Heaven, Texas (Chicago Stars #2)(3)

You come from a long line of homely women, Gracie Snow. Accept the fact that you’ll never be pretty and you’ll be a lot happier.

She was of medium height, neither short enough to be cute, nor tall enough to be willowy. Although she wasn’t exactly flat chested, she was the next closest thing. Her eyes were neither a warm brown nor a sparkling blue, but a nondescript gray. Her mouth was too wide, her chin too stubborn. She no longer bothered to feel grateful for the clear skin that lurked between the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, or the fact that the nose itself was small and straight. Instead, she concentrated on being grateful for the more important gifts God had given her: intelligence, a quirky sense of humor, and an insatiable interest in all aspects of the human condition. She told herself that strength of character was more important than beauty anyway, and only when she was at her most dispirited did she wish she could trade in a speck of integrity, a dab of virtue, a morsel of organizational ability for a larger bra size.

The door finally opened, cutting into her thoughts, and she found herself facing one of the ugliest men she had ever seen—a hulking bruiser with a thick neck, bald head, and bulging shoulders. She regarded him with interest as his eyes swept down over her navy suit, neat white polyester blouse, and no-nonsense black pumps.

“Yeah?”

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin a notch. “I’m here to see Mr. Denton.”

“It’s about time.” Without warning, he grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. “Did you bring your own music?”

She was so startled by his question, she received only the vaguest impression of the foyer: limestone floors, a massive aluminum wall sculpture, and a granite boulder holding a samurai helmet. “Music?”

“Jeez, I told Stella to make sure you brought your own. Never mind. I’ve got the tape the last girl left here.”

“The tape?”

“Bobby Tom’s in the hot tub. The boys and me want to surprise him, so wait here while I get everything ready. Then we’ll go in together.”

With that, he disappeared through a sliding shoji screen off to her right. She stared after him, her emotions catapulting between alarm and curiosity. He had obviously mistaken her for someone else, but since Bobby Tom Denton wouldn’t accept any phone calls from Windmill Studios, she wondered if she shouldn’t take advantage of the misunderstanding.

The old Gracie Snow would have patiently waited for him to return so she could have explained her mission, but the new Gracie Snow craved adventure, and she found herself following the sound of raucous music along a curving hallway.

The rooms she passed were like none she had ever seen. She had always been a secret sensualist, and sight alone didn’t satisfy her. Her hands itched to stroke the rough pieces of sculpture sitting on oxidized iron pedestals and the granite blocks that held irregularly shaped tabletops that looked like cross sections cut from prehistoric trees. She wanted to trail the pads of her fingers over the walls, some of which were lacquered a pale gray, while others were covered with long swatches of distressed leather bleached to the color of human ashes. The deep-seated, low-slung furniture upholstered in canvas and zebra-print beckoned to her, and the scent of eucalyptus trailing from ancient urns tantalized her nostrils.

Mingling with the eucalyptus, she caught the scent of chlorine. As she rounded a massive set of boulders tumbling artistically from the wall, her eyes widened. The hallway opened out into a luxurious grotto, whose walls were constructed of sweeping sheets of sandblasted glass rising to the roof. Mature palms, stands of bamboo, and other exotic foliage grew from free-form beds cut into the black marble floor, making the grotto look both tropical and prehistoric. The black tiled, asymmetrical-shaped swimming pool gave the appearance of a hidden pond where dinosaurs might have gone for a midday sip. Even the starkly designed chaises and chunky tables made of flattop boulders blended with the natural ambience.

The surroundings might be prehistoric, but the guests were thoroughly modern. There were perhaps thirty people in the mixed group. All of the women were young and beautiful, while the men, both black and white, had bulging muscles and thick necks. She knew nothing about football players except for their unsavory reputations, and as she observed the scanty bikinis worn by most of the women, she couldn’t suppress a small spark of hope that some sort of orgy might be about to take place. Not that she would ever participate in such a thing—even supposing anyone should ask her to—but it would be interesting to observe.

Shrill female squeals drew her attention to the foaming hot tub that sat inside a cluster of boulders on a raised platform near the windows. Four women frolicked in the bubbles, and Gracie experienced both envy and admiration as she observed their glistening, suntanned breasts bouncing in brief bikini tops. And then her gaze moved beyond the women to the lone man occupying the platform, and everything inside her went still.

She recognized him at once from his photographs. He stood next to the hot tub like a sultan surveying his harem, and as she watched him, all her deepest and most secret sexual fantasies came to life. This was Bobby Tom Denton. Dear Lord.

He was the embodiment of every man she’d ever dreamed about; all the high school boys who’d ignored her, all the young men who never remembered her name, all the handsome professional men who complimented her on her clear thinking, but never thought to ask her out for a date. He was a glittering superhuman creature who must have been put on earth by a perverse God to remind homely women like herself that some things were unobtainable.