Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(139)

“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.”