Fancy Pants

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  He thought about that for a moment and then said, “If I can make two or three birdies in the final round tomorrow, it looks like I'll pick up a little spare change. You want me to buy you that plane ticket home?”

  She looked at him standing so close to her, arms crossed over his chest, only that fabulous mouth visible beneath the shadowing bill of his cap. “You'd do that for me?”

  “I told you, Francie. As long as I can buy gas and pick up the bar tab, money doesn't mean anything to me. I don't even like money. To tell you the truth, even though I consider myself a true American patriot, I'm pretty much a Marxist.”

  She laughed at that, a reaction which told her more clearly than anything that she'd been spending too much time in his company. “I'm grateful for the offer, Dallie, but as much as I'd love to take you up on it, I need to stay around a bit longer. I can't go back to London like this. You don't know my friends. They'd dine out for weeks on the story of my transformation into a pauper.”

  He leaned back against the truck. “Nice batch of friends you've got there, Francie.”

  She felt as if he'd rapped his knuckles on a hollowness inside her, a hollowness she had never permitted herself to dwell on. “Go back inside,” she said. “I'm going to stay out here for a while.”

  “I don't think so.” He turned his body toward her, so that his T-shirt brushed against her arm. A yellow bug light by the screen door cast a slanted ochre shadow across his face, subtly changing his features, making him look older but no less splendid. “I think you and I have something more interesting to do tonight, don't we?”

  His words produced an uncomfortable fluttering in the pit of her stomach, but being coy was as much a part of her as the Serritella cheekbones. Even though one part of her wanted to run back to hide in the Cajun Bar and Grill rest room, she gave him her most innocently inquisitive smile. “Oh? What's that?”

  “A little tag team wrestling maybe?” His mouth curled in a slow, sexy smile. “Why don't you just climb into the front seat of the Riviera so we can be on our way.”

  She didn't want to climb into the front seat of the Riviera. Or maybe she did. Dallie stirred unfamiliar feelings in her body, feelings she would have been all too happy to act upon if only she were one of those women who was really good at sex, one of those women who didn't mind all the mess and the thought of having someone else's' perspiration drip on her body. Still, even if she wanted to, she could hardly back out now without looking a total fool. As she walked over to the car and opened the door, she tried to convince herself that, since she didn't perspire, a man as gorgeous as Dallie just might not either.

  She watched as he walked around the front of the Riviera, whistling tunelessly and digging the keys out of his back pocket. He seemed in no particular hurry. There wasn't any macho swagger to his stride, none of the cock-of-the-walk strut she'd noticed in the sculptor in Marrakech before he'd taken her to bed. Dallie acted casual, ordinary, as if going to bed with her were an everyday occurrence, as if it didn't matter all that much to him, as if he'd been there a thousand times before and she was just one more female body.

  He got into the Riviera, turned on the ignition, and began fiddling with the radio dial. “Do you like country music, Francie, or is easy listening more your speed? Damn. I forgot to give Stoney that pass for tomorrow like I promised him.” He opened the door. “I'll be back in a minute.”

  She watched him walk across the parking lot and noticed that he still wasn't moving with any urgency. The screen door opened and the golfers came out. He stopped and talked to them, sticking a thumb in the rear pocket of his jeans and propping his boot up on the concrete step. One of the golfers drew an imaginary arc through the air, and then a second one right below it. Dallie shook his head, pantomimed a golf swing, and then drew two imaginary arcs of his own.

  She slumped dejectedly down in the seat. Dallie Beaudine certainly didn't look like a man swept away by unbridled passion.

  When he finally got back to the Riviera, she was so rattled she couldn't even look at him. Were the women in his life so gorgeous that she was merely one of the crowd? A bath would fix everything, she told herself as he started the car. She would run the water as hot as she could stand it so that the bathroom would fill with steam and the humidity would make her hair form those soft little tendrils around her face. She would put on a touch of lipstick and some blusher, spray the sheets with perfume, and cover one of the lamps with a towel so the light would fall softly, and—

  “Something wrong, Francie?”

  “What makes you ask?” she replied stiffly.

  “You've pretty much laminated yourself to that door handle over there.”

  “I like it here.”

  He fiddled with the radio dial. “Suit yourself. So what's it going to be? Country or easy listening?”

  “Neither. I like rock.” She had a sudden inspiration, and she immediately acted upon it. “I've loved rock for as long as I can remember. The Rolling Stones are my very favorite group. Most people don't know it, but Mick wrote three songs for me after we spent some time together in Rome.”

  Dallie didn't look particularly impressed, so she decided to embellish. After all, it wasn't too much of a lie, since Mick Jagger certainly knew her well enough to say hello. She lowered her voice into a breathless, confiding whisper. “We stayed in this wonderful apartment that overlooked the Villa Borghese. Everything was absolutely super. We had, complete privacy, so we could even make love outside on the terrace. It didn't last, of course. He has this terrible ego— not to mention Bianca—and I met the prince.” She paused. “No, that's not right. I met Ryan O'Neal, and then I met the prince.”

  Dallie looked over at her, gave his head a slow shake as if he were clearing water from his ears, and then returned his attention to the road. “You like making love outside, do you, Francie?”

  “Of course, don't most women?” Actually, she couldn't imagine anything worse.

  They drove for several miles in silence. Suddenly he swung the wheel to the right and turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road that headed directly into a stand of bald cypresses hung with beards of Spanish moss. “What are you doing? Where are you going!” she exclaimed. “Turn the car around this minute! I want to go back to the motel.”

  “I think you might like this spot, being such a sexual adventuress and all.” He pulled in among the cypresses and turned off the ignition. Strange insect sounds drifted through the open window on his side.

  “That looks like a swamp out there,” she cried desperately.

  He peered through the windshield. “I believe you're right. We'd better not get too far from the car; most 'gators seem to feed at night.” He pulled off his cap, set it on the dashboard, and turned to her. He waited expectantly.

  She pushed herself a little more closely against the door handle.

  “Do you want to go first, or do you want me to?” he finally asked.

  She kept her reply cautious. “Go first doing what?”

  “Warming up. You know—foreplay. Since you've had all those big-time lovers, you've got me a little intimidated here. Maybe you'd better set the pace.”

  “Let's—let's forget this. I—I think maybe I made a mistake. Let's go back to the motel.”

  “Not a good idea, Francie. Once you make that crossover into the Promised Land, you can't really turn back without making things awkward.”

  “Oh, I don't think so. I don't think it'll be awkward at all. It wasn't actually the Promised Land, just a small flirtation. I mean, it certainly won't be awkward for me, and I'm positive it won't be awkward for—”

  “Yes, it will. It'll be so awkward I probably won't even be able to play half-decent golf tomorrow. I'm a professional athlete, Francie. Professional athletes have fine-tuned bodies, like well-oiled engines. One little speck of awkwardness'll throw everything off stride. Like dirt. You could cost me a good five strokes tomorrow, darlin'.”

  His accent had gotten unbelievably thick, and she sud
denly realized she was being conned. “Damn it, Dallie! Don't do this to me. I'm nervous enough as it is without your making fun of me.”

  He laughed, put his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her close in a friendly sort of hug. “Why don't you just say you're nervous instead of going through all that fancy stuff of yours? You make everything so hard on yourself.”

  It felt nice being in his arms, but she couldn't quite forgive him for teasing. “That's easy for you to say. You're obviously comfortable in every conceivable sort of bed, but I'm not.” She took a breath and spit out exactly what was on her mind. “Actually... I don't even like sex.” There. She'd said it. Now he could really laugh at her.

  “Now, why's that? Something that feels as good as sex and doesn't cost any money should be right up your alley.”

  “I'm just not an athletic person.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, that explains it, all right.”

  She couldn't entirely forget the swamp. “Could we go back to the motel, Dallie?”

  “I don't think so, Francie. You'll be closing yourself up in the bathroom and worrying about your makeup and reaching for that perfume bottle of yours.” He lifted the hair on the side of her neck and, leaning over, nuzzled his lips against her skin. “You ever necked in the back seat of a car before?”

  She closed her eyes against the delicious sensation he was arousing. “Does one of the royal family's limousines count?”

  He caught her earlobe gently between his teeth. “Not unless the windows fogged up.”

  She wasn't sure who moved first, but somehow Dallie's mouth was on hers. His hands moved up along the back of her neck and plowed through her hair from beneath, spreading it out over his bare forearms. He imprisoned her head in the palms of his hands and tilted it farther back so that her mouth opened involuntarily. She waited for the invasion of his tongue, but it didn't come. Instead, he played with her bottom lip. Her own hands crept around his ribs to his back and unconsciously slipped beneath his T-shirt so she could feel his strong bare skin. Their mouths played together and Francesca lost all desire to try to maintain the upper hand. Before long, she found herself receiving his tongue with pleasure—his beautiful tongue, his beautiful mouth, his beautiful taut skin beneath her hands. She devoted herself to the kiss, concentrating only on the feelings he was arousing without giving a thought to what would happen next. His mouth slid away from hers and traveled to her neck. She giggled softly.

  “Do you have something you want to share with the rest of the class,” he murmured into her skin, “or is this a private joke?”

  “No, I'm just having fun.” She smiled as he kissed her neck and tugged on the rosette of material at her waist securing the long tail of the T-shirt. “What's an Aggies?” she asked.

  “An Aggie? Somebody like me who went to college at Texas A&M is an Aggie.”

  She pulled back abruptly, her amazement etching itself in the perfect arch of her eyebrows. “You went to a university? I don't believe it!”

  He looked at her with a mildly aggravated expression. “I've got a bachelor of arts degree in English literature. Do you want to see my diploma or can we get back to work here?”

  “English literature?” She burst out in laughter. “Oh, Dallie, that's incredible! You barely speak the language.”

  He was clearly offended. “Well, now, that's real nice. That's a real nice thing to say to somebody.”

  Still laughing, she tossed herself into his arms, moving so suddenly that she knocked him off balance and bumped him back into the steering wheel. Then she said the most astonishing thing.

  “I could eat you up, Dallie Beaudine.”

  It was his turn to laugh, but he didn't get very far with it because her mouth was all over his. She forgot about being scared and about not being any good at sex as she lifted herself to her knees and leaned on him.

  “I'm running out of maneuvering room here, honey,” he finally said against her mouth. Pulling away, he opened the door of the Riviera and got out. Then he extended his hand for her.

  She let him help her out, but instead of opening the back door so they could resettle in roomier quarters, he pinned her hips with his thighs against the side of the Riviera and drew her into another kiss. The dome light left on by the open door produced a dim area of illumination around the car that made the darkness beyond seem even more impenetrable. The vague image of her open-toed sandals and alligators lurking beneath a car flickered through her mind. Without losing one moment of the kiss, she draped her arms over his shoulders and pulled herself up so that one of her legs was wrapped tightly around the back of one of his and her other foot was planted firmly on top of his cowboy boot.

  “I do like the way you kiss,” he murmured. His left hand slid up along her bare spine and unfastened her bra while his right reached between their bodies to tug at the snap on her jeans.

  She could feel herself getting nervous again, and it didn't have anything to do with alligators. “Let's go buy some champagne, Dallie. I—I think some champagne will help me relax.”

  “I'll relax you.” He pulled the snap open and began working on the zipper.

  “Dallie!” she exclaimed. “We're outside.”

  “Uh-huh. Just you, me, and the swamp.” The zipper gave.

  “I—I don't think I'm ready for this.” Reaching under her loose T-shirt, he cupped her breast in his hand and let his lips trail over her cheek to her mouth. Panic began beating inside her. He rubbed her nipple with his thumb and she moaned softly. She wanted him to think she was wonderful—a spectacular lover—and how could she do that in the middle of a swamp? “I—I need champagne. And soft lights. I need sheets, Dallie.”

  He withdrew his hand from her breast and settled it gently around the side of her neck. Gazing down into her eyes, he said, “No, you don't, honey. You don't need anything but yourself. You've got to start understanding that, Francie. You've got to start relying on yourself instead of all these props you think you need to set up around you.”

  “I-I'm afraid.” She tried to make her words sound defiant, but didn't quite succeed. Unwrapping herself from his legs and stepping down off his cowboy boot, she confessed everything. “It might seem silly to you, but Evan Varian said I was frigid, and there was this Swedish sculptor in Marrakech—”

  “You want to hold on to that part of the story for a while?”

  She felt some of her fight coming back, and she glared at him. “You brought me here on purpose, didn't you? You brought me here because you knew I'd hate it.” She took several steps back and pointed a shaky finger toward the Riviera. “I'm not the sort of woman you make love to in the back seat of a car.”

  “Who said anything about a back seat?”

  She stared at him for a moment and then exclaimed, “Oh, no! I'm not lying down on that creature-infested ground. I mean it, Dallie.”

  “I don't much like the ground myself.”

  “Then how? Where?”

  “Come on, Francie. Stop plotting and planning and trying to make sure you always have your best side turned to the camera. Let's just kiss a little bit so things can take their natural course.”

  “I want to know where, Dallie.”

  “I know you do, honey, but I'm not going to tell you because you'll start worrying about whether it's color-coordinated or not. For once in your life, take a chance at doing something where you may not come out looking your best.”

  She felt as if he had held a mirror up in front of her—not a very large mirror and one with clouded glass, but a mirror nonetheless. Was she as vain as Dallie seemed to believe? As calculating? She didn't want to think so, and yet... She stuck out her chin and began defiantly peeling down her jeans. “All right, we'll do it your way. But just don't expect anything spectacular from me.” The slim denim pantlegs caught on her sandals. She bent over to struggle with them, but the heels stuck in the folds. She gave the jeans another tug and tightened the snare. “Is this turning you on, Dallie?” she fumed. “Do you like watching me? A
re you getting excited? Dammit! Dammit to bloody hell!”

  He started to move toward her, but she looked up at him through the veil of her hair and bared her teeth. “Don't you dare touch me. I mean it. I'll do it myself.”

  “We're not getting off to a real promising start here, Francie.”

  “You go to hell!” Jeans hobbling her ankles, she hopped the three steps back to the car, sat down hard on the front seat, and finally extricated herself from the pants. Then she stood up in T-shirt, underpants, and sandals. “There! And I'm not taking another thing off until I feel like it.”

  “Sounds fair to me.” He opened his arms to her. “You want to cuddle up here for a minute and catch your breath.”

  She did. She really did. “I suppose.”

  She curled into his chest. He held her for a moment, and then he tilted back her head and began kissing her again. She'd sunk so low in her own estimation that she didn't even try to impress him; she just let him do the work. After a while, she realized that it felt nice. His tongue touched hers and his splayed hand pressed against the bare skin of her back. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. He reached under her shirt again and his thumbs began to toy with the sides of her breasts and then slid over onto the nipples. It felt so good—shivery and warm at the same time. Had the sculptor played with her breasts? He must have, but she didn't remember. And then Dallie pushed her T-shirt above her breasts and began teasing her with his mouth—his beautiful, wonderful mouth. She sighed as he sucked gently on one nipple and then the other. Somewhat to her surprise, she realized her own hands were once again beneath his shirt, kneading his bare chest. He picked her up in his arms, walked forward with her curled into his chest, and then laid her down.