Heaven, Texas (Chicago Stars #2)(4)

She knew from the photographs she had seen that his Stetson concealed a head of thick blond hair, while the brim shadowed a pair of midnight blue eyes. Unlike her own, his cheekbones could have been chiseled by a Renaissance sculptor. He had a strong, straight nose, a determined jaw, and a mouth that should have come with a warning label. He was utterly and supremely masculine, and as she gazed at him, she felt the same piercing longing she experienced on warm summer evenings when she lay in the grass and stared at the stars. He shone as brightly, and he was just as unreachable.

He wore a black Stetson accompanied by snakeskin cowboy boots and a velour bathrobe patterned in red and green lightning bolts. He held an amber beer bottle in one hand, and smoke curled from the cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. The skin between the tops of his cowboy boots and the bottom of his robe was bare, revealing powerfully muscled calves, and her mouth went dry as she wondered if he was naked underneath that robe.

“Hey! I told you to wait by the door for me.”

She jumped as the burly man who had let her in the house came up behind her, a small boom box in his hand.

“Stella said you were hot, but I told her I wanted a blonde.” He regarded her doubtfully. “Bobby Tom likes blondes. Are you blond under that wig?”

Her hand flew to her french twist. “Actually—”

“I like that librarian’s get-up you’re wearing, but you need a lot more makeup. Bobby Tom likes his women with makeup.”

And breasts, she thought, as her eyes wandered back toward the platform. Bobby Tom also liked his women with very large breasts.

She returned her gaze to the boom box, trying to grasp the specifics of the misunderstanding between them. As she began to frame a proper explanation, the man scratched his chest.

“Did Stella tell you we want something a little special, on account of how depressed he’s been lately because of his retirement? He’s even talking about leaving Chicago to live in Texas year round. The boys and me thought this might give him a couple of laughs. Bobby Tom loves strippers.”

Strippers! Gracie’s fingers convulsed around her fake pearls. “Oh, dear! I should explain—”

“There was one stripper I thought he might even marry, but she couldn’t pass his football quiz.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe that the greatest wideout in the game has hung up his helmet for Hollywood. Goddamn knee.”

Since he seemed to be talking to himself rather than her, Gracie didn’t respond. Instead, she tried to absorb the incredible fact that this man had mistaken her—the last thirty-year-old virgin left on Planet Earth—for a stripper!

It was embarrassing.

It was terrifying.

It was thrilling!

Once again, he regarded her critically. “Last one Stella sent over came in dressed like a nun. Bobby Tom likes to bust a gut laughing. But she wore a lot more makeup. Bobby Tom likes makeup on his women. You’d better go fix yourself up.”

It was long past time to put an end to this misunderstanding, and she cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, Mr.—”

“Bruno. Bruno Metucci. I played for the Stars back in the old days when Bert Somerville owned the team. ‘Course I was never a starter like Bobby Tom.”

“I see. Well, the fact is—”

An outburst of shrill, female squeals erupting from the hot tub distracted her. She lifted her eyes to see Bobby Tom gazing indulgently at the women frolicking at his feet, while in the distance the lights of Lake Michigan glimmered through the glass behind him. For a moment she had the illusion that he was floating in space, a cosmic cowboy in his Stetson, boots, and bathrobe, a man not governed by the same rules of gravity that kept ordinary mortals earthbound He seemed to wear invisible spurs on those boots, spurs that spun at supersonic speed, shooting off giant pinwheels of glittering sparks that illuminated everything he did and made it larger than life.

A woman rose from the bubbles in the hot tub. “Bobby Tom, you said I could take the quiz again.”

She had spoken loudly, and several rowdy cheers went up from the guests. As if one body, everyone in the group turned toward the platform, awaiting his response.

Bobby Tom, with cigar and beer bottle in one hand, stuck his other hand in the pocket of his robe and regarded her with concern. “Are you sure you’re ready, Julie, honey? You know you only get two chances, and you missed Eric Dickerson’s career rushing record by a hundred yards last time.”

“I’m sure. I’ve been studying real hard.”

Julie looked as if she belonged on the cover of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue. As she hoisted herself out of the water, wet blond hair streamed in pale ribbons over her shoulders. She sat on the edge of the hot tub, revealing a swimsuit made up of three tiny turquoise triangles banded in bright yellow. Gracie knew that many of her acquaintances would disapprove of such a revealing swimsuit, but as a devout believer that every woman should capitalize on her assets, Gracie thought she looked wonderful.

Someone in the crowd turned down the music. Bobby Tom sat on one of the boulders and crossed a snakeskin cowboy boot over his bare knee. “Come here and give me a kiss for good luck, then. And don’t you disappoint me this time. I’ve just about got my heart set on makin’ you Mrs. Bobby Tom.”

While Julie complied with his request, Gracie gazed inquisitively at Bruno. “He gives them quizzes about football?”