Fancy Pants (17 page)
She laughed at that, a reaction which told her more clearly than
anything that she'd been spending too much time in his company. "I'm
grateful for the offer, Dallie, but as much as I'd love to take you up
on it, I need to stay around a bit longer. I can't go back to London
like this. You don't know my friends. They'd dine out for weeks on the
story of my transformation into a pauper."
He leaned back against the truck. "Nice batch of friends you've got
there, Francie."
She felt as if he'd rapped his knuckles on a hollowness inside her, a
hollowness she had never permitted herself to dwell on. "Go back
inside," she said. "I'm going to stay out here for a while."
"I don't think so." He turned his body toward her, so that his T-shirt
brushed against her arm. A yellow bug light by the screen door cast a
slanted ochre shadow across his face, subtly changing his features,
making him look older but no less splendid. "I think you and I have
something more interesting to do tonight, don't we?"
His words produced an uncomfortable fluttering in the pit of her
stomach, but being coy was as much a part of her as the Serritella
cheekbones. Even though one part of her wanted to run back to hide in
the Cajun Bar and Grill rest room, she gave him her most innocently
inquisitive smile. "Oh? What's that?"
"A little tag team wrestling maybe?" His mouth curled in a slow, sexy
smile. "Why don't you just climb into the front seat of the Riviera so
we can be on our way."
She didn't want to climb into the front seat of the Riviera. Or maybe
she did. Dallie stirred unfamiliar feelings in her body, feelings she
would have been all too happy to act upon if only she were one of those
women who was really good at sex, one of those women who didn't mind
all the mess and the thought of having someone else's perspiration drip
on her body. Still, even if she wanted to, she could hardly back out
now without looking a total fool. As she walked over to the car and
opened the door, she tried to convince herself that, since
she didn't perspire, a man as gorgeous as Dallie just might not either.
She watched as he walked around the front of the Riviera, whistling
tunelessly and digging the keys out of his back pocket. He seemed in no
particular hurry. There wasn't any macho swagger to his stride, none of
the cock-of-the-walk strut she'd noticed in the sculptor in Marrakech
before he'd taken her to bed. Dallie acted casual, ordinary, as if
going to bed with her were an everyday occurrence, as if it didn't
matter all that much to him, as if he'd been there a thousand times
before and she was just one more female body.
He got into the Riviera, turned on the ignition, and began fiddling
with the radio dial. "Do you like country music, Francie, or is easy
listening more your speed? Damn. I forgot to give Stoney that pass for
tomorrow like I promised him." He opened the door. "I'll be back in a
minute."
She watched him walk across the parking lot and noticed that he still
wasn't moving with any urgency. The screen door opened and the golfers
came out. He stopped and talked to them, sticking a thumb in the rear
pocket of his jeans and propping his boot up on the concrete step. One
of the golfers drew an imaginary arc through the air, and then a second
one right below it. Dallie shook his head, pantomimed a golf swing, and
then drew two imaginary arcs of his own.
She slumped dejectedly down in the seat. Dallie Beaudine certainly
didn't look like a man swept away by unbridled passion.
When he finally got back to the Riviera, she was so rattled she
couldn't even look at him. Were the women in his life so gorgeous that
she was merely one of the crowd? A bath would fix everything, she told
herself as he started the car. She would run the water as hot as she
could stand it so that the bathroom would fill with steam and the
humidity would make her hair form those soft little tendrils around her
face. She would put on a touch of lipstick and some blusher, spray the
sheets with perfume, and cover one of the lamps with a towel so the
light would fall softly, and—
"Something wrong, Francie?"
"What makes you ask?" she replied stiffly.
"You've pretty much laminated yourself to that door handle over there."
"I like it here."
He fiddled with the radio dial. "Suit yourself. So what's it going to
be? Country or easy listening?"
"Neither. I like rock." She had a sudden inspiration, and she
immediately acted upon it. "I've loved rock for as long as I can
remember. The Rolling Stones are my very favorite group. Most people
don't know it, but Mick wrote three songs for me after we spent some
time together in Rome."
Dallie didn't look particularly impressed, so she decided to embellish.
After all, it wasn't too much of a lie, since Mick Jagger certainly
knew her well enough to say hello. She lowered her voice into a
breathless, confiding whisper. "We stayed in this wonderful apartment
that overlooked the Villa Borghese. Everything was absolutely super. We
had complete privacy, so we could even make love outside on the
terrace. It didn't last, of course. He has this terrible ego— not to
mention Bianca—and I met the prince." She paused. "No, that's not
right. I met Ryan O'Neal, and then I met the prince."
Dallie looked over at her, gave his head a slow shake as if he were
clearing water from his ears, and then returned his attention to the
road. "You like making love outside, do you, Francie?"
"Of course, don't most women?" Actually, she couldn't imagine anything
worse.
They drove for several miles in silence. Suddenly he swung the wheel to
the right and turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road that
headed directly into a stand of bald cypresses hung with beards of
Spanish moss. "What are you doing? Where are you going!" she exclaimed.
"Turn the car around this minute! I want to go back to the motel."
"I think you might like this spot, being such a sexual adventuress and
all." He pulled in among the cypresses and turned off the ignition.
Strange insect sounds drifted through the open window on his side.
"That looks like a swamp out there," she cried desperately.
He peered through the windshield. "I believe you're right. We'd better
not get too far from the car; most 'gators seem to feed at night." He
pulled off his cap, set it on the dashboard, and turned to her. He
waited expectantly.
She pushed herself a little more closely against the door handle.
"Do you want to go first, or do you want me to?" he finally asked.
She kept her reply cautious. "Go first doing what?"
"Warming up. You know—foreplay. Since you've had all those big-time
lovers, you've got me a little intimidated here. Maybe you'd better set
the pace."
"Let's—let's forget this. I—I think maybe I made a mistake. Let's go
back to the motel."
"Not a good idea, Francie. Once you make that crossover into the
Promised Land, you can't really turn back without making things
awkward."
"Oh, I don't think so. I don't think it'll be awkward at all. It wasn't
actually the Promised Land, just a small flirtation. I mean, it
certainly won't be awkward for me, and I'm positive it won't be awkward
for—"
"Yes, it will. It'll be so awkward I probably won't even be able to
play half-decent golf tomorrow. I'm a professional athlete, Francie.
Professional athletes have fine-tuned bodies, like well-oiled engines.
One little speck of awkwardness'll throw everything off stride. Like
dirt. You could cost me a good five strokes tomorrow, darlin'."
His accent had gotten unbelievably thick, and she suddenly realized she
was being conned. "Damn it, Dallie! Don't do this to me. I'm nervous
enough as it is without your making fun of me."
He laughed, put his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her close in a
friendly sort of hug. "Why don't you just say you're nervous instead of
going through all that fancy stuff of yours? You make everything so
hard on yourself."
It felt nice being in his arms, but she couldn't quite forgive him for
teasing. "That's easy for you to say. You're obviously comfortable in
every conceivable sort of bed, but I'm not." She took a breath and spit
out exactly what was on her mind. "Actually ... I don't even like sex."
There. She'd said it. Now he could really laugh at her.
"Now, why's that? Something that feels as good as sex and doesn't cost
any money should be right up your alley."
"I'm just not an athletic person."
"Uh-huh. Well, that explains it, all right."
She couldn't entirely forget the swamp. "Could we go back to the motel,
Dallie?"
"I don't think so, Francie. You'll be closing yourself up in the
bathroom and worrying about your makeup and reaching for that perfume
bottle of yours." He lifted the hair on the side of her neck and,
leaning over, nuzzled his lips against her skin. "You ever necked in
the back seat of a car before?"
She closed her eyes against the delicious sensation he was arousing.
"Does one of the royal family's limousines count?"
He caught her earlobe gently between his teeth. "Not unless the windows
fogged up."
She wasn't sure who moved first, but somehow Dallie's mouth was on
hers. His hands moved up along the back of her neck and plowed through
her hair from beneath, spreading it out over his bare forearms. He
imprisoned her head in the palms of his hands and tilted it farther
back so that her mouth opened involuntarily. She waited for the
invasion of his tongue, but it didn't come. Instead, he played with her
bottom lip. Her own hands crept around his ribs to his back and
unconsciously slipped beneath his T-shirt so she could feel his strong
bare skin. Their mouths played together and Francesca lost all desire
to try to maintain the upper hand. Before long, she found herself
receiving his tongue with pleasure—his beautiful tongue, his beautiful
mouth, his beautiful taut skin beneath her hands. She devoted herself
to the kiss, concentrating only on the feelings he was arousing without
giving a thought to what would happen next. His mouth slid away from
hers and traveled to her neck. She giggled softly.
"Do you have something you want to share with the rest of the class,"
he murmured into her skin, "or is this a private joke?"
"No, I'm just having fun." She smiled as he kissed her neck and tugged
on the rosette of material at her waist securing the long tail of the
T-shirt. "What's an Aggies?" she asked.
"An Aggie? Somebody like me who went to college at Texas A&M is an
Aggie."
She pulled back abruptly, her amazement etching itself in the perfect
arch of her eyebrows. "You went
to a university? I don't believe it!"
He looked at her with a mildly aggravated expression. "I've got a
bachelor of arts degree in English literature. Do you want to see my
diploma or can we get back to work here?"
"English literature?" She burst out in laughter. "Oh, Dallie, that's
incredible! You barely speak the language."
He was clearly offended. "Well, now, that's real nice. That's a real
nice thing to say to somebody."
Still laughing, she tossed herself into his arms, moving so suddenly
that she knocked him off balance and bumped him back into the steering
wheel. Then she said the most astonishing thing.
"I could eat you up, Dallie Beaudine."
It was his turn to laugh, but he didn't get very far with it because
her mouth was all over his. She forgot about being scared and about not
being any good at sex as she lifted herself to her knees and leaned on
him.
"I'm running out of maneuvering room here, honey," he finally said
against her mouth. Pulling away, he opened the door of the Riviera and
got out. Then he extended his hand for her.
She let him help her out, but instead of opening the back door so they
could resettle in roomier quarters, he pinned her hips with his thighs
against the side of the Riviera and drew her into another kiss. The
dome light left on by the open door produced a dim area of illumination
around the car that made the darkness beyond seem even more
impenetrable. The vague image of her open-toed sandals and alligators
lurking beneath a car flickered through her mind. Without losing one
moment of the kiss, she draped her arms over his shoulders and pulled
herself up so that one of her legs was wrapped tightly around the back
of one of his and her other foot was planted firmly on top of his
cowboy boot.
"I do like the way you kiss," he murmured. His left hand slid up along
her bare spine and unfastened her bra while his right reached between
their bodies to tug at the snap on her jeans.
She could feel herself getting nervous again, and it didn't have
anything to do with alligators. "Let's go
buy some champagne, Dallie.
I—I think some champagne will help me relax."
"I'll relax you." He pulled the snap open and began working on the
zipper.
"Dallie!" she exclaimed. "We're outside."
"Uh-huh. Just you, me, and the swamp." The zipper gave.
"I—I don't think I'm ready for this." Reaching under her loose T-shirt,
he cupped her breast in his hand and let his lips trail over her cheek
to her mouth. Panic began beating inside her. He rubbed her nipple with
his thumb and she moaned softly. She wanted him to think she was
wonderful—a spectacular lover—and how could she do that in the middle
of a swamp? "I—I need champagne. And soft lights. I need sheets,
Dallie."
He withdrew his hand from her breast and settled it gently around the
side of her neck. Gazing down into her eyes, he said, "No, you don't,
honey. You don't need anything but yourself. You've got to start
understanding that, Francie. You've got to start relying on yourself
instead of all these props you think you need to set up around you."
"I-I'm afraid." She tried to make her words sound defiant, but didn't
quite succeed. Unwrapping herself from his legs and stepping down off
his cowboy boot, she confessed everything. "It might seem silly to you,
but Evan Varian said I was frigid, and there was this Swedish sculptor
in Marra-kech—"
"You want to hold on to that part of the story for a while?"
She felt some of her fight coming back, and she glared at him. "You
brought me here on purpose, didn't you? You brought me here because you
knew I'd hate it." She took several steps back and pointed a shaky
finger toward the Riviera. "I'm not the sort of woman you make love to
in the back seat of a car."
anything that she'd been spending too much time in his company. "I'm
grateful for the offer, Dallie, but as much as I'd love to take you up
on it, I need to stay around a bit longer. I can't go back to London
like this. You don't know my friends. They'd dine out for weeks on the
story of my transformation into a pauper."
He leaned back against the truck. "Nice batch of friends you've got
there, Francie."
She felt as if he'd rapped his knuckles on a hollowness inside her, a
hollowness she had never permitted herself to dwell on. "Go back
inside," she said. "I'm going to stay out here for a while."
"I don't think so." He turned his body toward her, so that his T-shirt
brushed against her arm. A yellow bug light by the screen door cast a
slanted ochre shadow across his face, subtly changing his features,
making him look older but no less splendid. "I think you and I have
something more interesting to do tonight, don't we?"
His words produced an uncomfortable fluttering in the pit of her
stomach, but being coy was as much a part of her as the Serritella
cheekbones. Even though one part of her wanted to run back to hide in
the Cajun Bar and Grill rest room, she gave him her most innocently
inquisitive smile. "Oh? What's that?"
"A little tag team wrestling maybe?" His mouth curled in a slow, sexy
smile. "Why don't you just climb into the front seat of the Riviera so
we can be on our way."
She didn't want to climb into the front seat of the Riviera. Or maybe
she did. Dallie stirred unfamiliar feelings in her body, feelings she
would have been all too happy to act upon if only she were one of those
women who was really good at sex, one of those women who didn't mind
all the mess and the thought of having someone else's perspiration drip
on her body. Still, even if she wanted to, she could hardly back out
now without looking a total fool. As she walked over to the car and
opened the door, she tried to convince herself that, since
she didn't perspire, a man as gorgeous as Dallie just might not either.
She watched as he walked around the front of the Riviera, whistling
tunelessly and digging the keys out of his back pocket. He seemed in no
particular hurry. There wasn't any macho swagger to his stride, none of
the cock-of-the-walk strut she'd noticed in the sculptor in Marrakech
before he'd taken her to bed. Dallie acted casual, ordinary, as if
going to bed with her were an everyday occurrence, as if it didn't
matter all that much to him, as if he'd been there a thousand times
before and she was just one more female body.
He got into the Riviera, turned on the ignition, and began fiddling
with the radio dial. "Do you like country music, Francie, or is easy
listening more your speed? Damn. I forgot to give Stoney that pass for
tomorrow like I promised him." He opened the door. "I'll be back in a
minute."
She watched him walk across the parking lot and noticed that he still
wasn't moving with any urgency. The screen door opened and the golfers
came out. He stopped and talked to them, sticking a thumb in the rear
pocket of his jeans and propping his boot up on the concrete step. One
of the golfers drew an imaginary arc through the air, and then a second
one right below it. Dallie shook his head, pantomimed a golf swing, and
then drew two imaginary arcs of his own.
She slumped dejectedly down in the seat. Dallie Beaudine certainly
didn't look like a man swept away by unbridled passion.
When he finally got back to the Riviera, she was so rattled she
couldn't even look at him. Were the women in his life so gorgeous that
she was merely one of the crowd? A bath would fix everything, she told
herself as he started the car. She would run the water as hot as she
could stand it so that the bathroom would fill with steam and the
humidity would make her hair form those soft little tendrils around her
face. She would put on a touch of lipstick and some blusher, spray the
sheets with perfume, and cover one of the lamps with a towel so the
light would fall softly, and—
"Something wrong, Francie?"
"What makes you ask?" she replied stiffly.
"You've pretty much laminated yourself to that door handle over there."
"I like it here."
He fiddled with the radio dial. "Suit yourself. So what's it going to
be? Country or easy listening?"
"Neither. I like rock." She had a sudden inspiration, and she
immediately acted upon it. "I've loved rock for as long as I can
remember. The Rolling Stones are my very favorite group. Most people
don't know it, but Mick wrote three songs for me after we spent some
time together in Rome."
Dallie didn't look particularly impressed, so she decided to embellish.
After all, it wasn't too much of a lie, since Mick Jagger certainly
knew her well enough to say hello. She lowered her voice into a
breathless, confiding whisper. "We stayed in this wonderful apartment
that overlooked the Villa Borghese. Everything was absolutely super. We
had complete privacy, so we could even make love outside on the
terrace. It didn't last, of course. He has this terrible ego— not to
mention Bianca—and I met the prince." She paused. "No, that's not
right. I met Ryan O'Neal, and then I met the prince."
Dallie looked over at her, gave his head a slow shake as if he were
clearing water from his ears, and then returned his attention to the
road. "You like making love outside, do you, Francie?"
"Of course, don't most women?" Actually, she couldn't imagine anything
worse.
They drove for several miles in silence. Suddenly he swung the wheel to
the right and turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road that
headed directly into a stand of bald cypresses hung with beards of
Spanish moss. "What are you doing? Where are you going!" she exclaimed.
"Turn the car around this minute! I want to go back to the motel."
"I think you might like this spot, being such a sexual adventuress and
all." He pulled in among the cypresses and turned off the ignition.
Strange insect sounds drifted through the open window on his side.
"That looks like a swamp out there," she cried desperately.
He peered through the windshield. "I believe you're right. We'd better
not get too far from the car; most 'gators seem to feed at night." He
pulled off his cap, set it on the dashboard, and turned to her. He
waited expectantly.
She pushed herself a little more closely against the door handle.
"Do you want to go first, or do you want me to?" he finally asked.
She kept her reply cautious. "Go first doing what?"
"Warming up. You know—foreplay. Since you've had all those big-time
lovers, you've got me a little intimidated here. Maybe you'd better set
the pace."
"Let's—let's forget this. I—I think maybe I made a mistake. Let's go
back to the motel."
"Not a good idea, Francie. Once you make that crossover into the
Promised Land, you can't really turn back without making things
awkward."
"Oh, I don't think so. I don't think it'll be awkward at all. It wasn't
actually the Promised Land, just a small flirtation. I mean, it
certainly won't be awkward for me, and I'm positive it won't be awkward
for—"
"Yes, it will. It'll be so awkward I probably won't even be able to
play half-decent golf tomorrow. I'm a professional athlete, Francie.
Professional athletes have fine-tuned bodies, like well-oiled engines.
One little speck of awkwardness'll throw everything off stride. Like
dirt. You could cost me a good five strokes tomorrow, darlin'."
His accent had gotten unbelievably thick, and she suddenly realized she
was being conned. "Damn it, Dallie! Don't do this to me. I'm nervous
enough as it is without your making fun of me."
He laughed, put his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her close in a
friendly sort of hug. "Why don't you just say you're nervous instead of
going through all that fancy stuff of yours? You make everything so
hard on yourself."
It felt nice being in his arms, but she couldn't quite forgive him for
teasing. "That's easy for you to say. You're obviously comfortable in
every conceivable sort of bed, but I'm not." She took a breath and spit
out exactly what was on her mind. "Actually ... I don't even like sex."
There. She'd said it. Now he could really laugh at her.
"Now, why's that? Something that feels as good as sex and doesn't cost
any money should be right up your alley."
"I'm just not an athletic person."
"Uh-huh. Well, that explains it, all right."
She couldn't entirely forget the swamp. "Could we go back to the motel,
Dallie?"
"I don't think so, Francie. You'll be closing yourself up in the
bathroom and worrying about your makeup and reaching for that perfume
bottle of yours." He lifted the hair on the side of her neck and,
leaning over, nuzzled his lips against her skin. "You ever necked in
the back seat of a car before?"
She closed her eyes against the delicious sensation he was arousing.
"Does one of the royal family's limousines count?"
He caught her earlobe gently between his teeth. "Not unless the windows
fogged up."
She wasn't sure who moved first, but somehow Dallie's mouth was on
hers. His hands moved up along the back of her neck and plowed through
her hair from beneath, spreading it out over his bare forearms. He
imprisoned her head in the palms of his hands and tilted it farther
back so that her mouth opened involuntarily. She waited for the
invasion of his tongue, but it didn't come. Instead, he played with her
bottom lip. Her own hands crept around his ribs to his back and
unconsciously slipped beneath his T-shirt so she could feel his strong
bare skin. Their mouths played together and Francesca lost all desire
to try to maintain the upper hand. Before long, she found herself
receiving his tongue with pleasure—his beautiful tongue, his beautiful
mouth, his beautiful taut skin beneath her hands. She devoted herself
to the kiss, concentrating only on the feelings he was arousing without
giving a thought to what would happen next. His mouth slid away from
hers and traveled to her neck. She giggled softly.
"Do you have something you want to share with the rest of the class,"
he murmured into her skin, "or is this a private joke?"
"No, I'm just having fun." She smiled as he kissed her neck and tugged
on the rosette of material at her waist securing the long tail of the
T-shirt. "What's an Aggies?" she asked.
"An Aggie? Somebody like me who went to college at Texas A&M is an
Aggie."
She pulled back abruptly, her amazement etching itself in the perfect
arch of her eyebrows. "You went
to a university? I don't believe it!"
He looked at her with a mildly aggravated expression. "I've got a
bachelor of arts degree in English literature. Do you want to see my
diploma or can we get back to work here?"
"English literature?" She burst out in laughter. "Oh, Dallie, that's
incredible! You barely speak the language."
He was clearly offended. "Well, now, that's real nice. That's a real
nice thing to say to somebody."
Still laughing, she tossed herself into his arms, moving so suddenly
that she knocked him off balance and bumped him back into the steering
wheel. Then she said the most astonishing thing.
"I could eat you up, Dallie Beaudine."
It was his turn to laugh, but he didn't get very far with it because
her mouth was all over his. She forgot about being scared and about not
being any good at sex as she lifted herself to her knees and leaned on
him.
"I'm running out of maneuvering room here, honey," he finally said
against her mouth. Pulling away, he opened the door of the Riviera and
got out. Then he extended his hand for her.
She let him help her out, but instead of opening the back door so they
could resettle in roomier quarters, he pinned her hips with his thighs
against the side of the Riviera and drew her into another kiss. The
dome light left on by the open door produced a dim area of illumination
around the car that made the darkness beyond seem even more
impenetrable. The vague image of her open-toed sandals and alligators
lurking beneath a car flickered through her mind. Without losing one
moment of the kiss, she draped her arms over his shoulders and pulled
herself up so that one of her legs was wrapped tightly around the back
of one of his and her other foot was planted firmly on top of his
cowboy boot.
"I do like the way you kiss," he murmured. His left hand slid up along
her bare spine and unfastened her bra while his right reached between
their bodies to tug at the snap on her jeans.
She could feel herself getting nervous again, and it didn't have
anything to do with alligators. "Let's go
buy some champagne, Dallie.
I—I think some champagne will help me relax."
"I'll relax you." He pulled the snap open and began working on the
zipper.
"Dallie!" she exclaimed. "We're outside."
"Uh-huh. Just you, me, and the swamp." The zipper gave.
"I—I don't think I'm ready for this." Reaching under her loose T-shirt,
he cupped her breast in his hand and let his lips trail over her cheek
to her mouth. Panic began beating inside her. He rubbed her nipple with
his thumb and she moaned softly. She wanted him to think she was
wonderful—a spectacular lover—and how could she do that in the middle
of a swamp? "I—I need champagne. And soft lights. I need sheets,
Dallie."
He withdrew his hand from her breast and settled it gently around the
side of her neck. Gazing down into her eyes, he said, "No, you don't,
honey. You don't need anything but yourself. You've got to start
understanding that, Francie. You've got to start relying on yourself
instead of all these props you think you need to set up around you."
"I-I'm afraid." She tried to make her words sound defiant, but didn't
quite succeed. Unwrapping herself from his legs and stepping down off
his cowboy boot, she confessed everything. "It might seem silly to you,
but Evan Varian said I was frigid, and there was this Swedish sculptor
in Marra-kech—"
"You want to hold on to that part of the story for a while?"
She felt some of her fight coming back, and she glared at him. "You
brought me here on purpose, didn't you? You brought me here because you
knew I'd hate it." She took several steps back and pointed a shaky
finger toward the Riviera. "I'm not the sort of woman you make love to
in the back seat of a car."
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