Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(42)

“I didn't say anything about a red-haired waitress or wanting to go to the Blue Choctaw.”

“Yeah. Well, I'm not going with you. That place is an invitation to a fight, especially on Saturday night. The women all look like mud wrestlers and the men are worse. I damn near busted a rib the last time I went there, and I've had enough aggravation for one day.”

“I told you to leave her with the guy at the filling station, but you wouldn't listen to me. You never listen to me. Just like last Thursday. I told you that shot from the rough was a hundred thirty-five yards; I'd paced it off, and I told you, but you ignored me and picked up that eight-iron just like I hadn't said a word.”

“Just be quiet about it, will you? I told you right then I was wrong, and I told you the next day that I was wrong, and I been telling you twice a day ever since, so shut up!”

“That's a rookie's trick, Dallie, not trusting your caddy for the yardage. Sometimes I think you're deliberately trying to lose tournaments.”

“Francie?” Dallie said over his shoulder. “You got any more of those fascinating stories about mascara you want to tell me right now?”

“Sorry,” she said sweetly. “I'm all out. Besides, I'm not supposed to chat. Remember?”

“Too late anyway, I guess,” Dallie sighed, pulling up to the airport's main terminal. With the ignition still running, he got out of the car and came around to open her door. “Well, Francie, I can't say it hasn't been interesting.” After she stepped out, he reached into the back seat, removed her cases, and set them next to her on the sidewalk. “Good luck with your fiancé and the prince and all those other high rollers you run around with.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

He took a couple of quick chews on his bubble gum and grinned. “Good luck with those vampires, too.”

She met his amused gaze with icy dignity. “Good-bye, Mr. Beaudine.”

“Good-bye, Miss Francie Pants.”

He'd gotten the last word on her. She stood on the pavement in front of the terminal and faced the undeniable fact that the gorgeous hillbilly had scored the final point in a game she'd invented. An illiterate—probably illegitimate— backwoods bumpkin had outwitted, outtalked, and out-scored the incomparable Francesca Serritella Day.

What was left of her spirit staged a full-scale rebellion, and she gazed up at him with eyes that spoke volumes in the history of banned literature. “It's too bad we didn't meet under different circumstances.” Her pouty mouth curled into a wicked smile. “I'm absolutely certain we'd have tons in common.”

And then she stood on tiptoe, curled into his chest, and lifted her arms until they encircled his neck, never for a moment letting her gaze drop from his. She tilted up her perfect face and offered up her soft mouth like a jeweled chalice. Gently drawing his head down with the palms of her. hands, she placed her lips over his and then slowly parted them so that Dallie Beaudine could take a long, unforgettable drink.

He didn't even hesitate. He jumped right in just as if he'd been there before, bringing with him all the expertise he'd gained over the years to meet and mingle with all of hers. Their kiss was perfect—hot and sexy—two pros doing what they did best, a tingler right down to the toes. They were both too experienced to bump teeth or mash noses or do any of those other awkward things less practiced men and women are apt to do. The Mistress of Seduction had met the Master, and to Francesca the experience was as close to perfect as anything she'd ever felt, complete with goose bumps and a lovely weakness in her knees, a spectacularly perfect kiss made even more perfect by the knowledge that she didn't have to give a moment's thought to the awkward aftermath of having implicitly promised something she had no intention of delivering.

The pressure of the kiss eased, and she slid the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip. Then she slowly pulled away. “Good-bye, Dallie,” she said softly, her cat's eyes slanting up at him with a mischievous glitter. “Look me up the next time you're in Cap Ferret.”

Just before she turned away, she had the pleasure of seeing a slightly bemused expression take over his gorgeous face.

“I should be used to it by now,” Skeet was saying as Dallie climbed back behind the wheel. “I should be used to it, but I'm not. They just fall all over you. Rich ones, poor ones, ugly ones, fancy ones. Don't make no difference. It's like they're all a bunch of homing pigeons circling in to roost. You got lipstick on you.”

Dallie wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and then looked down at the pale smear. “Definitely imported,” he muttered.

From just inside the door of the terminal, Francesca watched the Buick pull away and suppressed an absurd pang of regret. As soon as the car was out of sight, she picked up her cases and walked back outside until she came to a taxi stand with a single yellow cab. The driver got out and loaded her cases into the trunk while she settled in the back. As he got behind the wheel, he turned to her. “Where to, ma'am?”

“I know it's late,” she said, “but do you think you could find a resale shop that's still open?”

“Resale shop?”

“Yes. Someplace that buys designer labels... and a really extraordinary suitcase.”