"My makeup!" She scrambled toward a cake of frosted peach eye shadow, even though she knew it was a ridiculous thing to do with her blouse falling off, a bloody scratch on her neck, two fingernails broken, and her very life in danger. But recovering the eye shadow suddenly became more important to her than anything in the world, and she was willing to fight them all to get it back.
He whipped his arm around her waist and lifted her feet off the floor. "To hell with your makeup!"
"No! Put me down!" She had to have the eye shadow. Little by little, every single item she owned was being taken away from her, and if she let just one more thing disappear, one more possession slip out of her life, she might very well disappear herself, fading away like the Cheshire cat until nothing was left,
not even her teeth.
"Come on, Francie!"
"No!" She fought Dallie as she'd fought the rest, flailing her legs in the air, kicking his calves, screaming out, "I want it! I have to have it."
"You're gonna get it, all right!"
"Please, Dallie," she begged. "Please!"
The magic word had never failed her before, and it didn't now. Muttering under his breath, he leaned forward with his arm still around her and snatched up the eye shadow. As he straightened, she grabbed it from him and then reached out, just managing to grasp the open lid of her cosmetic case before he pulled her away. By the time she had snapped the lid shut, she'd lost a bottle of almond-scented moisturizer and broken a third fingernail, but she had managed to avoid spilling out her calfskin handbag along with its three hundred and fifty dollars. And she had her precious frosted peach eye shadow.
Skeet propped the door open and Dallie carried her through. As he set her down on the pavement, she heard sirens. He immediately snatched her back up and dragged her toward the Riviera.
"Can't she even walk by herself?" Skeet asked, catching the keys that Dallie pitched to him.
"She likes to argue." Dallie glanced toward the flashing lights that weren't all that far away. "Commissioner Deane Beman and the PGA are only going to put up with so much from me this year, so let's get the hell out of here." Shoving her none too gently into the back seat, he jumped in after her and closed the door.
They rode in silence for several minutes. Her teeth began to chatter from the aftereffects of the fight, and her hands shook as she tried to pull the front of her blouse together and tuck some of the torn ends into her bra. It didn't take her long to realize the task was hopeless. A lump lodged in her throat. She hugged her arms over her chest and yearned for some expression of sympathy, some concern for her condition,
a small sign that someone cared about her.
Dallie reached under the seat in front of him and pulled out an unopened bottle of scotch. After breaking the seal with his thumbnail, he unscrewed the top, took a long swallow, and then looked thoughtful. Francesca prepared herself for the questions to come and made up her mind to answer each one with as much dignity as possible. She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.
Dailie leaned toward Skeet. "I didn't see anything of that red-haired waitress. Did you get a chance to ask about her?"
"Yeah. The bartender said she went off to Bogalusa with some guy who works for the power company."
"Too bad."
Skeet glanced into the rearview mirror. "Seems the guy only had one arm."
"No kidding? Did the bartender tell you how a thing like that happened?"
"Industrial accident of some kind. A few years back the guy worked for a tool and die outfit up near Shreveport and got his arm caught in a press. Crushed that sucker flatter than a pancake."
"Guess it didn't make any difference to his love life with that waitress of yours." Dailie took another swallow. "Women are funny 'bout things like that. Take that lady we met last year in San Diego after the Andy Williams-"
"Stop it!" Francesca cried, unable to hold back her outcry. "Are you so callous that you don't have the simple decency to ask me if I'm all right? That was a barroom brawl back there! Don't you realize that I could have been killed?"
"Probably not," Dailie said. "Somebody most likely would've put a stop to it."
She drew back her hand and hit his arm as hard as she could.
"Ouch." He rubbed the spot she had struck.
"Did she just hit you?" Skeet inquired indignantly.
"Yeah."
"You gonna hit her back?"
"I'm thinking."
"I would if I was you."
"I know you would." He looked at her and his eyes darkened. "I would, too, if I thought she was going
to be part of my life for any longer than about the next two and a half minutes."
She stared at him, wishing she could take back her impulsive blow, unable to believe what she'd just heard. "Exactly what are you saying?" she demanded.
Skeet sped through a yellow light. "How far is it to the airport from here?"
"Clear across town." Dallie leaned forward and clasped his hand over the back of the seat. "In case you weren't paying attention earlier, the motel's up another light and down a block."
Skeet stepped down on the accelerator and the Riviera shot forward, throwing Francesca back against the seat. She glared at Dallie, trying to shame him into apologizing so she could magnanimously forgive him. She waited the rest of the way to the motel.
They turned into the well-lit parking lot, and Skeet swung around to the side, stopping in front of a line of brightly painted metal doors stamped with black numbers. He shut off the ignition, and then he and Dallie climbed out. She watched incredulously as first one car door slammed and then the other.
"See you in the morning, Dallie."
"See you, Skeet."
She leaped out after them, her case clutched in her hand, trying unsuccessfully to hold her blouse closed. "Dallie!"
He pulled a room key from the pocket of his jeans and turned. Greige silk slithered through her fingers as she closed the car door. Couldn't he see how helpless she was? How much she needed him? "You have to help me," she said, staring at him with eyes so pitifully large they seemed to eat up her small face. "I put my life in jeopardy going to that bar just to find you."
He looked at her breasts and the ecru silk bra. Then he pulled his faded navy T-shirt over his head and tossed it to her. "Here's the shirt off my back, honey. Don't ask for anything more."
She watched incredulously as he walked into his motel room and shut the door-shut the door in her face! The panic that had been building inside her throughout the day burst free, flooding every part of
her body. She had never experienced such fear, she had no way of coping with it, and so she converted
it into something she understood-a burning flare of red-hot anger. No one treated her like this! No one! She'd make him deal with her! She'd make him pay!
She dashed to his door and banged her case against it, hitting it once, twice, wishing it were his horrid, ugly face. She kicked at it, cursed it, let her anger detonate, let it blaze bright and righteous in one never-to-be-forgotten display of the temper that had made her a legend.
The door swung open and he stood on the other side, his chest bare and his ugly face scowling at her. She'd show him a scowl! She'd show him that he'd never even imagined what a scowl looked like! "You bastard!" She shot past him and flung her case across the room, where it shattered the television screen in a satisfying explosion of glass. "You depraved, moronic bastard!" She kicked over a chair. "You callous son of a bitch!" She upended his suitcase.
And then she let herself go.
Screaming out insults and accusations, she tossed ashtrays and pillows, threw lamps, and pulled the drawers from the desk. Every slight she had suffered in the past twenty-four hours, every indignity, came to the surface-the pink dress, the Blue Choctaw, the peach eye shadow… She punished Chloe for dying, Nicky for deserting her, she assaulted Lew Steiner, attacked Lloyd Byron, mutilated Miranda Gwynwyck, and most of all, she annihilated Dallie Beaudine. Dallie, the most beautiful man she had ever met, the only man who wasn't impressed by her, the only man who'd ever slammed a door in her face.