Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(47)

She drew back her hand and hit his arm as hard as she could.

“Ouch.” He rubbed the spot she had struck.

“Did she just hit you?” Skeet inquired indignantly.

“Yeah.”

“You gonna hit her back?”

“I'm thinking.”

“I would if I was you.”

“I know you would.” He looked at her and his eyes darkened. “I would, too, if I thought she was going to be part of my life for any longer than about the next two and a half minutes.”

She stared at him, wishing she could take back her impulsive blow, unable to believe what she'd just heard. “Exactly what are you saying?” she demanded.

Skeet sped through a yellow light. “How far is it to the airport from here?”

“Clear across town.” Dallie leaned forward and clasped his hand over the back of the seat. “In case you weren't paying attention earlier, the motel's up another light and down a block.”

Skeet stepped down on the accelerator and the Riviera shot forward, throwing Francesca back against the seat. She glared at Dallie, trying to shame him into apologizing so she could magnanimously forgive him. She waited the rest of the way to the motel.

They turned into the well-lit parking lot, and Skeet swung around to the side, stopping in front of a line of brightly painted metal doors stamped with black numbers. He shut off the ignition, and then he and Dallie climbed out. She watched incredulously as first one car door slammed and then the other.

“See you in the morning, Dallie.”

“See you, Skeet.”

She leaped out after them, her case clutched in her hand, trying unsuccessfully to hold her blouse closed. “Dallie!”

He pulled a room key from the pocket of his jeans and turned. Greige silk slithered through her fingers as she closed the car door. Couldn't he see how helpless she was? How much she needed him? “You have to help me,” she said, staring at him with eyes so pitifully large they seemed to eat up her small face. “I put my life in jeopardy going to that bar just to find you.”

He looked at her breasts and the ecru silk bra. Then he pulled his faded navy T-shirt over his head and tossed it to her. “Here's the shirt off my back, honey. Don't ask for anything more.”

She watched incredulously as he walked into his motel room and shut the door—shut the door in her face! The panic that had been building inside her throughout the day burst free, flooding every part of her body. She had never experienced such fear, she had no way of coping with it, and so she converted it into something she understood—a burning flare of red-hot anger. No one treated her like this! No one! She'd make him deal with her! She'd make him pay!

She dashed to his door and banged her case against it, hitting it once, twice, wishing it were his horrid, ugly face. She kicked at it, cursed it, let her anger detonate, let it blaze bright and righteous in one never-to-be-forgotten display of the temper that had made her a legend.

The door swung open and he stood on the other side, his chest bare and his ugly face scowling at her. She'd show him a scowl! She'd show him that he'd never even imagined what a scowl looked like! “You bastard!” She shot past him and flung her case across the room, where it shattered the television screen in a satisfying explosion of glass. “You depraved, moronic bastard!” She kicked over a chair. “You callous son of a bitch!” She upended his suitcase.

And then she let herself go.

Screaming out insults and accusations, she tossed ashtrays and pillows, threw lamps, and pulled the drawers from the desk. Every slight she had suffered in the past twenty-four hours, every indignity, came to the surface—the pink dress, the Blue Choctaw, the peach eye shadow.... She punished Chloe for dying, Nicky for deserting her; she assaulted Lew Steiner, attacked Lloyd Byron, mutilated Miranda Gwynwyck, and most of all, she annihilated Dallie Beaudine. Dallie, the most beautiful man she had ever met, the only man who wasn't impressed by her, the only man who'd ever slammed a door in her face.

Dallie watched for a moment, his hands planted on his hips. A can of shaving cream flew past him and hit the mirror. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. He stuck his head out the door. “Skeet! Come over here. You got to see this.”

Skeet was already on his way. “What's going on? It sounds like—” He stopped dead in the open doorway, staring at the destruction taking place in front of him. “Why is she doin’ that?”

“Damned if I know.” Dallie ducked a flying copy of the Greater New Orleans telephone directory. “Damnedest thing I ever saw in my life.”

“Maybe she thinks she's a rock star. Hey, Dallie! She's goin’ for your three-wood!”

Dallie moved like the athlete he was, and in two long strides he had her.

Francesca felt herself being upended. For a moment her legs hung free, and then something hard jabbed into her stomach as she felt herself being tossed over his shoulder. “Put me down! Put me down, you bastard!”

“Not hardly. That's the best three-wood I ever owned.”

They began to move. She screamed as he carried her outside, his shoulder pushing into her stomach, his arm clamped around the backs of her knees. She heard voices and she was dimly aware of doors opening and bathrobed bodies peering out.

“I never saw a woman so scared of a little old mouse in all my life,” Dallie called out.