Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(39)

“Oh.” She thought for a moment. There was no reason for her to panic; she would simply find another way. “Doesn't New Orleans have an airport? I can fly from there.”

“How do you intend to get there? And if you mention a taxi again, I swear to God I'll throw both pieces of that Louie Vee-tawn right over into the scrub pine! You're out in the middle of nowhere, lady, don't you understand that? There aren't any taxicabs out here! This is backwoods Louisiana, not Paris, France!”

She sat up more stiffly and bit down on the inside of her lip. “I see,” she said slowly. “Well, perhaps I could pay you to take me the rest of the way.” She glanced down at her handbag, worry furrowing her brow. How much cash did she have left? She'd better call Nicholas right away so he could have money waiting for her in New Orleans.

Skeet pushed open the door and stepped out. “I'm gonna get me a bottle of Dr Pepper while you sort this out, Dallie. But I'm tellin’ you one thing—if she's still in this car when I get back, you can find somebody else to haul your Spauldings around on Monday morning.” The door slammed shut.

“What an impossible man,” Francesca said with a sniff. She looked sideways at Dallie. He wouldn't really leave her, would he, just because that horrid sidekick of his didn't like her? She turned to him, her tone placating. “Just let me make a telephone call. It won't take a minute.”

She extricated herself from the car as gracefully as she could and, hoops swaying, walked inside the ramshackle building. Opening her handbag, she took out her wallet and quickly counted her money. It didn't take long. Something uncomfortable slithered along the base of her spine. She only had eighteen dollars left... eighteen dollars between herself and starvation.

The receiver was sticky with dirt, but she paid no attention as she snatched it from its cradle and dialed 0. When she was finally connected with an overseas operator, she gave Nicholas's number and reversed the charges. While she waited for the call to go through, she tried to distract herself from her growing uneasiness by watching Dallie get out of the car and wander over to the owner of the place, who was loading some old tires into the back of a dilapidated truck and regarding all of them with interest. What a waste, she thought, her eyes straying back to Dallie—putting a face like that on an ignorant hillbilly.

Nicholas's houseboy finally answered, but her hopes of rescue were short-lived as he refused the call, announcing that his employer was out of town for several weeks. She stared at the receiver and then placed another call, this one to Cissy Kavendish. Cissy answered, but she was no more inclined to accept the call than Nicholas's houseboy. That awful bitch! Francesca fumed as the line went dead.

Beginning to feel genuinely frightened, she mentally ran through her list of acquaintances only to realize that she hadn't been on the best of terms with even her most loyal admirers in the last few months. The only other person who might lend her money was David Graves, who was away in Africa somewhere shooting a picture. Gritting her teeth, she placed a third collect call, this one to Miranda Gwynwyck. Somewhat to her surprise, the call was accepted.

“Francesca, how nice to hear from you, even though it's after midnight and I was sound asleep. How's your film career coming? Is Lloyd treating you well?”

Francesca could almost hear her purring, and she clenched the receiver more tightly. “Everything's super, Miranda; I can't thank you enough—but I seem to have a small emergency, and I need to get in touch with Nicky. Give me his number, will you?”

“Sorry, darling, but he's incommunicado at the moment with an old friend—a glorious blond mathematician who adores him.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Francesca, even Nicky has his limits, and I do believe you finally reached them. But give me your number and I'll have him return your call when he gets back in two weeks so he can tell you himself.”

“Two weeks won't do! I have to talk to him now.”

“Why?”

“That's private,” she snapped.

“Sorry, I can't help.”

“Don't do this, Miranda! I absolutely must—” The line went dead just as the owner of the service station walked in the door and flipped the dial on a greasy white plastic radio. The voice of Diana Ross suddenly filled Francesca's ears, asking her if she knew where she was going to. “Oh, God...” she murmured.

And then she looked up to see Dallie walking around the front of the car toward the driver's side. “Wait!” She dropped the receiver and raced out the door, her heart banging against her ribs, terrified that he would drive off and leave her.

He stopped where he was and leaned back against the hood, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don't tell me,” he said. “Nobody was home.”

“Well, yes... no. You see, Nicky, my fiancé —”

“Never mind.” He pulled off his cap by the brim and shoved his hand through his hair. “I'll drop you off at the airport. Only you have to promise that you won't talk on the way.”

She bristled, but before she had time to reply, he jerked his thumb toward the passenger door. “Hop in. Skeet wanted to stretch his legs, so we'll pick him up down the road.”

She had to use the toilet before she went anywhere, and she would die if she didn't change her clothes. “I need a few minutes,” she said. “I'm sure you won't mind waiting.” Since she wasn't sure of any such thing, she turned the full force of her charm on him—green cat's eyes, soft mouth, a small, helpless hand on his arm.