Fancy Pants (44 page)
* * *
The party at La Cote Basque was lively, with wonderful food and asatisfying number of famous faces in the crowd, but Francesca was too
distracted to enjoy herself. A group of paparazzi was waiting as she
and Stefan emerged from the restaurant shortly after midnight. She
pulled the fur collar of her coat high around her chin and looked away
from the flashing strobes. "Sable sucks," she muttered.
"That's not exactly a popularly held opinion, darling," Stefan replied,
leading her toward his limousine.
"That media circus happened because of this coat," she complained after
the limo had slipped out into the traffic on East Fifty-fifth Street.
"The press hardly ever bothers you. It's me. If I'd worn my old
raincoat. , ." She chattered on about the sable, stalling for time
while she tried to find the courage to hurt him. Finally she fell
silent and let the old memories that had been nagging at her all
evening take hold—thinking about her childhood, about Chloe, about
Dallie. Stefan kept gazing over at her, apparently lost in thoughts of
his own. As the limousine swept past Cartier, she decided she couldn't
put it off any longer, and she touched his arm. "Do you mind if we walk
for a bit?"
It was past midnight, the February night was chill, and Stefan looked
at her uneasily—as if he might suspect what was coming—but he ordered
the driver to stop anyway. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, a
hansom cab passed, the hooves of
the horse clomping rhythmically on the pavement. They began walking
down Fifth Avenue together, their breath clouding the air.
"Stefan," she said, resting her cheek for a brief moment against the
fine woolen sleeve of his overcoat.
"I know you're looking for a woman
to share your life, but I'm afraid I'm not the one."
She heard him take a deep breath, then expel it. "You're tired tonight,
darling. Perhaps this discussion should wait."
"I think it's waited long enough," she said gently.
She talked for some time, and in the end she could see that she had
hurt him, but perhaps not as much
as she had feared. She suspected that
someplace inside him, he had known all along that she was not
the right
woman to be his princess.
* * *
Dallie called Francesca the following day at the office. He began theconversation without preamble, as
if he'd just talked to her the day
before instead of six weeks ago and there were no bad feelings between
them.
"Hey, Francie, you've got half of Wynette ready to lynch you."
She had a sudden vision of all those glorious temper tantrums she used
to throw in her youth, but she kept her voice calm and casual, even
though her spine was rigid with tension. "Any particular reason?" she
asked.
"The way you ran all over that TV minister last week was a real shame.
People down here take their evangelists seriously, and Johnny Platt is
a real favorite."
"He's a charlatan," she replied, as calmly as she could manage. Her
fingernails dug into her palms. Why couldn't Dallie just once say what
was on his mind? Why did he have to go through all these elaborate
camouflaging rituals?
"Maybe, but they've got him scheduled opposite 'Gilligan's Island'
reruns, so when people consider the alternative, nobody's too anxious
to see his program get canceled." There was a short, thoughtful pause.
"Tell me something, Francie—and this should be right up your alley—with
Gilligan and his buddies shipwrecked on that island so long, how's come
those women never ran out of eye makeup? And
toilet paper? You think the captain and Gilligan used banana leaves all
that time?"
She wanted to scream at him, but she refused to give him the
satisfaction. "I have a meeting, Dallie. Did you call for any
particular reason?"
"As a matter of fact, I'm flying to New York next week to meet with the
boys at the network again,
and I thought I might stop by around seven
on Tuesday night to say hello to Teddy and maybe take
you out to
dinner."
"I can't make it," she said coldly, resentment leaking from every one
of her pores.
"Just for dinner, Francie. You don't have to make a big deal out of it."
If he wouldn't say what was on his mind, she would. "I won't see you,
Dallie. You had your chance,
and you blew it."
There was a long silence. She willed herself to hang up, but she
couldn't quite coordinate the motion. When Dallie finally spoke, his
easy tone was gone. He sounded tired and troubled. "I'm sorry for not
calling you earlier, Francie. I needed some time."
"And now I need some."
"All right," he said slowly. "Just let me stop by and see Teddy, then."
"I don't think so."
"I have to start fixing things with him, Francie. I'll take it easy.
Just a couple of minutes."
She had grown tough over the years; she'd had to. But now when she
needed that toughness the most,
all she could do was visualize a little
boy shoving peas under his baked potato. "Just for a few minutes," she
conceded. "That's all."
"Great!" He sounded as exuberant as a teenager. "That's just great,
Francie." And then, quickly, "After
I see Teddy, I'll take you out for
a bite of dinner." Before she could open her mouth to protest, he had
hung up.
She put her head down on the desk and groaned. She didn't have a spine;
she had a strand of limp spaghetti.
By the time the doorman buzzed her on Tuesday evening to announce
Dallie's arrival, Francesca was
a nervous wreck. She had tried on three of her most conservative
outfits before
she'd rebelliously settled on one of her wildest—a mint green satin
bustier set off by an emerald velvet miniskirt. The colors deepened the
green of her eyes and, in her imagination at least, made her look more
dangerous. The fact that she was probably overdressed for an evening
with Dallie didn't deter her. Even though she suspected they would end
up in some seedy dive with plastic-covered menus, this was still her
city and Dallie would have to be the one to fit in.
After fluffing her hair into casual disarray, she draped a pair of Tina
Chow's crystal pendants around her neck. Although she had more faith in
her own powers than in the mystical ones of Tina Chow's fashionable
necklaces, she decided that she shouldn't overlook anything that would
help her get through what could only be a difficult evening. She knew
she didn't have to go to dinner with Dallie—she didn't even have to be
here when he arrived—but she wanted to see him again. It was that
simple.
She heard Consuelo opening the front door, and she nearly jumped out of
her skin. She forced herself to wait in her room for a few minutes
until she felt calmer, but only ended up making herself more nervous,
so she walked out to the living room to greet him.
He was carrying a wrapped parcel and standing by the fireplace admiring
the red dinosaur that hung above it. He turned at the sound of her
approach and gazed at her. She noted his well-cut gray suit, dress
shirt with French cuffs, and deep blue tie. She had never seen him in a
suit, and unconsciously she found herself waiting for him to start
pulling at the collar and unknotting his tie. He did neither.
His eyes took in the little velvet miniskirt, the green satin bustier,
and he shook his head in admiration. "Damn, Francie, you look better in
hooker clothes than any woman I know."
She wanted to laugh, but it seemed more prudent to fall back on
sarcasm. "If any of my old problems with personal vanity ever crop back
up, remind me to spend five minutes in your company."
He grinned, then walked over to her and brushed her lips with a light
kiss that tasted vaguely of bubble gum. The skin on the side of her
neck prickled with goose bumps. Looking squarely
into her eyes, he said, "You're just about the prettiest woman in the
world, and you know it."
She moved quickly away from him. He began looking around the living
room, his gaze drifting from Teddy's orange vinyl beanbag chair to a
Louis XVI mirror. "I like this place. It's real comfortable."
"Thank you," she replied a little stiffly, still trying to take in the
fact that they were face to face again and that he seemed a lot more at
ease than she. What were they going to say to each other tonight? They
had absolutely nothing to talk about that wasn't either controversial,
embarrassing, or emotionally explosive.
"Is Teddy around?" He passed the wrapped parcel from his left hand to
his right.
"He's in his room." She saw no sense in explaining that Teddy had
thrown a fit when she'd told him that Dallie was coming over.
"Do you think you could ask him to come out here for a minute?"
"I—I doubt that it'll be that easy."
A shadow fell over his face. "Then just show me which room is his."
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded and led him down the hallway.
Teddy was sitting at his desk idly pushing a G.I. Joe jeep back and
forth.
"What do you want?" he asked, as he looked up and saw Dallie standing
behind Francesca.
"I brought you a little something," Dallie said. "Sort of a late
Christmas present."
"I don't want it," Teddy retorted sullenly. "My mom buys me everything
I need." He pushed the jeep over the edge of the desk and let it crash
to the carpet. Francesca shot him a warning look, but Teddy pretended
not to notice.
"In that case, why don't you just give these to one of your friends?"
Dallie walked over and laid the box on Teddy's bed.
Teddy eyed it suspiciously. "What's in there?"
"It might be a pair of cowboy boots."
Something flickered in Teddy's eyes. "Cowboy boots? Did Skeet send
them?"
Dallie shook his head.
"Skeet sent me some other stuff," Teddy announced.
"What stuff?" Francesca asked.
Teddy shrugged his shoulders. "Just a whoopee cushion and stuff."
"That was nice of him," she replied, wondering why Teddy hadn't
mentioned it to her.
"Did the sweat shirt fit?" Dallie asked.
Teddy straightened up in his chair and stared at Dallie, his eyes alert
behind his glasses. Francesca looked at them both curiously, wondering
what they were talking about.
"It fit," Teddy said, his voice so soft it was barely audible.
Dallie nodded, lightly touched Teddy's hair, then turned and left the
room.
* * *
The cab ride was relatively quiet, with Francesca nestled into thevelvet collar of a beaded jacket and Dallie glaring at the driver.
Dallie had brushed off her question when she'd asked him about the
incident with Teddy and, even though it went against her nature, she
didn't press.
The cab pulled up in front of Lutece. She was surprised and then
illogically disappointed. Although Lutece was probably the best
restaurant in New York, she couldn't help but think less of Dallie for
trying so obvious a ploy to impress her. Why didn't he just take her
someplace where he'd be comfortable, instead of a restaurant so
obviously foreign to his nature? He held the door for her as they
walked inside and then took her jacket and passed it over to be checked
in the vestiaire. Francesca envisioned an uncomfortable evening ahead,
as she tried to interpret both the menu and the wine list without
damaging his male ego.
Lutece's hostess saw Francesca and gave her a welcoming smile.
"Mademoiselle Day, it is always a pleasure to have you with us." And
then she turned to Dallie. "Monsieur Beaudine, it's been almost two
months. We've missed you. I've held your old table."
Old table! Francesca stared at Dallie while he and ma-dame exchanged
pleasantries. She'd done it again. Once more she'd let herself buy into
the image Dallie had created for himself and forgotten that this was
a
man who had spent the best part of the last fifteen years hanging out
in the most exclusive country
clubs in America.
"The scallops are especially good tonight," madame announced, as she
led them down Lutece's narrow brick hallway to the antegarden.
"Just about everything's good here," Dallie confided after they were
settled in the wicker chairs. "Except
I make sure to get an English
translation of anything that looks suspicious before I eat it. Last
time they almost stuck me with liver."
Francesca laughed. "You're a wonder, Dallie, you really are."
"Now, why's that?"
"It's hard to imagine too many people who are just as comfortable at
Lutece as they are in a Texas honky-tonk."
He looked at her thoughtfully. "It seems to me you're pretty
comfortable both places."
His comment knocked Francesca slightly off balance. She had grown so
accustomed to musing over their differences that it was hard to adjust
to the suggestion that they had any similarities. They chatted about
the menu for a while, with Dallie making irreverent observations about
any item of food that struck him as overly complex. All the time he
talked, his eyes seemed to be drinking her up. She began to feel
beautiful in a way she had never felt before—a visceral kind of beauty
that came from deep within. The softness of her mood alarmed her, and
she was glad of the distraction when the waiter appeared to take their
order.
After the waiter left, Dallie swept his eyes over her again, his smile
slow and intimate. "I had a good time with you that night."
Oh, no, you don't, she thought. He wasn't going to win her over that
easily. She had played games with the best of them, and this was one
fish who would have to wiggle on the hook for a while. She widened her
eyes innocently, opening her mouth to ask him what night he was talking
about, only to find herself smiling at him instead. "I had a good time,
too."
He reached across the table and squeezed her hand, but then let go of
it almost as quickly as he had touched it. "I'm sorry about yelling at
you like that. Holly Grace got me pretty upset. She shouldn't have
busted in on us. What happened wasn't your fault, and I shouldn't have
taken it out on you."
Francesca nodded, not actually accepting his apology, but not quite
throwing it back in his face, either. The conversation drifted in safer
directions until the waiter appeared with their first course. After
they were served, Francesca asked Dallie about his meeting with the
network. He was guarded in his reply, a fact that interested her enough
to make her probe a little deeper.
"I understand that if you sign with the network, you'll have to stop
playing in most of the bigger tournaments." She extracted a snail from
a small ceramic pot where it lay bathed in a buttery sauce rich with
herbs.
He shrugged. "It won't be long before I'm too old to be competitive. I
might as well sign the deal while the money's good."
The facts and figures of Dallie's career flashed through her head. She
sketched a circle on the tablecloth and then, like an inexperienced
traveler cautiously setting foot in a strange country, commented,
"Holly Grace told me you probably won't play in the U.S. Classic this
year."
"Probably not."
"I wouldn't think you'd let yourself retire until you'd won a major
tournament."
"I've done all right for myself." His knuckles tightened ever so
slightly around the glass of club soda he'd picked up. And then he
bdgan telling her how well Miss Sybil and Doralee were getting along.
Since Francesca had just spoken with both women on the telephone, she
was far more interested in the way
he had changed the subject than in
what he was saying.
The waiter arrived with their entrees. Dallie had selected scallops
served in a rich dark sauce of tomatoes and garlic, while she had
chosen a flaky pastry stuffed with an aromatic mixture of crabmeat and
wild mushrooms. She picked up her fork and tried again. "The U.S.
Classic is becoming almost as important
as the Masters, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess." Dallie captured one of the scallops with his fork and
dredged it through the thick sauce. "You know what Skeet told me the
other day? He said as far as he's concerned you're the most interesting
stray we ever picked up. That's quite a compliment, especially since he
didn't used to be able to stand you."
"I'm flattered."
"For a long time he was holding out for this one-armed drifter who
could burp 'Tom Dooley,' but I think you changed his mind during your
recent memorable visit. Of course, there's always a chance he'll
reconsider."
He rattled on and on. She smiled and nodded and waited for him to run
down, disarming him with the easiness of her manner and the attentive
tilt of her head, lulling him so completely that he forgot he was
sitting across the table from a woman who had spent the last ten years
of her life prying out secrets most people wanted to keep hidden, a
woman who could go in for the kill so skillfully, so guilelessly, that
the victim frequently died with a smile on his face. Gently she
decapitated a stalk of white asparagus. "Why don't you wait until after
the U.S. Classic before you go into the announcers' booth? Whatever are
you afraid of?"
He bristled like a cornered porcupine. "Afraid of? Since when did you
get to be such an expert on golf that you know what a professional
player might be afraid of?"
"When you host a television show like mine, you get to know a little
bit about everything," she replied evasively.
"If I'd known this was going to be a damned interview, I'd have stayed
home."
"But then we would have missed a lovely evening together, wouldn't we?"
Without anything more than the evidence presented by the dark scowl on
his face, Francesca became absolutely, totally convinced that Skeet
Cooper had told her the truth, and that not only did her son's
happiness depend upon the game of golf, but quite possibly her own did
as well. What she didn't know was how to make use of that newfound
understanding. Thoughtfully, she picked up her wine goblet, took a sip,
and changed the subject.
Francesca didn't plan on ending up in bed with Dallie that night, but
as the dinner progressed her senses seemed to go on overload. Their
conversation grew more infrequent, the looks between them more
lingering. It was as if she'd taken a powerful drug and she couldn't
break the spell. By the time their coffee arrived, they couldn't take
their eyes off each other and before she knew it, they were in Dallie's
bed at the Essex House.
"Um, you taste so good," he murmured.
She arched her back, a groan of pure pleasure coming from deep in her
throat, as he loved her with his mouth and tongue, giving her all the
time she needed, sweeping her up the mountains of her own passion, but
never quite letting her cross the peak.
"Oh . . . please," she begged.
"Not yet," he replied.
"I—I can't stand any more."
"I'm afraid you're going to have to, honey."
"No . . . please . . ." She reached for herself, but he caught her
wrists and pinioned them at her sides.
"You shouldn't have done that, darlin'. Now I'm going to have to start
all over again."
Her skin was damp, her fingers rigid in his hair, when he finally gave
her the release she was desperate for. "That was a dreadful thing to
do," she sighed after she had tumbled back to earth. "You're going to
pay for that torture."
"Did you ever notice that the clitoris is the only sexual organ that
doesn't have a dirty-word nickname." He nuzzled at her breasts, still
taking his time with her even though he hadn't been satisfied himself.
"It has an abbreviation, but not a real scummy nickname like everything
else. Think about it. You got your—"
"Probably because men have only recently discovered the clitoris," she
said wickedly. "There hasn't been time."
"I don't think so," he replied, seeking out the object under
discussion. "I think it's because it's pretty
much an insignificant
organ."
"An insignificant organ!" She caught her breath as he began working his
magic again.
"Sure," he whispered huskily. "More like one of those puny little
electronic keyboards than the mighty ol' Wurlitzer."
"Of all the male, egotistical—" With a deep, throaty laugh, she rolled
on top of him. "Watch out, mister! This little keyboard's about to make
your mighty ol' Wurlitzer play the symphony of its life."
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