Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(118)

“Are you finished yet?” It aggravated him when she teased him about Bambi, even though he pretty much admitted the girl had been a low point in his amorous career. Still, Holly Grace didn't have to rub it in. “For your information, Bambi's getting married in a few weeks and moving to Oklahoma, so I'm currently looking for a replacement.”

“Are you interviewing applicants yet?”

“Just keeping my eyes open.”

They heard a key turn in the door and then a child's voice, shrill and breathless, rang out from the foyer. “Hey, Holly Grace, I did it! I climbed every step!”

“Good for you,” she called out absentmindedly. And then she sucked in her breath. “Damn, Francie will kill me. That's Teddy, her little boy. Ever since she moved to New York, she's made me promise I wouldn't let the two of you get together.”

Dallie was offended. “I'm not exactly a child molester. What does she think I'm going to do? Kidnap him?”

“She's embarrassed is all.”

Holly Grace's response told Dallie exactly nothing, but before he could question her, the boy burst into the kitchen, his auburn hair standing up at the cowlick, a small hole in the shoulder seam of his Rambo T-shirt.

“Guess what I found on the stairs? A really cool bolt. Can we go to the Seaport Museum again sometime? It's really neat and—” He broke off as he spotted Dallie standing to the side, one hand resting on the countertop, the other lightly balanced on his hip. “Gee...” His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish's.

“Teddy, this is the one and only Dallas Beaudine,” Holly Grace said. “Looks like you finally got your chance to meet him.”

Dallie smiled at the boy and held out his hand. “Hey, Teddy. I've heard a lot about you.”

“Gee,” Teddy repeated, his eyes widening with awe. “Oh, gee...” And then he rushed forward to return Dallie's handshake, but before he got there, he forgot which hand he was supposed to put out, and he stopped.

Dallie rescued him by reaching down and grabbing the right hand for a shake. “Holly Grace tells me you two are buddies.”

“We watched you play on television about a million times,” Teddy said enthusiastically. “Holly Grace has been telling me all about golf and stuff.”

“Well, that's real good.” The boy certainly wasn't anything to look at, Dallie thought, amused by Teddy's awestruck expression—as if he'd just landed in the presence of God. Since his mama was drop-dead beautiful, old Nicky must have been three-quarters ugly.

Too excited to stand still, Teddy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes never leaving Dallie's face. His glasses slid down on his nose and he reached up to push them back, but he was too distracted by Dallie's presence to pay any attention to what he was doing, and he knocked the frames askew with his thumb. The glasses tilted toward one ear and then went flying.

“Hey, there...” Dallie said, reaching down to pick them up.

Teddy reached, too, so that they both crouched down. Their heads drew close together, the small auburn one and the larger blond one. Dallie got to the glasses first and held them out toward Teddy. Their faces were so close, less than a foot apart. Dallie felt Teddy's breath on his cheek.

On the stereo in the living room, the Boss was singing about being on fire and a knife that was cutting a six-inch valley through his soul. And for that small space of time while the Boss sang about knives and valleys, everything was still all right in Dallie Beaudine's world. And then, in the next space of time, with Teddy's breath falling like a whisper on his cheek, the fire reached out and grabbed him.

“Christ.”

Teddy looked at Dallie with puzzled eyes and then lifted his glasses back toward his face.

Dallie's hand slashed out and grabbed Teddy's wrist, making the child wince.

Holly Grace realized something was wrong and stiffened at the sight of Dallie staring so chillingly into Teddy's face.

“Dallie?”

But he didn't hear her. Time had stopped moving forward for him. He had tumbled back through the years until he was a kid again, a kid gazing into the angry face of Jaycee Beaudine.

Except the face wasn't large and overpowering, with unshaven cheeks and clenched teeth.

The face was small. As small as a child's.

*

Prince Stefan Marko Brancuzi had bought his yacht, Star of the Aegean, from a Saudi oil sheik. As Francesca stepped aboard and greeted the Star's captain, she had the uneasy sensation that time had slipped away and she was nine years old again, coming aboard Onassis's yacht, the Christina, with bowls of caviar lying in wait along with vacuous people who had too much time on their hands and nothing worthwhile to do with it.

She shivered, but it might very well have been a reaction to the damp December night. The sable definitely would have been more appropriate for the weather than her fuchsia shawl. A steward led her across the afterdeck toward the welcoming lights of the lounge. As she stepped inside the opulent room, His Royal Highness, Prince Stefan Marko Brancuzi, came forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Stefan had the thoroughbred look shared by so much of European royalty—thin, elongated features, a sharp nose, a chiseled mouth. His face would have been forbidding had he not been blessed with so ready a smile. Despite his image as a playboy prince, Stefan had an old-fashioned manner about him that Francesca found endearing. He was also a hard worker who had spent the last twenty years turning his tiny backward country into a modern resort that rivaled Monaco in its opulent pleasures. Now he needed only his own Grace Kelly to cap off his achievements, and he made no secret of the fact that he had selected Francesca for the role.