Fancy Pants (41 page)
Chapter
28
Although Dallie made several halfhearted attempts to smooth his28
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."
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