculine, and as she gazed at him, she felt the same piercing longing she experienced on warm summer evenings when she lay in the grass and stared at the stars. He shone as brightly, and he was just as unreachable.

He wore a black Stetson accompanied by snakeskin cowboy boots and a velour bathrobe patterned in red and green lightning bolts. He held an amber beer bottle in one hand, and smoke curled from the cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. The skin between the tops of his cowboy boots and the bottom of his robe was bare, revealing powerfully muscled calves, and her mouth went dry as she wondered if he was naked underneath that robe.

“Hey! I told you to wait by the door for me.”

She jumped as the burly man who had let her in the house came up behind her, a small boom box in his hand.

“Stella said you were hot, but I told her I wanted a blonde.” He regarded her doubtfully. “Bobby Tom likes blondes. Are you blond under that wig?”

Her hand flew to her french twist. “Actually—”

“I like that librarian's get-up you're wearing, but you need a lot more makeup. Bobby Tom likes his women with makeup.”

And breasts, she thought, as her eyes wandered back toward the platform. Bobby Tom also liked his women with very large breasts.

She returned her gaze to the boom box, trying to grasp the specifics of the misunderstanding between them. As she began to frame a proper explanation, the man scratched his chest.

“Did Stella tell you we want something a little special, on account of how depressed he's been lately because of his retirement? He's even talking about leaving Chicago to live in Texas year round. The boys and me thought this might give him a couple of laughs. Bobby Tom loves strippers.”

Strippers!
Gracie's fingers convulsed around her fake pearls. “Oh, dear! I should explain—”

“There was one stripper I thought he might even marry, but she couldn't pass his football quiz.” He shook his head. “I still can't believe that the greatest wideout in the game has hung up his helmet for Hollywood. Goddamn knee.”

Since he seemed to be talking to himself rather than her, Gracie didn't respond. Instead, she tried to absorb the incredible fact that this man had mistaken her—the last thirty-year-old virgin left on Planet Earth—for a stripper!

It was embarrassing.

It was terrifying.

It was
thrilling!

Once again, he regarded her critically. “Last one Stella sent over came in dressed like a nun. Bobby Tom likes to bust a gut laughing. But she wore a lot more makeup. Bobby Tom likes makeup on his women. You'd better go fix yourself up.”

It was long past time to put an end to this misunderstanding, and she cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, Mr.—”

“Bruno. Bruno Metucci. I played for the Stars back in the old days when Bert Somerville owned the team. 'Course I was never a starter like Bobby Tom.”

“I see. Well, the fact is—”

An outburst of shrill, female squeals erupting from the hot tub distracted her. She lifted her eyes to see Bobby Tom gazing indulgently at the women frolicking at his feet, while in the distance the lights of Lake Michigan glimmered through the glass behind him. For a moment she had the illusion that he was floating in space, a cosmic cowboy .in his Stetson, boots, and bathrobe, a man not governed by the same rules of gravity that kept ordinary mortals earthbound He seemed to wear invisible spurs on those boots, spurs that spun at supersonic speed, shooting off giant pin-wheels of glittering sparks that illuminated everything he did and made it larger than life.

A woman rose from the bubbles in the hot tub. “Bobby Tom, you said I could take the quiz again.”

She had spoken loudly, and several rowdy cheers went up from the guests. As if one body, everyone in the group turned toward the platform, awaiting his response.

Bobby Tom, with cigar and beer bottle in one hand, stuck his other hand in the pocket of his robe and regarded her with concern. “Are you sure you're ready, Julie, honey? You know you only get two chances, and you missed Eric Dickerson's career rushing record by a hundred yards last time.”

“I'm sure. I've been studying real hard.”

Julie looked as if she belonged on the cover of
Sports Illustrated's
swimsuit issue. As she hoisted herself out of the water, wet blond hair streamed in pale ribbons over her shoulders. She sat on the edge of the hot tub, revealing a swimsuit made up of three tiny turquoise triangles banded in bright yellow. Gracie knew that many of her acquaintances would disapprove of such a revealing swimsuit, but as a devout believer that every woman should capitalize on her assets, Gracie thought she looked wonderful.

Someone in the crowd turned down the music. Bobby Tom sat on one of the boulders and crossed a snakeskin cowboy boot over his bare knee. “Come here and give me a kiss for good luck, then. And don't you disappoint me this time. I've just about got my heart set on makin' you Mrs. Bobby Tom.”

While Julie complied with his request, Gracie gazed inquisitively at Bruno. “He gives them quizzes about football?”

“  'Course he does. Football's Bobby Tom's life. He doesn't believe in divorce, and he knows he couldn't ever be happy with a woman who didn't understand the game.”

While Gracie tried to absorb this piece of information, Bobby Tom kissed Julie, then patted her wet bottom and sent her back to her perch on the edge of the hot tub. The guests had congregated near the platform to observe the action. Gracie took advantage of the fact that Bruno was also watching the interchange to back up onto one of the steps behind her so she didn't miss a thing.

Bobby Tom put out his cigar in a chunky onyx ashtray. “All right, honey. Let's start with quarterbacks. Choosin' between Terry Bradshaw, Len Dawson, and Bob Griese, which one had the highest percentage of completions? Notice I'm trying to keep this easy. I'm not asking you for the actual percentage, just who ranks highest.”

Julie flipped her sleek wet hair over her shoulder and gave him a confident smile. “Len Dawson.”

“Real good.” The hot tub lights reflected up, so that his face was visible, even under the brim of his Stetson. Although Gracie stood a little too far away to be certain, she thought she detected amusement glinting in those deep blue eyes. As a devout student of human nature, she grew even more interested in observing what he was up to.

“Now let's see if you've got your problems from the last quiz straightened out. Slip your mind back to 1985 and name the NFC's leading rusher.”

“Easy. Marcus Allen.”

“The AFC?”

“Curt— No! Gerald Riggs.”

Bobby Tom pressed his hand to his chest. “Whew, you about stopped my heart with that one. Okay, now, longest field goal in a Super Bowl game?”

“1970. Jan Stenerud. Super Bowl IV.”

He looked around at the crowd and grinned. “Am I the only one hearin' wedding bells?”

Gracie was smiling herself at his chicanery as she leaned forward to whisper in Bruno's ear. “Isn't this a little demeaning?”

“Not if she wins. You got any idea how much Bobby Tom's worth?”

Quite a lot, she imagined. She listened as he fired off two more questions, both of which Julie answered. In addition to being beautiful, the blonde was quite knowledgeable, but Gracie had the distinct feeling she wasn't nearly smart enough to stay ahead of Bobby Tom Denton.

Once again, she whispered to Bruno. “Do those young women really believe he's serious about this?”

“Of course he's serious. Why else do you think a man who loves women as much as he does hasn't ever gotten married?”

“Maybe he's gay,” she suggested, purely as a point of discussion.

Bruno's shaggy eyebrows shot up into his forehead and he began to sputter. “Gay! Bobby Tom Denton? Shit, he's nailed more tail than a frontier trapper. Cheezus, don't let him hear you say that. He'd probably— Well, I don't even want to imagine what he'd do.”

Gracie had never believed that any man who was securely heterosexual should be threatened by homosexuality, but since she was hardly an expert on male behavior, she could quite possibly be missing something.

Julie answered a question about a person named Walter Payton and another about the Pittsburgh Steelers. Bobby Tom rose from his chair and began to pace along the back edge of the platform, as if he were in deep thought, which Gracie didn't believe for a minute.

“All right, honey, now concentrate. You're only one question away from that long walk down the center aisle, and I'm already thinkin' about what good-looking babies we're gonna have. I haven't felt this much pressure since my first Super Bowl. Are you concentrating?”

Creases had formed in Julie's perfect forehead. “I'm concentrating.”

“Okay, sweetheart, now don't disappoint me.” He tilted the beer to his lips, drained it, and set the bottle down. “Everybody knows the goalposts have to be eighteen feet, six inches wide. The top face of the crossbar—”

“Ten feet above the ground!” Julie shrieked.

“Aw, honey, I respect you too much to insult your intelligence with a question that easy. Wait till I finish, or you're gonna end up with a two-question penalty.”

She looked so stricken that Gracie's heart went out to her.

Bobby Tom crossed his arms over his chest. “The top face of the crossbar is ten feet above the ground. The vertical posts have to extend at least thirty feet above the crossbar. Now here's your question, sweetheart, and before you answer, remember that you're holding my heart in your hands.” Gracie waited expectantly. “For the chance to be Mrs. Bobby Tom Denton, give me the exact dimensions of the ribbon attached to the top of each upright.”

Julie shot up from the edge of the hot tub. “I know this, Bobby Tom! I know it!”

Bobby Tom went very still. “You do?”

A soft giggle slipped through Gracie's lips. It would serve him right if Julie answered the question.

“Four inches by sixty inches!”

Bobby Tom punched his chest.
“Aw,
baby! You just ripped out my heart and stomped the sucker flat.”

Julie's face crumpled.

“It's four inches by
forty-eight.
Forty-eight inches, sweetheart. We were only twelve inches away from eternal marital bliss. I can't remember the last time I was so depressed.”

Gracie watched him take Julie in his arms and kiss her quite thoroughly. This man might be the most blatant male chauvinist left in North America, but she had to admire his audacity. She watched with fascination as his hand, which was suntanned and exceptionally strong looking, curled over the bare globe of Julie's glistening bottom. The muscles in her own bottom tightened unconsciously in response.

The guests began to mill and a few of the men stepped up on the platform to offer condolences to the beautiful loser.

“Let's go.” Bruno took Gracie's arm, and before she could stop him, he had pushed her forward.

She caught her breath in alarm. What had started as a simple misunderstanding had begun to get out of hand, and she hastily turned back to him. “Bruno, there's something we need to talk about. It's quite funny, really, and—”

“Hey, Bruno!” Another bruiser, this one with red hair, came up next to them. He ran his eyes over Gracie and regarded Bruno critically.

“She's not wearing enough makeup. You know Bobby Tom likes his women with makeup. And I hope she's got blond hair underneath that wig. Boobs, too. That jacket's so loose it's hard to tell. You got boobs, doll?”

Gracie didn't know which was the more astonishing, being asked if she had boobs or being called “doll.” She was momentarily at a loss for words.

“Bruno, who you got there?”

Her stomach plummeted as she heard Bobby Tom's voice. He had stepped to the edge of the hot tub platform, and was regarding her with great interest and something that seemed almost like speculation.

Bruno patted the boom box. “Me and the boys thought we'd surprise you with a little entertainment.”

Gracie watched with growing dread as a wide grin stretched over Bobby Tom's face, revealing a set of straight white teeth. His eyes met hers, and she felt as if she were walking too fast on a moving sidewalk.