Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(70)

Miss Sybil gave a disapproving cluck. “Well, we'll soon fix that, won't we? Bring the suitcases inside, boys. Dallas, are you chewing gum?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Please remove it along with your hat before you come inside.”

Francesca giggled as the old woman disappeared through the back door.

Dallie flicked his gum into a hydrangea bush. “Just you wait,” he said to Francesca ominously.

Skeet chuckled. “Looks like ol' Francie's gonna take some of the heat off us for a change.”

Dallie smiled back. “You can almost see Miss Sybil rubbing her hands together just waiting to get at her.” He looked at Francesca. “Did you mean it when you said you haven't read Fitzgerald?”

Francesca was beginning to feel as if she'd confessed to a series of mass murders. “It's not a crime, Dallie.”

“It is around here.” He chuckled maliciously. “Boy, are you ever in for it.”

The house on Cherry Street had high ceilings, heavy walnut moldings, and light-flooded rooms. The old wooden floors were scarred in places, a few cracks marred the plaster walls, and the interior decoration lacked even a modest sense of coordination, but the house still managed to project a haphazard charm. Striped wallpaper coexisted alongside floral, and the odd mix of furniture was enlivened by needlework pillows and afghans crocheted in multicolored yarns. Plants set in handmade ceramic pots filled dark corners, cross-stitch samplers decorated the walls, and golf trophies popped up everywhere—as doorstops, bookends, weighing down a stack of newspapers, or simply catching the light on a sunny windowsill.

Three days after her arrival in Wynette, Francesca slipped out of the bedroom Miss Sybil had assigned to her and crept across the hallway. Beneath a T-shirt of Dallie's that fell to the middle of her thighs, she wore a rather astonishing pair of silky black bikini underpants that had miraculously appeared in the small stack of clothing Miss Sybil had lent her to supplement her wardrobe. She had slipped into them half an hour earlier when she'd heard Dallie come up the stairs and go into his bedroom.

Since their arrival, she'd barely seen him. He left for the driving range early in the morning, from there went to the golf course and then God knew where, leaving her with no one but Miss Sybil for company. Francesca hadn't been in the house for a day before she'd found a copy of Tender Is the Night pressed into her hands along with a gentle admonition to refrain from pouting when things didn't go her way. Dallie's abandonment upset her. He acted as if nothing had happened between them, as if they hadn't spent a night making love. At first she had tried to ignore it, but now she had decided that she had to start fighting for what she wanted, and what she wanted was more lovemaking.

She tapped the tip of one unpainted fingernail softly on the door opposite her own, afraid Miss Sybil would awaken and hear her. She shuddered at the thought of what the disagreeable old woman would do if she knew Francesca had wandered across the hall to Dallie's bedroom for illicit sex. She would probably chase her from the house screaming “Harlot!” at the top of her lungs. When Francesca heard no response from the other side of the door, she tapped a bit harder.

Without warning, Dallie's voice boomed out from the other side, sounding like a cannon in the still of the night. “If that's you, Francie, come on in and stop making so damned much noise.”

She darted inside the bedroom, hissing like a tire losing its air. “Shh! She'll hear you, Dallie. She'll know I'm in your room.”

He stood fully dressed, hitting golf balls with his putter across the carpet toward an empty beer bottle. “Miss Sybil's eccentric,” he said, eyeing the line of his putt, “but she's not even close to being a prude. I think she was disappointed when I told her we wouldn't be sharing a room.”

Francesca had been disappointed, too, but she wasn't going to make an issue of it now, when her pride had already been stung. “I've barely seen you at all since we got here. I thought maybe you were still angry with me about Beast.”

“Beast?”

“That bloody cat.” A trace of annoyance crept into her voice. “He bit me again yesterday.”

Dallie smiled, then sobered. “Actually, Francie, I thought it might be better if we kept our hands to ourselves for a while.”

Something inside her gave a small lurch. “Why? What do you mean?”

The ball pinged against the glass as his putt found its mark. “I mean that I don't think you can handle a whole lot more trouble in your life right now, and you should know that I'm pretty much unreliable where women are concerned.” He used the head of the putter to reach out for another ball and draw it close. “Not that I'm proud of it, you understand, but that's the way things are. So if you've got any ideas about rose-covered bungalows or His and Her bath towels, you might want to get rid of them.”

Enough of the old proud Francesca still lingered that she managed to slip a condescending laugh past the lump in her throat. “Rose-covered bungalows? Really, Dallie, what on earth can you be thinking of? I'm going to marry Nicky, remember? This is my last fling before I'm permanently shackled.” Except she wasn't going to marry Nicky. She'd placed another call last night, hoping that he would have returned by now and she could talk him into advancing her a small loan so she wouldn't be so dependent on Dallie for money. Her call woke the houseboy, who said Mr. Gwynwyck was away on his honeymoon. Francesca had stood with the receiver in her hand for some time before she'd hung up the phone.