The Hellion (18 page)

Discounts were discussed, haggling done, the autumn line of garments viewed.

Dallas was hot and dry and very lonely. At night she returned to her hotel room to think about Tommy Lee and try not to cry. She remembered the evidence of his abject loneliness and her heart broke for him. That house--oh, Lord, that house. It was a monument to what they'd once had, and thinking of it again stirred her in a heart-wrenching

way. What kind of devotion drove a man to build a house for a woman who was married to someone else? And what woman could see it, recognize it, and not be moved by it?

She thought of him living in that beautiful place, dreaming his dreams while years rolled on and made him older, more lax about the direction his life was taking ... and the tears gathered in her throat. Had he really been waiting for her to be free again? Unbelievably, it seemed to be true.

The house itself gave evidence to that fact.

She remembered them returning to it after their swim, and how he'd paused on the stairs above her on his way to his room to change. He'd looked back down and said, "You can't imagine how many times I've dreamed of you being here in my house, looking exactly the way you do right now." She had clasped the door frame and stood gazing up at him, feeling again the magnetic appeal he still had for her. It was one of the rare uncomplicated moments she'd experienced that day. She'd held all extraneous circumstances in abeyance and had allowed herself to admit that she still had--probably would always have--deep feelings for him.

It had been on the tip of her tongue
  
211 to tell him she recognized "their house," but if she had, she wasn't sure she could have kept from asking to see the bedroom. And that would have been a mistake.

For the longer she was with him, the more her thoughts wandered in that direction. How odd that in spite of his flaws, in spite of all the other women he'd known, she still looked upon him as her Tommy Lee. And when she thought that way she felt prickly and decidedly female.

Lying sleepless, huddled in a lonely bed in a Texas hotel room, thinking of Tommy Lee, she again felt the sensations creep along her skin. It did little good to remind herself of his bad reputation, for it held an odd attraction all its own. He was forbidden, thus tempting. She supposed with all the practice he'd had, he was a superb lover by now.

Shouldn't that repel rather than entice her?

She tossed restlessly, trying to put him from her mind. But her body was exerting demands of its own that had gone unsatisfied for months and months. She thought of his kiss, of their bare limbs brushing silkily beneath the water, and knew again the sweet

yearning of arousal.

But in the end she was forced to ask herself the question that was weighing more and more heavily on her mind as the days passed. Was she attracted to Tommy Lee as he was today or as he was remembered by a lonely, childless middle-aged woman who'd been spending altogether too much time lately dwelling on the past?

  
Rachel returned to Russellville on Saturday, exhausted and in a bad mood, only to learn that he had called more than once during the week, and that Tommy Lee Gentry had been in yesterday to buy another pair of earrings. Hot pink ones this time.

And once again her anger flared. How dare he tread a second time on the hallowed ground of her business world? And to buy hot-pink earrings yet! The look in Verda's eyes stated very clearly that she knew Tommy Lee and the caller were one and the same man. In an effort to escape those speculative looks and to cool her own anger, Rachel went for a shampoo and styling by her own Selma. It felt marvelous to have the Texas dust washed away by competent hands that knew her hair better than the strange beautician in the

Dallas hotel.
                   
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In the late afternoon she carefully arranged herself on an inflated plastic raft, making certain her meticulous hairdo stayed dry, trailing only one foot in the water as she closed her eyes and drifted lazily, shutting out all thought.

She was dozing peacefully when an angry voice brought her head up sharply off the raft.

"You don't believe in answering bells, do you!"

The buyer of hot-pink earrings! She pushed her sunglasses down on her nose and scowled over the frames at the last person in the world she wanted to see. He stood with his hands on his hips, pushing back the jacket of a tailored suit, while above his white shirt and tie he wore a bulldoggish expression.

"How did you get in here?"

"I walked through the damn hedge, that's how. After standing at your front door ringing the bell for five minutes."

She lowered the glasses and lay back as if he wasn't there. "The air conditioning is on. I didn't hear the bell through the sliding glass doors."

"And what about the thirty-seven phone calls you didn't answer? Were you out here floating on your air mattress all week?"

Let him think what he would. She didn't reply.

"Rachel, dammit, how do you get off ignoring a person who's trying to get in touch with you?"

She dipped a hand into the water and spread it on her chest while he watched and felt his stomach begin to hurt more than any hunger pains had caused it to ache during the past week.

"Rachel, talk to me, dammit!"

"I didn't invite you here. Please leave."

"Go to hell, Rachel," he said with the coolest tone he'd displayed since arriving. "Are you going to Catfish Corner with me tomorrow?" But the invitation was issued with all the warmth of a general ordering his troops to open fire.

She peered at him over her glasses for a moment and found him standing as before, like an angry samurai. "Catfish Corner?"

"Sam invited you, too, you may recall." She fell back, eyes closed behind the sunglasses, not a hair out of place, and every

rib showing while Tommy Lee glared
    
215 at her and recalled the past week of aching muscles and abstinence, all for her. And now she refused to open her eyes and glance at the results. He'd lost five pounds, and was as proud as if it were fifty! He wanted her to notice, dammit!

When she calmly went on ignoring him, his anger freshened. "Rachel, I was trying to call you all week to tell you I was sorry for acting like a caveman last Sunday, and for all the things I said."

She didn't flinch.

"Dammit, Rachel, will you come out of that pool and talk to me?"

"I just got here."

"Rachel, you smug, supercilious ... socialite! I'm trying to apologize to you, dammit!"

"Do you know how many times you've said dammit since you got here?" This time she scooped the water onto her midriff. The lazy movement was like a wave of a matador's cape before a bull. Tommy Lee glared at her for a long minute, then the expression on his face turned fox-like

while he methodically slipped off one loafer, then the other, calmly removed his billfold from his pocket, and descended the steps into the pool. As he struck out in a crawl he noticed that it didn't even hurt him to swim anymore. He was already experiencing a jubilant feeling of accomplishment as he reached the raft and unceremoniously tipped it over.

Rachel went sprawling onto her belly while she let out a surprised squawk, accompanied by an ungainly thrashing of arms and legs. The shriek was severed as her head went under, sending up a series of bubbly glugs. She emerged coughing, hair straggling into her eyes, water streaming into her mouth, while she blindly reached for the raft and began swearing a blue streak.

Some of the more choice words that fell from her tongue made Tommy Lee's eyebrows shoot up in gleeful surprise as he struggled toward the shallow end followed by the doused Widow Hollis. Finally she pushed her hair back, snorted the water from her nose, and glared at him. "You ... you damn crazy no-'count redneck jackass! I could kill you!" Tommy Lee reared back and laughed uproariously. She slammed her fists

into the water and yelled, "Go on, laugh,
  
217 you damn hyena!" Then she rolled her eyes upward and wailed, "Ohhhh, my hair!" and clasped her head in despair. "I just paid twenty-five dollars to have it done and look at it now!"

But he was still roaring with laughter, standing in water up to his armpits, his tie floating on the surface and a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar suit puffing out around his body.

"Get out of here!" she screamed. "Get out of my swimming pool!"

When he could talk again he perused her with an insufferable grin on his face. "The last time I made you that mad was when we were about thirteen years old and I asked you if you'd started your period yet and you slapped my face and told me to grow up, then went off bawling and said you hated me and would hate me to my dying day. And it wasn't a year later I was kissing you crazy, and you loved every minute of it."

Rachel stood outraged, watching him turn and slog toward the steps, blissfully unconcerned about his expensive clothes.

"You're a despicable, crude ... yokel!"

she shouted at his back, ramming her hands onto her hips, shaking with anger.

He only tipped his head back and laughed again while mounting the steps, then turned and pointed at her cheeks. "Your mascara's running, Rachel."

Angrier than ever, she shouted, "You're exactly what they call you, you hellion! And I can't for the life of me see what all those stupid women find to chase after!"

He took one warning step back into the pool, grinning wickedly. "You want me to show you, Rachel?"

"You just stay away from me, you egomaniac!"

He gave her an assessing glance and shrugged uninterestedly. "No, I guess I won't. But maybe if you'd put a little meat on those bones I might give it some thought."

"And maybe if you took a little meat off yours, I'd let you!" she retaliated.

His expression soured. He crossed the patio, then leaned sideways from the waist with practiced nonchalance, plucked up his billfold, extracted some bills and dropped them on the patio table. "Twenty-five

dollars, you say? Here, have your hair
    
219 done again. It was worth every cent."

Then Tommy Lee calmly picked up his shoes and disappeared, leaving a sputtering Rachel behind to pound the surface of the water and promise herself she'd never speak to him again.

Rachel was so incensed that tears of frustration stung her eyes. She stormed into the house mopping her ruined hair and vehemently denying all the tender thoughts she'd had in Dallas.

Of all the nerve! Were there actually women who put up with treatment like that and came back for more? And he hadn't been content to tip her into the pool, he'd implied that she was skinny ... skinny! She stepped before a mirror, scrutinized her reflection ... and burst into tears. Lord, she was so mixed up about him. He had been trying to apologize, and the least she could have done was accept his apology gracefully. She thought about his anger, the names he had flung at her. All right, so she was a ... a smug, supercilious socialite. But she couldn't help it. She'd been raised to believe that one's public image was important. Did he think she should blithely open her door to him one day, then ring up his

hot-pink earrings the next?

  
On Monday a package arrived for her at Panache. She opened it to find an electric blow dryer and a note: "Learn to fix your hair yourself so you can be prepared for the unexpected."

She raged inwardly and swore she'd have him put under lock and key if he kept pestering her this way. Then she wrapped the hair dryer and mailed it back to him with a note saying, "You'll need this to dry your suits when you stumble into the next woman's pool."

The following week Rachel got home one day to find an enormous bouquet of white roses and leather-leaf fern on the dining room table. The card read, "I'm sorry, Rachel. I found out you were in Dallas. And you're not too skinny. Please have dinner with me Friday night at my house. We'll be well chaperoned this time."

So what was he doing now, going around town asking people questions about her comings and goings?

Callie Mae watched Rachel's face closely as she read the message. She noted the scowl, then the dismissing look Rachel gave the flowers before tossing the card down and never looking

at it again.
                         
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"Mighty pretty flowers," Callie Mae remarked. "Expensive, too." But her curiosity was not to be satisfied. Neither Rachel nor the card gave any clue as to who they were from.

  
Tommy Lee waited several days for her to answer his invitation but soon realized she wasn't going to.

He tried to run the disappointment out of his system. By now he could jog to the end of the driveway and back with no trouble at all, and as the days passed he worked himself up to four miles a day. He ran to the beat of her name--Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Every day he swam, too, and worked with the weights and did sit-ups. His muscles tautened, his stomach began to flatten, and even his chin grew firmer. The exercise, coupled with Georgine's parsimonious cooking, soon gave his skin a healthy elasticity that seemed to dissolve the webs from about his eyes.

But it mattered little, for Rachel had neither answered his invitation nor thanked him for the flowers. Weeks passed and he stopped driving past Panache, hoping it would help evict her from his