Fancy Pants

Chapter 28

Although Dallie made several halfhearted attempts to smooth his 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."

So she started kissing him instead, because she absolutely couldn't stand to talk anymore.

This kiss was even better than the one by the side of the road. Their verbal foreplay had put them both on edge and there was a roughness about their caresses that seemed exactly right for an encounter that was absurdly foolish for both of them. As their mouths pressed together and their tongues touched, Francesca once again had the sensation that the rest of the world had drifted away.

She pushed her hands beneath his shirt. Within seconds, her sweater was off and the buttons on the front of her silk blouse opened. Her lingerie was beautiful-lace shells of oyster silk cupping her breasts. He peeled back one of the shells to find her creamy nipple and suckle it.

When she couldn't stand it anymore, she pulled his head up and began a relentless attack on his bottom lip, tracing the curve with her tongue, gently teasing it with her teeth. Finally she slipped her fingers along his spine and pushed them inside the waistband of his jeans. He groaned and pulled her to her feet, then stripped down her slacks and slipped off her shoes and stockings. "I want to see you," he said huskily, freeing the silk blouse from her shoulders. The fabric felt like a caress as it slid down over her arms.

Dallie caught his breath. "Does all your underwear look like it belongs in a high-class strip show?"

"Every bit of it." She rose up on tiptoe to take a nip at his ear. His fingers toyed with the two little strings on her hip that held the tiny silk triangle of her panties in place, leaving the curve of her thigh bare. Goose bumps slithered over her skin. "Carry me upstairs," she whispered.

He slipped his arm under her knees, lifted her, and held her close to his chest. "You don't weigh as much as a full bag of clubs, honey."

His bedroom was large and comfortable, with a fireplace at one end and a bed tucked beneath a sloping ceiling. He laid her gently down on the spread and then reached toward the delicate ties at her hips. "No, no." She pushed his hand away and pointed toward the center of the room. "Take it off first, soldier."

He looked at her suspiciously. "Take what off?"

"Your clothes. Entertain the troops."

"My clothes?" He frowned. "I was sort of thinking you might want to do that for me."

She shook her head and leaned back on one elbow, giving him her witchiest, bitchiest smile. "Strip."

"Now, listen here, Francie-"

Lifting a languid hand, she once again pointed toward the center of the room. "Do it real slow, good-looking," she purred. "I want to enjoy every minute."

"Aw, Francie…" He looked longingly toward the twin shells over her breasts and then lower to the

small silk triangle. She moved her legs slightly apart to inspire him.

"I feel stupid making a big show out of taking off my clothes," he grumbled as he moved toward the center of the room.

She let her fingers trail delicately over the triangle of silk. "That's just too bad. As far as I'm concerned, men like you were put on this world to entertain women like me."

His eyes followed her fingers. "Now, is that so?"

She toyed with the little string. "All brawn, no brain, what else are you good for?"

Lifting his gaze, he gave her a lazy grin and slowly began unbuttoning his cuffs. "Well, now, I guess you're about to find out."

Francesca felt a surge of heat flow through her blood. The simple act of unfastening a shirt cuff suddenly struck her as the most erotic thing she had ever seen. Dallie must have noticed her breath quicken, because a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth and then disappeared as he began to play her in earnest. He took his time unfastening the rest of his shirt buttons and then let the garment hang open for

a moment before he took it off. Her lips parted slightly. She studied the play of muscles in his chest as

he reached down to pull off his boots and his socks. Dressed only in jeans and a wide leather belt, he straightened up and linked one thumb in his waistband.

"Slip down that bra," he said. "Nothing more comes off here until I see something good."

She pretended to think it over and then slowly reached behind her back to open the small clasp. The straps drifted down along her shoulders, but she held the shells in place over her breasts. "Take off your belt first," she said, her voice deep and throaty. "And then unzip."

He pulled the belt from the denim loops. For a moment, he let it hang at his side, the buckle curling from his fist. Then he surprised her by tossing it over to the bed, where it fell across her ankles. "In case I need to use it on you," he said, his voice full of sexy menace.

She swallowed hard. He pulled open the top snap on his jeans and pushed the zipper down a scant few inches, revealing his flat abdomen. And then he rested his hand lightly on the slide, waiting for her. She eased the silky shells off her breasts, delicately arching her back so he could look his fill. Now he was the one who swallowed hard.

"The jeans, soldier boy," she whispered.

He pulled the zipper down the rest of the way, then tucked both his thumbs inside the waistband, snagging the jeans and his briefs together, and slid them off. He finally stood naked before her.

Without any pretense of shyness, she looked her fill. He was hard and proud, sleek and shiny and beautiful. She let her head drift back on the pillows, her hair spilling out in a corona around her, and watched him as he walked to the side of the bed. Reaching down with his index finger, he stroked a long line from her throat to the top of the triangle of her panties. "Open the ties," he ordered.

"You do it," she replied.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached toward one of the satin ribbons. She stilled his hand. "With your mouth."

He chuckled, then leaned over and did as she had ordered. As he pulled the silky triangle from between her legs, he kissed her and then began stroking the insides of her thighs. She took off on an exploratory mission of her own, her hand greedy to touch him. After a few minutes, he groaned and broke away to reach into the drawer of the bedside table. When he turned his back to her, she laughed and lifted herself up on her knees to nuzzle his neck. "Never send a man to do a woman's job," she whispered. Reaching around him, she took over his task, dallying and teasing until his skin was damp with perspiration.

"Damn, Francie," he said huskily, "you keep on like that and you're not going to get anything out of this encounter but a boring memory."

She smiled and slipped back onto the pillows, parting her legs for him. "Somehow I doubt that."

He took advantage of what she was offering him, tormenting her with expert caresses until she begged him to stop, and then kissing her breathless. When he finally entered her, she dug her hands into his hips and cried out. He reared up, driving himself deeper. They began talking in breathless little words.

"Please…"

"So good…"

"Yes… hard…"

"Sweet…"

Each was accustomed to being a cool lover-considerate, giving, but always in control. Now they were hot and wet, strung out on passion, oblivious to everything but the mad cry of one beautiful body

reaching out for the other. They came, seconds apart, spilling open in gushing, noisy abandonment,

filling the air with cries, moans, and breathless obscenities.

Afterward, neither could have said who was the more embarrassed.