Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(29)

Sally's expression didn't change. “Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to hold you up a little longer, although I'll try to make it as fast as possible. Lord Byron moved up the shooting schedule, and we have to have your costume ready by tomorrow morning.”

“But that's preposterous. Tomorrow's Saturday. I'm going to need a few days to get settled in. He can hardly expect me to start working the moment I arrive.”

Sally's pleasant manner slipped. “That's show biz, honey. Call your agent.” She glanced at the Vuitton suitcases and then called to someone behind Francesca's back. “Hey, Davey, take Miss Day's stuff over to the chicken coop, will ya?”

“Chicken coop!” Francesca exclaimed, beginning to feel genuinely alarmed. “I don't know what all this is about, but I want to go to my hotel immediately.”

“Yeah, don't we all.” She gave Francesca a smile that bordered on being insolent. “Don't worry, it's not really a chicken coop. The house where we're all staying sits right next to this property. It used to be a convalescent home a few years back; the beds still have cranks on them. We call it the chicken coop because that's what it looks like. If you don't mind a few cockroaches, it's not bad.”

Francesca refused to rise to the bait. This was what happened, she realized, when one argued with underlings. “I want to see Mr. Byron at once,” she declared.

“He's shooting inside the house right now, but he doesn't like being interrupted.” Sally's eyes flicked rudely over her, and Francesca could feel her assessing the mussed clothes and inappropriate winter fabric.

“I'll take my chances,” she replied sarcastically, staring at the wardrobe mistress for one long, hard moment before she pushed her hair back and walked away.

Sally Calaverro watched her go. She studied that tiny, slim body, remembering the perfect makeup and the gorgeous mane of hair. How did she manage to flip her hair like that with just a little shrug? Did gorgeous women take hair-flipping lessons or what? Sally tugged on a lock of her own hair, dry and frizzed at the ends from a bad perm. All the straight males in the company would start behaving like twelve-year-olds when they caught sight of that woman, Sally thought. They were accustomed to pretty little starlets, but this one was something else, with that fancy-schmansy British accent and a way of staring at you that reminded you your parents had crossed the ocean in steerage. During countless hours in too many singles bars, Sally had observed that some men ate up that superior, condescending crap.

“Shit,” she muttered, feeling like a fat, frumpy giantess firmly entrenched on the wrong side of twenty-five. Miss High-and-Mighty had to be suffocating underneath her two-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater, but she looked as cool and crisp as a magazine ad. Some women, it seemed to Salty, had been put on earth just for other women to hate, and Francesca Day was definitely one of them.

Dallie could feel the Dread Mondays descending on him, even though it was Saturday and he'd shot a spectacular 64 the day before playing eighteen holes with some good ol’ boys outside Tuscaloosa. Dread Mondays was the name he'd given the black moods that seized him more frequently than he wanted to let on, sinking sharp teeth right into him and sucking out all the juice. In general, the Dread Mondays screwed up a hell of a lot more than his long irons.

He hunched over his Howard Johnson's coffee and stared out the front window of the restaurant into the parking lot. The sun wasn't up all the way and other than some sleepy-eyed truckers the restaurant was nearly empty. He tried to reason away his lousy mood. It hadn't been a bad season, he reminded himself. He'd won a few tournaments, and he and PGA Commissioner Deane Beman hadn't chatted more than two or three times on the commissioner's favorite subject—conduct unbecoming to a professional golfer.

“What'll it be?” asked the waitress who came up next to his table, an orange and blue hankie tucked in her pocket. She was one of those squeaky-clean fat women with sprayed hair and good makeup, the kind who took care of herself and made you say that she had a nice face underneath all that fat.

“Steak and home fries,” he said, handing her the menu. “Two eggs over easy, and another gallon of coffee.”

“You want it in a cup or should I shoot it straight into your veins?”

He chuckled. “You just keep it coming, honey, and I'll figure out where to put it.” Damn, he loved waitresses. They were the best women in the world. They were street smart and sassy, and every one of them had a story.

This particular waitress took a few moments to look at him before she moved away, studying his pretty face, he figured. It happened all the time, and he generally didn't mind unless they also gave him that half-hungry look that told him they wanted something from him he damn well couldn't give.

The Dread Mondays came back in full force. Just this morning, right after he had crawled out of bed, he had been standing in the shower trying to get his two bloodshot eyes to stay open when the Bear had come right up next to him and whispered in his ear.

It's almost Halloween, Beaudine. Where are you going to hide yourself this year?

Dallie had turned on the cold water faucet as far as it would go, but the Bear kept at him.

Just what the hell does a worthless no-account like you think you're doing living on the very same planet with me?

Dallie shook away the memory as the food arrived along with Skeet, who slid into the booth. Dallie shoved the breakfast plate across the table and looked away while Skeet picked up his fork and sank it into the bloody steak.