Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(119)

His clothes were stylish and expensive—an unstructured taupe blazer subtly windowpaned in peach, dark pleated trousers, a silk shirt, open at the throat. He took her hand and drew her toward the mahogany bar where two tulip-shaped Baccarat goblets waited. “Forgive me for not coming to get you myself. My schedule today has been beastly.”

“Mine, too,” she said, shrugging off her shawl. “I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to taking Teddy to Mexico. Two weeks with nothing to do but brush the sand off my feet.” She took the champagne glass and perched on one of the bar stools. Inadvertently, she let her hand stray over the soft leather, and once again her mind drifted back to the Christina and another set of bar stools.

“Why not bring Teddy over here instead? Wouldn't you rather sail through the Greek Islands for a few weeks?”

The offer was tempting, but Stefan was pushing her too fast. Besides, something inside her rejected the idea of watching Teddy roam the decks of the Star of the Aegean. “Sorry, but I'm afraid my plans are set. Maybe another time.”

Stefan frowned but didn't press her. He gestured toward a cut-glass bowl mounded with tiny golden-brown eggs. “Caviar? If you don't like osetra, I'll call for some beluga.”

“No!” The exclamation was so sharp that Stefan stared at her in surprise. She gave him a shaky smile. “I'm sorry. I—I'm not fond of caviar.”

“Gracious, darling, you seem on edge tonight. Is anything wrong?”

“Just a bit tired.” She smiled and made a joke. Before long they were engaged in the sort of lighthearted exchange they did so well. They dined on slivers of artichoke heart drizzled with a peppery sauce of black olives and capers, followed by slices of chicken that had been marinated in lime, coriander, and juniper. By the time the raspberry charlotte arrived in a puddle of ginger crème anglaise, she was too full to eat more than a few bites. As she sat bathed in candlelight and Stefan's affection, she thought how much she was enjoying herself. Why didn't she just tell Stefan she would marry him? What woman in her right mind could resist the idea of being a princess? For all her valued independence, she was working too hard and spending too much time away from her son. She loved her career, but she was beginning to realize that she wanted more out of life than spectacular Nielsens. Still, was this marriage what she really wanted?

“Are you listening, darling? This isn't the most encouraging response I've ever received to a marriage proposal.”

“Oh, dear, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I was woolgathering.” She smiled apologetically. “I need a bit more time, Stefan. To be honest, I'm not all that certain how good you are for my character.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “What a curious thing to say. Whatever do you mean?”

She couldn't explain to him how afraid she was that after a few years in his company, she might be right back where she had started from—staring into mirrors and throwing a temper tantrum if her nail polish chipped. Leaning forward, she kissed him, taking a nip at his lip with her small, sharp teeth and distracting him from his question. The wine had warmed her blood, and his solicitude chipped away at the barriers she'd built around herself. Her body was young and healthy. Why was she letting it shrivel up like an old leaf? She brushed his lips with her own again. “Instead of a proposal, how about a proposition?”

A combination of amusement and desire sparked in his eyes. “I suppose that would depend on the kind of proposition.”

She gave him a saucy grin. “Take me to your bedroom, and I'll show you.”

Picking up her hand, he kissed the tips of her fingers, his gesture so courtly and elegant he might have been leading her onto the ballroom floor. As they walked through the hallway, she found herself enveloped in a haze of wine and laughter so pleasurable that, by the time they actually entered his opulent stateroom, she might have believed she was really in love if she hadn't known herself better. Still, it had been so long since a man had held her in his arms that she let herself pretend.

He kissed her, gently at first and then more passionately, muttering foreign words in her ear that excited her. His hands moved to the fastenings on her clothing. “If only you knew how long I have wanted to see you naked,” he murmured. Drawing down the bodice of her gown, he nuzzled at the tops of her breasts as they rose over the lacy border of her slip. “Like warm peaches,” he murmured. “Full and rich and scented. I'm going to suck out every sweet drop of their juice.”

Francesca found his line a little corny, but her body wasn't as discriminating as her mind and she could feel her skin growing deliciously warm. She cupped her hand around the back of his head and arched her neck. His lips dipped lower, burrowed beneath the lace of her slip for her nipple. “Here,” he said, closing around her. “Oh, yes...”

Yes, indeed. Francesca gasped as she felt the suction of his mouth and then the delicious scrape of his teeth.

“My darling, Francesca...” He sucked deeper, and her knees began to feel as if they would buckle.

And then the telephone rang.

“Those imbeciles!” He cursed in a language she didn't understand. “They know I am never to be disturbed here.”

But the mood had been broken, and she stiffened. She suddenly felt embarrassed to be getting ready to have sex with a man she only loved a little bit. What was wrong with her that she couldn't fall in love with him? Why did she still have to make such a big thing out of sex?