Fancy Pants

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Instead of disagreeing with him, as she should have, Francesca found herself saying, “Assuming we decide to go ahead with this, how long do you think it will take for us to—to burn out?”

  “I don't know. We're entirely different people. My guess is if we do it two or three times, the mystery'll be gone, and that'll pretty much be the end of it.”

  Was he right? She chastised herself. Of course he was right. This kind of sexual chemistry was just like a brushfire —it burned hot and quickly, but had no real staying power. Once again she was making too big a deal out of sex. Dallie was acting completely casual about the whole thing and so should she. This was a perfect opportunity to get him out of her blood without losing her dignity.

  They walked the rest of the way to the farmhouse in silence. When they got inside, he performed all the rituals of a host—hanging up their jackets, adjusting the thermostat so the house would be comfortable, pouring her a glass of wine from a bottle he'd brought in from the kitchen. The silence between them had begun to feel oppressive, and she took refuge in sarcasm. “If that bottle has a screw top, I don't want any.”

  “I took the cork out with my very own teeth.”

  She repressed a smile and sat down on the couch, only to discover that she was too nervous to sit still. She got back up. “I'm going to use the bathroom. And, Dallie... I didn't—bring anything with me. I know it's my body and I consider myself responsible for it, but I didn't plan to end up in your bed—not that I've actually made up my mind about that yet—but if I do—if we do—if you're not better prepared than I am, you'd better tell me right now.”

  He smiled. “I'll take care of it.”

  “You'd better.” She gave him her most ferocious scowl, because everything was moving too quickly for her. She knew she was getting ready to do something she would regret, but she didn't seem to have the willpower to stop herself. It was because she'd been celibate for a year, she reasoned. That was the only explanation.

  When she returned from the bathroom, he was sitting on the sofa, with one boot crossed over his knee, drinking a glass of tomato juice. She sat at the opposite end of the couch, not pressed up against the arm exactly, but not cuddled next to him, either. He looked over at her. “Jeez, Francie, I wish you'd loosen up a little bit. You're starting to make me nervous.”

  “Don't give me that,” she retorted. “You're as nervous as I am. You just hide it better.”

  He didn't deny it. “You want to take a shower together to warm up?”

  She shook her head. “I don't want to take off my clothes.”

  “It's going to be pretty difficult—”

  “That's not what I mean. I'll probably take off my clothes—eventually—maybe—if I decide to—it's just that I plan to be already warmed up before I do it.”

  Dallie grinned. “You know what, Francie? This is sort of fun, just sitting here talking about it. I almost hate to start kissing you.”

  So she started kissing him instead, because she absolutely couldn't stand to talk anymore.

  This kiss was even better than the one by the side of the road. Their verbal foreplay had put them both on edge and there was a roughness about their caresses that seemed exactly right for an encounter that was absurdly foolish for both of them. As their mouths pressed together and their tongues touched, Francesca once again had the sensation that the rest of the world had drifted away.

  She pushed her hands beneath his shirt. Within seconds, her sweater was off and the buttons on the front of her silk blouse opened. Her lingerie was beautiful—lace shells of oyster silk cupping her breasts. He peeled back one of the shells to find her creamy nipple and suckle it.

  When she couldn't stand it anymore, she pulled his head up and began a relentless attack on his bottom lip, tracing the curve with her tongue, gently teasing it with her teeth. Finally she slipped her fingers along his spine and pushed them inside the waistband of his jeans. He groaned and pulled her to her feet, then stripped down her slacks and slipped off her shoes and stockings. “I want to see you,” he said huskily, freeing the silk blouse from her shoulders. The fabric felt like a caress as it slid down over her arms.

  Dallie caught his breath. “Does all your underwear look like it belongs in a high-class strip show?”

  “Every bit of it.” She rose up on tiptoe to take a nip at his ear. His fingers toyed with the two little strings on her hip that held the tiny silk triangle of her panties in place, leaving the curve of her thigh bare. Goose bumps slithered over her skin. “Carry me upstairs,” she whispered.

  He slipped his arm under her knees, lifted her, and held her close to his chest. “You don't weigh as much as a full bag of clubs, honey.”

  His bedroom was large and comfortable, with a fireplace at one end and a bed tucked beneath a sloping ceiling. He laid her gently down on the spread and then reached toward the delicate ties at her hips. “No, no.” She pushed his hand away and pointed toward the center of the room. “Take it off first, soldier.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Take what off?”

  “Your clothes. Entertain the troops.”

  “My clothes?” He frowned. “I was sort of thinking you might want to do that for me.”

  She shook her head and leaned back on one elbow, giving him her witchiest, bitchiest smile. “Strip.”

  “Now, listen here, Francie—”

  Lifting a languid hand, she once again pointed toward the center of the room. “Do it real slow, good-looking,” she purred. “I want to enjoy every minute.”

  “Aw, Francie...” He looked longingly toward the twin shells over her breasts and then lower to the small silk triangle. She moved her legs slightly apart to inspire him.

  “I feel stupid making a big show out of taking off my clothes,” he grumbled as he moved toward the center of the room.

  She let her fingers trail delicately over the triangle of silk. “That's just too bad. As far as I'm concerned, men like you were put on this world to entertain women like me.”

  His eyes followed her fingers. “Now, is that so?”

  She toyed with the little string. “All brawn, no brain, what else are you good for?”

  Lifting his gaze, he gave her a lazy grin and slowly began unbuttoning his cuffs. “Well, now, I guess you're about to find out.”

  Francesca felt a surge of heat flow through her blood. The simple act of unfastening a shirt cuff suddenly struck her as the most erotic thing she had ever seen. Dallie must have noticed her breath quicken, because a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth and then disappeared as he began to play her in earnest. He took his time unfastening the rest of his shirt buttons and then let the garment hang open for a moment before he took it off. Her lips parted slightly. She studied the play of muscles in his chest as he reached down to pull off his boots and his socks. Dressed only in jeans and a wide leather belt, he straightened up and linked one thumb in his waistband.

  “Slip down that bra,” he said. “Nothing more comes off here until I see something good.”

  She pretended to think it over and then slowly reached behind her back to open the small clasp. The straps drifted down along her shoulders, but she held the shells in place over her breasts. “Take off your belt first,” she said, her voice deep and throaty. “And then unzip.”

  He pulled the belt from the denim loops. For a moment, he let it hang at his side, the buckle curling from his fist. Then he surprised her by tossing it over to the bed, where it fell across her ankles. “In case I need to use it on you,” he said, his voice full of sexy menace.

  She swallowed hard. He pulled open the top snap on his jeans and pushed the zipper down a scant few inches, revealing his flat abdomen. And then he rested his hand lightly on the slide, waiting for her. She eased the silky shells off her breasts, delicately arching her back so he could look his fill. Now he was the one who swallowed hard.

  “The jeans, soldier boy,” she whispered.

  He pulled the zipper down the rest of the way, then
tucked both his thumbs inside the waistband, snagging the jeans and his briefs together, and slid them off. He finally stood naked before her.

  Without any pretense of shyness, she looked her fill. He was hard and proud, sleek and shiny and beautiful. She let her head drift back on the pillows, her hair spilling out in a corona around her, and watched him as he walked to the side of the bed. Reaching down with his index finger, he stroked a long line from her throat to the top of the triangle of her panties. “Open the ties,” he ordered.

  “You do it,” she replied.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached toward one of the satin ribbons. She stilled his hand. “With your mouth.”

  He chuckled, then leaned over and did as she had ordered. As he pulled the silky triangle from between her legs, he kissed her and then began stroking the insides of her thighs. She took off on an exploratory mission of her own, her hand greedy to touch him. After a few minutes, he groaned and broke away to reach into the drawer of the bedside table. When he turned his back to her, she laughed and lifted herself up on her knees to nuzzle his neck. “Never send a man to do a woman's job,” she whispered. Reaching around him, she took over his task, dallying and teasing until his skin was damp with perspiration.

  “Damn, Francie,” he said huskily, “you keep on like that and you're not going to get anything out of this encounter but a boring memory.”

  She smiled and slipped back onto the pillows, parting her legs for him. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  He took advantage of what she was offering him, tormenting her with expert caresses until she begged him to stop, and then kissing her breathless. When he finally entered her, she dug her hands into his hips and cried out. He reared up, driving himself deeper. They began talking in breathless little words.

  “Please...”

  “So good...”

  “Yes... hard...”

  “Sweet...”

  Each was accustomed to being a cool lover—considerate, giving, but always in control. Now they were hot and wet, strung out on passion, oblivious to everything but the mad cry of one beautiful body reaching out for the other. They came, seconds apart, spilling open in gushing, noisy abandonment, filling the air with cries, moans, and breathless obscenities.

  Afterward, neither could have said who was the more embarrassed.

  Chapter

  29

  They ate a tense meal, with both of them cracking jokes that weren't all that funny. Then they went back to bed and made love again. With their mouths glued together and their bodies joined, they couldn't talk, but talking was something neither of them wanted to do much of. They slept restlessly, waking in the wee hours to find that they still hadn't gotten enough of each other.

  “How many times was that?” Dallie groaned after they were finished.

  She nuzzled closer under his chin. “Uh—four, I think.”

  He kissed the top of her head and muttered, “Francie, I don't think this fire burning between us is going to be as easy to put out as we figured.”

  It was past eight the next morning before either of them stirred. Francesca stretched lazily and Dallie pulled her close for a cuddle. They were just beginning to fool around a little when they heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Dallie cussed under his breath. Francesca jerked her head toward the door and then watched in alarm as the knob began to turn. An ugly vision flashed through her mind of an army of Dallie's old girlfriends stalking in, each with a house key dangling from her fingers. “Oh, God...” She couldn't help it. She slid down beneath the covers and pulled the sheet over her head. At that exact moment, she heard the door open.

  Dallie sounded mildly exasperated. “For Pete's sake, couldn't you even knock?”

  “I was afraid I'd spill my coffee. I hope that's Francie under there or I'm going to be embarrassed.”

  “As a matter of fact, it's not Francie,” Dallie said. “And you should be embarrassed.”

  The mattress sagged as Holly Grace settled down on the side of the bed, her hips brushing against Francesca's calves. The faint fragrance of coffee penetrated the sheet.

  “The least you could do was bring me a cup, too,” Dallie complained.

  Holly Grace apologized. “I wasn't thinking; I've got a lot on my mind. You were kidding, weren't you, about that not being Francie under there?”

  Dallie patted Francesca's hip through the covers. “You stay right there, Rosalita honey. This crazy person'll be gone in a few minutes.”

  Holly Grace tugged on the top of the sheet. “Francie, I need to talk to both of you.”

  Francesca clutched the sheet tighter and muttered something in Spanish about turning left at the corner to get to the post office. Dallie chuckled.

  “Come on, Francie, I know it's you,” Holly Grace said. “Your underwear's all over the floor—what there is of it.”

  Francesca saw no graceful way out. With as much dignity as possible, she lowered the sheet to her chin and glared at Holly Grace, who sat on the edge of the bed wearing old jeans and a Cowboys sweat shirt. “What do you want?” she demanded. “For three days you've refused to talk to me. Why did you have to pick this morning to get chatty?”

  “I needed some time to think.”

  “Couldn't you have chosen a more appropriate place to meet?” Francesca asked. Next to her, Dallie leaned up against the headboard, sipping Holly Grace's coffee and looking as relaxed as ever. As the only person lying down, Francesca suddenly realized she had put herself at a disadvantage. Anchoring the sheet under her arms, she swallowed her embarrassment and pushed herself up until she was sitting, too.

  “Want a sip?” Dallie asked, holding out the coffee mug.

  She pushed her hair out of her face and thanked him with exaggerated politeness, determined to out-casual them both. As she took the mug, Holly Grace stood and walked toward the window, her hands jumping from her front pockets to her rear pockets. Watching the gesture, Francesca realized that her friend was a lot more nervous than she pretended. As she looked more closely, she saw telltale signs of tension in the set of Holly Grace's shoulders.

  Holly Grace played with the edge of the drapery. “See, the thing of it is—this situation that's happened between the two of you has sort of gotten in the way of some plans I made.”

  “What situation?” Francesca inquired defensively.

  “What plans?” Dallie asked.

  Holly Grace turned. “Francie, you've got to understand that none of this has anything to do with disapproval. I've been telling you for years that you missed out on one of life's great opportunities by not spending more time in bed with Dallas Beaudine.”

  “Holly Grace!” Francesca protested.

  “Thanks, honey,” Dallie said.

  Francesca realized they were starting to get the best of her again, and she took a slow, calming sip of coffee. Holly Grace wandered to the foot of the bed and gazed at her ex-husband. “Dallie, my biological clock is about to hit midnight. I kept thinking that sooner or later I'd find somebody I wanted to marry. For a while I even hoped Gerry and I— Anyway, I planned to settle down and let the 'China Colt' producers shoot me from the chest up every few seasons while I had a couple of babies. But lately I've realized that's a fantasy and the thing of it is... I've got an ache inside me.” She walked around to Francesca's side of the bed, hugging herself as if she were cold.

  Francesca saw the sadness in her friend's beautiful, proud features, and she could guess what it had cost Holly Grace to be so open about her need for a child. She passed the coffee mug off to Dallie and patted the bed beside her. “Sit down, Holly Grace, and tell me what's wrong.”

  Holly Grace sat, her blue eyes locking with Francesca's green ones. “You know how much I want to have a baby, Francie, and I guess everything that's happened with Teddy has made me think about it even more. I'm tired of only being able to love other people's kids; I want my own. Dallie's been telling me for years not to wrap all my happiness up in a dollar bill, and I guess I've finally realiz
ed that he's right.”

  Francesca reached out and touched her arm sympathetically. She wished Gerry hadn't flown home yesterday, although after three days of trying unsuccessfully to get Holly Grace to talk to him, she didn't blame him. “When you get back to New York, you and Gerry need to get together. I know you love him, and he loves you, and—”

  “Forget about Gerry!” she retorted. “He's Peter Pan. He won't ever grow up. Gerry's made it perfectly clear that he wants to marry me. But he's also made it clear that he won't give me any children.”

  “You never told me anything about that,” Dallie said, obviously surprised at this revelation.

  “You and Gerry have to start being open with each other,” Francesca insisted.

  “I won't beg.” Holly Grace straightened, trying to keep her dignity. “I'm financially independent, I'm at least semi-mature, and I don't see any reason in the world why I have to shackle myself in marriage just to have a child. Only I need your help.”

  “I'll do anything I can, you know that. After the way you helped me when—”

  “Will you lend me Dallie?” Holly Grace asked abruptly.

  Dallie shot up in bed. “Now, wait a minute here!”

  “Dallie's not mine to lend,” Francesca replied slowly.

  Holly Grace ignored Dallie's indignation. Without taking her eyes off Francesca, she said, “I know there are dozens of men I could ask, but it's not in my nature to have just anybody's baby. I love Dallie, and we still have Danny between us. Right now he's the only man I trust.” She looked at Francesca with gentle reprimand. “He knows I wouldn't try to cut him out like you did. I understand how important family is to him, and the baby would be his just as much as mine.”

  “This is between the two of you,” Francesca said firmly. Holly Grace looked back and forth between Francesca and Dallie. “I don't think so.” She turned her attention to Dallie. “I realize it would be a little creepy getting back into bed with you after all this time—sort of like sleeping with my brother. But I figure if I had a few drinks and made up a fantasy about me and Tom Cruise...”