Fancy Pants (35 page)
"I guess that's pretty much an understatement." The Springsteen tape
had reached "Darlington County" again, and Dallie tapped out the rhythm
with the toe of his shoe while he waited for Holly Grace to get
to the
point.
"Except you're alike in the most peculiar ways. The first thing she
said when she saw this apartment was that it reminded her of
a doctor's office. And, Dallie, that girl just about has you beat when
it comes to picking up strays. First it was cats. Then she branched off
into dogs, which was interesting because she's scared to death of them.
Finally, she began picking up people—teenage girls, fourteen, fifteen
years old, who'd run away from home and were selling their wares on the
street."
"No kidding," Dallie said, his interest finally caught. "What does she
do with them once she—" But then he stopped as Holly Grace pulled off
her coat and he caught sight of the bruise on her neck. "Hey, what's
that? It looks like a sucker bite."
"I don't want to talk about it." She hunched up her shoulders to cover
the mark and escaped into the kitchen.
He followed her. "Damn, I haven't seen one of those things in years. I
remember when I put a few of those on you myself." He propped himself
in the doorway. "You feel like telling me about it?"
"You'll only start yelling."
Dallie gave a snort of displeasure. "Gerry Jaffe. You saw your old
commie lover again."
"He's not a commie." Holly Grace yanked a Miller Lite from the
refrigerator. "Just because you don't happen to agree with somebody's
politics doesn't mean you should go around calling him a commie.
Besides, you're not half as conservative as you try to make people
believe."
"My politics don't have anything to do with it. I just don't want to
see you get hurt again, honey."
Holly Grace deflected the conversation by curving her mouth into a
syrupy sweet smile. "Speaking of old lovers, how's Bambi? Has she
learned to read those movie magazines yet without moving her lips?"
"Aw, come on, Holly Grace . . ."
She looked at him with disgust. "I swear to God I would never have
divorced you if I'd known you were going to start dating women with
names that end in i."
"Are you finished yet?" It aggravated him when she teased him about
Bambi, even though he pretty much admitted the girl had been a low
point in his amorous career. Still, Holly Grace didn't have to rub it
in. "For your information, Bambi's getting married in a few weeks and
moving to Oklahoma, so I'm
currently looking for a replacement."
"Are you interviewing applicants yet?"
"Just keeping my eyes open."
They heard a key turn in the door and then a child's voice, shrill and
breathless, rang out from the foyer. "Hey, Holly Grace, I did it! I
climbed every step!"
"Good for you," she called out absentmindedly. And then she sucked in
her breath. "Damn, Francie will kill me. That's Teddy, her little boy.
Ever since she moved to New York, she's made me promise I wouldn't let
the two of you get together."
Dallie was offended. "I'm not exactly a child molester. What does she
think I'm going to do? Kidnap him?"
"She's embarrassed is all."
Holly Grace's response told Dallie exactly nothing, but before he could
question her, the boy burst into the kitchen, his auburn hair standing
up at the cowlick, a small hole in the shoulder seam of his Rambo
T-shirt.
"Guess what I found on the stairs? A really cool bolt. Can we go to the
Seaport Museum again sometime? It's really neat and—" He broke off as
he spotted Dallie standing to the side, one hand resting on the
countertop, the other lightly balanced on his hip. "Gee . . ." His
mouth opened and closed like a goldfish's.
"Teddy, this is the one and only Dallas Beaudine," Holly Grace said.
"Looks like vou finally got your chance to meet him."
Dallie smiled at the boy and held out his hand. "Hey, Teddy. I've heard
a lot about you."
"Gee," Teddy repeated, his eyes widening with awe. "Oh, gee ..." And
then he rushed forward to return Dallie's handshake, but before he got
there, he forgot which hand he was supposed to put out, and he stopped.
Dallie rescued him by reaching down and grabbing the right hand for a
shake. "Holly Grace tells me you two are buddies."
"We watched you play on television about a million times," Teddy said
enthusiastically. "Holly Grace
has been telling me all about golf and
stuff."
"Well, that's real good." The boy certainly wasn't anything to look at,
Dallie thought, amused by Teddy's awestruck
expression—as if he'd just landed in the presence of God. Since his
mama was drop-dead beautiful, old Nicky must have been three-quarters
ugly.
Too excited to stand still, Teddy shifted his weight from one foot to
the other, his eyes never leaving Dallie's face. His glasses slid down
on his nose and he reached up to push them back, but he was too
distracted by Dallie's presence to pay any attention to what he was
doing, and he knocked the frames askew with his thumb. The glasses
tilted toward one ear and then went flying.
"Hey, there .. ." Dallie said, reaching down to pick them up.
Teddy reached, too, so that they both crouched down. Their heads drew
close together, the small auburn one and the larger blond one. Dallie
got to the glasses first and held them out toward Teddy. Their faces
were so close, less than a foot apart. Dallie felt Teddy's breath on
his cheek.
On the stereo in the living room, the Boss was singing about being on
fire and a knife that was cutting a six-inch valley through his soul.
And for that small space of time while the Boss sang about knives and
valleys, everything was still all right in Dallie Beaudine's world. And
then, in the next space of time, with Teddy's breath falling like a
whisper on his cheek, the fire reached out and grabbed him.
"Christ."
Teddy looked at Dallie with puzzled eyes and then lifted his glasses
back toward his face.
Dallie's hand slashed out and grabbed Teddy's wrist, making the child
wince.
Holly Grace realized something was wrong and stiffened at the sight of
Dallie staring so chillingly into Teddy's face. "Dallie?"
But he didn't hear her. Time had stopped moving forward for him. He had
tumbled back through the years until he was a kid again, a kid gazing
into the angry face of Jaycee Beaudine.
Except the face wasn't large and overpowering, with unshaven cheeks and
clenched teeth.
The face was small. As small as a child's.
from a Saudi oil sheik. As Francesca stepped aboard and greeted the
Star's captain, she had the uneasy sensation that time had slipped away
and she was nine years old again, coming aboard Onassis's yacht, the
Christina, with bowls of caviar lying in wait along with vacuous people
who had too much time on their hands and nothing worthwhile to do with
it.
She shivered, but it might very well have been a reaction to the damp
December night. The sable definitely would have been more appropriate
for the weather than her fuchsia shawl. A steward led her across the
afterdeck toward the welcoming lights of the lounge. As she stepped
inside the opulent room, His Royal Highness, Prince Stefan Marko
Brancuzi, came forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
Stefan had the thoroughbred look shared by so much of European
royalty—thin, elongated features, a sharp nose, a chiseled mouth. His
face would have been forbidding had he not been blessed with so
ready a
smile. Despite his image as a playboy prince, Stefan had an
old-fashioned manner about him that Francesca found endearing. He was
also a hard worker who had spent the last twenty years turning his tiny
backward country into a modern resort that rivaled Monaco in its
opulent pleasures. Now he needed only his own Grace Kelly to cap off
his achievements, and he made no secret of the fact that he had
selected Francesca for the role.
His clothes were stylish and expensive—an unstructured taupe blazer
subtly windowpaned in peach, dark pleated trousers, a silk shirt, open
at the throat. He took her hand and drew her toward the mahogany bar
where two tulip-shaped Baccarat goblets waited. "Forgive me for not
coming to get you myself. My schedule today has been beastly."
"Mine, too," she said, shrugging off her shawl. "1 can't tell you how
much I'm looking forward to taking Teddy to Mexico. Two weeks with
nothing to do but brush the sand off my feet." She took the champagne
glass and perched on one of the bar stools. Inadvertently, she let her
hand stray over the soft leather, and once again her mind drifted back
to the Christina and another set of bar stools.
"Why not bring Teddy over here instead? Wouldn't you rather sail
through the Greek Islands for a few weeks?"
The offer was tempting, but Stefan was pushing her too fast. Besides,
something inside her rejected the idea of watching Teddy roam the decks
of the Star of the Aegean. "Sorry, but I'm afraid my plans are
set.
Maybe another time."
Stefan frowned but didn't press her. He gestured toward a cut-glass
bowl mounded with tiny golden-brown eggs. "Caviar? If you don't like
osetra, I'll call for some beluga."
"No!" The exclamation was so sharp that Stefan stared at her in
surprise. She gave him a shaky smile. "I'm sorry. I—I'm not fond of
caviar."
"Gracious, darling, you seem on edge tonight. Is anything wrong?"
"Just a bit tired." She smiled and made a joke. Before long they were
engaged in the sort of lighthearted exchange they did so well. They
dined on slivers of artichoke heart drizzled with a peppery sauce of
black olives and capers, followed by slices of chicken that had been
marinated in lime, coriander, and juniper. By the time the raspberry
charlotte arrived in a puddle of ginger creme anglaise, she was too
full to eat more than a few bites. As she sat bathed in candlelight and
Stefan's affection, she thought how much she was enjoying herself. Why
didn't she just tell Stefan she would marry him? What woman in her
right mind could resist the idea of being a princess? For all her
valued independence, she was working too hard and spending too much
time away from her son. She loved her career, but she was beginning to
realize that she wanted more out of life than spectacular Nielsens.
Still, was this marriage what she really wanted?
"Are you listening, darling? This isn't the most encouraging response
I've ever received to a marriage proposal."
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I was woolgathering." She smiled
apologetically. "I need a bit more time, Stefan. To be honest, I'm not
all that certain how good you are for my character."
He looked at her, puzzled. "What a curious thing to say. Whatever do
you mean?"
She couldn't explain to him how afraid she was that after a few years
in his company, she might be right back where she had started
from—staring into mirrors and throwing a temper tantrum if her nail
polish chipped. Leaning forward, she kissed
him, taking a nip at his lip with her small, sharp teeth and
distracting him from his question. The wine had warmed her blood, and
his solicitude chipped away at the barriers she'd built around herself.
Her body was young and healthy. Why was she letting it shrivel up like
an old leaf? She brushed his lips with her own again. "Instead of a
proposal, how about a proposition?"
A combination of amusement and desire sparked in his eyes. "I suppose
that would depend on the kind
of proposition."
She gave him a saucy grin. "Take me to your bedroom, and I'll show you."
Picking up her hand, he kissed the tips of her fingers, his gesture so
courtly and elegant he might have been leading her onto the ballroom
floor. As they walked through the hallway, she found herself enveloped
in a haze of wine and laughter so pleasurable that, by the time they
actually entered his opulent stateroom, she might have believed she was
really in love if she hadn't known herself better. Still, it had been
so long since a man had held her in his arms that she let herself
pretend.
He kissed her, gently at first and then more passionately, muttering
foreign words in her ear that excited her. His hands moved to the
fastenings on her clothing. "If only you knew how long I have wanted to
see you naked," he murmured. Drawing down the bodice of her gown, he
nuzzled at the tops of her breasts as they rose over the lacy border of
her slip. "Like warm peaches," he murmured. "Full and rich and scented.
I'm going to suck out every sweet drop of their juice."
Franceses found his line a little corny, but her body wasn't as
discriminating as her mind and she could feel her skin growing
deliciously warm. She cupped her hand around the back of his head and
arched her neck. His lips dipped lower, burrowed beneath the lace of
her slip for her nipple. "Here," he said, closing around her. "Oh, yes
.. ."
Yes, indeed. Francesca gasped as she felt the suction of his mouth and
then the delicious scrape of his teeth.
"My darling, Francesca . .." He sucked deeper, and her knees began to
feel as if they would buckle.
And then the telephone rang.
"Those imbeciles!" He cursed in a language she didn't understand. "They
know I am never to be disturbed here."
But the mood had been broken, and she stiffened. She suddenly felt
embarrassed to be getting ready to have sex with a man she only loved a
little bit. What was wrong with her that she couldn't fall in love
with
him? Why did she still have to make such a big thing out of sex?
The phone continued to ring. He snatched it and barked into the
receiver, listened a moment, then held it out to her, obviously
irritated. "It's for you. An emergency."
She let out an oath that was purely Anglo-Saxon, determined to have
Nathan Hurd's scalp for this. No matter what his current crisis, her
producer had no right to interrupt her tonight. "Nathan, I'm going to—"
Stefan banged a heavy crystal brandy decanter down on a tray, and she
pushed her finger into her exposed ear to shut him out. "What? I can't
hear."
"It's Holly Grace, Francie."
Francesca was immediately alarmed. "Holly Grace, are you all right?"
"Not really. If you're not sitting down, you'd better do it."
Francesca sank down on the side of the bed, apprehension growing inside
her at the strangely subdued sound of Holly Grace's voice. "What's
wrong?" she demanded. "Are you sick? Did something happen with Gerry?"
Stefan's tirade quieted as he heard the worried tone in her voice, and
he came over to
stand next to her.
"No, Francie, nothing like that." Holly Grace paused for a moment.
"It's Teddy."
"Teddy?" A surge of primal fear shot through Francesca, and her heart
began to race.
Holly Grace's words came out in a rush. "He disappeared. Tonight, not
long after I took him home."
Raw terror swept through Francesca's body with such intensity that all
her senses seemed to short-circuit. An instant array of ugly pictures
flashed into her mind from programs she had done, and she felt herself
skimming over the edge of consciousness.
"Francie," Holly Grace went on, "I think Dallie's kidnapped him."
Her first feeling was a numbing surge of relief. The dark visions of a
shallow grave and a small, mutilated body receded; but then other
visions began to appear and she could barely breathe.
"Oh, God, Francie, I'm sorry." Holly Grace's words tumbled over each
other. "I don't know exactly what happened. They accidentally met at my
apartment today, and then Dallie showed up at your place about an hour
after I'd dropped Teddy off and told Consuelo I'd sent him back to pick
up Teddy so he could spend the night with me. She knew who he was, of
course, so she didn't think anything of it. He had Teddy pack a
suitcase, and nobody has seen either of them since. I've called
everywhere. Dallie's checked out of his hotel, and Skeet doesn't know a
thing. The two of them were supposed to go to Florida this week for a
tournament."
Francesca felt a sickness growing in the pit of her stomach. Why would
Dallie take Teddy? She could only think of one reason, but that was
impossible. No one knew the truth; she had never told a soul.
Still,
she couldn't come up with any other reason. A bitter rage mounted
inside her. How could he do something so barbaric?
"Francie, are you still there?"
"Yes," Francesca whispered.
"I've got to ask you something." There was another long pause, and
Francesca braced herself for what she knew had to be coming. "Francie,
I've got to ask you why Dallie would do this. Something funny happened
when he saw Teddy. What's going on?"
"I—I don't know."
"Francie . .."
"I don't know, Holly Grace!" she exclaimed. "I don't know." Her voice
softened. "You understand him better than anyone. Is there any
possibility Dallie would hurt Teddy?"
"Of course not." And then she hesitated. "Not physically anyway. I
can't say what he might do to him psychologically, since you won't tell
me what this is all about."
"I'm going to hang up now and try to get a plane to New York tonight."
Francesca tried to sound brisk and efficient, but her voice was
quivering. "Would you call everybody you can think of who might know
where Dallie is? But be careful what you
say. And whatever you do, don't let the newspapers find out. Please,
Holly Grace, I don't want Teddy turned into a sideshow freak. I'll be
there as soon as I can."
"Francie, you've got to tell me what's going on."
"Holly Grace, I love you ... I really do." And then She hung up.
As Francesca flew across the Atlantic that night, she stared vacantly
into the impenetrable blackness outside the window. Fear and guilt ate
away at her. This was all her fault. If she had been home, she could
have prevented it from happening. What kind of mother was she to let
other people raise her child? All the devils of working-mother guilt
buried their pitchforks in her flesh.
What if something terrible happened? She tried to tell herself that no
matter what Dallie might have discovered, he would never hurt Teddy—at
least the Dailie she'd known ten years ago wouldn't have. But then she
remembered the programs she'd done on ex-spouses kidnapping their own
children and vanishing with them for years at a time. Surely someone
with as public a career as Dallie's couldn't do that—could he? Once
again, she attempted to unravel the puzzle of how Dallie had discovered
that Teddy was his son—that was the only explanation she could find for
the abduction—but the answer eluded her.
Where was Teddy right now? Was he frightened? What had Dallie told him?
She had heard enough stories from Holly Grace to know that when Dallie
was angry, he was unpredictable—even dangerous. But no matter how much
he might have changed over the years, she couldn't believe he would
hurt a
little boy.
What he might do to her, however, was another matter.
had reached "Darlington County" again, and Dallie tapped out the rhythm
with the toe of his shoe while he waited for Holly Grace to get
to the
point.
"Except you're alike in the most peculiar ways. The first thing she
said when she saw this apartment was that it reminded her of
a doctor's office. And, Dallie, that girl just about has you beat when
it comes to picking up strays. First it was cats. Then she branched off
into dogs, which was interesting because she's scared to death of them.
Finally, she began picking up people—teenage girls, fourteen, fifteen
years old, who'd run away from home and were selling their wares on the
street."
"No kidding," Dallie said, his interest finally caught. "What does she
do with them once she—" But then he stopped as Holly Grace pulled off
her coat and he caught sight of the bruise on her neck. "Hey, what's
that? It looks like a sucker bite."
"I don't want to talk about it." She hunched up her shoulders to cover
the mark and escaped into the kitchen.
He followed her. "Damn, I haven't seen one of those things in years. I
remember when I put a few of those on you myself." He propped himself
in the doorway. "You feel like telling me about it?"
"You'll only start yelling."
Dallie gave a snort of displeasure. "Gerry Jaffe. You saw your old
commie lover again."
"He's not a commie." Holly Grace yanked a Miller Lite from the
refrigerator. "Just because you don't happen to agree with somebody's
politics doesn't mean you should go around calling him a commie.
Besides, you're not half as conservative as you try to make people
believe."
"My politics don't have anything to do with it. I just don't want to
see you get hurt again, honey."
Holly Grace deflected the conversation by curving her mouth into a
syrupy sweet smile. "Speaking of old lovers, how's Bambi? Has she
learned to read those movie magazines yet without moving her lips?"
"Aw, come on, Holly Grace . . ."
She looked at him with disgust. "I swear to God I would never have
divorced you if I'd known you were going to start dating women with
names that end in i."
"Are you finished yet?" It aggravated him when she teased him about
Bambi, even though he pretty much admitted the girl had been a low
point in his amorous career. Still, Holly Grace didn't have to rub it
in. "For your information, Bambi's getting married in a few weeks and
moving to Oklahoma, so I'm
currently looking for a replacement."
"Are you interviewing applicants yet?"
"Just keeping my eyes open."
They heard a key turn in the door and then a child's voice, shrill and
breathless, rang out from the foyer. "Hey, Holly Grace, I did it! I
climbed every step!"
"Good for you," she called out absentmindedly. And then she sucked in
her breath. "Damn, Francie will kill me. That's Teddy, her little boy.
Ever since she moved to New York, she's made me promise I wouldn't let
the two of you get together."
Dallie was offended. "I'm not exactly a child molester. What does she
think I'm going to do? Kidnap him?"
"She's embarrassed is all."
Holly Grace's response told Dallie exactly nothing, but before he could
question her, the boy burst into the kitchen, his auburn hair standing
up at the cowlick, a small hole in the shoulder seam of his Rambo
T-shirt.
"Guess what I found on the stairs? A really cool bolt. Can we go to the
Seaport Museum again sometime? It's really neat and—" He broke off as
he spotted Dallie standing to the side, one hand resting on the
countertop, the other lightly balanced on his hip. "Gee . . ." His
mouth opened and closed like a goldfish's.
"Teddy, this is the one and only Dallas Beaudine," Holly Grace said.
"Looks like vou finally got your chance to meet him."
Dallie smiled at the boy and held out his hand. "Hey, Teddy. I've heard
a lot about you."
"Gee," Teddy repeated, his eyes widening with awe. "Oh, gee ..." And
then he rushed forward to return Dallie's handshake, but before he got
there, he forgot which hand he was supposed to put out, and he stopped.
Dallie rescued him by reaching down and grabbing the right hand for a
shake. "Holly Grace tells me you two are buddies."
"We watched you play on television about a million times," Teddy said
enthusiastically. "Holly Grace
has been telling me all about golf and
stuff."
"Well, that's real good." The boy certainly wasn't anything to look at,
Dallie thought, amused by Teddy's awestruck
expression—as if he'd just landed in the presence of God. Since his
mama was drop-dead beautiful, old Nicky must have been three-quarters
ugly.
Too excited to stand still, Teddy shifted his weight from one foot to
the other, his eyes never leaving Dallie's face. His glasses slid down
on his nose and he reached up to push them back, but he was too
distracted by Dallie's presence to pay any attention to what he was
doing, and he knocked the frames askew with his thumb. The glasses
tilted toward one ear and then went flying.
"Hey, there .. ." Dallie said, reaching down to pick them up.
Teddy reached, too, so that they both crouched down. Their heads drew
close together, the small auburn one and the larger blond one. Dallie
got to the glasses first and held them out toward Teddy. Their faces
were so close, less than a foot apart. Dallie felt Teddy's breath on
his cheek.
On the stereo in the living room, the Boss was singing about being on
fire and a knife that was cutting a six-inch valley through his soul.
And for that small space of time while the Boss sang about knives and
valleys, everything was still all right in Dallie Beaudine's world. And
then, in the next space of time, with Teddy's breath falling like a
whisper on his cheek, the fire reached out and grabbed him.
"Christ."
Teddy looked at Dallie with puzzled eyes and then lifted his glasses
back toward his face.
Dallie's hand slashed out and grabbed Teddy's wrist, making the child
wince.
Holly Grace realized something was wrong and stiffened at the sight of
Dallie staring so chillingly into Teddy's face. "Dallie?"
But he didn't hear her. Time had stopped moving forward for him. He had
tumbled back through the years until he was a kid again, a kid gazing
into the angry face of Jaycee Beaudine.
Except the face wasn't large and overpowering, with unshaven cheeks and
clenched teeth.
The face was small. As small as a child's.
* * *
Prince Stefan Marko Brancuzi had bought his yacht, Star of the Aegean,from a Saudi oil sheik. As Francesca stepped aboard and greeted the
Star's captain, she had the uneasy sensation that time had slipped away
and she was nine years old again, coming aboard Onassis's yacht, the
Christina, with bowls of caviar lying in wait along with vacuous people
who had too much time on their hands and nothing worthwhile to do with
it.
She shivered, but it might very well have been a reaction to the damp
December night. The sable definitely would have been more appropriate
for the weather than her fuchsia shawl. A steward led her across the
afterdeck toward the welcoming lights of the lounge. As she stepped
inside the opulent room, His Royal Highness, Prince Stefan Marko
Brancuzi, came forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
Stefan had the thoroughbred look shared by so much of European
royalty—thin, elongated features, a sharp nose, a chiseled mouth. His
face would have been forbidding had he not been blessed with so
ready a
smile. Despite his image as a playboy prince, Stefan had an
old-fashioned manner about him that Francesca found endearing. He was
also a hard worker who had spent the last twenty years turning his tiny
backward country into a modern resort that rivaled Monaco in its
opulent pleasures. Now he needed only his own Grace Kelly to cap off
his achievements, and he made no secret of the fact that he had
selected Francesca for the role.
His clothes were stylish and expensive—an unstructured taupe blazer
subtly windowpaned in peach, dark pleated trousers, a silk shirt, open
at the throat. He took her hand and drew her toward the mahogany bar
where two tulip-shaped Baccarat goblets waited. "Forgive me for not
coming to get you myself. My schedule today has been beastly."
"Mine, too," she said, shrugging off her shawl. "1 can't tell you how
much I'm looking forward to taking Teddy to Mexico. Two weeks with
nothing to do but brush the sand off my feet." She took the champagne
glass and perched on one of the bar stools. Inadvertently, she let her
hand stray over the soft leather, and once again her mind drifted back
to the Christina and another set of bar stools.
"Why not bring Teddy over here instead? Wouldn't you rather sail
through the Greek Islands for a few weeks?"
The offer was tempting, but Stefan was pushing her too fast. Besides,
something inside her rejected the idea of watching Teddy roam the decks
of the Star of the Aegean. "Sorry, but I'm afraid my plans are
set.
Maybe another time."
Stefan frowned but didn't press her. He gestured toward a cut-glass
bowl mounded with tiny golden-brown eggs. "Caviar? If you don't like
osetra, I'll call for some beluga."
"No!" The exclamation was so sharp that Stefan stared at her in
surprise. She gave him a shaky smile. "I'm sorry. I—I'm not fond of
caviar."
"Gracious, darling, you seem on edge tonight. Is anything wrong?"
"Just a bit tired." She smiled and made a joke. Before long they were
engaged in the sort of lighthearted exchange they did so well. They
dined on slivers of artichoke heart drizzled with a peppery sauce of
black olives and capers, followed by slices of chicken that had been
marinated in lime, coriander, and juniper. By the time the raspberry
charlotte arrived in a puddle of ginger creme anglaise, she was too
full to eat more than a few bites. As she sat bathed in candlelight and
Stefan's affection, she thought how much she was enjoying herself. Why
didn't she just tell Stefan she would marry him? What woman in her
right mind could resist the idea of being a princess? For all her
valued independence, she was working too hard and spending too much
time away from her son. She loved her career, but she was beginning to
realize that she wanted more out of life than spectacular Nielsens.
Still, was this marriage what she really wanted?
"Are you listening, darling? This isn't the most encouraging response
I've ever received to a marriage proposal."
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I was woolgathering." She smiled
apologetically. "I need a bit more time, Stefan. To be honest, I'm not
all that certain how good you are for my character."
He looked at her, puzzled. "What a curious thing to say. Whatever do
you mean?"
She couldn't explain to him how afraid she was that after a few years
in his company, she might be right back where she had started
from—staring into mirrors and throwing a temper tantrum if her nail
polish chipped. Leaning forward, she kissed
him, taking a nip at his lip with her small, sharp teeth and
distracting him from his question. The wine had warmed her blood, and
his solicitude chipped away at the barriers she'd built around herself.
Her body was young and healthy. Why was she letting it shrivel up like
an old leaf? She brushed his lips with her own again. "Instead of a
proposal, how about a proposition?"
A combination of amusement and desire sparked in his eyes. "I suppose
that would depend on the kind
of proposition."
She gave him a saucy grin. "Take me to your bedroom, and I'll show you."
Picking up her hand, he kissed the tips of her fingers, his gesture so
courtly and elegant he might have been leading her onto the ballroom
floor. As they walked through the hallway, she found herself enveloped
in a haze of wine and laughter so pleasurable that, by the time they
actually entered his opulent stateroom, she might have believed she was
really in love if she hadn't known herself better. Still, it had been
so long since a man had held her in his arms that she let herself
pretend.
He kissed her, gently at first and then more passionately, muttering
foreign words in her ear that excited her. His hands moved to the
fastenings on her clothing. "If only you knew how long I have wanted to
see you naked," he murmured. Drawing down the bodice of her gown, he
nuzzled at the tops of her breasts as they rose over the lacy border of
her slip. "Like warm peaches," he murmured. "Full and rich and scented.
I'm going to suck out every sweet drop of their juice."
Franceses found his line a little corny, but her body wasn't as
discriminating as her mind and she could feel her skin growing
deliciously warm. She cupped her hand around the back of his head and
arched her neck. His lips dipped lower, burrowed beneath the lace of
her slip for her nipple. "Here," he said, closing around her. "Oh, yes
.. ."
Yes, indeed. Francesca gasped as she felt the suction of his mouth and
then the delicious scrape of his teeth.
"My darling, Francesca . .." He sucked deeper, and her knees began to
feel as if they would buckle.
And then the telephone rang.
"Those imbeciles!" He cursed in a language she didn't understand. "They
know I am never to be disturbed here."
But the mood had been broken, and she stiffened. She suddenly felt
embarrassed to be getting ready to have sex with a man she only loved a
little bit. What was wrong with her that she couldn't fall in love
with
him? Why did she still have to make such a big thing out of sex?
The phone continued to ring. He snatched it and barked into the
receiver, listened a moment, then held it out to her, obviously
irritated. "It's for you. An emergency."
She let out an oath that was purely Anglo-Saxon, determined to have
Nathan Hurd's scalp for this. No matter what his current crisis, her
producer had no right to interrupt her tonight. "Nathan, I'm going to—"
Stefan banged a heavy crystal brandy decanter down on a tray, and she
pushed her finger into her exposed ear to shut him out. "What? I can't
hear."
"It's Holly Grace, Francie."
Francesca was immediately alarmed. "Holly Grace, are you all right?"
"Not really. If you're not sitting down, you'd better do it."
Francesca sank down on the side of the bed, apprehension growing inside
her at the strangely subdued sound of Holly Grace's voice. "What's
wrong?" she demanded. "Are you sick? Did something happen with Gerry?"
Stefan's tirade quieted as he heard the worried tone in her voice, and
he came over to
stand next to her.
"No, Francie, nothing like that." Holly Grace paused for a moment.
"It's Teddy."
"Teddy?" A surge of primal fear shot through Francesca, and her heart
began to race.
Holly Grace's words came out in a rush. "He disappeared. Tonight, not
long after I took him home."
Raw terror swept through Francesca's body with such intensity that all
her senses seemed to short-circuit. An instant array of ugly pictures
flashed into her mind from programs she had done, and she felt herself
skimming over the edge of consciousness.
"Francie," Holly Grace went on, "I think Dallie's kidnapped him."
Her first feeling was a numbing surge of relief. The dark visions of a
shallow grave and a small, mutilated body receded; but then other
visions began to appear and she could barely breathe.
"Oh, God, Francie, I'm sorry." Holly Grace's words tumbled over each
other. "I don't know exactly what happened. They accidentally met at my
apartment today, and then Dallie showed up at your place about an hour
after I'd dropped Teddy off and told Consuelo I'd sent him back to pick
up Teddy so he could spend the night with me. She knew who he was, of
course, so she didn't think anything of it. He had Teddy pack a
suitcase, and nobody has seen either of them since. I've called
everywhere. Dallie's checked out of his hotel, and Skeet doesn't know a
thing. The two of them were supposed to go to Florida this week for a
tournament."
Francesca felt a sickness growing in the pit of her stomach. Why would
Dallie take Teddy? She could only think of one reason, but that was
impossible. No one knew the truth; she had never told a soul.
Still,
she couldn't come up with any other reason. A bitter rage mounted
inside her. How could he do something so barbaric?
"Francie, are you still there?"
"Yes," Francesca whispered.
"I've got to ask you something." There was another long pause, and
Francesca braced herself for what she knew had to be coming. "Francie,
I've got to ask you why Dallie would do this. Something funny happened
when he saw Teddy. What's going on?"
"I—I don't know."
"Francie . .."
"I don't know, Holly Grace!" she exclaimed. "I don't know." Her voice
softened. "You understand him better than anyone. Is there any
possibility Dallie would hurt Teddy?"
"Of course not." And then she hesitated. "Not physically anyway. I
can't say what he might do to him psychologically, since you won't tell
me what this is all about."
"I'm going to hang up now and try to get a plane to New York tonight."
Francesca tried to sound brisk and efficient, but her voice was
quivering. "Would you call everybody you can think of who might know
where Dallie is? But be careful what you
say. And whatever you do, don't let the newspapers find out. Please,
Holly Grace, I don't want Teddy turned into a sideshow freak. I'll be
there as soon as I can."
"Francie, you've got to tell me what's going on."
"Holly Grace, I love you ... I really do." And then She hung up.
As Francesca flew across the Atlantic that night, she stared vacantly
into the impenetrable blackness outside the window. Fear and guilt ate
away at her. This was all her fault. If she had been home, she could
have prevented it from happening. What kind of mother was she to let
other people raise her child? All the devils of working-mother guilt
buried their pitchforks in her flesh.
What if something terrible happened? She tried to tell herself that no
matter what Dallie might have discovered, he would never hurt Teddy—at
least the Dailie she'd known ten years ago wouldn't have. But then she
remembered the programs she'd done on ex-spouses kidnapping their own
children and vanishing with them for years at a time. Surely someone
with as public a career as Dallie's couldn't do that—could he? Once
again, she attempted to unravel the puzzle of how Dallie had discovered
that Teddy was his son—that was the only explanation she could find for
the abduction—but the answer eluded her.
Where was Teddy right now? Was he frightened? What had Dallie told him?
She had heard enough stories from Holly Grace to know that when Dallie
was angry, he was unpredictable—even dangerous. But no matter how much
he might have changed over the years, she couldn't believe he would
hurt a
little boy.
What he might do to her, however, was another matter.
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