"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."