Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(147)

The party at La C?te Basque was lively, with wonderful food and a satisfying number of famous faces in the crowd, but Francesca was too distracted to enjoy herself. A group of paparazzi was waiting as she and Stefan emerged from the restaurant shortly after midnight. She pulled the fur collar of her coat high around her chin and looked away from the flashing strobes. “Sable sucks,” she muttered.

“That's not exactly a popularly held opinion, darling,” Stefan replied, leading her toward his limousine.

“That media circus happened because of this coat,” she complained after the limo had slipped out into the traffic on East Fifty-fifth Street. “The press hardly ever bothers you. It's me. If I'd worn my old raincoat...” She chattered on about the sable, stalling for time while she tried to find the courage to hurt him. Finally she fell silent and let the old memories that had been nagging at her all evening take hold—thinking about her childhood, about Chloe, about Dallie. Stefan kept gazing over at her, apparently lost in thoughts of his own. As the limousine swept past Cartier, she decided she couldn't put it off any longer, and she touched his arm. “Do you mind if we walk for a bit?”

It was past midnight, the February night was chill, and Stefan looked at her uneasily—as if he might suspect what was coming—but he ordered the driver to stop anyway. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, a hansom cab passed, the hooves of the horse clomping rhythmically on the pavement. They began walking down Fifth Avenue together, their breath clouding the air.

“Stefan,” she said, resting her cheek for a brief moment against the fine woolen sleeve of his overcoat. “I know you're looking for a woman to share your life, but I'm afraid I'm not the one.”

She heard him take a deep breath, then expel it. “You're tired tonight, darling. Perhaps this discussion should wait.”

“I think it's waited long enough,” she said gently.

She talked for some time, and in the end she could see that she had hurt him, but perhaps not as much as she had feared. She suspected that someplace inside him, he had known all along that she was not the right woman to be his princess.

Dallie called Francesca the following day at the office. He began the conversation without preamble, as if he'd just talked to her the day before instead of six weeks ago and there were no bad feelings between them.

“Hey, Francie, you've got half of Wynette ready to lynch you.”

She had a sudden vision of all those glorious temper tantrums she used to throw in her youth, but she kept her voice calm and casual, even though her spine was rigid with tension. “Any particular reason?” she asked.

“The way you ran all over that TV minister last week was a real shame. People down here take their evangelists seriously, and Johnny Platt is a real favorite.”

“He's a charlatan,” she replied, as calmly as she could manage. Her fingernails dug into her palms. Why couldn't Dallie just once say what was on his mind? Why did he have to go through all these elaborate camouflaging rituals?

“Maybe, but they've got him scheduled opposite 'Gilligan's Island' reruns, so when people consider the alternative, nobody's too anxious to see his program get canceled.” There was a short, thoughtful pause. “Tell me something, Francie—and this should be right up your alley—with Gilligan and his buddies shipwrecked on that island so long, how's come those women never ran out of eye makeup? And toilet paper? You think the captain and Gilligan used banana leaves all that time?”

She wanted to scream at him, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. “I have a meeting, Dallie. Did you call for any particular reason?”

“As a matter of fact, I'm flying to New York next week to meet with the boys at the network again, and I thought I might stop by around seven on Tuesday night to say hello to Teddy and maybe take you out to dinner.”

“I can't make it,” she said coldly, resentment leaking from every one of her pores.

“Just for dinner, Francie. You don't have to make a big deal out of it.”

If he wouldn't say what was on his mind, she would. “I won't see you, Dallie. You had your chance, and you blew it.”

There was a long silence. She willed herself to hang up, but she couldn't quite coordinate the motion. When Dallie finally spoke, his easy tone was gone. He sounded tired and troubled. “I'm sorry for not calling you earlier, Francie. I needed some time.”

“And now I need some.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “Just let me stop by and see Teddy, then.”

“I don't think so.”

“I have to start fixing things with him, Francie. I'll take it easy. Just a couple of minutes.”

She had grown tough over the years; she'd had to. But now when she needed that toughness the most, all she could do was visualize a little boy shoving peas under his baked potato. “Just for a few minutes,” she conceded. “That's all.”

“Great!” He sounded as exuberant as a teenager. “That's just great, Francie.” And then, quickly, “After I see Teddy, I'll take you out for a bite of dinner.” Before she could open her mouth to protest, he had hung up.

She put her head down on the desk and groaned. She didn't have a spine; she had a strand of limp spaghetti.

By the time the doorman buzzed her on Tuesday evening to announce Dallie's arrival, Francesca was a nervous wreck. She had tried on three of her most conservative outfits before she'd rebelliously settled on one of her wildest—a mint green satin bustier set off by an emerald velvet miniskirt. The colors deepened the green of her eyes and, in her imagination at least, made her look more dangerous. The fact that she was probably overdressed for an evening with Dallie didn't deter her. Even though she suspected they would end up in some seedy dive with plastic-covered menus, this was still her city and Dallie would have to be the one to fit in.