Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(81)

“Thai's what Skeet said, but I'm wondering whether in any of those conversations you happened to use the exact word ‘wife’?”

“Of course I did. Or Skeet did.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “I don't know... somebody did. Maybe Miss Sybil.”

“Sorry, baby, but it looked to me like she was hearing the bad news for the very first time.”

He impatiently set his mug down. “Hell, what's the difference? Francie's too much in love with herself to care about anybody else. She's past history as far as I'm concerned.”

Holly Grace wasn't surprised. The fight in the parking lot the night before had looked just about as final as a parting could be... unless the two fighters loved each other to the point of desperation, the way she and Dallie used to.

He abruptly shoved back the covers and got out of bed wearing nothing more than his white cotton briefs. She let herself enjoy the sight of those tight muscles rippling across his shoulders and the strength in the backs of his thighs. She wondered what man had first come up with the notion that women didn't enjoy looking at men's bodies. Probably some egghead Ph.D. with four chins and a potbelly.

Dallie turned and caught her studying him. He scowled, even though she knew he probably enjoyed it. “I've got to locate Skeet and make sure he gave her money for a plane ticket home. If she roams around by herself for too long, she's bound to get into more trouble than she can handle.”

Holly Grace looked at him more closely, and an unaccustomed pang of jealousy hit her. It had been a long time since she'd minded Dallie having other women, especially since she collected more than her fair share of good-looking men. But she didn't like the idea of having him care too much about any woman who didn't meet with her approval, which showed exactly what kind of narrow-minded Christian she was. “You really liked her, didn't you?”

“She was all right,” he replied noncommittally.

Holly Grace wanted to know more, like how good Miss Fancy Pants could really be in bed after Dallie had already had the best. But she knew that he would call her a hypocrite, so she set aside her curiosity for the moment. Besides, now that he was finally awake, she could tell him her really important news. Moving to a cross-legged position in the middle of the bed, she filled him in on her morning.

He reacted just about the way she had expected he would.

She told him he could go straight to hell.

He said he was glad about the job, but her attitude bothered him.

“My attitude is my own damn business,” she retorted.

“One of these days you're going to learn that happiness isn't wrapped up in a dollar bill, Holly Grace. There's more involved than that.”

“Since when did you get to be such an expert on happiness? It should be pretty much apparent to anyone who isn't half brain-dead that rich is better than poor and that just because you intend to be a failure all your life doesn't mean I'm going to be one, too.”

They kept on hurting each other like that for a while, then they spent a few minutes stomping around the bedroom without talking. Dallie made a phone call to Skeet; Holly Grace went into the bathroom and got dressed. In the old days they would have broken their stony silence with angry lovemaking, trying unsuccessfully to use their bodies to solve all the problems that their minds couldn't handle. But now they didn't touch each other, and gradually their anger ran out of steam. Finally, they went downstairs together and shared the rest of Miss Sybil's coffee.

The man behind the wheel of the Cadillac frightened Francesca, although he was handsome in a scary sort of way. He had curly black hair, a compact body, and dark, angry eyes, which kept darting nervously toward the rearview mirror. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she'd seen that face someplace before, but she couldn't remember where. Why hadn't she stopped to think more clearly when he'd offered her a ride instead of just jumping into the Cadillac? Like a fool, she had barely looked at him; she'd just climbed in. When she had asked him what he'd been doing in front of Dallie's house, he had said he was a chauffeur and that his passenger didn't need him any longer.

She tried to shift her feet out from under the cat, but he planted his weight more firmly across them and she gave up. The man looked over at her through a cloud of cigarette smoke and then glanced again into the rearview mirror. His nervousness bothered her. He was. acting like some sort of fugitive. She shivered. Maybe he wasn't really a chauffeur. Maybe this was a stolen car. If only she'd let Skeet drive her to the airport in San Antonio this wouldn't have happened. Once again she'd made the wrong choice. Dallie had been right every one of the dozen times he'd told her she didn't have any common sense.

Dallie... She bit her lip and pulled her cosmetic case closer to her hip. While she had sat numbly in the kitchen, Miss Sybil had gone upstairs and gotten her things together for her. Then Miss Sybil had handed her an envelope containing enough money to buy an airplane ticket to London, along with a little extra to tide her over. Francesca had stared down at the envelope, knowing that she couldn't take it, not now that she had begun to think about things like pride and self-respect. If she took the envelope she would be nothing more than a whore being paid off for services rendered. If she didn't take it...

She had taken the envelope and felt as if something bright and innocent had died forever inside her. She couldn't meet Miss Sybil's eyes as she slipped the money inside her case. The lock clicked and her stomach rebelled. Dear God, what if she really was pregnant? Only by swallowing hard could she prevent herself from losing the slice of toast Miss Sybil had forced her to eat. The elderly woman's voice had been kinder than usual as she said that Skeet would drive her to the airport.