"You did those magazine ads for Foot-Joy."
"That's different and you know it." Dallie stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door, then yelled from the other side. "Foot-Joy makes a damn fine golf shoe!"
The shower went on and Skeet shook his head. Muttering under his breath, he crossed the hallway to
his own room. For a long time it had been obvious to a lot of people that Dallie's looks could have given him a one-way ticket to Hollywood, but the fool wouldn't take advantage of it. Talent agents had been placing long-distance calls to him since his first year on the tour, but all Dallie did was tell them they were bloodsuckers and then make generally disparaging remarks about their mothers, which wouldn't have been so bad by itself, except he pretty much did it to their faces. What was so terrible, Skeet wanted to know, about earning some easy money on the side? Until Dallie started winning the big ones, he was never going to pick up the six-figure commercial endorsements that guys like Trevino could get, let alone the sweetheart deals Nicklaus and Palmer made.
Skeet combed his hair and exchanged one flannel shirt for another. He didn't see what was so damned wrong with posing for a calendar, even if it did mean sharing space with pretty boys like J. W. Namath. Dallie had what the talent agents called sexual magnetism. Hell, even somebody who was half blind could see that. No matter how far down in the pack he was, he always had a full gallery following him, and eighty percent of that gallery seemed to be wearing lipstick. The minute he stepped off the course, those women surrounded him like flies after honey. Holly Grace said women loved Dallie because they knew
he didn't own any color-coordinated underwear or Wayne Newton records. What we have with Dallas Beaudine, Holly Grace had insisted more than once, is the Lone Star State's last genuine All-American he-man.
Skeet grabbed the room key and chuckled to himself. The last time he'd talked to Holly Grace on the telephone, she'd said that if Dallie didn't win a big tournament pretty soon, Skeet should just go ahead
and shoot him to put him out of his misery.
Miranda Gwynwyck's annual party, always held the last week of September, was in full swing, and the hostess surveyed the platters of Mediterranean red prawns, baby artichokes, and lobster in phyllo with satisfaction. Miranda, author of the well-known feminist work Woman as Warrior, loved to entertain
well, if for no other reason than to prove to the world that feminism and gracious living weren't mutually exclusive. Her personal politics would not permit her to wear frocks or makeup, but entertaining gave
her an opportunity to exercise what she referred to in Woman as Warrior as the "domestica"-the more civilized side of human nature, whether male or female.
Her eyes swept over the distinguished group of guests she had gathered between the stippled walls of her living room, newly redecorated that August as a birthday present from Miranda's brother. Musicians and intellectuals, several members of the peerage, a sprinkling of well-known writers and actors, a few charlatans to lend spice-exactly the kind of stimulating people she loved to bring together. And then she frowned as her gaze fell on the proverbial fly in the ointment of her satisfaction-tiny Francesca Serritella Day, spectacularly dressed as always and, as always, the center of male attention.
She watched Francesca flit from one conversation to another, looking outrageously beautiful in a turquoise silk jumpsuit. She tossed her cloud of shining chestnut hair as if the world were her personal pearl-filled oyster when everyone in London knew she was down to her last farthing. What a surprise it must have been for her to discover how deeply in debt Chloe had been.
Over the polite noise of the party, Miranda heard Francesca's generous laughter and listened as she greeted several men in that breathless, wait-until-you-hear-this voice, carelessly emphasizing the most unimportant words in a manner that drove Miranda wild. But one by one the stupid bastards all melted into warm little puddles at her feet. Unfortunately, one of those stupid bastards was her own beloved brother Nicky.
Miranda frowned and picked up a macadamia nut from an opalescent Lalique bowl printed with dragonflies. Nicholas was the most important person in the world to her, a wonderfully sensitive man with an enlightened soul. Nicky had encouraged her to write Woman as Warrior. He had helped her refine her thoughts, brought her coffee late at night, and most important, he had shielded her from their mother's criticism over why her daughter, with a yearly income of one hundred thousand pounds, had to meddle with such nonsense. Miranda couldn't bear the idea of standing idly by while Francesca Day broke his heart. For months she had watched Francesca flit from one man to another, running back to Nicky whenever she found herself between admirers. Each time he welcomed her return-a little more battle-scarred, perhaps, a little less eagerly-but he welcomed her just the same.
"When we're together," he had explained to Miranda, "she makes me feel as if I'm the wittiest, brightest, most perceptive man in the world." And then he added dryly, "Unless she's in a bad mood, of course, in which case she makes me feel like a complete shit."
How did she do it? Miranda wondered. How did someone so intellectually and spiritually barren command so much attention? Most of it, Miranda felt certain, was her extraordinary beauty. But part
of it was her vitality, the way the very air around her seemed to crackle with life. A cheap parlor trick, Miranda thought with disgust, since Francesca Day certainly didn't have an original thought in her head. Just look at her! She was both penniless and unemployed, yet she acted as if she hadn't a care in the world. And maybe she didn't have a care, Miranda thought uneasily-not with Nicky Gwynwyck and
all his millions waiting patiently in the wings.
Although Miranda didn't know it, she wasn't the only person brooding at her party that evening. Despite her outward show of gaiety, Francesca was miserable. Just the day before, she had gone to see Steward Bessett, the head of London's most prestigious modeling agency, and asked him for a job. Although she had no desire for a career, modeling was an acceptable way to earn money in her social circle, and she had decided that it would provide at least a temporary answer to her bewildering financial problems.
But to her dismay, Steward had told her she was too short. "No matter how beautiful a model is, she simply has to be five feet eight inches if she's to do fashion," he had said. "You're barely five feet two.
Of course, I might be able to get you some beauty work-close-ups, you know, but you'll need some
test shots done first."
That was when she had lost her temper, shouting at him that she had been photographed for some of
the most important magazines in the world and that she hardly needed to do test shots like some rank amateur. Now she realized that it had been foolish of her to become so upset, but at the time she simply hadn't been able to help herself.
Although it had been a year since Chloe's death, Francesca still found it difficult to accept the loss of her mother. Sometimes her grief seemed to be alive, a tangible object that had twisted itself around her. At first her friends had been sympathetic, but after a few months, they seemed to believe that she should
set her sadness aside like last year's hem length. She was afraid they would stop issuing invitations if she didn't become a more cheerful companion, and she hated being alone, so she had finally learned to tuck her grief away. When she was in public, she laughed and flirted as if nothing were wrong.
Surprisingly, the laughter had begun to help, and in the last few months she had felt that she was finally healing.
Sometimes she even experienced vague stirrings of anger against Chloe. How could her mother have deserted her like this, with an army of creditors waiting like a plague of locusts to snatch up everything they owned? But the anger never lasted for long. Now that it was too late, Francesca understood why Chloe had seemed so tired and distracted in those months before she had been hit by the taxi.