Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(156)

“You're a whiner, Dallie—but you do it with so much style that everybody lets you get away with it.” She released her grip, but she didn't let up on him. “Well, the act's wearing thin. You're getting too old to keep slipping by on your good looks and charm.”

“What the hell do you know about it?” His voice was quiet, slightly hoarse.

“I know everything about it because I started out with some of those same handicaps. But I grew up, and I kicked my bloody life in the tail until it did what I wanted.”

“Maybe it was easier for you,” he retorted. “Maybe you had a few breaks thrown your way. I was on my own when I was fifteen. While you were taking walks in Hyde Park with your nanny, I was dodging my old man's fists. When I was real little, you know what he used to do to me when he got drunk? He used to turn me upside down and hold my head underwater in the toilet.”

Her face didn't soften with even a moment's sympathy. “Tough shit.”

She saw that her coldness had infuriated him, but she didn't let up. Her pity wasn't going to help him. At some point people either had to throw off the wounds of their childhood or go through life permanently crippled. “If you want to play games with yourself, that's your choice, but don't play them with me, because I'll bloody well call your bluff.” She rose from the booth and then stared down at him, her voice frigid with scorn. “I've decided to marry you.”

“Forget it,” he said, cold with fury. “I don't want you. I wouldn't take you if you were gift wrapped.”

“Oh, you want me all right. And it's not just because of Teddy. You want me so badly it scares you. But you're afraid to fight. You're afraid to put anything on the line for fear your head's going to get dunked in that toilet again.” She leaned forward slightly, resting one hand on the table. “I've decided to marry you, Dallie.” She gave him a long, cool look of appraisal. “I'll marry you the day you win the United States Classic.”

“That's the stupidest—”

“But you have to win it, you bastard,” she hissed. “Not third place, not second place—first place.”

He gave her a scornful, shaky laugh. “You're crazy.”

“I want to know what you're made of,” she said contemptuously. “I want to know if you're good enough for me— good enough for Teddy. I haven't settled for second rate in a long time, and I'm not going to start now.”

“You've got a mighty high opinion of what you're worth.”

She threw her napkin straight at his chest. “You bet I do. If you want me, you'll have to earn me. And, mister, I don't come cheap.”

“Francie—”

“You lay that first-place trophy at my feet, you bloody son of a bitch, or don't bother to come near me again!”

Grabbing her purse, she swept past the startled diners at the front tables and dashed out the door. The night had grown cold, but her anger burned so hot that she didn't feel the chill. Stalking down the sidewalk, she was propelled by fury, by hurt, and by fear. Her eyes stung and she couldn't blink them rapidly enough to hold off the tears. Two glistening drops beaded on the waterproof mascara that coated her bottom lashes. How could she have fallen in love with him? How could she have let such an absurd thing happen? Her teeth began to chatter. For almost eleven years, she had felt nothing more than strong affection for a handful of men, shadows of love that faded nearly as quickly as they appeared. But now, just when her life was coming together, she had once again let a second-rate golf pro break her heart.

Francesca passed through the next week with the feeling that something bright and wonderful had slipped from her life forever. What had she done? Why had she challenged him so cruelly? Wasn't half a pie better than none? But she knew she couldn't live with half of anything, and she didn't want Teddy to live that way either. Dallie had to start taking risks, or he would be useless to them both—a will-o'-the-wisp neither of them could ever count on. With every breath she took, she mourned the loss of her lover, the loss of love itself.

The following Monday as she poured Teddy a glass of orange juice before he left for school, she tried to find consolation in the thought that Dallie was as miserable as she. But she had trouble believing that anyone who kept his emotions so carefully protected could have feelings that ran all that deep.

Teddy drank his juice and then stuffed his spelling book into his backpack. “I forgot to tell you. Holly Grace called last night and told me to tell you that Dallie's playing in the U.S. Classic tomorrow.”

Francesca's head shot up from the glass of juice she had started to pour for herself. “Are you sure?”

“That's what she said. I don't see what the big deal is, though. He'll only blow it. And, Mom, if you get a letter from Miss Pearson, don't pay any attention.”

The pitcher of orange juice remained suspended in midair over Francesca's glass. She shut her eyes for a moment, willing her mind away from Dallie Beaudine so she could concentrate on what Teddy was trying to tell her. “What kind of letter?”

Teddy fastened the zipper on his backpack, working with single-minded concentration so he wouldn't have to look up at her. “You might get a letter saying I'm not working up to my potential—”