"You've been sanitizing it," he repeated ominously. "'Been' implies that this wasn't a one-shot occurrence. 'Been' implies that we have a whole history of extended use."
"Not extended, actually. I mean, we've only known each other a few days."
He threw the toothbrush at her, hitting her in the arm. "Take it! Take the fucking thing! I've ignored the fact that you've gotten into my clothes, that you've screwed up my razor, that you haven't put the cap back on my deodorant! I've ignored the mess you make around this place, but I goddamn well am not going to ignore this."
She realized then that he was truly angry with her, and that, unwittingly, she had stepped over some invisible line. For a reason she couldn't comprehend, this business about the toothbrush was important enough that he'd decided to make an issue of it. She felt a wave of undiluted panic sweep through her. She had pushed him too far, and he was going to kick her out. In the next few seconds, he would lift his hand, point his finger toward that door, and tell her to get out of his life forever and ever.
She hurried across the room. "Dallie, I'm sorry. Really I am." He gave her a stony glare. She lifted her hands and pressed them lightly to his chest, her fingers splayed, the short, unpolished nails slightly yellowed from years of being hidden by carmine varnish. Tilting her head up, she gazed directly into his eyes. "Don't be angry with me." She shifted her weight closer so that her legs were pressing against his, and then she tucked her head into his chest and rested her cheek against his bare skin. No man could resist her. Not really. Not when she put her mind to it. She just hadn't put her mind to it, that was all. Hadn't Chloe raised her from birth to enchant men?
"What are you doing?" he asked.
She didn't reply; she just leaned against him, soft and compliant as a sleepy kitten. He smelled clean, like soap, and she inhaled the scent. He wasn't going to kick her out. She wouldn't let him. If he kicked her out, she wouldn't have anything or anyone left. She would vanish. Right now Dallie Beaudine was all she had left in the world, and she would do anything to keep him. Her hands crept up over his chest. She stood on tiptoe and circled his neck with her arms, then slid her lips along the line of his jaw and pressed her breasts into his chest. She could feel him growing hard beneath the towel, and she felt a renewed sense of her own power.
"Exactly what do you have in mind with all this?" he asked quietly. "A little tag team wrestling under the sheets?"
"It's inevitable, isn't it?" She forced herself to sound offhand. "Not that you haven't been a perfect gentleman about it, but we are sharing the same room."
"I've got to tell you, Francie, that I don't think it's a good idea."
"Why not?" She let her eyelashes perform as best they could wearing only dime-store mascara, and moved her hips clqser to his body, the perfect coquette, a woman created only for the pleasure of men.
"It's pretty obvious, isn't it?" His hand slid up to encircle her waist and his fingers gently kneaded her skin. "We don't like each other. Do you want to have sex with a man who doesn't like you, Francie? Who won't respect you in the morning? Because that's the way it's going to end up if you keep on moving against me like that."
"I don't believe you anymore." Her old confidence returned in a pleasant rush. "I think you like me more than you want to admit. I think that's why you've been doing such a good job of avoiding me this past week, why you won't look at me."
"This doesn't have anything to do with liking," Dallie said, his other hand caressing her hip, his voice growing low and husky. "It has to do with physical proximity."
His head dipped, and she could feel him getting ready to kiss her. She slipped out of his arms and smiled seductively. "Just give me a few minutes." Stepping away from him, she headed toward the bathroom.
As soon as she was inside, she leaned back against the door and took a deep, shaky breath, trying to suppress her nervousness at what she was committing herself to do. This was it. This was her chance to cement Dallie to her, to make certain he didn't kick her out, to be sure he kept feeding her and taking care of her. But it was more than that. Having Dallie make love to her would let her feel like herself again, even if she was no longer quite sure who that was.
She wished she had one of her Natori nightgowns with her. And champagne, and a beautiful bedroom with a balcony that looked out over the sea. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and moved closer. She looked terrible. Her hair was too wild, her face too pale. She needed clothes, she needed makeup. Dabbing toothpaste on her finger, she swished it inside her mouth to freshen her breath. How could she let Dallie see her in those dreadful dime-store underpants? With trembling fingers, she tugged at the fastening of her jeans and stripped them down over her legs. She let out a soft moan as she saw the red marks on her skin near her navel where the waistband had pinched her too tightly. She didn't want Dallie to see her with creases. Rubbing at the marks with her fingers, she tried to make them go away, but that only made her skin redder. She would turn out the lights, she decided.
Quickly, she peeled off her T-shirt and bra and wrapped herself in a towel. Her breath came quick and fast. As she pulled off her cheap nylon underpants, she saw a small patch of downy hair near her bikini line that she'd missed when she'd shaved her legs. Propping her leg up on the toilet seat, she slid the blade of Dallie's razor over the offensive spot. There, that was better. She tried to think what else she could do to improve herself. She repaired her lipstick and then blotted it with a square of toilet paper so it wouldn't smear when they kissed. She bolstered her confidence by reminding herself what a superb kisser she was.
Something inside her deflated like an old balloon, leaving her feeling limp and shapeless. What if he didn't like her? What if she wasn't any good, just like she hadn't been any good with Evan Varian or the sculptor in Marrakech? What if- Her green eyes looked back at her from the mirror as a dreadful thought occurred to her. What if she smelled bad? She grabbed her atomizer of Femme from the back of the toilet, opened her legs, and spritzed.
"Just what in the goddamn hell do you think you're doing?"
Spinning around, she saw Dallie standing inside the door, one hand on his towel-covered hip. How long had he been standing there? What had he seen? She straightened guiltily. "Nothing. I-I'm not doing anything."
He looked at the bottle of Femme hanging like a weight in her hand. "Isn't there anything about you
that's real?"
"I-I don't know what you mean."
He took a step farther into the bathroom. "Are you test-marketing new uses for perfume, Francie? Is that what you're doing?" Resting the palm of one hand against the wall, he leaned toward it. "You got your designer blue jeans, your designer shoes, your designer luggage. Now Miss Fancy Pants has got her
some designer pussy."
"Dallie!"
"You're the ultimate consumer, honey-the advertising man's dream. Are you going to put little gold designer initials on it?"
"That's not funny." She slammed the bottle down on the back of the toilet and clutched the towel tightly in her hand. Her skin felt hot with embarrassment.
He shook his head with a world-weariness that she found insulting. "Come on, Francie, get your clothes on. I said I wouldn't do it, but I can't help myself. I'm taking you with me tonight."
"What accounts for this magnanimous change of heart?" she snapped.
He turned and walked out into the bedroom, so that his words drifted back over his shoulder. "The truth of it is, darlin', I'm afraid if I don't let you see a slice of the real world pretty soon, you're going to do yourself some actual harm."
Chapter 12
The Cajun Bar and Grill was a decided improvement over the Blue Choctaw, although it still wasn't the sort of place Francesca would have chosen as the site for a coming-out ball. Located about ten miles south of Lake Charles, it rested beside a two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere. It had a screen door that banged every time someone came through and a squeaky paddle-wheel fan with one bent blade. Behind the table where they were sitting, an iridescent blue swordfish had been nailed to the wall along with an assortment of calendars and an advertisement for Evangeline Maid bread. The placemats were exactly as Dallie had described them, although he had neglected to mention the scalloped edges and the legend printed in red beneath the map of Louisiana: "God's Country."