Heaven, Texas (3 page)

“Come on over here, honey, so ol' Bobby Tom can take a look at you before you get started.” His soft Texas drawl licked her body and scrambled her customary good sense, which might have been why she said the first thing that came into her mind.

“I—uh—have to put on more makeup first.”

“Now don't you worry about that.”

She let out a small gasp of dismay as Bruno pushed her the rest of the way forward. Before she could draw back, Bobby Tom's big hand closed around her wrist. Numbly, she looked down at the long, tapered fingers that only moments before had been molded to Julie's behind but were now pulling her up next to him on the platform.

“Let's give the lady some room, girls.”

Alarmed, she watched the women leaving the hot tub so they could watch her. She tried to explain. “Mr. Denton, I need to tell you who—”

Bruno hit the button on the boom box, and her voice was drowned out by the raucous music of “The Stripper.” The men began to cheer and whistle. Bobby Tom gave her an encouraging wink, released her, and walked away to sit on a boulder and watch the show.

Hot color flamed in her cheeks. She stood all alone in the center of the hot tub platform, and everyone in the room was staring at her. All of these perfect physical specimens were waiting for her, imperfect Gracie Snow, to strip!

“Come on, baby!”

“Don't be shy!”

“Shake it, honey!”

As some of the men made animal noises, one of the women put her fingers between her lips and whistled. Gracie gazed at them helplessly. They began to laugh, just as her sophomore English class had laughed when the tissues padding her bra had shifted. They were adult party animals behaving in accordance with their species, and they apparently thought her reluctance was part of the act.

As she stood frozen before them, the idea of being mistaken for a stripper suddenly became less embarrassing than the thought of shouting out an explanation over the music to all these worldly people who would instantly realize what a country bumpkin she was.

Perhaps fifteen feet separated her from Bobby Tom Denton, and she realized all she had to do was work herself close enough to him so she could whisper her identity. Once he realized that Windmill Studios had sent her, he would be so embarrassed by the mistake that he would help her make a discreet exit and give her his full cooperation.

A fresh burst of animal noises rose over the music blasting from the boom box. Gingerly, she extended her right leg several inches and pointed the toe of her sensible black pump. Once again there was laughter.

“That's the way!”

“Show us what you got!”

The distance between herself and Bobby Tom now seemed to stretch a hundred miles. Tugging on the skirt of her navy suit, she inched toward him. More whistles joined the laughter as the bottom of her hem reached the top of her knee.

“You're hot, baby! We love it!”

“Take off that wig!”

Bruno had pushed himself to the front of the crowd and was making a giant circle with his index finger. At first she didn't understand what he wanted, and then she realized he was ordering her to face Bobby Tom while she undressed. With a gulp, she turned toward those deep blue eyes.

He tilted his Stetson back on his head and spoke just loudly enough for her to hear. “Leave the pearls for last, sweetheart. I do like a lady in pearls.”

“We're getting bored!” one of the men bellowed. “Take something off!”

She nearly lost her nerve. Only the thought of what her employer would say if she fled from the house without having accomplished her mission stiffened her backbone. Gracie Snow didn't run! This job was the opportunity she'd been waiting for all her life, and she wasn't going to turn cowardly at the first sign of adversity.

She gingerly removed her suit jacket. Bobby Tom gave her an approving smile, as if she'd just done something amazing. The ten feet that still separated them seemed like a million miles. He hooked the ankle of his cowboy boot over his opposite knee, and his bathrobe fell open to reveal a very naked, powerfully muscled thigh. Her jacket dropped from her fingers.

“That's the way, honey. You're doin' real good.” His eyes sparkled with admiration, as if she were the most talented dancer he'd ever seen instead of the most inept.

With a series of clumsy bumps, she wiggled closer, trying to ignore the exaggerated boos that were beginning to come from the audience.

“Real nice,” he said. “I don't think I've ever seen an act quite like this.”

With a final thrust of her hips, she arrived at his side, minus only a jacket, and forced her stiff lips into a smile. Unfortunately, as she leaned forward to whisper her predicament into his ear, her cheek hit the brim of his Stetson, knocking it askew. With one hand, he righted it while, with the other, he swept her into his lap.

The loud music covered her startled exclamation. She was temporarily stunned into speechlessness by the feel of his hard body beneath her own and the solid wall of his chest pressed against her side.

“You need some help, honey?” His hand went to the top button of her blouse.

“Oh, no!” She clutched his arm.

“You've got an interesting act, sweetheart. A little slow getting going, but you're probably still a trainee.” He gave her a grin that held more mirth than lechery. “What's your name?”

She gulped. “Gracie—That is, Grace. Grace Snow.
Miss
Snow,” she amended, in a belated attempt to put some psychological distance between them. “And I'm not—”

“Miz
Snow.” He rolled the words around in his mouth, savoring them as if they were a particularly fine wine. The heat from his body was muddling her brain, and she tried to get out of his lap.

“Mr. Denton—”

“Just the top one, sweetie. The boys are getting restless.” Before she could stop him, he had opened the button at the collar of her white polyester blouse. “You must be new at this.” The tip of his index finger explored the hollow at the base of her throat, making her shiver. “I thought I'd met all of Stella's girls.”

“Yes, I— I mean, no, I'm—”

“Now don't be nervous. You're doin' just fine. And you've got very nice legs, if you don't mind my sayin' so.” His nimble fingers opened the next button.

“Mr. Denton!”

“Miz Snow?”

She saw the same amusement in his eyes she'd noted earlier when he was giving Julie the football quiz, and she realized he had slipped another button open, exposing her pale peach demibra with its plunging center and scalloped edging. Her naughty underwear, a foolish indulgence for a homely woman, was her most closely guarded secret, and she gave a small gasp of dismay.

A raucous cheer went up from the crowd, but it wasn't in response to her pale peach demibra. Instead one of the women standing by the pool had whipped off the top of her bikini and was twirling it around her head. Gracie saw right away that this woman needed something with more support than a demibra.

The men clapped and hooted. She reached for her blouse to clutch it together, but Bobby Tom caught her fingers, trapping them gently in his palm.

“Candi, there, seems to be gettin' ahead of you, Miz Snow.”

“I thought— Perhaps—” She swallowed hard. “There's something I need to talk to you about. In private.”

“You want to dance for me in private? That's real sweet of you, but my guests would be disappointed if I got to see more of you than they did.”

She realized he had unfastened the button at the waistband of her skirt and was lowering the zipper.

“Mr. Denton!” Her voice was louder than she had intended, and the guests standing nearby laughed.

“Call me Bobby Tom, honey. Everybody does.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as if he were laughing at some great private joke. “Now this is interesting. I don't think I've ever known a stripper who wore panty hose.”

“I'm not a stripper!”

“'Course you are. Why else would you be taking off your clothes in front of bunch of drunken football players?”

“I'm not taking off my— Oh!” His nimble ball handler's fingers were divesting her of her garments as effortlessly as if they were made of tissue paper, and her blouse fell open. Summoning all her strength, she pushed herself from his lap only to feel her skirt slide over her half slip to her ankles.

Mortified, she reached down to snatch it up. Her face was crimson as she yanked it back into place. How could a woman who prided herself on organization and efficiency have let something so appalling happen? Clutching her blouse together, she forced herself to face him. “I'm not a stripper!”

“Is that so?” He pulled a cigar out of the breast pocket of his robe and rolled it between his fingers. She noticed he didn't seem at all surprised by her announcement.

Her words had caught the attention of the guests nearest her, and she saw that her plans for a private conversation were rapidly dissolving. She lowered her voice until it was barely more than a whisper.

“There's been a terrible misunderstanding. Can't you see that I don't look like a stripper?”

He slipped the unlit cigar between his teeth and, letting his eyes slide over her in a leisurely fashion, spoke in a normal voice. “As to that, sometimes it's hard to tell. Last one came in here dressed like a nun, and the one before that was pretty much a dead ringer for Mick Jagger.”

Someone had shut off the music, and an unnatural silence had fallen over the crowd. Despite her determination to hold onto her self-control, she could no longer keep her voice steady. She snatched up the suit jacket she had discarded earlier. “Please, Mr. Denton. Could we go somewhere private?”

He sighed and uncoiled from the boulder. “I s'pose we'd better. But you've got to give me your word you'll keep your clothes on. It wouldn't be fair for me to see you naked when my guests can't.”

“I promise, Mr. Denton, that you will never see me naked!”

He looked doubtful. “I don't mean to question your good intentions, honey, but judging from my past history, it might not be that easy for you to resist.”

The size of his ego flabbergasted her. As she stared at him, he gave a slight shrug. “I suppose we'd better go in my study, then, and have that private conversation you're so set on.” Taking her arm, he led her down off the platform.

As they crossed the floor of the grotto, she remembered that he hadn't seemed the slightest bit surprised by her announcement that she wasn't a stripper. He was too cool, too calm, too openly amused with the whole situation. Before she had time to carry this thought to its logical conclusion, the red-haired football player who'd spoken with her earlier stepped out of the crowd and gave Bobby Tom a playful punch in the arm.

“Damn, Bobby Tom. I hope this one isn't pregnant, too.”

“Y
ou knew all along I wasn't a stripper, didn't you?”

Bobby Tom closed the study door after them. “Not for certain.”

Gracie Snow was nobody's fool. “I believe you did,” she said firmly.

He gestured toward her blouse, and once again she saw the laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his lady-killer eyes. “You've got your buttons mixed up there a little bit. You want me to help—? No, I guess you don't.”

Nothing was going the way she'd planned. What had Bobby Tom's friend meant when he'd said he hoped this one wasn't pregnant, too? She recalled a remark she'd overheard Willow make about one of their actors who'd been involved in several paternity suits a few years ago. They must have been talking about Bobby Tom. Apparently he was one of those loathsome men who preyed on vulnerable women and then abandoned them. It grated her to admit someone so immoral had fascinated her even momentarily.

She turned away to straighten her buttons and gather her composure. While she put herself together, she took in her surroundings and found herself facing the most colossal display of ego she had ever witnessed.

Bobby Tom Denton's study was a shrine to the football career of Bobby Tom Denton. Blown-up action photographs hung on every surface of the marbleized gray walls. Some of them showed him in the uniform of the University of Texas, but in most of them, he wore the sky blue and gold of the Chicago Stars. In several of the photographs, he was off the ground, toes pointed, his lean body curved in a graceful
C
as he snatched a ball out of the air. There were close-ups of him in a sky blue helmet emblazoned with three gold stars, shots of him diving for the goal line or maneuvering down the sidelines, one foot positioned in front of the other as gracefully as a ballet dancer's. Shelves displayed trophies, commendations, and framed certificates.

She watched him settle with lazy grace into a sling-shaped leather chair behind a granite-topped desk that looked as if it belonged in a Flintstones cartoon. A sleek gray computer sat on top, along with a high-tech telephone. She chose a tub chair resting beneath a group of framed magazines covers, several of which depicted him standing on the sidelines kissing a glamorous blonde. Gracie recognized her from an article she'd seen in
People
magazine, as Phoebe Somerville Calebow, the beautiful owner of the Chicago Stars.

His eyes drifted over her and the corner of his mouth curled. “I don't want to hurt your feelings, honey, but speaking as something of an expert, it seems only right to tell you that, if you're looking for a night job, you might think more on the lines of clerking at a 7-Eleven than taking off your clothes professionally.”

She'd never been very good at icy glares, but she did her best. “You deliberately set out to embarrass me.”

He worked equally hard at looking crestfallen. “I wouldn't do that to a lady.”

“Mr. Denton, as I suspect you know very well, I'm here on behalf of Windmill Studios. Willow Craig, the producer, sent me to—”

“Uh-huh. You want a glass of champagne or a Coke or something?” The phone began to ring, but he ignored it.

“No, thank you. You were supposed to be in Texas four days ago to begin shooting
Blood Moon,
and—”

“How about a beer? I've noticed a lot more women are drinking beer than used to.”

“I don't drink.”

“Is that so?”

She sounded priggish instead of businesslike, perhaps not the best posture for dealing with a wild man, and she tried to recover. “I don't drink myself, Mr. Denton, but I have nothing against those who use alcohol.”

“I'm Bobby Tom, sweetheart. I don't hardly recognize any other name.”

He sounded like a cowboy just coming in off a trail drive, but from watching him give that football quiz, she suspected he was smarter than he pretended to be. “Very well. Bobby Tom, then. The contract you signed with Windmill Studios—”

“You don't look much like the Hollywood type, Miz Snow. How long have you been working for Windmill?”

She busied herself straightening her pearls. Once again the phone began to ring, and once again he ignored it. “I've been a production assistant for some time.”

“Exactly how long?”

She surrendered to the inevitable, but she did it with dignity. Lifting her chin half an inch higher, she said, “Not quite a month.”

“That long.” He was clearly amused.

“I'm very competent. I came into this job with vast experience in management as well as excellent interpersonal communication skills.” She was also a whiz at making pot holders, painting ceramic pigs, and playing Golden Oldies on the piano.

He whistled. “I'm impressed. What sort of job would that have been?”

“I—uh—ran the Shady Acres Nursing Home.”

“A nursing home? Isn't that something. Were you in the business for long?”

“I was raised at Shady Acres.”

“You were raised in a nursing home? Now that's interesting. I knew a running back who was raised in a penitentiary—his daddy was warden—but I don't think I ever met anybody raised in a nursing home. Did your parents work there?”

“My parents owned it. My father died ten years ago, and I've helped my mother run it ever since. She sold it recently and moved to Florida.”

“Where is this nursing home?”

“Ohio.”

“Cleveland? Columbus?”

“New Grundy.”

He smiled. “I don't believe I ever heard of New Grundy. How did you get from there to Hollywood?”

It was difficult for her to keep her concentration in the face of that killer smile, but she resolutely plowed on. “Willow Craig offered me a job because she needed someone reliable, and she was impressed with the way I ran Shady Acres. Her father was a resident there until he died last month.”

When Willow, who headed Windmill Studios, had offered her a job as a production assistant, Gracie had hardly been able to believe her good fortune. Although it was only an entry level position and the pay was low, Gracie fully intended to prove herself so she could advance quickly in her glamorous new profession.

“Is there any reason, Mr. Den—uh, Bobby Tom, that you haven't shown up to start work?”

“Oh, there's a reason all right. You want some Jelly Bellys? I might have a bag here in my desk someplace.” He began feeling around on the rough granite corners. “Hard to find the drawers, though. I think I might need a chisel to open them.”

She smiled, only to realize he had once again avoided answering her question. Since she was accustomed to communicating with people whose minds wandered, she decided to come at it from another direction.

“You have an unusual house. Have you lived here long?”

“A couple of years. I don't much like it myself, but the architect is real proud of it. She calls it urban Stone Age with a Japanese Tahitian influence. I sort of just call it ugly. Still, the magazine people seem to like it; it's been photographed a whole bunch of times.” Abandoning his search for the Jelly Bellys, he rested his hand on the computer keyboard. “Sometimes I'll come home and find a cow skull lying next to the bathtub, or a canoe in the living room, all that strange stuff they put in those magazine photos to make them look good, even though real people would never have things like that in their houses.”

“It must be hard living in a house that you don't like.”

“I've got a whole bunch of other ones, so it doesn't much matter.”

She blinked in surprise. Most people she knew worked all their lives to pay for one house. She wanted to ask how many he owned, but She knew it wouldn't be wise to let herself get distracted from the topic at hand. The phone began to ring again, but he paid no attention.

“This is your first movie, isn't it? Have you always wanted to be an actor?”

He looked at her blankly. “An actor? Oh, yeah— A long time.”

“You're probably not aware that every day shooting is delayed costs thousands of dollars. Windmill is a small, independent studio, and it can't tolerate that sort of expense.”

“They'll take it out of my paycheck.”

The idea didn't seem to bother him, and she regarded him thoughtfully. He was toying with the mouse that sat on a gray foam pad next to the computer. His fingers were long and tapered, the nails clipped short. One strong, bare wrist showed beneath the cuff of his robe.

“Since you don't have any acting experience, it occurs to me that you might be a bit nervous about the whole thing. If you're afraid  .  .  .”

He uncurled from the desk and spoke softly, but with a certain intensity she hadn't heard in his voice until that moment. “Bobby Tom Denton isn't afraid of anything, sweetheart. You just remember that.”

“Everybody's afraid of something.”

“Not me. When you've spent the best part of your life facing eleven men hell-bent on pulling your guts out through your nose hairs, things like making movies don't have much effect.”

“I see. Still, you're not a football player any longer.”

“Oh, I'll always be a football player, in one way or another.” For a moment she thought she detected a bleakness in his eyes, an emotion almost like despair. But he'd spoken so matter-of-factly, she decided she'd imagined it. He came around the side of the desk toward her.

“Maybe you'd better get on the phone and tell your boss I'll be there one of these days soon.”

He had finally made her angry, and she drew herself up to her full five feet, four and three-quarters inches. “What I'm going to tell my boss is that both of us will be flying into San Antonio tomorrow afternoon and then driving on to Telarosa.”

“We are?”

“Yes.” She knew she had to be firm with him from the beginning or he'd take dreadful advantage of her. “Otherwise, you're going to be in the middle of a very nasty lawsuit.”

He rubbed his chin with his thumb and index finger. “I guess you win, sweetheart. What time is our flight?”

She regarded him suspiciously. “Twelve-forty-nine.”

“All right.”

“I'll pick you up at eleven o'clock.” She was wary of his sudden capitulation, and it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“It might be easier if I met you at the airport.”

“I'll pick you up here.”

“That's real nice of you.”

The next thing she knew, Bobby Tom had her by the elbow and was steering her from the study.

He played the perfect host, pointing out a sixteenth century temple gong and a floor sculpture made from petrified wood, but in less than ninety seconds, she was alone on the sidewalk.

Lights blazed from the front windows and music drifted toward her on the scented night air. As she breathed it in, her eyes grew wistful. This was her first wild party and, unless she was very much mistaken, she had just been thrown out.

Gracie was back at Bobby Tom Denton's house at eight o'clock the next morning. Before she'd left the motel, she'd placed a call to Shady Acres to check on Mrs. Fenner and Mr. Marinetti. As much as she'd needed to escape her life at the nursing home, she still cared about the people she'd left behind three weeks ago, and she was relieved to hear that they were both improving. She'd also called her mother, but Fran Snow had been on the way to her water aerobics class at her Sarasota condominium, and she had no time to talk.

Gracie parked her car on the Street, where it was hidden from the house by shrubbery but still afforded her a clear view of the drive. Bobby Tom's sudden agreeableness last night had made her suspicious, and she wasn't taking any chances.

She'd spent most of' the night alternating between disturbingly erotic dreams and nervous wakefulness. This morning while she showered, she'd been forced to give herself a stern lecture. It wouldn't do any good to tell herself that Bobby Tom wasn't the handsomest, sexiest, and most exciting man she'd ever met, because he was. That made it even more important to remember that his blue eyes, lazy charm, and relentless affability hid a dangerous combination of a monstrous ego and a keen mind. She was going to have to stay on her toes.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of an antique red Thunderbird convertible backing down the drive. Having anticipated exactly this sort of treachery, she flipped the key in the ignition, pushed hard on the accelerator, and shot forward to block the way with her rental car. After she turned off the engine, she scooped up her purse and got out.

The ignition keys jingled in the pocket of her latest fashion mistake, an oversize mustard-colored wrap dress that she had hoped would look crisp and professional, but merely looked dowdy and middle-aged. The heels of Bobby Tom's cowboy boots clicked on the drive as he came toward her, the barest hint of a limp in his walk. Nervously, she studied his outfit. His silk shirt, imprinted with purple palm trees, was tucked into a pair of perfectly faded and impeccably frayed jeans that molded to his narrow hips and lean runner's legs in a manner that made it nearly impossible for her to draw her eyes away from parts of him she'd be better off not looking at.

She braced herself as he tipped his pearl gray Stetson. “Mornin', Miz Gracie.”

“Good morning,” she said briskly. “I didn't expect you to be up so early after last night.” Several seconds ticked by as he gazed at her. Although his eyes were half-lidded, she detected an intensity beneath that indolence that made her wary.

“You weren't supposed to be here till eleven,” he said.

“Yes, well, I'm early.”

“I can see that, and I sure would appreciate it if you'd back your car out of my way.” His lazy drawl was at odds with the faint tightening at the corners of his lips.

“I'm sorry, but I can't do that. I'm here to escort you to Telarosa.”

“I don't mean to be impolite, sweetheart, but the fact is, I don't need a bodyguard.”

“I'm not a bodyguard. I'm an escort.”

“Whatever you are, I'd like you to move your car.”

“I understand that, but if I don't have you in Telarosa by Monday morning, I'm fairly certain I'll be fired, so I really must be firm about this.”

He rested one hand on his hip. “I see your point, so I'm gonna give you a thousand dollars to drive away and not come back.”

Gracie stared at him.

“Let's make that fifteen hundred for the inconvenience.”

She'd always assumed people knew, just by looking at her, that she was an honorable person, and the idea that he could believe her capable of accepting a bribe offended her far more than being mistaken for a stripper.