Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(61)

“Something wrong, Francie?”

“What makes you ask?” she replied stiffly.

“You've pretty much laminated yourself to that door handle over there.”

“I like it here.”

He fiddled with the radio dial. “Suit yourself. So what's it going to be? Country or easy listening?”

“Neither. I like rock.” She had a sudden inspiration, and she immediately acted upon it. “I've loved rock for as long as I can remember. The Rolling Stones are my very favorite group. Most people don't know it, but Mick wrote three songs for me after we spent some time together in Rome.”

Dallie didn't look particularly impressed, so she decided to embellish. After all, it wasn't too much of a lie, since Mick Jagger certainly knew her well enough to say hello. She lowered her voice into a breathless, confiding whisper. “We stayed in this wonderful apartment that overlooked the Villa Borghese. Everything was absolutely super. We had, complete privacy, so we could even make love outside on the terrace. It didn't last, of course. He has this terrible ego— not to mention Bianca—and I met the prince.” She paused. “No, that's not right. I met Ryan O'Neal, and then I met the prince.”

Dallie looked over at her, gave his head a slow shake as if he were clearing water from his ears, and then returned his attention to the road. “You like making love outside, do you, Francie?”

“Of course, don't most women?” Actually, she couldn't imagine anything worse.

They drove for several miles in silence. Suddenly he swung the wheel to the right and turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road that headed directly into a stand of bald cypresses hung with beards of Spanish moss. “What are you doing? Where are you going!” she exclaimed. “Turn the car around this minute! I want to go back to the motel.”

“I think you might like this spot, being such a sexual adventuress and all.” He pulled in among the cypresses and turned off the ignition. Strange insect sounds drifted through the open window on his side.

“That looks like a swamp out there,” she cried desperately.

He peered through the windshield. “I believe you're right. We'd better not get too far from the car; most 'gators seem to feed at night.” He pulled off his cap, set it on the dashboard, and turned to her. He waited expectantly.

She pushed herself a little more closely against the door handle.

“Do you want to go first, or do you want me to?” he finally asked.

She kept her reply cautious. “Go first doing what?”

“Warming up. You know—foreplay. Since you've had all those big-time lovers, you've got me a little intimidated here. Maybe you'd better set the pace.”

“Let's—let's forget this. I—I think maybe I made a mistake. Let's go back to the motel.”

“Not a good idea, Francie. Once you make that crossover into the Promised Land, you can't really turn back without making things awkward.”

“Oh, I don't think so. I don't think it'll be awkward at all. It wasn't actually the Promised Land, just a small flirtation. I mean, it certainly won't be awkward for me, and I'm positive it won't be awkward for—”

“Yes, it will. It'll be so awkward I probably won't even be able to play half-decent golf tomorrow. I'm a professional athlete, Francie. Professional athletes have fine-tuned bodies, like well-oiled engines. One little speck of awkwardness'll throw everything off stride. Like dirt. You could cost me a good five strokes tomorrow, darlin'.”

His accent had gotten unbelievably thick, and she suddenly realized she was being conned. “Damn it, Dallie! Don't do this to me. I'm nervous enough as it is without your making fun of me.”

He laughed, put his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her close in a friendly sort of hug. “Why don't you just say you're nervous instead of going through all that fancy stuff of yours? You make everything so hard on yourself.”

It felt nice being in his arms, but she couldn't quite forgive him for teasing. “That's easy for you to say. You're obviously comfortable in every conceivable sort of bed, but I'm not.” She took a breath and spit out exactly what was on her mind. “Actually... I don't even like sex.” There. She'd said it. Now he could really laugh at her.

“Now, why's that? Something that feels as good as sex and doesn't cost any money should be right up your alley.”

“I'm just not an athletic person.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that explains it, all right.”

She couldn't entirely forget the swamp. “Could we go back to the motel, Dallie?”

“I don't think so, Francie. You'll be closing yourself up in the bathroom and worrying about your makeup and reaching for that perfume bottle of yours.” He lifted the hair on the side of her neck and, leaning over, nuzzled his lips against her skin. “You ever necked in the back seat of a car before?”

She closed her eyes against the delicious sensation he was arousing. “Does one of the royal family's limousines count?”

He caught her earlobe gently between his teeth. “Not unless the windows fogged up.”

She wasn't sure who moved first, but somehow Dallie's mouth was on hers. His hands moved up along the back of her neck and plowed through her hair from beneath, spreading it out over his bare forearms. He imprisoned her head in the palms of his hands and tilted it farther back so that her mouth opened involuntarily. She waited for the invasion of his tongue, but it didn't come. Instead, he played with her bottom lip. Her own hands crept around his ribs to his back and unconsciously slipped beneath his T-shirt so she could feel his strong bare skin. Their mouths played together and Francesca lost all desire to try to maintain the upper hand. Before long, she found herself receiving his tongue with pleasure—his beautiful tongue, his beautiful mouth, his beautiful taut skin beneath her hands. She devoted herself to the kiss, concentrating only on the feelings he was arousing without giving a thought to what would happen next. His mouth slid away from hers and traveled to her neck. She giggled softly.