Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(35)

Surely this road led to something, she told herself. Even in America they wouldn't build roads to nowhere, would they? The thought was so frightening she began playing small games in her head to keep herself moving forward. As she gritted her teeth against the pain in various parts of her body, she envisioned her favorite places, all of them light-years away from the dusty back roads of Mississippi. She envisioned Liberty's on Regent Street with its gnarled beams and wonderful Arabian jewelry, the perfumes at Sephora on the rue de Passy, and everything on Madison Avenue from Adolfo to Yves Saint Laurent. An image sprang into her mind of an icy glass of Perrier with a small sliver of lime. It hung in the hot air in front of her, the picture so vivid she felt as if she could reach out and clasp the cold, wet glass in the palm of her hand. She was beginning to hallucinate, she told herself, but the image was so pleasant she didn't try to make it go away.

The Perrier suddenly vaporized into the hot Mississippi air as she became aware of the sound of an automobile approaching from behind and then the soft squeal of brakes. Before she could balance the weight of the suitcases in her hands to turn toward the noise, a soft drawl drifted toward her from the other side of the road.

“Hey, darlin', didn't anybody tell you that Lee surrendered?”

The suitcase slammed into the front of her knees and her hoop bounced up in the back as she twisted around toward the voice. She balanced her weight and then blinked twice, unable to believe the vision that had materialized directly in front of her eyes.

Across the road, leaning out the window of a dark green automobile with his forearm resting across the top of the door panel, was a man so outrageously good-looking, so devastatingly handsome, that for a moment she thought she might actually have hallucinated him right along with the Perrier and the sliver of lime. As the handle of her suitcase dug into her palm, she took in the classic lines of his face, the molded cheekbones and lean jaw, the straight, perfect nose, and then his eyes, which were a brilliant Paul Newman blue and as thickly lashed as her own. How could a mortal man have eyes like that? How could a man have such an incredibly generous mouth and still look so masculine? Thick, dark blond hair curled up over the edges of a blue billed cap sporting an American flag. She could see the top of a formidable pair of shoulders, the well-formed muscles of his tanned forearm, and for one irrational moment she felt a crazy stab of panic.

She had finally met someone as beautiful as she was.

“You carryin’ any Confederate secrets underneath those skirts?” the man said with a grin that revealed the kind of teeth that belonged on magazine pages and made people count back guiltily to the last time they'd flossed.

“I think the Yankees cut out her tongue, Dallie.”

For the first time, Francesca became aware of another man, this one leaning out the back window. As she took in his sinister face and ominously slitted eyes, warning bells clanged in her head.

“Either that or she's a spy from the North,” he went on. “Never knew a southern woman to keep quiet for so long.”

“You a Yankee spy, darlin'?” Mr. Gorgeous asked, flashing those incredible teeth. “Pryin' out Confederate secrets with those pretty green eyes?”

She was suddenly conscious of her vulnerability—the deserted road, the failing sunlight, two strange men, the fact that she was in America, not safe at home in England. In America people packed loaded guns on their way to church, and criminals roamed the streets at will. She glanced nervously at the man in the back seat. He looked like someone who would torture small animals just for fun. What should she do? No one would hear her if she screamed, and she had no way to protect herself.

“Shoot, Skeet, you're scaring her. Pull that ugly head of yours in, will you?”

Skeet's head retracted, and the gorgeous man with the strange name she hadn't quite caught lifted one perfect eyebrow, waiting for her to say something. She decided to brave it out—to be brisk, matter-of-fact, and under no circumstances let them see how desperate she actually was.

“I'm awfully afraid I've gotten myself into a bit of a muddle,” she said, setting down her suitcase. “I seem to have lost my way. Frightful nuisance, of course.”

Skeet poked his head back out the window.

Mr. Gorgeous grinned.

She kept going doggedly. “Perhaps you could tell me how far it is to the next petrol station. Or anywhere I might find a telephone, actually.”

“You're from England, aren't you?” Skeet asked. “Dallie, do you hear the funny way she talks? She's a English lady, is what she is.”

Francesca watched as Mr. Gorgeous—could someone really be named Dallie?—swept his gaze down over the pink and white ruffles of her gown. “I'll bet you got one hell of a story to tell, honey. Come on and hop in. We'll give you a lift to the next telephone.”

She hesitated. Getting into a car with two strange men didn't strike her as the absolute wisest course to take, but she couldn't seem to think of an alternative. She stood in the road, ruffles dragging in the dust and suitcases at her feet, while an unfamiliar combination of fear and uncertainty made her feel queasy.

Skeet leaned all the way out the window and tilted his head to look at Dallie. “She's afraid you're rapist scum gettin’ ready to ruin her.” He turned back to her. “You take a good hard look at Dallie's pretty face, ma'am, and then tell me if you think a man with a face like that has to resort to violatin’ unwilling women.”