Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(138)

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.”