Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(62)

“Do you have something you want to share with the rest of the class,” he murmured into her skin, “or is this a private joke?”

“No, I'm just having fun.” She smiled as he kissed her neck and tugged on the rosette of material at her waist securing the long tail of the T-shirt. “What's an Aggies?” she asked.

“An Aggie? Somebody like me who went to college at Texas A&M is an Aggie.”

She pulled back abruptly, her amazement etching itself in the perfect arch of her eyebrows. “You went to a university? I don't believe it!”

He looked at her with a mildly aggravated expression. “I've got a bachelor of arts degree in English literature. Do you want to see my diploma or can we get back to work here?”

“English literature?” She burst out in laughter. “Oh, Dallie, that's incredible! You barely speak the language.”

He was clearly offended. “Well, now, that's real nice. That's a real nice thing to say to somebody.”

Still laughing, she tossed herself into his arms, moving so suddenly that she knocked him off balance and bumped him back into the steering wheel. Then she said the most astonishing thing.

“I could eat you up, Dallie Beaudine.”

It was his turn to laugh, but he didn't get very far with it because her mouth was all over his. She forgot about being scared and about not being any good at sex as she lifted herself to her knees and leaned on him.

“I'm running out of maneuvering room here, honey,” he finally said against her mouth. Pulling away, he opened the door of the Riviera and got out. Then he extended his hand for her.

She let him help her out, but instead of opening the back door so they could resettle in roomier quarters, he pinned her hips with his thighs against the side of the Riviera and drew her into another kiss. The dome light left on by the open door produced a dim area of illumination around the car that made the darkness beyond seem even more impenetrable. The vague image of her open-toed sandals and alligators lurking beneath a car flickered through her mind. Without losing one moment of the kiss, she draped her arms over his shoulders and pulled herself up so that one of her legs was wrapped tightly around the back of one of his and her other foot was planted firmly on top of his cowboy boot.

“I do like the way you kiss,” he murmured. His left hand slid up along her bare spine and unfastened her bra while his right reached between their bodies to tug at the snap on her jeans.

She could feel herself getting nervous again, and it didn't have anything to do with alligators. “Let's go buy some champagne, Dallie. I—I think some champagne will help me relax.”

“I'll relax you.” He pulled the snap open and began working on the zipper.

“Dallie!” she exclaimed. “We're outside.”

“Uh-huh. Just you, me, and the swamp.” The zipper gave.

“I—I don't think I'm ready for this.” Reaching under her loose T-shirt, he cupped her breast in his hand and let his lips trail over her cheek to her mouth. Panic began beating inside her. He rubbed her nipple with his thumb and she moaned softly. She wanted him to think she was wonderful—a spectacular lover—and how could she do that in the middle of a swamp? “I—I need champagne. And soft lights. I need sheets, Dallie.”

He withdrew his hand from her breast and settled it gently around the side of her neck. Gazing down into her eyes, he said, “No, you don't, honey. You don't need anything but yourself. You've got to start understanding that, Francie. You've got to start relying on yourself instead of all these props you think you need to set up around you.”

“I-I'm afraid.” She tried to make her words sound defiant, but didn't quite succeed. Unwrapping herself from his legs and stepping down off his cowboy boot, she confessed everything. “It might seem silly to you, but Evan Varian said I was frigid, and there was this Swedish sculptor in Marrakech—”

“You want to hold on to that part of the story for a while?”

She felt some of her fight coming back, and she glared at him. “You brought me here on purpose, didn't you? You brought me here because you knew I'd hate it.” She took several steps back and pointed a shaky finger toward the Riviera. “I'm not the sort of woman you make love to in the back seat of a car.”

“Who said anything about a back seat?”

She stared at him for a moment and then exclaimed, “Oh, no! I'm not lying down on that creature-infested ground. I mean it, Dallie.”

“I don't much like the ground myself.”

“Then how? Where?”

“Come on, Francie. Stop plotting and planning and trying to make sure you always have your best side turned to the camera. Let's just kiss a little bit so things can take their natural course.”

“I want to know where, Dallie.”

“I know you do, honey, but I'm not going to tell you because you'll start worrying about whether it's color-coordinated or not. For once in your life, take a chance at doing something where you may not come out looking your best.”

She felt as if he had held a mirror up in front of her—not a very large mirror and one with clouded glass, but a mirror nonetheless. Was she as vain as Dallie seemed to believe? As calculating? She didn't want to think so, and yet... She stuck out her chin and began defiantly peeling down her jeans. “All right, we'll do it your way. But just don't expect anything spectacular from me.” The slim denim pantlegs caught on her sandals. She bent over to struggle with them, but the heels stuck in the folds. She gave the jeans another tug and tightened the snare. “Is this turning you on, Dallie?” she fumed. “Do you like watching me? Are you getting excited? Dammit! Dammit to bloody hell!”