Heaven, Texas (14 page)

She shuddered, not from the cold but from a coil of heat spreading through her. The excitement of the struggle had camouflaged her body's violent reaction to the bombardment of sensations it was receiving. She was suddenly conscious of the contrast between the frigid ice cream and the blistering heat of her skin. She felt the rough scrape of denim against her thigh, the slipperiness of the oil between her fingers, the faint abrasion caused by the dirt that had been smeared on his chest and now covered her as well.

He dipped his index finger into the liquid strawberry puddle around her navel and painted a gentle downward path, stopping when he reached the narrow elastic band at the top of her ruined bikini panties.

“Bobby Tom  .  .  .” Her heart felt as if it had stopped beating, and she spoke his name on a whisper of air so that it sounded like an entreaty.

His hands moved up to her shoulders, where he slipped his thumbs under the straps of her bra and pressed them into the small hollows there for a gentle massage.

The sharp, sweet yearning that flooded her was nearly unbearable. She wanted him so desperately.

As if he could read her mind, he dropped his hands to the center fastening of her bra and flicked it open. She went completely still, afraid he would remember that he was the man every woman wanted, and she was the girl who'd sat home alone the night of her senior prom.

But he didn't stop. Instead, he peeled the cold, wet lace away and gazed down. Her breasts had never seemed so small, but she wouldn't apologize for them. He smiled. She held her breath, afraid that he was going to make a joke about their size, but instead he spoke in a soft, drawling voice that sent tongues of flame licking through her veins.

“I'm afraid I missed a couple of spots.”

She watched as he dipped his finger into the misshapen carton that lay open near her shoulder. He withdrew a dab of vanilla ice cream and carried it to her nipple. She sucked in her breath as he dropped it on the sensitive tip.

Her nipple stiffened into a tight, hard point. With the pad of his finger, he painted a tiny circle around and around the beaded flesh and up over its tiny crest. She gasped; her head thrashed to the side. He dipped his finger back into the ice-cream carton and carried another dab to the opposite nipple.

A moan slipped through her lips as she felt the exquisite pain of the cold on such a sensitive part of her. Her legs instinctively parted as the flesh between them throbbed. She wanted more. She sobbed as he toyed with both nipples, pinching them between his thumb and index finger to warm them, only to dip back into the ice cream and chill them again.

“Oh, please.  .  . Please.  .  .”She realized she was begging him, but she couldn't stop herself.

“Easy, sweetheart. Take it easy.”

He continued to paint her nipples with cold, rub them warm, then paint them again. Fire and ice. She had turned to fire. Heat burned between her legs while her nipples puckered with need. Her hips began to move in an ancient rhythm and she heard herself sob.

His fingers stilled on her breasts. “Sweetheart?” But she could no longer talk. She was on the brink of something inexplicable.

He lifted his hand from her breast and slipped it between her legs. She felt the heat of his touch through the thin fabric of her panties as he moved the heel of his hand against her.

Just like that, she shattered.

B
obby Tom stood in the center of the clean linoleum and gazed out the rear windows of the motor home while he waited for Gracie to finish her shower so he could take one himself. He was more shaken by what had happened than he cared to admit. For all his experience with women, he'd never seen one come like that. He'd barely touched her and she had shot right over the edge.

Afterward, they had cleaned up the kitchen in silence. Gracie had refused to look at him, and he'd been so upset with her that he hadn't wanted to talk. What in the hell had she been thinking to stay a virgin all this time? Didn't she understand she was too responsive to have denied herself one of life's most basic pleasures?

He wondered whether he was madder at her or at himself. He'd needed every bit of his self-control to keep from ripping those little bikini underpants right off her and taking advantage of what she was offering. And why hadn't he? Because she was Gracie Snow, dammit, and he'd given up mercy fucking a long time ago. It was too damned complicated.

Right then he made up his mind. His sex drive was back in full force, and he was going to fly to Dallas the minute he got a chance. When he got there, he intended to pay a call on a beautiful divorcée he knew, who liked the free and easy life as much as he did and was more interested in gettin' naked than in having candlelight dinners and long conversations. Once he stopped living like a monk, he'd stop being tempted by Gracie Snow.

He remembered he hadn't fetched her suitcase from the trunk of his T-bird as he'd promised, and he let himself out of the trailer. In the distance, he saw some of the crew members gathered over by the corral. He was glad they were far enough away that he wouldn't have to explain why he was covered with dried-up ice cream.

Just as he opened the trunk of the car, he heard a drawling voice coming from behind him. “Well, well. And here I thought it was dog shit I smelled. What's that crap you got all over you?”

He extracted the suitcase without turning. “Good to see you, too, Jimbo.”

“That's Jim.
Jim,
you understand?”

Bobby Tom turned slowly to face his old nemesis. Jimbo Thackery looked as big and dumb as ever, even in uniform. His dark eyebrows grew so close together they almost met in the middle, and he had the same five o'clock shadow Bobby Tom swore he could remember from kindergarten. The police chief wasn't stupid—Suzy'd said he'd been doing a good job ever since Luther had appointed him—but he sure looked that way with his burly body and big head. He also had too many teeth, and he was displaying every one of them in a smarmy grin that made Bobby Tom want to do a little creative dentistry with his fist.

“I guess if the ladies could see you now, Mr. Movie Star, they wouldn't think you're such a stud.”

Bobby Tom regarded him with exasperation. “Tell me you aren't still holding a grudge about Sherri Hopper. That was fifteen years ago!”

“Hell, no.” He ambled toward the front of the T-bird and put his foot up on the bumper. “Right now I'm holding a grudge because you're endangering the citizens of this town by driving around in a car with a broken headlight.” He pulled out a pink pad and, grinning widely, began to write out a ticket.

“What broken head—” Bobby Tom stopped. Not only was his left front headlight broken, but pieces of glass lay on the ground beneath it, giving him a pretty good idea who'd kicked it in. “You sonova—”

“Careful, B.T. Around here, you've got to watch what you say to the law.”

“You did that, you bastard!”

“Hey, B.T. Jim.”

Jimbo stopped what he was doing and turned to grin at the dark-haired woman in the tinkling silver bracelets who came up behind them. In a bid to catch his attention, Connie Cameron, Bobby Tom's old girlfriend and the woman who operated the catering truck, had done everything but undress in front of him since he'd arrived yesterday. Now, as he saw the love lights glimmering in Jimbo's eyes, he resigned himself to more trouble.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Jimbo brushed his mouth over her lips. “I go off duty in a few minutes, and I thought I'd take you out for dinner. Hey, B.T., did you hear that me and Connie are engaged? We're tying the knot at Thanksgiving and we're expecting a real nice wedding present from you.” Jimbo gave him a smirk and went back to writing out the ticket.

“Congratulations.”

Connie gazed at Bobby Tom with hungry eyes. “What happened to you? You look like you've been rolling around with the pigs.”

“Not even close.”

She regarded him suspiciously, but before she could question him further, Jimbo slapped the ticket in his hand. “You can pay this at City Hall.”

“What's that?” Connie asked.

“Had to give B.T. here a ticket. He's got a broken headlight.”

Connie studied the headlight and then the broken glass lying on the ground. With a look of disgust, she pulled the ticket from Bobby Tom's fingers and tore it in two. “Forget it, Jim. You're not starting up with B.T. again.”

Jimbo looked as though he was going to explode, but at the same time, Bobby Tom could see that he didn't want to do it in front of his beloved. Instead, he slipped his arm around her shoulders. “We'll talk later, Denton.”

“I can't wait.”

Jimbo glared at him, then led Connie away. Bobby Tom gazed at the torn ticket lying in the dirt and had the distinct feeling that Connie hadn't done him a favor.

“I don't understand why you won't tell me what happened to the headlight.”

“Because it's none of your damn business, that's why.” Bobby Tom slammed the door harder than necessary as he got out of the car.

Gracie was so offended by his stubbornness that she didn't even glance at his house as she stalked up the front walk after him. He was freshly showered and dressed in a blue chambray shirt that he'd rolled up at the sleeves. His perfectly faded jeans and his pearl gray Stetson made him look like a Guess? ad, while she had been forced to slip into a wrinkled olive drab skirt and blouse that she'd bought in a misguided fascination with the safari look.

After what had happened between them in the trailer, she very much needed to pick a fight. All the satisfaction had been one-sided, which wasn't what she'd wanted at all. She wanted to give, not just take, but she was very much afraid he had come to regard her as an object of pity. Between the way she'd thrown herself at him last night and what had happened this afternoon, what else could he think?

By breaking into a trot, she finally caught up with him. “I was the last person to drive it.”

He glared at her from beneath the brim of his Stetson. “You didn't break the headlight.”

“Then why won't you tell me how it happened?”

“I'm not talking about it anymore!”

She was just getting ready to press him when her attention was caught by his house. The simple, white frame structure looked so different from his Chicago residence that she found it difficult to believe that the same person owned both places. Four painted concrete steps led up to a porch with a white railing, a wooden swing, and a broom propped near the door. The wide floorboards of the porch were painted the same serviceable dark green as the front door. No shutters softened the double hung front windows that looked out on the grove of pecan trees in the yard. No brass lanterns or shiny door knockers dressed up the exterior. The house was small, sturdy, and utilitarian.

And then Bobby Tom opened the front door and she walked inside.

“Oh, my.”

He chuckled. “It sort of takes your breath away, doesn't it?”

A sense of wonder filled her as she gazed around the candy box entryway and took three slow steps into the living room on her left. “It's beautiful.”

“I figured you'd like it. Most women do.”

She felt as if she'd entered an adult-sized dollhouse, a delicate pastel world of pink-and-cream accented with soft lavender and the palest of seafoam greens. The ruffles and florals and lace could have been overpowering, but everything had been executed with such exquisite taste that she wanted to cuddle up in one of the pink-and-white-striped armchairs with a cup of peppermint tea, an Angora cat, and a novel by Jane Austen.

The room smelled of roses. Her hands itched to explore the contrasting textures of lace curtains, polished chintz, cut glass, and gilt. She wanted to stroke the watered silk cushions with their fringed borders and twine her fingers through the loops of ribbon that held up a floral table skirt. Did the lush fern spilling from the white wicker basket sitting between the two front windows smell of rich, sweet earth? Would the spray of wheat and dried pink roses perched on the fireplace mantel crackle under her fingertips?

And then her heart lurched as Bobby Tom moved into the center of the room. He should have looked silly in the midst of such delicate surroundings, but instead, he had never looked more intensely masculine. The contrast between the room's frivolous delicacy and his tough uncompromising strength made her insides go weak. Only a man with no doubts about his virility could walk with such assurance through so feminine an environment.

He tossed his Stetson on a plump ottoman and tilted his head toward an arched opening at the rear. “You want to really see something, take a gander at my bedroom back there.”

Several seconds ticked by before she could force herself to look away from him. Her legs felt shaky as she walked down a narrow hallway painted the pearly pink of the inside of a seashell and entered the room at the end. She paused in the doorway, so dumbstruck she didn't even know he had come up behind her until he spoke.

“Go ahead. Say what's on your mind.”

She gazed at a queen-size bed with shiny gilt posts and the most incredible canopy she had ever seen. Layer upon layer of gossamer white lace tumbled in a frothy waterfall caught up in swags with nosegays of pink-and-lavender satin ribbon.

Her eyes sparkled. “Do you have to wait for the prince to kiss you every morning before you can wake up?”

He laughed. “I keep meaning to get rid of it, but I never seem to get around to it.”

The fairy-tale room with its canopy bed, gilded chests, pink-and-lavender throw pillows, and ruffled chaise lounge looked as if it belonged in Sleeping Beauty's castle. After years of living inside institutional beige walls and walking on hard tile floors, she wished she could stay here for the rest of her life.

The phone began to ring in his office, but he ignored it. “There's a little apartment over the garage where you can stay. My weight room's up there, too.”

She gazed at him with astonishment. “I'm not staying here.”

“Of course you are. You can't afford to stay anyplace else.”

For a fraction of a moment, she didn't know what he was talking about, and then she remembered her stilted conversation with Willow that morning. Windmill Studios had been responsible for her room and board when she worked on location as a production assistant, but Willow had made a point of stating that her new position had no provision for a living allowance. Gracie had been so upset by everything else that had happened, she hadn't considered the problem that presented.

“I'll find an inexpensive motel,” she said firmly.

“On your salary, it'd have to be more than inexpensive; it'd have to be free.”

“How do you know what my salary is?”

“Willow told me. And it made me wonder why you don't just buy yourself a bottle of Windex, so you could stand at a traffic light and do windshields instead. I guarandamn-tee you, you'd earn more money.”

“Money isn't everything. I was willing to make a small sacrifice until I proved myself with the studio.”

Once again the phone began to ring, and once again he ignored it. “In case you've forgotten, the two of us are supposed to be engaged. People around here know me too well to believe you'd be living anyplace but close by.”

“Engaged?”

His lips tightened in annoyance. “I distinctly remember that you were standing right next to me when I told all of those ladies in the trailer that you'd passed the football quiz.”

“Bobby Tom, those women didn't take you seriously. Or at least they won't when they start thinking about it.”

“That's why we've got to be aggressive about this.”

“Are you telling me that you seriously want people to believe the two of us are engaged?” Her voice caught on a high, squeaky note as her hopes blossomed, only to be firmly squelched by her instincts for self-protection. Fantasies were meant to be dreamed, not lived. It would all be a game to him, but not to her.

“That's what I said, isn't it? Contrary to what you may think, I don't talk just to hear the sound of my voice. For the rest of our stay in Telarosa, you're the future Mrs. Bobby Tom.”

“I most certainly am not! And I wish you'd quit saying that. Mrs. Bobby Tom! As if the woman who marries you isn't anything more than your appendage!”

He released a long, put upon sigh. “Gracie  .  .  . Gracie  .  .  . Gracie.  .  .  . Every time I think the two of us have our communication channels open, you do something to prove me wrong The most important part of your job as my personal assistant is to make certain I get some peace and quiet while I'm here. Exactly how do you expect that to happen when every Torn, Dick, and Harriet who's known me since I was born has an unattached female they want me to meet?”

As if to prove his point, the doorbell began to chime. He ignored it the same way he ignored his telephone. “Let me explain something to you .Right this very moment there are at least a dozen women between here and San Antone who are trying to memorize the year Joe Theismann played in the Pro Bowl and figure out how many yards a team gets penalized if the captain doesn't show up for the coin toss. That's just the way things are around here. Without even looking, I can pretty much guarantee that's a female at the door now, or someone who's got one in tow. This isn't Chicago, where I've got some control over the women I see. This is Telarosa, and these people own me.”

She tried to appeal to his sense of reason. “But no one in their right mind is going to believe you'd marry me.” Both of them knew it was true, and it might as well be said. The ringing stopped and pounding took its place, but he didn't move. “Once I get you fixed up a little bit, they will.”

She regarded him warily. “What do you mean 'fixed up'?”

“Just what I said, is all. We're going to do one of those whadyacall— One of those make-overs, like they do on the 'Oprah' show.”

“What do you know about the 'Oprah' show?”

“You spend as many days sittin' in hotel rooms as I've spent, you get to know daytime TV pretty well.”