One
One of Tracy's favorite games was watching people in grocery check-out lines and trying to size them up. So, despite the fact that she was beginning the greatest adventure of her twenty-four years, she paused to wonder why the captivating stranger standing in front of her at Foodway was purchasing a bottle of wine and a tablet of writing paper, of all things. The situation called for clever repartee if she was to obtain an introduction to the man of her dreams. And clearly, he was the man of her dreams.
Unfortunately, Tracy had hardly expected to meet the man of her dreams in line at the checkout counter. She was dressed in her oldest terry romper. Her blond curls spilled haphazardly over a sweat band; there was a dirty smudge on her nose; and her shopping cart was laden down with a mop, broom, dustpan, and half a gallon of Mr. Clean. Hardly romantic or enticing, Tracy old girl, she scolded herself. Here it was at last, her appointment with destiny, and she looked as though she were ready to be picked up by the Salvation Army.
The stranger, on the other hand, was elegance personified. His posture was relaxed, but his lithe physique was precisely delineated by a three-piece brown pinstripe suit. He was perfection from the tips of his polished wing-tip shoes to the meticulously styled strands of his thick, shiny blond hair. Most riveting of all was his classic profile, with its deep-set eyes, patrician nose, and cleft chin. He could have walked right off a movie set, and she looked as if she were ready to paint scenery on one!
He turned slightly, and she blushed as she realized that he knew he was being stared at. His magnetic gaze went over her, beginning at her grimy Adidases, proceeding up her long tan legs, slowing down to scorch the curves of her hips, waist, and breasts, then continuing up her bare, blushing neck, and pausing only when it reached the smudge on the tip of her nose. Tracy attempted an ingratiating smile. Never in her adult life, she thought miserably, had she so regretted going without a bra. Prince Charming seemed to read her mind, for the corners of his sensual mouth puckered—just slightly—as he raised a thick eyebrow—almost imperceptibly—and then turned away. Well! What a snob, Tracy thought.
While she stood brooding about the man's apparent conceit, she noted with dismay that the checker in their line must be brand-new. The older woman was taking forever to check out the young mother standing in front of Mr. Right—who was rapidly becoming Mr. Wrong. The silver-haired clerk now cupped a hand over her mouth and called out fretfully, "Hey, Wanda! Can you tell me how to do a coupon?"
The man of Tracy's dreams scowled slightly and shifted his weight. Again Tracy's attention was drawn to the items he planned to purchase: a fifth of Lancers and a tablet of bond writing paper. Darn, it intrigued her. Why was he purchasing these things? Didn't he have someone else—a secretary, perhaps—to run errands for him? To drink the wine with him? To compose his letters? She couldn't imagine a handsome, dynamic man like him ever lacking for female companionship or assistance. He just didn't belong in a supermarket check-out line.
As the moments ticked away, Tracy formulated a theory as to why the man was making his unusual purchases. In the meantime, the feckless clerk jammed the cash register, bringing "Wanda" and the assistant manager rushing over to rescue her. Tracy chewed her bottom lip, realizing that any minute now the checker would finish with the young mother and Tracy's opportunity to strike up a conversation with the irresistibly gorgeous stranger would be lost forever. So he was a snob; so she was dressed like a runaway from a road crew. The fact remained that the man was extremely sexy and intriguing. It was time to test her theory.
Wanda and the assistant manager had succeeded in unjamming the cash register at last, and Tracy knew her moment was rapidly slipping away. Then, in a stroke of good luck, the stranger turned slightly to stare at Tracy once more. This time the condescension was gone from his expression; he looked puzzled as he studied her blue eyes and the blond curls piled on top of her head. Tracy found her heart hammering as his eyes moved downward to lock with hers. Unexpectedly, he winked at her, smiling broadly now, a most warm and disarming smile. Heavens, he was adorable!
She caught her breath sharply, knowing that her moment had come.
She nodded toward the wine and writing paper in his hands, and a voice—not her own voice— asked teasingly, "Say, are you going to break up with your girlfriend?"
The stranger frowned for a moment at the items in his hands, then looked up at Tracy curiously. "I beg your pardon, miss?"
His voice was deep, with just the slightest trace of an accent, which Tracy found intimidating. Nonetheless, she smiled engagingly and explained, "You know, write a 'Dear Jane' letter while you drown your sorrows?"
The man broke into a grin, studying Tracy with both admiration and amusement as he nodded. "You must have ESP, miss. As a matter of fact, I am planning to unload her. Tell me, are you available?"
Tracy's heart jumped into her throat, but she managed to keep her tone light as she said, "Do you mean available to drink the wine? Or to take dictation?"
"How about a little of both?"
Tracy stared at him. She didn't know quite what to say next. The handsome stranger was jumping at her bait, and it made her wonder what type of man would so readily try to pick up a young woman in threadbare terry cloth and worn Adidases.
"Sir, I can ring you up now," the checker said, sparing Tracy from the need to reply to his invitation.
The stranger turned to hand his bottle of wine to the clerk, and Tracy sighed. It was all over now, she was sure. She hadn't answered the man's question, and now he would doubtless forget all about their little flirtation.
Tracy's thoughts were violently shattered by an ear-splitting crash, and she jumped back as the bottle of Lancers exploded into a thousand pieces at the stranger's feet, splashing wine in all directions. The man leaped sideways, then leaned over, glowering, to remove several earthenware shards from his wine-spattered wing-tip shoes.
"Oh, sir, I'm so sorry!" the miserable checker apologized. "It's my first day and—I was just trying to find the price label when the darned bottle slipped. ..."
Tracy's heart went out to the woman as her customer straightened up with a frown on his handsome face. Tracy feared he was about to say something unkind to the clerk. If he did, she would know he was not Mr. Right after all. She refused to have anything to do with a man lacking in compassion. But the stranger surprised Tracy by forcing a smile and saying to the woman, "No real harm done, ma'am. After all, it could have landed on my foot—or yours, for that matter."
The assistant manager rushed up again. "Mr. Delano, I'm so sorry—" In mid-sentence he whirled upon the checker. "Helen, this is your last warning. There have been three incidents already today—"
"Ease up, will you, Anderson?" the stranger named Delano interjected. "It's the lady's first day, you know."
Tracy had to smile, her heart warming at Delano's kindness, even as the manager groaned, "I know. If I live through it."
"I've already told your employee that there's no problem," Delano told the assistant manager. "That is, if someone can find me another bottle of wine."
The flustered assistant manager stared blankly at his customer for a moment, and Tracy felt compelled to explain. "He's planning to break up with his girlfriend."
The unfortunate store manager looked more befuddled than ever, staring from Delano to the clerk to Tracy. At last he seemed to take charge of himself, saying, "Oh, of course, Mr. Delano. Certainly I'll find you another bottle." He stared almost frantically at the mess. "Lancers, isn't it?"
Not waiting for a reply, the young man tore off toward the wine section of the store. Delano chuckled while the checker told him gratefully, "Sir, thank you so much."
"My pleasure. I realize it's no picnic being a new employee."
"Would you mind if I check out this young lady while we wait for your wine, sir?" the checker asked. "I haven't entered your transaction in the cash register yet." Frowning, she said, "Isn't that what they call it? Entering a transaction?"
"That sounds about right." Delano said gravely. "By all means check out the young lady."
Oh, how gentlemanly, Tracy thought, barely suppressing a sigh as she moved forward, walking on air and ground glass.
But as the man stepped back to let her pass, she found him eyeing her with amusement. He winked at the checker and quipped, "She does look like a rather desperate case, doesn't she?"
That did it! Tracy turned to glower at him while the clerk stifled a giggle and went to work ringing up the cleaning supplies. Before Tracy knew what she was saying, she retorted, "You know, you're right, mister. I am a desperate case. As a matter of fact, I just got out of prison."
He laughed heartily at her remark while she mentally kicked herself. What a stupid thing to say!
Delano folded his arms across his chest. "Oh?" he inquired. "Tell me, did you escape or were you paroled?"
"I was paroled," she replied tersely.
"From where?"
"From Huntsville." It was true in a sense, she supposed.
"You're kidding," he said, laughing. "In that terry romper?"
"Well, there have been budget cutbacks—"
"I'd say they're cutting the cloth pretty close these days." His eyes fixed on her romper. "I'm surprised you didn't cause a riot among the male inmates. By the way, how did you manage to acquire that suntan?"
"Actually, they had me cutting cane at Sugarland prior to my release." Oh, Tracy, she thought with an inner shudder. What a tangled web . . .
"I see," the man said, his eyes full of humor as he watched the clerk take the mop out of Tracy's shopping cart. "And are you now going to start a maid service?"
Tracy was feeling both foolish and outmatched, but she continued the verbal sparring match. "Oh, yeah. It's tough for us jailbirds to find work."
"Well," he replied, gesturing at the wine-stained floor, "it looks like they need someone to clean up this mess."
Tracy scowled. Again the man had pinned her to the wall, but once again she was rescued when a young boy arrived with mop and bucket and went to work on the disaster.
The clean-up operation forced Tracy to move even closer to the stranger, so close that she caught the musky scent of his cologne. She looked at him, attempting a frosty stare, but she found that all she could think of was how deeply brown and mesmerizing his eyes were, how dark and thick his eyelashes. With a fierce effort she took control of herself. Looking him square in the eye, she said, "It looks like they have someone ... to, um, clean up the mess."
"So they do. You never know, though. I might be interested."
"In what?"
"In your services."
"Oh?" she said, her voice sounding innocent. "What services are you speaking of? Drinking your wine? Taking dictation? Scrubbing your floors?"
"All of that sounds splendid. How should I get in touch with you?"
"Oh, just look under Rent-A-Housewife' in the Yellow Pages."
"I might do that. What if I want an exclusive lease?"
"That will cost you," Tracy replied.
"Nineteen ninety-five," the checker called out proudly, and both Tracy and the stranger broke into laughter.
Tracy paid for her purchases and moved forward to take her bag. feeling rather let down that her flirtation with the intriguing Mr. Delano had ended. But before she could move away, he caught her bare arm gently and said, "Miss, will you wait for a moment until the manager brings my wine? Please?"
The touch of his strong fingers on her arm was electric, and his eyes looked so warm and sincere, she knew she was a goner. She also knew that at least token resistance was in order. She was definitely not a pushover. "Well—" she hedged. "Gee, I'm not sure."
"But you must," he insisted with a disarming smile. "After all, you owe me a letter, and I owe you half a bottle of wine."
"You're kidding." She laughed. "You mean you're actually breaking up with your girlfriend?"
"Right. And you've just escaped from prison."
"I was paroled," she reminded him.
They both laughed as the assistant manager arrived with the wine. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Delano, but I had to get another bottle from the storeroom."
"No problem," he answered, reaching for his wallet.
"Oh, no, Mr. Delano," the manager insisted. "Your purchases are courtesy of Foodway, and we'll pay for all damages to your clothing as well."
"Nonsense, Anderson," Delano replied, drawing a bill from his wallet. "Of course I'm paying for my purchases. I'm a businessman, too, as you know. And let me assure you once again that what happened just now is not a problem at all. That is"—he smiled at the silver-haired clerk—"as long as my favorite checker is here the next time I come into the store."
"Oh—oh, certainly, Mr. Delano," the assistant manager said.
The checker beamed and Tracy turned away, stunned to find her eyes stinging with tears. She had been looking for something today—a fling, a maiden flight into the enticing skies of romance. Yet she had hardly expected to find this totally endearing stranger.
Tracy eyed the handsome blond stranger warily as he laughed with the clerk. Careful, Tracy, she warned herself. This could get serious, very serious. The last thing she had expected to do today— the last thing she could afford to do—was to fall in love.
Two
Outside, the afternoon was typical of June in Houston, steamy and bright. "Are you sure I can't carry that bag for you?" Delano asked as they emerged from Foodway.
"No, I can manage fine," Tracy replied rather stiffly. "I really must be getting home." All at once she was feeling almost scared. What had happened in the store was too intense, too quick. He couldn't possibly be feeling what she was feeling. She must be just a pick-up to him. In fact, she shuddered to think of what he must think of her.
He scowled at the parking lot. "Where's your car?"
The question embarrassed Tracy. "I—I don't have one," she stammered. "At the moment," she added hastily. "My Lincoln is being waxed and my Mercedes had a scratch on the chrome, so of course I told them to replace the entire bumper—"
"Let me give you a lift," he offered, grinning.
"Oh, no, no. The limo I hired should be by any moment—"
"I'll drive you," he insisted.
"I'll walk," she said tersely. "It's only a few blocks."
"I don't think those tennis shoes will make it."
Despite herself, Tracy laughed. "Too much cane-cutting, " she agreed ruefully, wiggling her big toe through the frayed hole in her right shoe.
An awkward silence followed. At last Tracy felt compelled to look up at the man, and for a moment they merely stared at each other. A helpless feeling washed over her once more as his beautiful brown eyes smiled at her, coaxing her to trust him, to accept his offer. Oh, Lord, this was serious. This man could make emotional mincemeat of her!
"Hey, Mr. Delano, should I put the young lady's bag in your trunk?"
The sound of the voice jarred Tracy, and she turned to watch a skinny, freckle-faced teenage boy approach them. Then, before she knew what was happening, the stranger had taken the bag from her arms and handed it to the boy, saying, "Sure, Steve."
"Wait a minute!" Tracy said, watching the boy take both packages as well as the stranger's keys and start off toward a shiny gunmetal-gray BMW.
"You never should have offered to take dictation," the handsome man teased. "I'm giving you a lift home. No more arguing."
"No, I can't, honestly," Tracy replied. Nervously, she brushed a strand of blond hair from her eyes. "Look, I don't even know you."
The man immediately placed a warm hand in hers. "Anthony Delano, miss. And you're—?"
"Tracy O'Brien," she replied grudgingly.
"Now we know each other." His handshake was friendly and firm, his smile infectious.
"That's not what I mean and you know it," she scolded him, fighting a traitorous smile as she extricated her hand from his.
The teenager returned with the keys. Tracy's eyes grew huge as she watched Delano hand the boy a five-dollar bill. "Hey, Steve," he said, "would you please tell this young lady that I'm not some kind of deadbeat or pervert?"
The boy grinned from ear to ear. "Oh, no, ma'am, Mr. Delano is one of the most respected members of our community," he said eagerly, pocketing his tip.
Watching the boy turn and reenter the store, Tracy argued, "He's just saying that because you gave him a big tip."
"My, what a suspicious nature you have. The fact remains that if you want the supplies to start your maid service. Miss O'Brien, you'd best let me give you a lift home. All your goodies are now locked in the trunk of my car."
"You mean you'd abscond with my Mr. Clean?"
"I'd prefer absconding with you."
Tracy's heart lurched into overdrive at his titillating words, but she managed to control herself. "That last statement does not exactly inspire my trust, Mr. Delano."
He flashed her an ingratiating smile. "Oh, I'm trustworthy. Just ask my mother."
"Do you give her big tips too?"
"No, with her I can get by with a hug and a kiss."
"I'll just bet you can."
The words were out before Tracy could stop them, nor could she prevent the blush that heated her face to the roots of her hair. Delano laughed delightedly. "Well, Tracy?" he coaxed, his brown eyes sparkling.
"Oh, okay. What the heck." She couldn't resist adding, "They don't call me Racy Tracy for nothing."
He looked fascinated. " 'Racy Tracy'? Do they really call you that?"
"Of course."
He took her arm. "This promises to be a most interesting afternoon."
She shook her head firmly as they walked to his car. "Don't delude yourself. We'll reach my apartment in two minutes flat."
"I know. I can hardly wait."
Once they were seated inside the BMW and heading west on Memorial Drive, Tracy knew another moment of unease. The interior of the car was quite posh, sporting richly grained leather seats, an extravagant instrument panel, and a sun roof. She truly hated to rest her filthy tennis shoes upon the plush silver carpeting. It could not have been more obvious to her that she didn't belong in this setting.
Anthony Delano, by contrast, belonged entirely. She studied his hands as they maneuvered the steering wheel. They were beautifully shaped hands, impeccably manicured hands whose tanned masculinity was not diminished by a diamond dinner ring and a thin gold watch. The watch told her—as if his clothing and car hadn't already—that he was rich, very rich. The ring, even though it was on his right hand, made her wonder whether he might be married. She realized she knew virtually nothing about this stranger in whose power she had placed herself, that she had no recommendation of his good character other than that of a bribed grocery boy. He could be some sort of well-heeled reprobate. Hadn't he said, "I'd prefer absconding with you?"
Now that was a delectable thought!
Tracy mentally kicked herself for her runaway thoughts and studied the stranger through narrowed blue eyes. "Tell me, what kind of name is Delano?" she asked, attempting a conversational tone.
He smiled as he braked the car to a stop at a light. "Italian. I'm a second-generation American. My father emigrated as a young man, back in the mid-forties."
"So you're Italian," Tracy murmured. "A blond Italian."
"My mother was of Scandinavian descent," Delano explained. "Dad met and married Mother shortly after he settled in Texas."
Tracy was silent, digesting the information, until Delano asked suspiciously, "Say, what kind of name is O'Brien?"
Tracy laughed so hard, she almost forgot to tell him to turn left at the next intersection. She caught herself in the nick of time, pointing out her apartment complex. As they turned into the parking lot, she found herself unwittingly thinking of how she admired a man with a sense of humor. Oh, dear. Her thoughts were getting her in trouble again!
At Tracy's direction, Delano parked his car at the rear of the complex, near her apartment. He helped her out of the car, then insisted on carrying her grocery bag upstairs for her. Silencing her protests, he grabbed her package from the trunk, then wedged his own bag under one arm. "What's your apartment number?"
"Two hundred seven. But I really do have a lot to do, Mr. Delano, so if you don't mind—"
"I do mind." Grinning amiably, he started up the stairs with the packages.
Tracy sighed and hurried after him, catching up with him at the top of the steps. "Look, Mr. Delano, you've been extremely kind, but now I have to—"
"Take down my letter, just as you promised," he finished smoothly, giving her an engaging smile. He leaned over, carefully placing her bundle on the concrete at his feet. Straightening, he held out a tanned hand and said evenly, "Your key, Miss O'Brien."
"Oh, very well." Tracy attempted an exasperated tone even though she was secretly pleased by his persistence.
Delano opened the door and held it ajar, motioning for her to enter. After a moment's hesitation she edged forward, but as she stepped in front of him to enter the apartment, one of his arms encircled her waist, holding her provocatively close to his muscular frame. The unexpected physical contact came as a shock. She found herself catching her breath sharply and looking at him almost fearfully. He chuckled, smiling down at her and whispering with tender amusement, "Relax, Tracy. I'm a nice guy. Really."
His attempt at reassurance unnerved her mightily. The truth was, she wasn't looking for a nice guy, especially not a guy with such compelling, sincere brown eyes. No, she wasn't looking for him at all. Awkwardly, she broke away and moved into the front room of her small apartment. "Sure, you're a nice guy," she tried to joke. "Just ask your mother, right?"
"Right."
He followed her into the room and shut the door. Nervously, she watched him walk over to the pass-through that led to the tiny kitchen. He placed his small bag and her keys on the shelf, leaning her large package against the wall nearby. Straightening, he glanced at the boxes strewn about the room. "Moving day, eh?"
When she didn't answer, he walked over to the undraped balcony doors and stood staring at the man-made ponds and swimming pools below. Tracy cautiously moved across the room, placing her purse on the pass-through as she studied him. Sunshine caught his blond hair and outlined his chiseled profile as he scrutinized the view. Heavens, he was the most gorgeous view she had ever seen in her life! What was she doing with him?
He turned to her, smiling. "Quite a nice vantage point. From here you should be able to watch all the jocks take their daily dips in the pool."
Tracy smiled. "I won't miss a move."
Frowning slightly at her words, he again glanced about the large room, spotting her only substantial piece of furniture. "That's quite a handsome love seat you have there."
"Thank you," Tracy replied politely. "My aunt Fayetta gave it to me."
"I see. It looks new."
"She's had it in her sewing room for twenty years. She doesn't sew," Tracy added by way of explanation.
He nodded toward a blob of black fur in one corner of the camel-colored love seat. "And what's that? A sable throw pillow?"
Tracy was incensed. "No, of course not. That's my cat, Captain Action."
Delano chuckled. "Captain Action? He looks about as active as an inkblot. Tell me, is he alive?"
"What do you mean, is he alive?" Tracy demanded. "Of course he's alive. Do you think I'd have a—a dead cat on Aunt Fayetta's love seat?"
As if to reinforce Tracy's words, a black head emerged from the ball of fur. Captain Action yawned, half-opening one emerald-green eye to stare at the newcomer. Slowly lowering the ebony lid, the cat resumed his nap.
Delano shook his head. "You won't have to worry about his keeping the neighbors up nights."
"Well, let's hope not," Tracy said defensively. "Actually, the lease stipulates 'no pets.' '
"You're kidding. A jailbird janitress and her contraband cat? That's quite a combination. Tell me, what about children?"
"What do you mean, what about children?"
"Does your lease allow children?"
"Well, of course not. What makes you think I'm planning any?"
"Is Captain Action planning any?"
"Are you talking about children or kittens?"
"Whew!" he whistled. "This conversation is getting kinky."
"You started it," she pointed out nastily. She watched him grin as he turned and approached the kitchen. "Hey, what are you doing?"
He paused at the pass-through, taking the wine and the writing paper out of his bag. Placing the tablet on the bar, he entered the kitchen with the wine and strode toward the refrigerator. "I'm putting the wine on ice so that it will chill while you take dictation."
"You're putting me on!" Tracy laughed, moving over to sit down on one of the rattan bar stools that was also a gift from Aunt Fayetta. She peered at her guest through the pass-through. "Don't tell me you're serious about this letter-writing business."
"Why do you think I bought the paper?" he countered, taking an ice bin and trays from the freezer section of the refrigerator. Placing them on the countertop, he took the offensive by adding, "Now, Tracy O'Brien,  tell me what brings you to Houston."
"Hey, not so fast. I know nothing about you, Delano. All you've done so far is to tell me that your father came here from Italy."
"I'll take you to meet him someday," he replied, shocking her. He centered the bottle of Lancers in the bin and placed ice cubes around it. "Keeping that in mind, I think I'd better let Estelle know where she stands, don't you?"
Now Tracy was flabbergasted. "Estelle?"
Having completed his task, Delano left the kitchen. "Yes, Estelle," he said, joining her at the pass-through. "The lady I'm—we're writing the letter to. So now you know two things about me, Tracy O'Brien. You know about my father, and you know that I'm planning to send a letter—a rather personal letter—to a lady named Estelle. Considering that I'm about to bare my soul to you, don't you think it's your turn? So answer my question. Tell me what you're doing in Houston."
As Delano spoke he placed a warm hand on Tracy's bare knee, and it took great willpower on her part not to jerk away from that arousing heat. She knew that to do so would only show immaturity. Besides, she was lost again in the dreamy depths of his eyes.
"Well, Tracy?" he prodded. His eyes continued to fascinate her as his hand moved upward slightly; she had an insane urge to slide off the bar stool and let those titillating fingers come to rest where they might.
She didn't. "I—um—I'm here on a job," she managed to stammer. "I'm going to be resident director of a fund-raising campaign for the Houston Repertory Company, a civic ballet headquartered in west Houston."
His eyes glimmered with respect. "Ah, yes, I know of them. But I seriously doubt they'd hire a jailbird, Tracy. As a matter of fact, you look more like jailbait to me."
"I'm twenty-four years old!" she retorted hotly. She added less vehemently, "But you're right. When I spoke of prison—I was speaking only metaphorically. " She cleared her throat and fidgeted on the bar stool. She was feeling extremely uncomfortable under his interrogation, and the warmth of his hand on her leg wasn't helping any.
He evidently sensed her uneasiness, for he backed off, leaning against the bar as he eyed her quizzically. "You intrigue me, Tracy O'Brien. Tell me, how did you acquire the position with the Houston Repertory Company?"
"It's not what you'd call completely acquired," she admitted, shocking herself with her honesty. "Houston Rep wants to organize a fund-raiser through the Dallas public relations firm of Hastings and Stern. Mr. Hastings did most of the initial proposal, then appointed me resident director of the project. I've been tentatively accepted by the Houston Rep, contingent upon my interview with the ballet association Monday morning."
"You'll knock them dead," Delano assured her, adding, "provided you don't wear those tennis shoes."
"You certainly have something against these tennis shoes," she said with a laugh, extending a grimy foot. "Why, I'm just getting them broken in." She paused for a moment and when she went on her blue eyes were filled with determination. "No, Monday morning at ten a.m. I'll be playing the game by all the rules."
"Do you play games, Tracy?" He was looking more captivated by the moment.
"Sure," she answered. "Life's a game, isn't it? It's simply a matter of learning the rules, planning strategies."
"I see. And what strategies are you planning for Monday? What role will you be playing then, Tracy?"
"Oh, Miss Artistic Sophisticate," she replied in a flippant tone. "I m sure the battle-axes of the ballet association will be stuffy and pretentious, but I'll give them the appropriate snow job. Lord knows, I had enough practice dealing with provincial snobs while I was growing up."
"Battle-axes?" Delano chuckled. "Provincial snobs? Do you really view the ballet association that way? Tell me about this snow job you're planning. And what practice have you had?"
Tracy sighed. "I come from a small East Texas town, out near Huntsville. My father was the mayor for many years—a more or less honorary position that took him away from his business and family entirely too much. Nonetheless, my mother became obsessed with projecting the proper social image. So I spent years living in a goldfish bowl, acting like Miss Charm, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes—"
"Are you a goody-two-shoes, Tracy?"
"That's privileged information," she retorted, her tone more snappish than she would have liked. "Besides," she soothed with a smile, "why do you think they call me Racy Tracy?"
"Why, indeed? That's definitely a subject that warrants investigation. However, I seriously doubt it will be Racy Tracy meeting with the ballet association Monday morning."
"Right," she agreed, now thoroughly enjoying herself. "Monday, I'll call upon just the right mix of polish, charm, ingenuity, and—"
"Humility?" he finished gravely.
She laughed. "Of course."
"You'll be awe-inspiring, I'm sure. So Monday's the big day. Tell me, then, how long will you be gracing our fair city?"
Oddly, the question hit her like a punch in the stomach. Maybe not past Monday, she thought. Outwardly, though, she recovered, saying crisply, "Hey, that's enough personal stuff from me. If you insist upon going through with this letter charade, let's get it over with. I've a lot of unpacking to do."
"Are you sure it's a charade?" he teased. He took a felt-tipped marker from a jar of pens and pencils just beyond her and placed it in her hand. "Ready to take dictation?"
Dumbfounded, she watched him cross the room and sit down on the love seat next to Captain Action. She shook her head and picked up the writing tablet. "This is ridiculous, you know. She—Estelle—will immediately recognize another woman's handwriting."
"All the better," Delano assured her. "The lady— Estelle—has been rather slow in grasping the message, so we really want to drive the point home, don't we?"
Tracy flipped open the tablet with a shrug. "Whatever you say."
He laughed deeply. "Whatever?" He casually crossed his legs as he petted her cat. "What I say, Miss O'Brien, is that this is a damn comfortable love seat. Down-filled. They don't make them like this anymore, you know, not for less than a king's ransom. No wonder Captain Action likes it so much." He looked straight up at her as he stroked the cat. "I'd say this is a love seat that really was made for love."
Again Tracy found herself blushing from head to toe. His dark eyes roved her body without remorse, pausing at a most strategic location. Damn, if she made it out of this situation alive, she was going to buy stock in Maidenform! Her fingers trembled as she held the writing supplies, and her heart went into a spin when she heard him whisper seductively, "I have a problem, Tracy."
"I don't think I want to hear about it," she choked out.
"I'm trying to decide," he continued, ignoring her, "whether I want you over here with me. The problem is, if you're over here with me, I won't be able to admire those lovely long legs of yours."
Tracy tried to clear her throat, but it sounded more as if she were strangling.
"Also," he went on in a devastatingly sexy tone, "if you're over here with me, we'll never get that letter written."
Tracy glanced up, her face burning, and he grinned at her lazily, meaningfully. In the electric silence that followed, Tracy watched in amazement while Captain Action got up, stretched, and nestled himself in Delano's lap, purring loudly and shamelessly. She was dealing with a dangerous man indeed! "I—I think my cat likes you," she said at last.
"I like him," Delano replied, stroking the fluffy black cat. "I'd like to take him home with me. I suppose that means I'd have to take you along too."
"I—he's shedding on your suit," she pointed out.
"I don't mind. My housekeeper may be less than pleased, however."
"What about your wife?" she ventured.
"Tracy," he scolded, "surely you don't think I'd have a girlfriend, plus a wife, plus a penchant for picking up scantily clad prison escapees—"
"Parolees."
"Whatever. No, I don't have a wife—but I may lease one."
Tracy flipped through the tablet nervously. "What is it you want to tell this Estelle?"
He laughed and stroked his firm chin thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose we could start with 'Dear Estelle
Tracy began to scribble. "How original." She glanced up at him suspiciously. "Say, what's this Estelle like, anyway?"
"Oh, stuffy, pretentious."
She giggled.
"I prefer a woman in threadbare terry cloth and Great Depression tennis shoes."
"Hey, quit it about my tennis shoes, will you? I'm beginning to think you actually dislike them. Okay, what do you want to say after 'Dear Estelle'?"
"Let me think. . . ."He clasped his hands behind his neck and scowled pensively. Captain Action meowed his protest at the lack of attention, whereupon Delano resumed stroking the animal's dark silky head. "Let's see . . . 'Dear Estelle . . .' Oh, you've got that, right?"
"Right," she snapped.
" 'Dear Estelle . . . Thank you for the birthday present. It was thoughtful of you to remember my old football injury and send me a shower massage. . . .' "
"She sent you a shower massage?" Tracy asked incredulously. "How old are you? Did you play football?"
"In answer to your questions, yes, thirty, and yes. Now may we continue, Tracy?"
"Oh, yeah, sure," Tracy replied, embarrassed by her burst of nosiness.
" 'Of course,' " Delano dictated, " 'I prefer the human touch, but things don't always work out that way for this old bachelor.' "
Tracy looked up angrily from her scribblings. "Is that what you call 'really driving the point home'?"
"Do you want to get this over with or do you want to play Twenty Questions?" he asked irritably.
"Oh, sorry. Please continue."
"End of paragraph," he informed her. " 'I'm truly sorry, Estelle, but I can't come to spend the weekend with you.' "
"She invited you to spend the weekend with her?" Tracy's eyes were huge, all her fine resolve forgotten.
Delano ignored Tracy's question, frowning menacingly as he went on. " 'The distance between us is simply too great. Perhaps in the future . . . well, I'll give it some thought.' "
"That's really driving the point home," Tracy assured him cheerfully, jotting down his thoughts.
"End of paragraph," he said tersely, enunciating each word. " 'My lawyer called and the trust fund for little Teddy's education is all set up—' "
"Who's little Teddy?"     
By now Delano was coolly disregarding Tracy's asides. " 'I sure miss the little guy.' "
"Who's little Teddy?"
"End of paragraph. 'Please remember, Estelle, that you're better off there with Wally—' "
"Who's Wally?"
" 'And try to make the best of things. I think of you often, but I know this is the way it has to be.' " Delano looked up at Tracy, smiling broadly now. "I guess that just about says it all. How should we end it?"
"I suppose 'Always' just wouldn't do," she said sweetly.
"No, not at all. How about 'Warmest regards'?"
"How about 'Regards'?"
"Excellent."
Scribbling the closing, Tracy glanced at Delano. "You know, this whole business is absurd. Are you going to sign your own name, or shall I sign it for you?"
Delano stood, chuckling. "Why, Miss O'Brien, something tells me you actually doubt I was planning to write to Estelle this afternoon." Arriving at her side, he took the pad and pen from her hands. "I'll sign my own name, of course. I owe her that much."
"How noble of you."
His eyes sparkled with amusement as he glanced up at her. "You still don't believe I'm planning to mail the letter, do you?"
She shook her head.
"Tell me, Miss O'Brien, do you have stamps?"
"Why, yes, I usually carry a few in my purse."
"May I trouble you for one? I'll pay you for it, of course."
Tracy took her bag from the pass-through and began fishing through it. "I wouldn't dream of accepting your money, Mr. Delano." She ceremoniously handed him a stamp. "On the house. It's scant compensation for the ride home."
He accepted the stamp, his eyes full of humor. "Such a vocabulary, darling. Jill College, I see." He glanced around the room. "Any envelopes?"
She shook her head. "You're out of luck there." She pointed across the room. "They're in one of those boxes, though heaven knows which."
"No problem." He reached for her stapler, which stood on the pass-through.
"Good grief! You're going to staple Estelle's letter? How gauche!"
He shrugged. "The time for chivalry is past. As I told you, the lady has been persistent."
"I can't say I blame her," Tracy said dryly. He stared at her with a seductive gleam in his eye, obviously misinterpreting her statement, so she asked pointedly, "Who's little Teddy?"
He smiled, but his expression was also reflective, guarded. "Be careful what you say, Tracy. You may end up regretting your words."
His remark was punctuated by staccato clicks from the stapler. He then began addressing the letter, and Tracy watched him shamelessly. "Estelle Reynolds, Denver, Colorado," she murmured. "No wonder you said there's so much distance between the two of you. I'd think it would be very difficult to carry on a romance between Houston and Denver."
"This is the jet age," Delano replied ruefully. "At least Estelle seems well-aware of that fact." He finished addressing the letter, attached the stamp, and placed it on the pass-through. "There. If there's a mail drop downstairs, we'll deposit it later, when I leave."
"Later?" Tracy croaked.
"Yes. Later. After we drink the wine, which is phase two of our two-part agreement, or have you forgotten?"
"I—um—look, Mr. Delano, I was glad to help you out, but—well, I do have a lot to do and I doubt the wine is cold yet, so—"
Very abruptly, she found herself pulled off the bar stool and into his arms. "Darling, whatever shall we do in the meantime?"
Three
Tracy was so startled, she was rendered speechless. Delano's masculine form enveloped her, and once again all she could think of was how gorgeous and vibrantly brown his eyes looked, and how utterly bare her breasts felt beneath the skimpy terry cloth. Her nipples tautened at the stimulation of his hard warm chest, and she was sure he could feel the peaks even through the several layers of clothing separating them.
Meanwhile, his hands slid behind her waist, forbidding escape even as his fingers spread provocatively lower. Oh, good grief. Surely he wouldn't—
He would! "Well, Miss O'Brien?" he challenged, melding her softness against his hard frame.
"I'll get two glasses." The words came on little puffs of air, as if she had just run a long-distance race.
"Wonderful," he murmured, but he made no move to release her. Instead, when she squirmed, he took the opportunity to fit her more intimately against him. What was he going to do? Audaciously kiss her or perversely watch her writhe? Why, she wondered, had she trusted this stranger, placed herself—literally—in his hands? What did she really know about this man?
At the moment, a bit too much! She opted for diversionary tactics. "Did—did my penmanship pass?" she asked bravely, hoping to distract him.
He looked amused, but not fooled. "No. Your scratching is indecipherable, your spelling worse—"
"My spelling is fine."
"And Estelle will doubtless think I've suffered a nervous breakdown while pining away for her." He backed away slightly, his dark eyes hungrily roving her figure from toe to crown. "However, the rest of you passes, and a bargain is a bargain, is it not?"
"Right!" Tracy concurred cheerfully, even if her voice did quiver. She ducked out of his arms and went into the kitchen. "I'll get the glasses," she repeated, ignoring his delighted laughter.
Tracy found two plain glasses, then rummaged through a box of gadgets on the kitchen counter until she found a can opener with a corkscrew attached. Delano opened the wine, and they went into the living room with the bottle and glasses. With some gentle prodding from Tracy, Captain Action slowly settled himself into one corner of the love seat, and Tracy and Delano sat down. "This is cozy," he said, filling her glass with wine.
Holding her glass with trembling fingers, Tracy studied Delano and frowned. "You know, you have wine stains all over your trouser cuffs. I wonder if I should do something—"
"You've known me for thirty minutes, and already you're trying to get my pants off," he teased with a wink.
"I am not! I just meant that perhaps I should offer you a—a wet cloth or something."
"To cool my ardor? Actually, I'm sure my dry cleaner is equal to the task of dealing with my trousers, even if you aren't at the moment. Tell me, are you equal to the task of drinking my wine?"
She blinked. She wasn't even sure she was equal to the task of being in the same room with him. The love seat was tiny, and she couldn't have been more conscious of the warmth of his body next to hers, or the wonderful half-woodsy, half-spicy scent of his cologne. As she stared at him she could even see tiny whiskers on his firm cleft chin, and she wondered what it would be like to tangle her fingers in his thick blond hair even as those very whiskers brushed her body in places she had never been brushed before. She took a sip of wine, hoping to steady herself; instead, the rose almost choked her.
"Tracy, are you all right?" he asked, concerned.
"Yes," she said hoarsely. "I—I guess I'm not much good at this."
He wrapped an arm around her and chuckled. "Well, you know what they say. Practice makes perfect."
"I'm talking about the wine!"
"Wasn't I?" he countered innocently. She glowered at him and he teased, "Let's hope you're better at wine-drinking than you are at cursive writing. Tell me about you and the wine, Tracy."
"I'm just—I'm not much good at it," she explained awkwardly. "Have you heard that old expression 'The first step's a lulu'?"
He stroked her bare shoulder with skilled fingers. "All the better to seduce you, my dear."
"Now, wait a minute—"
"Drink your wine, Tracy. And tell me more about yourself. Is your father still mayor of your hometown?"
She shook her head. "My father is dead," she said dully. "He died four years ago of a heart attack. But Mom still lives out in East Texas."
"I'm sorry, Tracy," he said sincerely, his fingertips stroking her neck, raising gooseflesh up and down her spine.
All at once Tracy felt extremely uncomfortable. "Look, Mr. Delano—"
"Anthony."
"Very well, Anthony. You're really not playing fair. You've managed somehow to grill me on my life's story, and we're sitting here in this rather—"
"Intimate?"
"Position. Yet I know virtually nothing about you."
"I'm a businessman," he offered generously.
"That's it? You're a businessman? Gee, that tells me everything."
"And I wish to rent a housewife," he added wickedly, leaning over to nuzzle his lips against her bare shoulder.
Tracy just about came unglued as she felt the slightly rough texture of his face against her soft skin, his lips tickling the sensitive nape of her neck. "Mr. Delano, please—"
"Anthony."
"Anthony, please—"
"You don't have to beg, darling," he teased, perversely moving his mouth lower.
"Stop it!"
At last he straightened, but he kept his arm firmly around her. "And I was having so much fun," he lamented. "Come on, Tracy, drink some more wine."
"You really are trying to seduce me!"
"Of course."
Unable to resist a giggle, she drank more wine. The stuff was actually beginning to taste good, and she found herself going along with his nonsense. "Do you really want to rent a housewife?"
"I guess I do," he replied more seriously than she would have expected. "Though I didn't realize it until I stepped into Foodway this afternoon."
She glanced up at him and her gaze was riveted to his. His eyes were hypnotizing her, and his smile . . . heaven help her, his smile was simply dazzling! Those adorable laugh lines around his sensual mouth . . . the way those beautiful white teeth looked ready to devour her! This man's smile, his eyes, said he meant business.
"Anthony, I'm dizzy," she found herself telling him.
"I've been known to have that effect on women."
"It's not you, it's—" Oh, heavens, surely she would not hiccup! She concentrated fiercely and somehow managed not to. "It's the wine."
"Are you sure it's the wine?"
She stared at him and wasn't sure about anything.
He took the glass from her hand and placed it, with his, on the floor. "Come here, Tracy O'Brien."
Before she could even catch her breath she found herself settled in his lap. "Mr. Delano, this is indecent!"
"Let's hope so." He pulled the pink sweat band from her forehead, sending a riot of blond curls tumbling about her shoulders. "There, that's better," he said with an appreciative gleam in his eye. He tossed the sweat band on Captain Action, who didn't so much as bat an eyelash. "You're beautiful, Tracy," he murmured in a husky tone. "You've got the body of a poster queen and the face of the girl next door. I love those huge, innocent blue eyes, that perky upturned nose, that full, kissable mouth—"
Tracy tried to squirm away from him. "Mr. Delano, would you please—"
"Be still and listen to me, Tracy. You know, if we are to have a relationship—"
She froze, definitely intrigued now. "Are we to have a relationship?"
"Certainly. But you must be aware that I believe in complete honesty—"
"Oh, no, here it comes."
Slowly, he drew a monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket.
"Is it so awful, you're expecting me to cry?"
He laughed. Then he looked at her very seriously. "Tracy, I simply have to tell you that I think you're adorable, but—"
"But?"
He took a deep breath and shook his head regretfully. "I refuse to kiss a woman with a smudge on her nose—however delectable that nose may be."
"You nut!"
He leaned over and gently wiped the grime from the tip of her nose. "There. You know, you might scrub up pretty well."
"Why, you—"
Tracy's open mouth was perfectly poised for a kiss, and Delano took advantage of the situation, capturing her soft lips with his own. The sensation was stunning and so blatantly erotic that Tracy found herself moaning aloud. His lips were very demanding, his tongue, by contrast, teasingly sensual inside her mouth. He held her tightly against him as his hand found her breast; his fingertips made the nipple come alive with sensation. She tried half heartedly to move off his lap, but his arms were a welcome prison she could not escape.
At last the kiss ended and his lips lingered inches above hers. His eyes were filled with tender humor when she struggled for breath. He reached out to touch a strand of her golden hair. "Racy Tracy, eh?" he mused. His other hand tightened possessively upon her breast and she shuddered. "You're not wearing a bra, darling. Tell me, what else aren't you wearing?"
Evidently, his question was rhetorical; instead of waiting for a reply, he kissed her again. "You have beautiful long legs, Tracy. I want to feel them wrapped around me."
She heard his sharp intake of breath. "You're gorgeous, Tracy, so lovely. I've got to have you. Now."
He pushed her back on the love seat, and his mouth fastened upon hers. Tracy was floating on a sea of exquisite sensation when the romantic spell was suddenly, violently, shattered by the loudest screech she had ever heard.
Instantly, Tracy was on her feet. "Captain Action! Oh, no, we practically flattened Captain Action!"
Captain Action, who had also leaped off the couch, stood outlined in glaring sunlight at the patio doors. His eyes were green and huge, his body stiffly poised for attack, his black fur standing on end.
"Oh, poor Captain Action," Tracy lamented, slowly approaching the outraged cat. "He looks stiff as a scrub brush. And he's usually such a pussycat."
Delano now joined her, chuckling. "So I've surmised. From the sound of his screech, there's no telling what we crushed."
Tracy knelt next to the cat. "Can you forgive us, Captain Action?"
The cat stared at her a moment, then meowed pitifully and rubbed himself against her forearm. Tracy and Delano laughed as she gathered Captain Action into her arms and stood. Then she remembered what the two of them had been doing when they'd landed on the cat, and she felt herself blushing.
Delano took the cat from her arms and placed him back on the love seat. Captain Action meowed pathetically, and Delano petted him, murmuring, "Don't worry, fella. You're safe now. And so's your mistress."
Delano turned and smiled at Tracy sheepishly. "Look, Tracy, I got a bit carried away just now. Actually, I'm rather glad Captain Action stopped us, because I think"—he paused, seeming to -choose his words quite carefully—"I think our getting together this afternoon would have been a mistake."
Delano's words hit Tracy like ice water. All at once she was perilously close to tears. "Yeah, sure," she flung back at him, feeling rejected, inadequate. "The taste of the wine, the passion of the moment and all that, right? Look, why don't you get out of here?"
"Tracy," he scolded gently.
"Just get out!"
"Tracy, you're taking what I said the wrong way. Give me a chance, will you?" He sighed, glancing with concern at the bedroom beyond them, empty except for Tracy's suitcases and a sleeping bag. "Look, I don't like leaving you here alone. This place is practically bare. Where are you going to sleep tonight?"
"What's it to you?"
"You should at least have a bed," he said.
"Perish the thought. If I did, you might make a mistake and succumb to my questionable charms."
She turned her back on him and moved away. Despite her resolve, her eyes were stinging with tears. She had revealed too much of herself to him.
"Tracy." His voice was a soothing, gentle whisper. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
"It's not you!" she choked, totally humiliated now. "It's the damn wine. I'm allergic to it."
"Right," he agreed gravely. He walked over to her and wrapped his arms about her waist. "You're a real tough little cookie, aren't you?"
Nothing could be further from the truth; they both knew it, and the knowledge infuriated Tracy. "Let me go," she wailed, struggling to extricate herself from his strong arms.
"Stop it, Tracy." The words were low, but so firm that Tracy complied instantly. "That's better," Delano continued. He handed her his handkerchief. "Blow your nose, and try not to redeposit the smudge."
"Thanks a million," she said sarcastically, obeying him.
Once her tears were dried, he turned her in his arms, and to her surprise, he kissed her again, very soundly. Afterward, his eyes were stern as he took her chin in his hands and said, "Tracy, you little idiot, has it occurred to you that the reason I don't want to make love to you this afternoon is not because it would mean too little, but perhaps because it would mean too much?"
She could only stare at him in confusion as he released her. He went to the pass-through, took his letter and turned to face her. His eyes drank her in, and there was a catch in his voice as he said, "When the time is right, darling, there will be no stopping me, I assure you."
His words made her dizzy again, even though the effects of the wine were largely gone. "Will that be when I'm scrubbed up?" she couldn't resist asking.
He leaned against the pass-through and studied her intently. "What if I said it would be when you're my wife?"
"I'd say you have a line long enough to hang yourself with."
He grinned. "Oh, well."
She nodded at the letter. "You just want a substitute for Estelle."
He didn't comment as he came to her side. "Walk me to my car?"
"Well, I don't know—"
"Come on, now. You do want to see whether I'm actually going to mail the letter, don't you?"
"Sure, why not?" she asked with a shrug.
Downstairs, Delano did indeed drop the letter into the slot of the mailbox. "So long, Estelle," he said. As they approached his car he asked Tracy, "How are you going to get to your interview Monday morning?"
"Oh, by then my Rolls will have arrived from England."
"Right. It's at ten a.m., isn't it?"
"Yes, but—" Had she told him the time of her appointment?
"I'll be here at nine-thirty."
"No."
Next to the BMW he paused to pull her into his arms. "Tracy, Tracy, I've had about all of your Irish stubbornness I can take for one day. You intrigue me, darling, and if you think you're going to get rid of me this easily, you're fooling yourself. I'll pick you up Monday at nine-thirty."
"No."
He shook his head ruefully and raised his eyes to the heavens. "Tracy, you're simply delightful, but you've got this gigantic chip on your shoulder and you very much need someone to knock it off."
"And you're the man for the job, huh?" she asked him flippantly.
"Oh, yes," he replied, giving her a quick, hard kiss. "It will be my pleasure," he added with a meaningful gleam in his dark eyes.
She scowled as she watched him get into his car and drive away.
Two hours after Anthony Delano left, the bed arrived.
Tracy stared, flabbergasted, at the two sweating men who stood on her doorstep. Each was wearing a khaki uniform with the words memorial interiors embroidered on his pocket. "For the tenth time, I didn't order a bed," she told the man in charge. "There must be some mistake."
He consulted his clipboard. "There's no mistake, ma'am. This is apartment 207, ain't it?"
"Yes—"
"So we're delivering this here bed from the truck. Look ma'am, it's Saturday, it's late, and you're our last stop. Please don't give us a hard time—"
"But—but I can't pay for it," Tracy said, embarrassed.
"Ma'am, it's paid for. We don't deliver no C.O.D. stuff."
She was astonished. "You've got to be kidding. Who paid for it?"
"Ma'am, they don't tell me that." The delivery man's patience was obviously becoming strained.
Suddenly, Tracy snapped her fingers. "Aunt Fayetta!"
"I beg your pardon, ma'am?" The man gave his partner a skeptical glance, as if to say. What kind of nut are we dealing with here?
"Aunt Fayetta!" Tracy repeated. "I almost forgot. When Aunt Fayetta and Uncle Henry brought over the love seat this morning, they told me they were having a housewarming present delivered for me later. But a bed . . . Heavens, this is too much. You see, they gave me the bar stools as well—"
"Look, lady, can we please deliver the bed? You can straighten this out with your aunt later," the man suggested.
"Oh, sure," Tracy replied apologetically. "I'm really being a pill, aren't I? Say, would you men like some ice water?"
"Now you're talking, lady."
In due course the double bed and all the accessories were unloaded and placed in Tracy's bedroom—a brass headboard, mattress pad, sheets, pillows and pillowcases and a quilted satin bedspread. Tracy shook her head in amazement. "This is just overwhelming," she told the men. "I shouldn't let Aunt Fayetta do all this—"
"Lady, please," the delivery man begged, extending his clipboard to her. "Just sign for this, then you and your aunt can—"
"Yeah, sure," Tracy agreed, laughing. She signed her name, thanked the men, and saw them out. Alone again, Tracy could not resist making up the new bed. "Wow, silk sheets," she murmured, tearing open a plastic package. She made the bed with the gold silk sheets and the red satin spread while Captain Action watched. "It looks like something out of a bordello," she remarked to the cat, standing back to admire her work. "I wonder . . ."
She recalled Anthony Delano's words, "You should at least have a bed." Could it be ... ? No, she assured herself, the man could not possibly have a bed delivered to her so soon, on a Saturday no less. Besides, Aunt Fayetta, as Tracy well knew, had a downright perverse sense of humor. It would be just like Tracy's outrageous aunt to send her niece a bed that looked as if it came off a set for The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.
Fingering the slick satin spread—which looked hot enough to catch fire, but was wickedly cool and smooth to the touch—Tracy couldn't help wondering what her mother would say if she saw this bed. The thought brought a stab of pain and the recollection of her mother's disapproving face. When Uncle Henry had driven out to their home in East Texas yesterday to pick Tracy up and drive her to Houston, her mother had made it clear that nice girls just didn't do things like that—traipsing off and living by themselves in the big city—
Captain Action sprang onto the bed and curled up in the middle of the red satin, providing Tracy a welcome distraction from her thoughts. "Oh, Captain Action," she scolded. "How can I possibly return any of this with you shedding all over it?"
She collapsed onto the bed next to the cat, suddenly quite exhausted herself. The mattress was heavenly soft, and of course there was no question of her returning it. She would simply have to settle up with Aunt Fayetta later.
But how? She was sure that the minute her phone was installed. Rick would start calling, asking her for money again.
And she wouldn't be able to refuse him.
Tracy sighed and hugged a silk pillow, finding her thoughts drifting once more to Anthony Delano. The man intrigued her; she couldn't deny it. She couldn't deny her own libido either, which now conjured an erotic image of him next to her in this bordello bed. The very thought of him made her catch her breath sharply. Captain Action purred loudly in her ear, as if he, too, were fondly remembering their charming afternoon guest.
Tracy rolled over and plumped up her pillow. She'd probably never see the man again, and just as well. What did she want with an oversexed bachelor who put out a line long enough to reel in Moby Dick? "When we get married," indeed! What did she need with a man who apparently had a mistress and an illegitimate child stashed away somewhere? A man who picked up seedy-looking girls in grocery stores?
Besides, she hadn't liked what he had made her feel, the way his smile had stripped her of her defenses, making her vulnerable. And his eyes . . . his eyes had invaded not just her privacy but her very soul.
She shivered with emotion. If he did show up again, she would freeze him out quickly. She couldn't afford to let him get to her, not now, when she had so much at stake. He must never learn her secret.
Four
Monday morning at 9:30 Tracy O'Brien descended the stairs outside her apartment to find Anthony Delano waiting for her below, leaning against the front bumper of his BMW. He looked splendid in his crisply tailored gray sharkskin suit and pale blue shirt.
Tracy couldn't control a rush of excitement as she spotted her handsome adversary. True to his word, he was there, and she had to admit to herself that she was secretly pleased and charmed by his tenacity. Taking a deep breath to strengthen her resolve, she frowned at him as she descended the last few steps. On Saturday she had decided not to get further involved with him, and now she would stick to her guns. She felt better equipped to fend him off this morning, dressed as she was in her impeccably tailored navy gabardine suit, matching leather pumps, and shoulder bag. Her hair was arranged in a dignified chignon, and her face was subtly made up. Delano should find her a hundred times more intimidating today than he had the last time he'd seen her.
Not giving him a chance to attack, she took the offensive as she approached him. "Mr. Delano, I'm sorry you had to waste a trip coming over here. But as I told you on Saturday, I don't need a ride—"
"Nonsense, I'm taking you to your appointment," he interrupted smoothly. "Obviously, your Rolls has yet to arrive from England. And—um— good morning, Tracy."
She fought a smile. Her garb didn't seem to intimidate him in the least. "Good morning, Mr. Delano. And thanks but no—"
"How are you going to get there, Tracy?"
She gritted her teeth. Blast him, standing there so tall and commandingly masculine, with that smug, infuriating smile on his face. She was sorely tempted to tell him her means of transportation was none of his business, but she doubted that would budge him one inch. She blurted out the truth, humiliating as it was. "Okay, I don't have a Rolls or a Lincoln or a Mercedes. I'm taking the damn bus to my appointment. That is, if I haven't missed it talking to you. There, are you satisfied?"
Not waiting for his response, she turned to walk away from him, but the sound of his deep laughter arrested her. "Tracy, Tracy, you really are a novice when it comes to living in Houston, aren't you?"
She turned, despite herself. "What do you mean?"
"Our buses have been known to break down," he informed her with a devastating grin.
"Have they, indeed?" she retorted.
"Yes." He nodded toward the skies. "And our weather is renowned for its mercurial moods. Tell me, Tracy, what would a thundershower do to that impeccable professional image of yours?"
"Thundershower?"
He winked at her. "Fifty percent chance, darling."
Tracy swallowed hard and looked heavenward. The sun was out, it was true, but there were also some very nasty-looking clouds milling about, one of which doubtless bore her number. "Oh, darn," she found herself muttering.
"Glad you're seeing things my way, Miss O'Brien," he replied, walking around the car and gallantly opening the door for her.
Tracy hesitated a moment, then moved forward, again struggling not to smile. As much as she hated admitting any weakness, she really could use some moral support this morning before she met with the matriarchs of the ballet association.
But as she started to sit down on the car seat, she found a brightly wrapped package waiting for her there. "What's this?" she asked Delano.
He grinned. "For you. For good luck. You can open it on the way."
"Mr. Delano, I can't—"
"Get in, Tracy, do you want to be late?"
She didn't, so she picked up the package and slid onto the leather seat, placing the box in her lap. Once Delano was beside her in the car, she informed him, "The ballet company is at the corner of Memorial and—"
"I know where it is," he interrupted, turning the ignition key.
She shrugged as the engine purred to life. "Oh, that's right. You know all about Houston, don't you?"
Not answering her question, he asked one of his own as he turned the car onto Memorial. "Aren't you going to open your present?"
"Look, Mr. Delano—"
"Anthony."
"Look, Anthony, you're very nice and I do appreciate all of this, but—"
"I'm doing too much for you, and you're afraid I'll demand repayment?"
She bit her lip. "Something like that."
"You're right, of course," he agreed amiably. Noting her shocked expression, he chuckled and said, "Come on, Tracy, indulge me, will you? Open your present. After all, I can't demand repayment right now. There isn't enough time. Even if there were," he added in a low tone, "the image you would project to the ballet association afterward would be—er—far from professional."
Tracy was blushing so hotly that she attacked the ribbons on the package in a futile attempt to save her composure. Seconds later, she laughed as she opened the box and pulled out a brand new pair of white Adidases.
"I knew that if you didn't accept my lift, you'd never make it in that other pair," he explained solemnly.
"You nut!" She laughed. "How did you know I wear a seven and a half narrow?"
His eyes leisurely roved her legs as he braked the car to a stop at a light. "Oh, you look like about a seven and a half narrow. That's what Estelle wore."
His words created a near-palpable chill in the car. Moodily, Tracy turned to stare out the window. She heard him sigh and murmur, "Look, Tracy, there's nothing between Estelle and me."
"So why should I care?"
"Tracy, Tracy," he said in a soothing tone. "I've stepped on your pride again, haven't I?"
She turned to glower at him. "My what?"
"Your pride. You have yards of it, my dear. It stretches behind you like a train. Watch out—you may get tangled up and trip."
"And you'll be there to catch me, huh?"
"Something like that," he said, quoting one of her pet expressions.
She stared at him in brooding silence; he seemed to understand her all too well.
Accelerating the car again, he glanced at her appreciatively out of the corner of his eye. "That's a smartly tailored suit you're wearing, Tracy. All set to take on the battle-axes of the ballet association in your businesswoman armor, are you?"
"Something like that," she said with a traitorous smile.
"Frankly, I'd be more inclined to take you on in your scanty terry cloth."
"Take me on? For what purpose?" She couldn't resist his banter.
"Censored, I'm afraid," he teased. "Ah, here's our turnoff now."
The headquarters and school of the Houston Repertory Company were on a shady side street just off Memorial. Delano pulled up to the drive-through entrance of the contemporary structure. "Want me to come in with you, Tracy?"
She stared at the forbidding glass doors. "Thanks, no. I'd better face the lionesses alone."
"Then I'll wait for you out here."
"You'll do no such thing—"
But her voice was lost in the sound of his car door opening. Seconds later he was at her side, opening her door as she repeated, "You'll do no such thing—"
"I'll wait for you, Tracy," he reiterated with infuriating calm. He gestured toward the present on the floor at her feet. "You can't take the Adidases with you, you know. That is, unless you want to wear them."
She got out of the car, sighing her frustration. "Look, don't you have to work or something?''
"Certainly. But we loan sharks can pretty much choose our own hours."
"Oh, very well. Do whatever you please." She added nastily, "Fifty percent chance of rain, darling."
The sound of his laughter followed her inside, until the door clicked shut behind her.
Tracy found herself in a large reception room. Off to one side she saw two older women at a desk, chatting and working on a stack of envelopes. "May I help you?" one of the ladies called out.
"Yes, I'm looking for the ballet association meeting," Tracy said bravely.
"Last door at the end of the hall, dear."
"Thanks."
Tracy started down the long corridor. She passed a door with a glass panel and spotted a troupe of young ballerinas doing plies at the bar. She smiled and went on, her heart beating more rapidly with each step. She almost wished now that she had asked Anthony to come in with her, even though she knew that would have made her look weak.
Finally, Tracy reached the last door, hating herself for the trembling fingers that reached for it. She bit her lip hard, grabbed the door, opened it energetically, and charged into the small room.
It was then that she froze, her face white as chalk. For sitting near one end of the large table, smiling smugly, was Anthony Delano!
What was going on?
"You must be Miss O'Brien."
At first Tracy didn't even hear the cultured female voice coming from the center of the boardroom table. She was too stunned by Anthony Delano's smiling presence. Seated between two sophisticated women, he looked quite proud of himself. Tracy continued to stare at him as the female voice repeated, "Miss O'Brien? Are you all right?"
At last Tracy recovered her senses and turned to the pleasant older woman in mauve silk who had spoken to her. "I'm fine, thank you. And yes, I'm Tracy O'Brien," she managed to add with a shaky smile.
The woman extended a lined but beautifully shaped hand sporting a dazzling emerald ring. "So pleased to meet you, Miss O'Brien. I'm Edith Swanson, president of the association."
"My pleasure," Tracy replied, reaching over the table to shake the woman's hand. Frantically, she prayed she was not breaking out in a rash, as she sometimes did when extremely nervous. Who would hire a fund-raiser with blotchy, florid skin? And, blast him, Anthony Delano was not helping one bit. Where on earth had he come from, anyway? How had he gotten in here so quickly? And was he—heaven forbid—a member of this organization?
"Do sit down, Miss O'Brien."
The sound of Mrs. Swanson's voice snatched Tracy from her worried thoughts, and murmuring "Thank you," she sank into a seat. Her chair squeaked horribly in the ominous silence as she took her place. Her side of the large polished table was bare, and she found herself staring at the six people across from her as if she were facing a firing squad.
"Now," Mrs. Swanson continued, glancing at the others, "let's go down the table and introduce ourselves to Miss O'Brien."
Tracy forced herself to pay attention, ready to take mental notes so she wouldn't forget anyone's name. She had learned the trick from a public relations professor in college.
The board consisted of four women and one man other than Delano. As each member spoke in turn, Tracy quickly decided that Mrs. Sargent looked like a take-charge type; Mrs. Hunter, despite her youth, had a predatory gleam in her eye; Mrs. Burr looked uncomfortable enough to be sitting on precisely what her name indicated: Mrs. Christopher had the worldly wise look and the jewelry of a seasoned traveler; and the elderly Mr. Grant had a devilish glint in his green eyes that made her think of both the famous general and the debonair actor.
"Last but not least," Mrs. Swanson was now saying, "we wish to recognize our guest this morning, Anthony Delano." She gestured toward the smiling bachelor who sat between Mrs. Hunter and Mrs. Christopher. "We're so thrilled to have one of Houston's most knowledgeable young businessmen join us in our fund-raising campaign. I can't tell you how delighted I was when Anthony called yesterday to volunteer to sit in this morning. What a pleasant surprise."
Tracy struggled not to glower at Delano as Mrs. Sargent said, "If you'll think about it, Edith, Anthony's volunteering is not surprising in the least. After all, the Delanos have a vested interest in this project."
"They do indeed," Mrs. Swanson agreed, smiling at Tracy.
By now Tracy's skin was crawling. She had an idea there was a lot going on that she didn't know about. Had Delano told these people that he knew her? If so—merciful heavens, what must they think? The things he could have told them . . . She was on the verge of asking Mrs. Swanson as politely as possible what "vested interest" she was referring to, when Anthony Delano interjected, "Don't you think we should ask this young lady a few questions about her background?"
Tracy turned ghostly white. She could have strangled Delano. Even Mrs. Swanson looked disconcerted as she diplomatically replied, "Well, yes, Anthony, this meeting is a sort of get-acquainted session." She smiled kindly at Tracy. "My dear, you come to us highly recommended by Hastings and Stern. Your training is excellent and you are obviously a person of charm and finesse. However—"
"You have no experience," Mrs. Hunter supplied bluntly. She glanced at what appeared to be a copy of Tracy's resume. "You're just out of college, and this is your first job as a matter of fact."
Oh, dear, Tracy thought. Hunter was going to be the thorn in her side, just as she had feared. Nonetheless, she smiled engagingly at the chic blonde as she replied, "On the contrary, Mrs. Hunter, I feel I have a great deal of experience to offer the association. The communications department at Sam Houston State is small, and thus I had the opportunity to take an active role early in my college career, both in publications and in television. You'll note that I've worked as an associate editor for my hometown newspaper, and I've also freelanced some PR projects—"
"Yes, I see that you were in charge of publicity for the Turkey Trot in Cuero, Texas," the woman continued drolly. She flashed Tracy a condescending smile. "How charming."
Tracy cringed. The Turkey Trot didn't sound terribly impressive, but it happened to be one of the biggest and most exciting projects Tracy had ever worked on. It was certainly exciting to the citizens of Cuero—and to the turkeys.
"Let's see," Mrs. Hunter went on remorselessly, still scrutinizing Tracy's resume, "it took you over six years to finish college?"
Tracy forced herself to nod pleasantly. "I had to work my way through, and I also helped support a brother in medical school." Careful, Tracy, she silently scolded herself. Don't let a defensive edge creep into your voice, as much as you'd like to kill this barracuda.
"I think that's commendable," Mr. Grant interjected, favoring Tracy with a magnanimous smile.
"I do too," Mrs. Swanson seconded. She scanned the group. "Any further questions regarding Miss O'Brien's qualifications?"
There followed half a dozen more questions about Tracy's background and training, her familiarity with the arts, and so forth. Tracy managed to answer all inquiries graciously and fully, though, inwardly, she felt uneasy. Delano had been curiously silent; a scowl marred his handsome features, and his arms were folded across his chest. She wondered what he had up his sleeve.
At last Mrs. Swanson held up a hand and said, "All of these details regarding Miss O'Brien's background are fascinating, of course, but I think it's time we address the more basic issue." She turned to Tracy, her expression serious but not unkind. "The central question is, Miss O'Brien, do you think you can handle this project? Do you think you can raise over a million dollars in just six months?"
Tracy nodded without hesitation. At last they were getting down to the brass tacks of her assignment, and she felt much more in her element. Her voice was full of confidence as she replied, "Yes, I do. I'm certain I can handle the project. I'm fully aware that a million dollars is only the minimum you'll need to begin planning construction of your theater."
"That's correct," Mrs. Swanson affirmed.
"You did receive our initial proposal for raising the funds?" Tracy went on.
"Yes, the board has considered your proposal in detail and we highly approve. However, I must say that the projects outlined—the media blitz, the fund-raising events and appeals to local groups and individuals—all of this seems a rather ambitious undertaking for one young college graduate. We have nothing against you personally, my dear, of course. But again, we must know if you think you are equal to this task."
"I appreciate your frankness, Mrs. Swanson," Tracy replied, "and, again, yes, I'm sure. I don't think you'll regret using our firm's services. Besides, you've already made a good start yourselves. I understand that you own the land for the theater free and clear. Furthermore, I know I can count on the support not only of the association, but of your patrons and the ballet guild as well. Under those circumstances, I don't see how we can fail."
"Your confidence and enthusiasm are appreciated," Mrs. Swanson replied, obviously charmed by Tracy's little speech. "As a matter of fact, Anthony Delano—"
"Has a few questions to ask Miss O'Brien."
At last the blond businessman spoke, his voice commanding. A tense silence followed his words as every set of eyes in the room, including Tracy's, turned to him attentively.
"Forgive me for interrupting, Edith, but I do have a few things to ask this young lady, if you don't mind," Delano went on.
"Why, of course, Anthony," Mrs. Swanson said graciously. "The floor is yours."
Tracy studied Anthony Delano warily. It had indeed begun to rain outside, and the light filtering through the windows was dull, yet his profile was more arresting than ever. His cleft chin showed determination and strength, his smile was wise, and his brown eyes held a look that Tracy well knew could be as penetrating as it was enchanting.
Those probing eyes now fixed upon Tracy. "The rest of you must forgive my ignorance," Delano began courteously, "but I haven't as yet read the initial proposal from Hastings and Stern. Therefore, I would like to ask Miss O'Brien precisely how she plans to raise a million dollars in—what is it?—just six months?"
Before Tracy could stop herself, she was answering Delano sweetly. "Would you like my explanation in twenty-five words or less, sir? The proposal prepared by Mr. Hastings and myself runs over a hundred pages, you see."
"Twenty-five words or less will do nicely."
Mr. Grant chuckled at Delano's words, but the ladies were silent. Tracy struggled to maintain her composure. "As Mrs. Swanson mentioned earlier, I'm planning a more or less traditional fund-raising campaign, Mr. Delano. The media—radio, television, newspapers—will convey a large portion of our appeal. I'll try to get a feature story on the ballet company in one of the large state-based magazines, and I'll organize volunteers from the guild for a telephone campaign. We'll also be publicizing the drive at all performances, at already-existing fund-raising events, in speeches to other local groups—"
"I heard Edith mention that you're hoping for private donations as well," Delano interrupted. "Just how are you planning to get in touch with private donors?"
"I'm counting on the support of the association and the patrons, of course." Tracy nodded toward Mrs. Swanson. "I was assured that the association and the ballet guild would supply me with all additional contacts necessary—both individuals and corporations." And what's it to you, anyway, you sadistic scoundrel? she was tempted to add.
"I see," Delano replied, still frowning pensively. "And do you think you have the finesse required to approach such individuals and corporations and solicit funds?"
"Solicit?" Edith Swanson echoed, sounding mildly shocked. "That doesn't sound quite reputable, Anthony."
"It's what we're asking her to do," Delano pointed out.
Oh, heavens, here it comes, Tracy thought. "I think I'm equal to the task, Mr. Delano," she said with bravado.
"Are you?" he challenged. "The people you will be dealing with may be rather snobby and pretentious, you know."
The board members exchanged confused glances at Delano's odd remark, but Tracy understood his meaning all too well. He was really turning the screws now. Her stomach began to do somersaults, and she eyed him warily, unable to speak.
"Do you have the qualities necessary to deal with such people?" His smile was positively ruthless as he continued to torment her. "Charm? Ingenuity?"
Still Tracy could not answer. Unwittingly she touched the collar of her crepe de chine blouse, which was suddenly much too tight.
"Do you find it stuffy in here, Miss O'Brien?" Delano inquired solicitously. He turned to the other board members. "You know, I once had an employee who panicked every time I asked him to go to the storeroom. Upon investigation, it turned out the man had a prison record and couldn't endure cramped spaces."
The other association members laughed at Delano's remark, but Tracy felt ill. Damn the man, how could he do this to her? He had vowed to knock the chip off her shoulder, and he was doing just that—with a chain saw! Mercifully, Mrs. Swanson now interjected, "Why, Anthony, you rascal, surely you're not inferring that this lovely young lady might have a—a prison record."
"Oh, no, Edith, not at all. I'm sure Hastings and Stern checked her out thoroughly. I'm sure Miss O'Brien is a totally honest and forthright young woman, not at all the type who would try to play games or fool us with a snow job." He flashed his deadly smile at Tracy. "Now, Miss O'Brien, getting back to your—er—charm and ingenuity—perhaps you do have these qualities. Perhaps you'll be able to convince people to pull out their checkbooks. But after that, frankly, I have doubts about you. There's one important quality that I sense you lack."
"Yes?" she queried, finding that she was every bit as fascinated as she was infuriated by his performance. "What quality might that be, Mr. Delano?"
"Humility," he answered, impaling her with his deep brown eyes. "It takes a great deal of humility to accept the charitable help of others, even in an official capacity. And if you'll forgive me for saying this, Miss O'Brien, you strike me as the type of person who wouldn't graciously accept a lift home on the hottest day in June, even if your tennis shoes were worn right through to the pavement."
Delano's words were met with shocked murmurings from the group, yet he smiled, unperturbed, even when Mrs. Swanson expostulated, "Anthony, whatever are you saying? Surely you don't think this dear girl should accept a lift from a stranger, not in this day and age." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Say, do you and Miss O'Brien know each other?"
"Not at all. I assure you," Tracy said dryly.
Delano chuckled while Mrs. Swanson cleared her throat and went on nervously. "If everyone will settle down here, we do have a decision to make." She glanced around the table. "Do we need to poll privately on this, or can we give Miss O'Brien the go-ahead as our new resident fund-raising director?"
"I think her youth and inexperience will be an asset," Mr. Grant put in generously.
"You would. Harold," Mrs. Hunter commented sweetly. "Especially her inexperience."
Tracy gnashed her teeth.
"I think Miss O'Brien is bright and enthusiastic and possesses just the right touch of Irish brashness to get results," Mr. Grant replied. He leaned forward to address Delano. "I disagree with you on the humility part, Delano. I know from experience that we'll need a go-getter for this project. However," he added, grinning at the only other man present, "I do find the quality commendable in a wife."
Delano nodded. "Agreed."
The men's comments were met with groans on the part of the women. Tracy was stonily silent as she glowered at Delano. "Ladies and gentlemen, please," Edith Swanson said in an exasperated tone, trying to reestablish order.
"Edith, I've got to get home to let the man in to service my garbage disposal," interjected Mrs. Burr, who had been squirming during the entire meeting.
"But what about Miss O'Brien?" Mrs. Swanson asked with obviously strained patience.
Mrs. Burr hurriedly got to her feet. "Oh, she's fine." The middle-aged woman patted Tracy on the shoulder as she swept by. "Let me know if I can help you while you're in town, dear."
As the door closed behind Mrs. Burr, Mrs. Swanson said to the others, "Well? Shall we give Miss O'Brien the go-ahead?"
The members nodded their assent. All except Anthony Delano. Mrs. Swanson sighed and asked, "Well, Anthony?"
Delano stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I agree that Miss O'Brien has many fine qualities to bring to this position. However, I am concerned about her inexperience, and even more concerned about her unfamiliarity with our area." He looked at Tracy pointedly and said, "She doesn't know a thing about Houston."
"But don't you think she'll learn, Anthony?" Mrs. Swanson asked patiently. "She does seem to be very quick and bright. And frankly, with the funds we have available to pay a resident director—"
"I understand," Delano finished. "And I think I have a solution." He smiled quickly and engagingly at Tracy. "Why not let me be in charge of showing Miss O'Brien around, familiarizing her with the territory? The young lady does need help, you know."
Tracy's eyes grew huge: obviously, Delano intended to appoint himself her permanent nemesis! Meanwhile, Mrs. Hunter interjected, "Yes, it looks like the poor thing needs all the help she can get."
Mrs. Swanson, however, was delighted by Delano's proposal. "Oh, Anthony, would you be willing to help? Why, that would be perfect! You can introduce Miss O'Brien to all the right people, and of course she'll need an escort to a lot of the upcoming functions." She clapped her hands in pleasure. "Doesn't everyone agree that it would be simply wonderful?"
The other members of the board, though lacking Mrs. Swanson's glee, nodded their agreement. "Anthony, she's all yours," Mrs. Swanson said happily.
Oh, hell, Tracy thought.
"Splendid," Delano said.
"Wait a minute," Tracy managed, staring earnestly, almost desperately, at Mrs. Swanson. "I'll admit that Mr. Delano's offer is quite generous, but—but he's not even a member of the association, is he?"
Tracy's question was met by stunned silence. She had the definite feeling she had gone too far this time.
At last Mrs. Swanson said, "My dear, don't you know?"
"Know what?" Tracy ventured timidly.
Mrs. Swanson shook her head and said, "Why, Anthony's family donated the land for our new theater, dear. Didn't Mr. Hastings tell you that?"
"Oh, I'm sure he must have mentioned it at some point," Tracy said, feeling nauseated.
"I guess that takes care of it, then," Mrs. Swanson went on cheerfully. She smiled at the young businessman. "Anthony, you have our heartfelt thanks. Meeting adjourned."
Tracy sat stiffly in her chair, her expression wooden as the others slowly prepared to leave. Mrs. Hunter paused by her chair, lighting a cigarette. "You'd best watch your p's and q's around him, honey," she advised, nodding toward Delano. "He's loaded, you know: He's the very first one I'd hit up for money if I were you." The sleek blonde swept by, leaving a cloud of smoke about Tracy's head.
Numbly, Tracy got to her feet. Several other board members stopped by to offer congratulations, and Tracy shook their hands and mouthed platitudes. Once the others had moved on, Anthony Delano approached Tracy, an eager gleam in his eye. "Hi, sweetheart," he said with understated drama.
"Don't you Hi sweetheart' me!" she snapped back. "Delano, this is crazy! What the hell are you doing here?"
"Ruining your life?" he suggested amiably.
"I believe it! How could you do this to me? This has got to be the meanest, most lowdown, underhanded—" She paused, flustered, struggling furiously to think of another appropriate adjective.
"Contemptible?"
"Contemptible dirty rotten trick I've ever heard of!"
"You're in love, I can tell."
"You're insane! Please explain to me what you're doing here!"
"Didn't you hear Mrs. Sargent say I have a vested interest in this project?"
"That's another thing!" she exclaimed. "All of this is simply unbelievable! You don't mean to say that your family actually donated the land for the theater? And how did you get in here so damn quickly, anyway? Do you really think you're going to take charge of me?"
"In answer to your questions, yes, through the back door, and I don't think it, I know it."
"But why?" she asked, flabbergasted.
"I thought I told you. I like your cat."
"Heaven help me, I'm dealing with a lunatic."
"Come on, darling," he continued impatiently, "let's get out of here so that we can discuss the particulars of our—um—situation alone."
Tracy bit her lip in furious silence as Delano reached for her arm. But before he could escort her from the room, they were detained by Mrs. Swanson. who placed a bejeweled hand on Delano's sleeve. "Anthony, thank you so much for helping us out with Miss O'Brien." The older woman winked at Tracy, then turned back to the handsome bachelor. "Tell me, how are your folks?"
"Dad's doing much better since he and Mother moved to San Antonio," Delano replied politely. "The dry climate agrees with him."
"Oh, I'm so pleased, though I do miss your parents. It was so generous of Renaldo to donate the land for our new theater before he and Ingrid left Houston. Are they enjoying their retirement?"
"You bet. Traveling all the time. They both run circles around me."
"Oh, Anthony, you're being modest, I'm sure," Mrs. Swanson said. "Yours is hardly what I'd call a sedentary life. Memorial Interiors has expanded to—what is it, now?—four stores?"
At first, the words Memorial Interiors did not register upon Tracy. Anthony and Mrs. Swanson continued to chat, and then all at once Tracy understood. She remembered Saturday, the delivery men, the bed, the invoice she had signed . . .not to mention the satin sheets and Delano's words, "You should at least have a bed."
Without further thought Tracy O'Brien glared up at Delano and blurted out, "I'm not going to sleep in your damn bed, Delano."
In the silence that ensued, a dropping pin would have sounded like a bomb. Much too late Tracy realized her error. Merciful heavens, how could she have said something so stupid? She stood in the center of the room, humiliated to the core, while everyone stared at her. The women looked stunned by her bizarre outburst, Mr. Grant appeared intrigued, and Anthony Delano seemed both amused and amazed by her astronomical blunder.
Once again Mrs. Swanson saved the day. "Well, of course not, dear," she said graciously to Tracy. Then she turned to Delano and teased, "Why, Anthony, you scoundrel, surely you did not give this darling girl the impression that your generosity toward her is less than honorable?" With a twinkle in her eye she added, "More and more, I'm getting the impression that you two must have met before. If you'll forgive my frankness, Anthony, I am rather overwhelmed by your sudden—er— passion for the arts. Tell me, are you sure you and Miss O'Brien don't know each other?"
"We don't know each other," he replied. "But, I assure you, we will."
Delano's tone of voice left no doubt as to his meaning, and again Tracy felt her face heating. Mrs. Swanson laughed and shook hands with Tracy and Delano, then moved on to speak with Mrs. Christopher.
As soon as the chairwoman was out of earshot, Tracy hissed, "Dammit, Delano, just look what you made me say!"
"On the contrary, Tracy, I didn't make you say a thing. You deserve exclusive credit for your eloquent little faux pas."
"The devil I do! And furthermore, I'm not sleeping in your damn bed—"
"All in good time, darling. Shall we go now?" He paused to smile and nod at Mrs. Sargent across the room. "Frankly, my dear, you're raising eyebrows with your whispered hysterics."
"I'm raising eyebrows, indeed! You're the one who made mincemeat of my reputation this morning, who just about blew me out of the water—"
"Nonsense, Tracy, it is I who have kept you afloat, if barely."
"Baloney."
"Oh? Would you care to put your rash claim to a vote?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Why not ask the board to vote you in minus my—er—guidance, if you're so sure you can do without it?"
"Damn you!" she whispered with exasperation. "You know they wouldn't do that, not now. You made me sound like some kind of nincompoop who couldn't find the ladies' room without a team of guide dogs. Why did you have to come here in the first place, Delano? I could have landed this job fine by myself."
"I disagree," he said with unflappable good humor. "You need me, darling."
"In a pig's eye."
"You're stuck with me, then."
"At last you've made a statement that appears to be true. I do seem to be stuck with you." She stared at him in challenge. "So what's next, Delano?"
His eyes positively sparkled. "Next? Next you're having lunch with me, Miss O'Brien, so that we may discuss the details of our campaign, of course." He extended his arm to her and winked devilishly. "I think you should be supervised by someone who understands you, Tracy. Don't you?"
Five
"I still say, Delano, that that was an absolutely rotten thing to do!" Tracy said.
Tracy and Delano were now in Vargo's Restaurant waiting for cocktails at a lovely, secluded little table near a soaring glass wall. Tracy had upbraided him at least a dozen times for his treasonous behavior at the ballet association meeting, though each time a bit less vehemently. She couldn't help feeling rather elated that despite Anthony's shenanigans, she had actually landed the job, her first real, full-time job ever. She found it rather difficult to be as indignant and cool toward him as she knew she should be. It was hard to be angry at a man who was so positively gorgeous, whose clothes fit him so beautifully, whose blond hair was so thick she almost ached to tangle her fingers in it, whose sexy, deep-set brown eyes seemed to demand complete trust. Besides, he sure the heck could be a charmer.
"I had to do something, darling," he argued, giving her a guileless, captivating smile. "After all, I couldn't just stand outside in the rain."
"So you decided to rain on my parade instead, huh?"
He chuckled as the waiter arrived with their drinks. Tracy gazed at the frosty strawberry daiquiri the waiter set before her. "Drink it slowly, darling," Delano warned with a wink.
Tracy couldn't resist a smile. For a moment they each sipped their drinks, she her daiquiri, he his scotch. At last she felt compelled to break the silence, and she said with a nod toward his drink, "Uncle Henry always says that scotch drinkers are no-nonsense people."
He smiled. "Does Uncle Henry drink scotch?"
"Oh, yes," she said laughingly.
"I'm inclined to agree," he told her. "We're men of action, all of us," he added with a wink.
His words were punctuated by a lightning bolt outside, and Tracy shuddered slightly. Delano was a man of action, all right; with seemingly effortless finesse he had snared her in his net. Now she was stuck with him as her unofficial supervisor.
Not that the situation really bothered her that much at the moment, she had to admit to herself guiltily as the rum filtered into her blood, dissolving her anger. She took a moment to absorb the truly romantic setting in which they were to enjoy their lunch.
The restaurant had soaring ceilings and tall sheer walls of glass. Inside, large potted trees and greenery surrounded the linen-draped, cozy tables, while outside, verdant paths, dotted with brilliant, strutting peacocks, meandered about a picturesque, man-made lake. Moss-draped trees surrounded the lake, and a gentle rain now filtered through lofty layers of pine and oak. Tracy found the slow cadence of the raindrops as soothing to her nerves as the tart, delicious drink.
"Have you noticed, darling, how colors are so much more vivid on a rainy day?" Delano remarked.
She continued staring outside and found he was right. The emerald of the grass, the blue of the water, the bright pink of blossoms glowed more deeply than usual. She was impressed by the sensitivity of Anthony's remark. But then, he was an unusual man. "I guess nothing can really compete with the sun's glare," she murmured.
"Certainly, this view can't compete with you," he said seductively.
Tracy turned to him sharply and almost melted at the look of tender amusement on his beautiful mouth. "You're just trying to charm your way out of the doghouse," she accused.
His sheepish grin revealed that he would not deny her charge, but he did ask, "Have you thought about the real reason I was there this morning, Tracy?"
"You're a sadist," she informed him, nonetheless fighting a smile as she turned once more to stare at the dreamy landscape outside.
"Tracy," he commanded gently, "look at me, will you?"
She looked and found he wore his most sincere, disarming smile. Damn! Those fathomless brown eyes of his could bridge cold oceans of resistance! With fingers that betrayed her by trembling slightly, she picked up her drink and took a long sip. Not steadied at all, she glanced back at him. "So I'm looking at you. Okay?"
"You know, darling," he continued seriously, "if I hadn't been there today, you might have slipped away from me."
His sincere, soulful words just about undid Tracy; she held on to her bravado with extreme effort. "You have that little confidence in my performance, then?"
"Not at all," he countered. "I'd say your performance will be just about perfect—with the right partner."
She picked up the menu to hide her embarrassment. "I'm not what you want, Delano."
"Actually, for lunch I was planning the shrimp tempura, but I'll keep you in mind for dessert," he returned with a wink.
She shook her head ruefully and continued perusing the menu.
When the waiter came, Tracy decided on the crepes Romanoff. The shrimp tempura also appealed to her, but she secretly delighted in asserting her independence by ordering something different from what Anthony had selected.
Lunch was delicious. The crepes she had ordered were covered with cherries and a delicate sauce. As the meal progressed they got down to the business of discussing Tracy's fund-raising campaign, and she found Anthony had some helpful suggestions. He offered to introduce Tracy to a local talk show hostess he knew, and to circulate leaflets asking for donations among local merchants. "We can start by distributing material at Memorial Interiors," he said. "In fact, I'll get our ad agency to work on the fliers."
"Oh, I couldn't ask you to absorb that expense," Tracy told him.
"Tax deductible," he insisted.
As they went on, it became obvious to Tracy that Anthony intended to devote a sizable amount of time and energy to helping her. She had to admit to herself that this was truly generous of him, especially since he had a business of his own to attend to.
After a while the conversation drifted to more personal topics. Anthony told Tracy of his love of aviation and described the Cessna he owned. "I recently flew down to the Confederate Air Force Museum in Harlingen," he told her. "They have the largest collection of working World War Two aircraft in the world, not to mention the fact that they have the only Japanese Zero in existence." Smiling at her thoughtfully, he added, "I'll have to take you up sometime, Tracy. In fact, why don't we fly to Galveston one day soon and go to the beach?"
"Oh, sure, we'll raise lots of money talking to sand crabs," she rejoined with a shy smile.
He chuckled and asked her to tell him more about her family. "There's not a whole lot to tell," she replied. "My mom lives alone out in East Texas, and my dad's sister and her husband live here in Houston."
"That would be Aunt Fayetta and Uncle Henry," he put in.
She was astonished by his memory. "Wow, you're quite adept at putting two and two together."
He grinned and stirred his coffee. "In case you hadn't noticed, darling, I hang on every word you say."
"Do you now?" she murmured, losing her composure fast.
"Oh, yes," he assured her. "And I also remember everything." As she glanced at him quickly, wondering at his meaning, he repeated with undeniable emphasis, "Everything."
Anthony's words were wildly titillating, causing her to remember everything that had happened between them as well. "I have a brother in medical school," she blurted out.
For a moment he stared at her, his handsome brow knitted in perplexity. Then he laughed, obviously not fooled by her ploy. "Good for you, Tracy O'Brien. Tell me about your brother in medical school."
"His name is Rick and he attends Baylor College of Medicine here in Houston." She plunged on, even though she was sure her face was burning. "He's twenty-five years old and he's got two years left. I help him out when I can," she ended selfconsciously.
"That's really quite fine of you," Anthony replied, admiration gleaming in his eyes. "Things haven't been easy for you and your family, have they, Tracy?"
Anthony's question went right to the heart of the matter, making Tracy feel quite vulnerable. "No, not always," she found herself admitting to him. "We never did have much money, then after Dad died ..." She shrugged. "But that's the way life is, isn't it? You buck up, make the best of things."
"You've really had to toughen yourself, haven't you?" he asked her gently.
She nodded, still embarrassed by the subject matter.
"I think your loyalty to your family, your spunk, are totally commendable," he went on, then looked her straight in the eye and added, "but don't ever lose sight of the more vulnerable side of your nature, Tracy. You see, darling, I know just how warm and giving you can be."
"We all have physical urges, you know," she retorted flippantly, afraid to respond honestly to his insight.
She succeeded in angering him. His face grew stormy as he growled back, "Do you have a snappy reply for everything, Tracy? Well, this time it won't wash. There was much more between us Saturday than simple animal chemistry, and you know it."
"There was, in fact, an animal," she reminded him.
"Stop the cute remarks," he snapped. He shook his head. "Darling, whatever are we going to do about your rather brash, proud nature? I thought I'd made some headway this morning—"
"Headway! Hah! This morning you practically chopped my head off!"
"But you snap back a little too quickly," he went on, as if to himself. Thoughtfully and deliberately, he added, "I think maybe what you need is to be loved—oh, yes, passionately loved."
Tracy almost swallowed her tongue. "P-passionately?"
He was looking her straight in the eye. "Yes. Totally. Thoroughly. You're too much into yourself, Tracy, into your pride, your armor. I want to take it all off you, to really get to know you, to get inside you."
Inside? By now the inside of Tracy's head was whirling madly, but she managed a challenging reply. "Hey, Delano, I thought we were supposed to be having a business lunch. How did we get on this subject, anyway?"
"We were discussing families," he reminded her, "which is fine with me, because a family is something I want for myself—soon, in fact."
"Anthony ..." Tracy took a shaky breath, and her heart beat erratically as her voice trailed off.
He placed his warm hand on hers. "Why are you so afraid of me, Tracy?"
Haltingly, she admitted, "I guess I'm not looking for a nice guy; at least, not right now."
He leaned back in his chair, scowling. "I see. But you are looking to get involved?"
"Yes," she admitted, staring at her napkin, which was now folded on the tablecloth. "But there's involved—and there's involved."
"You're looking for a fling," he concluded.
"Something like that," she admitted with a shaky smile.
"By all means, let's have one, then," he told her, his voice low and sexy, his beautiful smile revealing even white teeth.
She shook her head miserably. "It's just that"— she managed to smile at him sheepishly, still fighting for control—"you're not the kind of man I want to get involved with."
"Ah, yes," he murmured, his expression now becoming guarded, "a few minutes ago you told me that you are not not what I'm looking for. What are you looking for, then, Tracy? A heel? A bastard?"
She twisted her fingers helplessly, not wanting to reveal herself to him this way. "No, not exactly. Look, you're a nice man, Anthony, and I know we'll be involved together in business, but it's just that—well, I'll be here for only six months, and you're the type of man that. . ."She looked at him, drinking in his handsome, sincere face, and never had she felt herself floundering so.
"That you could fall in love with?" he supplied, his eyes now glowing with emotion.
"Something like that," she whispered, the words barely audible.
His hand reached out to clasp hers tightly. "Oh, darling, I can hardly wait." Drawing out his American Express card, he added wickedly, "And if you think I can't be a very nasty character, Tracy, just wait until I get out my whip."
On the way back to Tracy's apartment, Anthony stopped off at the Memorial Interiors store where he maintained his office so he could sign some checks. While he was attending to his business, Tracy roamed around the large, posh furniture store. The stock was of good quality and reasonably priced, she noted; vivid contemporary pieces were tastefully mixed with more traditional furniture in subtle patterns. A number of customers milled about, attended by clerks; obviously, business was booming.
Tracy felt a stab of guilt at the way she had treated Anthony earlier. Despite the fact that she hadn't appreciated his "help" at the board meeting, she had to acknowledge that it was a sacrifice for him to leave his bustling business for half a day. He had also given her a bed, and though she resented his highhandedness and fully intended to pay him for the bed, she knew he must have pulled some strings in order to have it delivered so quickly. She was standing lost in thought before a dark, elegant Chinese dining suite when low words sounded behind her. "Shall I wrap it up for you, miss?"
Anthony was regarding her with a grin, his arms akimbo, and Tracy found she couldn't resist an answering smile. Her fingers ached to reach out and touch the strong lines of his jaw, the sexy cleft in his chin. She forced herself to broach the topic that was worrying her. "Speaking of furniture purchases, Delano, could we arrange a payment schedule for the bed you so generously sent me?"
His eyebrows shot up. "That old thing? We couldn't give it away, darling. Our customers were appalled every time they saw it." He winked at her. "Too sleazy, you see."
"Delano ..." Tracy stood with her hands on her hips, outraged.
Anthony shook his handsome head ruefully. "Our buyer was on a toot when he bought it at market, anyway."
"Delano, for heaven's sake—"
"It was drawing too many deadbeats and perverts into our store. All they wanted to do was lie about and plan sex games—"
"Delano!"
"Besides, darling, that bed—well, it's just you, don't you agree?"
Now she was speechless.
He chuckled and tugged her out of the store.
A few minutes later they arrived back at Tracy's apartment, and Anthony insisted upon seeing her in. On their way toward the stairs they were stopped by Mr. Henderson, the apartment manager. "A package came for you while you were out. Miss O'Brien," the elderly gentleman informed Tracy. "I signed for it and it's in my apartment."
"A package?" Tracy asked, throwing Anthony a suspicious glance. When he shrugged, she returned her attention to the apartment manager. "Thanks for signing for it, Mr. Henderson. We'll come get it now if that's okay."
Anthony insisted upon carrying the large, heavy package upstairs for Tracy. Inside her apartment she gasped in surprise as she opened the box. Nestled within were glasses, silverware, a starter set of ovenproof crockery, even placemats and napkins.
"Oh, I love the white with the blue trim," Tracy said, unable to contain her enthusiasm as she fingered a cup. She pulled out a card and read aloud, "With love from Aunt Fayetta and Uncle Henry."
Smiling at Delano, she added, "It's all so lovely, yet so useful. Aunt Fayetta can certainly shock me with her practical side at times. Usually, she's such a flake."
"A flake? Aunt Fayetta's a flake?" Anthony laughed. He stood leaning against the pass-through, watching Tracy at the table with keen interest.
"Oh, yes, she'd be the first to admit it," Tracy assured Anthony. "She's not really grounded, you see, always forgetting things, taking off on some bizarre tangent or the other. She adores playing amateur psychologist. She adores analyzing me, as a matter of fact."
"Perhaps you need it," he suggested gravely.
She stuck her tongue out at him. "I was just trying to explain that my aunt is a flake—"
"Perhaps that's how she got a flaky niece."
"Enough! I'll sic my cat on you!"
"Fat chance—or should I say fat cat?" Grinning, Anthony turned to look at Captain Action, who was sprawled out on the love seat, dead to the world. "His ears didn't even perk up when we came to the door, Tracy. I'm still not sure he's alive."
"Oh, that's one of his most subtle and ingenious ploys as a watchcat," Tracy assured Anthony. Looking once more at her box of goodies, she frowned and bit her lip. "You know, Aunt Fayetta shouldn't have done this. As a matter of fact, until this morning I thought it was Aunt Fayetta who had sent me the bed. I tried to call her to thank her, but there was no answer." She glanced up at Anthony. "Speaking of which, I think it's time you and I settled up—"
Abruptly, he came forward and took her into his arms, saying huskily, "Oh, we'll work something out."
Tracy gasped. She found herself held securely, with his lips against her throat, his breath warm against her skin. "Anthony, don't—"
"You know, Tracy," he murmured thoughtfully, pulling back slightly and stroking her face with skilled fingers, "you have a unique freshness about you. You've had to work hard, and it's given you the priceless ability to appreciate life, to see it as an adventure. It makes people like Aunt Fayetta and me want to spoil you shamelessly. Enjoy the dishes, darling. Enjoy"—his arms tightened meaningfully—"the bed."
"The bed? But I don't want the—"
"You talk too much," he growled, fastening his mouth on hers. He hooked an arm behind her neck and kissed her passionately. His tongue was bold now, promising the most uninhibited intimacy, and she found her whole body becoming aroused as the hard length of him pressed against her provocatively. He claimed her mouth hungrily, and his hands slipped inside her jacket to feel her soft curves. "Oh, baby," he whispered against her ear, "you're so slim, yet you're curvy in all the right places." His hands reached downward, taking her hips and fitting her against him. When he spoke again, his voice was almost alien to her in its intensity and need. "Is this what you want, Tracy? To be ravished? To be swept off your feet?"
As he said the words he picked her up and carried her toward the bedroom. "Do you want a fling, Tracy, a fantasy?" he whispered into her ear. "Am I your fantasy lover?"
Before she knew what was happening, they were on the soft bed together. There was an air of unreality about it all as he kissed and caressed her. His eyes, blazing with passion above her, held her in their inexorable spell. His hands loosened her hair from its chignon and removed her jacket; then he pulled her hard against him, causing her to wince slightly.
Suddenly, he sat up on the side of the bed, his back to her as he ran a hand distractedly through his blond hair. "I hurt you," he said.
"No, Anthony," she said gently. "I was just a bit startled. Your tie tack—"
"Tracy, you're making me crazy," he said, each word a groan. He got to his feet, his eyes bright with frustration and desire. "I want to talk to you in the living room after you've—um—repaired the damage."
"Sure, Anthony," she said, looking bewildered when he strode out of the room. He certainly was a strange man, she thought to herself. First he teased her, then he practically tore at her clothes with fierce desire, then stormed out of the room. Was he angry? Frustrated? Crazy?
No more than she!
Tracy quickly fixed her hair and righted her clothing. She cautiously stepped into the living room. Anthony stood in a beam of sunlight by the balcony doors and he turned to her sternly when she cleared her throat. "Tracy, don't tell me I'm not the type of guy you want to get involved with," he warned her. "It makes me crazy and I'll do something desperate."
She couldn't help smiling. "Something desperate? Such as?"
"Do you have to ask after what just happened?"
Her smile widened. "Well, that wasn't so awful."
He scowled almost ferociously. "But it wasn't right, either. The time wasn't right." He came to her side and took her firmly by the shoulders. "Promise me you'll cut out this nonsense about me being the wrong man for you."
"Or?" she teased.
"Or I'll show you precisely how rotten I can be."
"Really? Can I count on it?" she asked eagerly.
"Tracy!"
"Oh, okay. You don't have to be such a passionate Italian about it."
"I am a passionate Italian."
"Right. But tell me, when are you going to be rotten—I mean, when is the time going to be right?"
He studied her with a perturbed frown, and there was a half-haunted look in his eyes that she found quite endearing. "I don't know. But I do know things have been going too fast. I think we need to take our time, darling. We need to get to know each other better."
"Is this where your passion for the arts comes in?" she quipped.
"Oh, yes," he replied, taking her gently into his arms and tormenting her lips with a fleeting kiss. "I have a passion for the art of love."
Six
"What did you say your name is, hon?"
"Tracy O'Brien."
It was a July afternoon, and Tracy stood in the bustling kitchen of the Clayton Wests' ranch home out near the small town of Sealy, conversing with Dixie West as the two of them hurriedly iced down an enormous jug of tea sitting in the sink.
"Right, hon. I was so frazzled, I forgot," Mrs. West replied. "Damn, I bet that barbecue's ready and Clayton's going to be fit to be tied if we don't get this tea out there soon." The pretty, fortyish brunette wiped her brow with the sleeve of her western shirt, then added more lemon and sugar to the brew. "Just knew we should have hired more help for this wing-ding."
"You're doing great," Tracy assured the woman, scooping more ice from the bag and clinking it into the jug. All around them maids were coming and going with enormous crocks of potato salad, cole slaw, and baked beans, while others sliced cakes and heated rolls. "It was so generous of you and Mr. West to give this benefit for the ballet," she told her hostess.
"Oh—it's nothing," Mrs. West replied.
"It's hardly nothing!" Tracy insisted. The dinner at the home of oilman Clayton West was the first of several benefits to be given for the ballet by wealthy individuals Tracy had met through Anthony and Mrs. Swanson. Tracy had prepared brochures tempting everyone on the company's mailing list with a "menu" of dinner possibilities. At a hundred dollars a head, the respondents could choose to attend the western barbecue the Wests were giving, a pool party at the Memorial Drive home of a wealthy surgeon, or a formal sit-down dinner at the River Oaks mansion of one of Houston's most famous hostesses. Two hundred guests were expected at the barbecue today, and if the other events were as popular, Tracy would be well pleased. In every way her fund-raising activities were proving successful, and she had to admit she owed a debt of gratitude to Anthony Delano.
"Need help, ladies?"
As if summoned by her thoughts, Anthony stepped through the back door to join Tracy and Mrs. West at the kitchen counter. Tracy smiled as she studied him; somehow, they had both chosen to wear blue gingham shirts, jeans, and boots today, and they had already heard several comments about what a "matched pair" they were.
"You betcha we'd like some help, Anthony," Dixie West replied, motioning for him to take the filled jug. "Tell me, is the top of Clayton's head still on out there?"
"Don't worry, Dixie," Anthony said with a laugh. "He and the hands have gotten the side off the spit and they're slicing it now."
"Oh, boy. We'd better hustle, kids."
Anthony hefted the jug and led the two women outside. The scene that greeted them in the yard was one of cheerful pandemonium. The throng of people who had bought tickets for the barbecue were having the time of their lives: some were tossing horseshoes, others fishing in the bass tank off to the west, still others returning to the barn in a hay-filled wagon after a long ride. There was also a contingent of guests who sought refuge from the summer heat near the frosty beer kegs, drinking and "shooting the bull."
Tracy inhaled the delicious aroma of pit-smoked barbecue as they approached the serving area. The serving line and picnic tables looked ready, both sheltered beneath cheerful red canopies. Anthony deposited the tea on the buffet table, and a moment later two ranchhands approached with heaping pans of sliced beef.
Tracy rang a silver triangle to signal the beginning of the meal. Once the guests had lined up to serve themselves, she retreated to the patio of the Wests' sprawling ranch home. Anthony joined her, seating himself in a lawn chair next to hers on the flagstone terrace. She watched him appreciatively as he sipped his beer. She felt comfortable with him now; they had been thrown together a lot during the past weeks, both professionally and personally. Whether she liked it or not, the man was getting to know her, just as he'd promised. Well, actually, she liked it a lot more than she cared to admit. . . .
"Congratulations, Tracy," he said. "Looks like your first benefit is a roaring success."
"I couldn't have done it without you, Anthony," she replied sincerely. "And I feel guilty about it too. Won't your business suffer from all the hours you've spent away helping me?"
Their lawn chairs were close together, and he reached over to take her hand. "No, I'm quite fortunate to be in a position where I can coordinate my business—and my life—around you, darling."
Tracy's world tilted. Anthony seemed to have a knack for taking her most innocent statement and turning it into something much more intimate.
"It's good to be with you at last, Tracy," he went on. "I feel like you've been ignoring me all afternoon."
Tracy was opening her mouth to deny his accusation when a tall redhead swept by with a plate full of barbecue and all the trimmings. "Hey, Anthony, don't you want to come eat with us?"
"Hi, Laticia." Anthony grinned up at the girl, who wore jeans and a very tight fringed satin blouse that did nothing to conceal her voluptuous breasts. "Who's us?"
Laticia gestured toward one of the butcherpaper-draped tables. Immediately, half a dozen pretty girls waved back, some of them calling out, "Hi, Anthony!"
"Well, Anthony?" Laticia coaxed in a sweet southern drawl. "You know, we all bought our tickets just so we could see you, precious."
Tracy felt rather irritated by the redhead's flirtatiousness, but Anthony diplomatically replied, "Don't worry, Tish, I'm sure we'll have a chance to talk later. Tell me"—he cleared his throat and nodded toward Tracy—"have you met Tracy O'Brien, who is in charge of this function?"
Laticia's dazzling green eyes fixed suspiciously on Tracy. "Oh, hi, hon. I didn't even notice you there. You're quiet as a little mouse."
Before Tracy could reply, Laticia swept off. "I've been ignoring you?" Tracy asked Anthony incredulously. "It looks like you weren't exactly suffering for companionship this afternoon."
"Believe it or not, I have been suffering, darling. You've been busy all day."
"Anthony, I've been working, promoting the ballet to everyone I've met."
"So have I," he said innocently.
As if to prove the truth of Anthony's words, another pretty young woman stopped by his chair and asked, "Anthony, can't I get you some barbecue? You must be starving, darlin'."
"No thanks, Missy," Anthony said with a smile, and Tracy almost broke a tooth from grinding her jaw.
"And we came all the way out here just to see you, honey," the pretty brunette complained, pouting.
"I'll be here all evening," Anthony replied. "I'm sure I'll run into you later."
Still pouting, the girl moved off to join her friends. "Merciful heavens!" Tracy exclaimed. "I never thought I'd witness a male version of Scarlett O'Hara at the Wilkes's picnic. So you've been busy, have you, Anthony? With Missy and—what was it you called her? Dish?"
"Tish. As a matter of fact, I did talk up the benefit to Tish—and to a lot of other people who saw the brochures at my stores. It meant a lot of money for the ballet. Now that the girls are here, I can't just tell them to go jump in the bass tank, Tracy."
Suddenly, Tracy felt like a heel. "I'm sorry, Anthony. You're right, of course. You've been great—donating money to the building fund, buying tickets for the two of us today, which was totally unnecessary in my case. I shouldn't be so critical."
He leaned over and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "If you're jealous, darling, that's great. I love it."
"You would!" Watching the guests move through the buffet line, she continued more seriously. "But Anthony, you really are doing too much for me. Heavens, you even drive me to work every day."
"Am I overwhelming you, darling?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Well, you'll have to admit it is a bit much to be taken to Galveston in a private plane for a date."
"You mean you didn't have fun with me at the beach?"
"Urn ... I guess I do like the way you put on suntan lotion," she told him with a coy smile.
He winked at her. "That's my surfside manner."
She giggled. "What am I going to do with you, Anthony?"
"Shall I tell you in twenty-five words or less?"
"Yes, tell me in twenty-five words or less."
He chuckled, nodding toward the buffet table nearby. "Come on, darling, the line's thinning a bit and I'm starving."
"You're starving . . . would that be two of the twenty-five words?"
He laughed as he stood and pulled her to her feet. "When it comes to you, darling, that would be all of them."
After they'd finished eating, everyone gathered for dancing in the immaculately cleaned-up hangar where the Wests usually kept their private plane. The four-man western band was raucous and loud, but the guests, full of beer and barbecue, seemed to love the blaring music.
No sooner had Tracy and Anthony stepped into the brightly lit hangar than a bevy of women led by Tish attacked him. "Hi, Anthony!" they crooned, crowding around him. "How's Estelle?" a perky brown-eyed blonde inquired.
Tracy's eyes grew enormous when Anthony casually replied, "Oh, she's just fine."
"Tell her to call me the next time she's in town, will you, precious?" Tish put in.
"Sure thing," Anthony agreed amiably.
"And how's little Teddy?" Missy asked.
That did it! Tracy turned and told the pretty, freckle-faced girl sweetly, "Oh, don't worry, Missy. Anthony's setting up a trust fund for little Teddy's education."
While the unfortunate Missy stared blankly from Tracy to Anthony, the blonde, obviously faster on the uptake, said, "Hey, Anthony, wanna dance? You know I can't resist the two-step, sugar." Turning to Tracy, the girl added, "You don't mind, do you, hon?"
Not waiting for a reply, the blonde tugged Anthony off toward the dance floor, even as he valiantly sent Tracy a sheepish look over his shoulder. "Oh, he's such a gentleman," she muttered under her breath.
Thus the evening proceeded. Anthony did his best to dance with Tracy, but one woman after another cut in and dragged him off, cheerfully asking Tracy, "You don't mind, do you, hon?" At one point, when Tracy and Anthony had managed to snatch a few moments alone, he shook his head ruefully and told her, "Ah, the sacrifices we must make for this noble cause."
Of course, Tracy was busy during the evening as well. She didn't lack for dancing partners, and circulated widely among the guests, discussing her fund-raising as much as possible. Finally, however, the frustration of watching Anthony with his bevy of admirers became too much for her, and she went outside to cool off.
The moonlit night was warm and balmy, with a slight scent of honeysuckle drifting on the air and a sky full of glittering stars. Beyond the concrete apron where Tracy stood, Clayton West's plane cast its shadow on the runway. She knew she shouldn't be mad at Anthony, since neither one of them could afford to alienate anyone with money who might support the ballet. But, dammit, she was mad!
"Wishing on a star, darling?"
Tracy jumped as she felt Anthony's strong hands on her shoulders and heard his husky voice behind her. His hands parted her hair and his wonderful mouth touched her neck, making her shudder. "Don't tell me you managed to escape the honeysuckle vines?" she asked.
"You're mad at me, aren't you?"
"Me? Mad? Whatever gave you that idea?"
"Darling, I'm doing it for the ballet."
"Oh, yes, you're sacrificing yourself most heroically with all those beautiful women. Tell me, how did you meet them, anyway?"
"They're friends of Estelle's."
"Splendid." She shrugged out of his arms.
"Tracy, about Estelle . . ."he began lamely.
She whirled to face him. "Just save it, Anthony."
"Save it?"
"Stuff it, if you prefer."
Now he looked annoyed. "Look, Tracy, if you wouldn't be so stubbornly Irish, if you'd only listen to me for a minute, you'd realize that Estelle is absolutely no threat—"
"Hah!"
"And as for Tish and her friends, they all want to buy tickets for the Ellingtons' pool party."
"Oh, thank you enormously, Anthony. Will you be there too?"
'"We'll be there."
"You'll probably drown." Suddenly, Tracy laughed. The whole situation seemed absurd. "Tell me, Don Juan, is there any woman here tonight who doesn't want to jump into your bed?"
Now he looked amused too. "How 'bout you?"
"What do you mean, how 'bout me?"
"Do you want to jump into my bed?"
"I already sleep in it, remember?"
"I guess that makes it unanimous, then."
Before Tracy could respond, Tish came dashing out onto the concrete apron. "Anthony—precious—they're playing our song!" Grabbing Anthony, she whirled off with him, tossing over her shoulder the familiar, "You don't mind, do you, hon?"
"I mind." Tracy said the words through gritted teeth, but Tish and Anthony couldn't hear her. "I mind," she repeated to herself angrily, tapping her boot on the concrete.
Tracy strode back into the hangar and out into the sea of dancers. She located Tish and Anthony, tapped Tish on the shoulder, and said sweetly, "I mind, Tish."
Not giving the girl a chance to reply, Tracy firmly took Anthony's arm and pulled him away from the chagrined redhead. For a few moments she and Anthony waltzed in silence, even as he studied her with both humor and astonishment. Guess I shut him up! she told herself smugly.
They moved to the waltz as if they were made for each other, their bodies a perfect fit. Tracy held Anthony tightly to her, loving the feel of his muscular chest against her, the arousing warmth that always made her nipples tingle in response. She drank in his scent, and found it all the more enticing because of the slight essences of woodsmoke and sweat. She loved the way his dark eyes glittered with tenderness, the way the light fell on the handsome contours of his face and danced in his thick hair.
Finally, when they turned a corner and moved away from the cacophony of the band, he spoke. "Yes, you may, Tracy."
"I beg your pardon? Yes I may what?"
"Well, you asked, didn't you?"
"Asked for what?"
"For this dance." He laughed. "Don't you recognize the song, darling? It's 'May I Have This Dance for the Rest of My Life?' "
Tracy was quiet on the drive home, but didn't protest when Anthony asked to see her in. Upstairs, they stood awkwardly in her front room until finally he asked her, "Am I still in the doghouse, Tracy?"
She didn't reply, but found herself fighting hard not to smile. He looked so handsome in his snug jeans and well-fitting checked shirt, and his brown eyes were so sincere and vulnerable, she had to relent. "Well, I guess it's not your fault you're so irresistible—not totally, anyway."
"Look, Tracy, it would have taken a machete to fend off those females. And how do you think I felt when you were dancing with that banker to 'Baby's Got Her Blue Jeans On'?"
"Him? He was old enough to be my sugar daddy."
"That's what I was afraid of."
"Oh, the sacrifices we must make for this noble cause," she said dramatically, repeating his own words. "Even dancing with bankers to 'Baby's Got Her Blue Jeans On.' "
He took step closer to her. "Baby, if you could see what I see when I see you in your blue jeans, you'd never doubt whom I wanted to be with today—or tonight."
Her smile could no longer be repressed. "If I could see what you see when you see me in my blue jeans, I wouldn't feel the same way," she pointed out.
"That's true," he admitted, grinning.
"Tell me what you see when you see me in my blue jeans."
He shook his head. "Ask me instead what I want to do."
"What do you want to do when you see me in my blue jeans?"
"Tear them off you."
"Just my blue jeans?"
"Everything."
"Well, that could be arranged." When he didn't reply, but merely grinned at her lazily, she added, "You know, fella, you ain't bad in your get-up, either. If today proved anything to me, it sure showed me I have a hunk."
"You have me, all right. Body and soul."
"Really?" she teased. "I'm not so sure. Tonight you were more like Prince Charming at the ball, with a whole bevy of fair maidens to choose from."
"Perhaps this prince has already found the special princess he has been looking for all his life," he told her, a catch in his voice.
That did it! "Oh. Anthony!" In one dash she was across the room and in his arms, kissing him ravenously.
"Wow," he exclaimed, returning her kiss with equal ardor. Seconds later his voice came more seriously. "I guess today proved to both of us how hard it is for us to keep our hands off each other."
"Oh, yes. Was it that way for you too?"
"It was murder every second we were apart."
"Even when you were with Trish?"
"Tish. Especially then. She's so phony—and you're so genuine, so warm."
"You too. Um . . . Anthony?" She paused, then finally got up her nerve and asked, "Don't you think it's about time for us to finish what you started on my love seat?" When he pulled back and stared at her sternly, she added, "I mean—uh—it has been a number of weeks, you know."
"Tracy, what I started on your love seat might be all right for someone like Tish—"
"It certainly would not! You and Tish? On my love seat—"
"Look, I was only speaking metaphorically."
"I don't want you doing that with Tish metaphorically or otherwise!"
"Give me a break, babe." With an exasperated sigh he gripped her firmly by the shoulders. "What I'm trying to tell you if you'd just listen for a minute, is that a tryst on a love seat might be okay for a girl like Tish, but I want something much better than that for my special girl."
Tracy melted. "Could we try it on the bed, then?" she asked eagerly.
He chuckled and embraced her, but his trembling arms betrayed his feelings. "Why is it, Tracy, that as eager as you are to make love with me, I know there's something inside you that's still resisting me?"
"Resisting you?"
He drew back and searched her face with passionate eyes. "I don't feel that I know you quite well enough yet, darling. All the barriers aren't down.
Call it your stubborn streak, your armor, whatever. But I feel that there's something about you— perhaps a lot about you—that you're not telling me."
At his words, her heart beat erratically, and her bright blue eyes darted away guiltily. Instantly, he grasped her face in his strong hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. "There's something you're not telling me," he repeated. "And I want to know it all. You see, darling, it's not enough to be inside you physically. I want to share your mind, your heart, your soul."
His electrifying words sent flames shooting through her. "Oh, Anthony, that sounds incredible."
"It will be. When the moment is right." His words came like groans, and his arms tightened. "It's going to be so right, so good. ..."
"It's good now."
"I want to wait until we're both dying for it, until neither of us can stand it. ..."
"I can't stand it now."
"I want us to be tearing at each other's clothes. ..."
"I'm ready to tear at yours. ..."
"That's wonderful, princess. Good night."
That's wonderful, princess? Good night? Had he actually said those words to her, planted that chaste kiss on her brow? And left? At last reality penetrated her hazy, passion-drugged mind. Yes, he was gone; the soft click of her door attested to his exit. Their date had ended like so many others had recently—in an inferno of frustration. What in heaven's name was he waiting for?
Tracy rushed outside and peered over the balcony in the darkness, searching for him. He wanted all the barriers down, yet he hadn't even explained about the mysterious Estelle! "Where are you going, Anthony?" she called out. "To find Estelle? Or Tish?"
He didn't hear her. He was already far away, walking toward his car, with the moonlight shining on his beautiful hair like a halo.
Seven
"You mean you need a hundred dollars for a book on peptic ulcers? I sure the heck wouldn't pay that much to look at the inside of someone's stomach."
It was a week later, and Tracy was in her small office at the Houston Repertory Company, talking on the phone with her brother, Rick. "Oh, okay," she went on after he moaned in reply. "Now you're making me feel like Ebenezer Scrooge. I know you have to have the book and I know you hate to ask. I'll get the check in the mail to you tomorrow. But please learn all you can about gastroenterology, will you? I think you're giving me an ulcer. Right, right, just kidding. Take care, brother."
Tracy replaced the phone in its cradle with a sigh and leaned back in her swivel chair, stretching taut neck and back muscles. She had felt a kink slowly tightening in her neck as she spoke with her brother. She couldn't blame Rick; he seemed to study ninety hours a week and held down a part-time job as well. Their mother was living on a meager fixed income and couldn't help her son at all.
So Tracy did what she could to assist her older brother.
But it wouldn't be easy this time, especially not with the other expense she had coming up this afternoon. ...
Tracy sighed and turned her chair toward the window. It was late morning and the sun was sifting through the towering canopy of pine and oak trees outside, showering the ground below with patchwork patterns of light. Tracy loved working in this building; her office was isolated at one end of the structure, far removed from the sounds of the repetitive practice music and ballet instructors calling out the names of steps and positions. Whenever she felt tense or preoccupied, all she had to do was to turn in her chair for a moment and absorb the beauty of the scene outside. Soon her troubled mind would be at peace again.
Tracy thought with pride of her accomplishments at work during the past couple of months. First, she had gotten acquainted with all the employees and students of the company, had audited classes and had attended a summer workshop taught by a guest instructor from the American Ballet Theatre in New York. By the time she made her first talk show appearance in behalf of the company, she was thoroughly prepared to champion its cause. Donations and pledges for the new performance theater had begun rolling in as soon as the program aired. In the coming months Tracy would proceed with her mail campaign, arrange for magazine and newspaper articles, organize a telethon using ballet guild volunteers, and finalize arrangements for the benefits that were slated to follow the one she and Anthony had attended the week before.
Anthony. Even when she thought of him in connection with work, her pulses surged. She had seen him a number of times since the Wests' barbecue, but that "magic moment" he had spoken of had yet to arrive. What was it he wanted from her first? she often wondered.
Sometimes, when she remembered his words about wanting no barriers between them, about waiting until he knew her in every way, she got a funny, trapped feeling. Yes, she was aching to have a passionate love affair with him, and yes, his words on the night of the party had sounded so sexy, so sweet. . . but if he was determined to infiltrate every aspect of her life, she was not going to cooperate!
She also hated feeling indebted to him for driving her to work every day. At least that particular problem would be solved by a step she was going to take later in the day, a step that would grievously strain her finances, but one that was nonetheless necessary. She had to have her independence. Perhaps what she needed was to remove herself from Anthony a bit, to gain some objectivity.
"Sitting down on the job, Trace?"
Tracy was snatched from her thoughts by Alan Sanderson's voice. She turned in her chair to see the ballet's principal male dancer standing in the open doorway to her office. Alan was a handsome man in his mid-twenties, with black hair and almost unnaturally bright, compelling blue eyes. He had the magnificent physique of a dancer, which was currently displayed to perfection by his form-hugging black unitard. Alan, however, seemed more interested in Tracy's clothing, for his gaze paused on the hint of cleavage exposed by the V neck of her tailored blue shirt, then quickly shifted to the tanned expanse of leg below the hem of her straight khaki skirt.
"Alan, I didn't even hear you come in," she told him with a smile. "Through with your class?"
He shook his head ruefully as he entered the small room and drew closer. "I wish I were— permanently. I still have four more weeks with those little darlings. They can't do anything but fall all over themselves, giggle, and chew gum. I warned Linda not to stick me with Ballet One, but did she listen? No. And all because she can't abide the little monsters." Finished with his tirade, he plopped himself atop Tracy's desk.
Tracy struggled not to laugh. It was well known around the company that Alan was the one who had virtually no patience with the young ballerinas. Tracy knew that ballet was a rigorous discipline and not for the thin-skinned or weak-willed, but it bothered her that she had seen him reduce more than one sensitive girl to tears, when perhaps a firm but kind word would have done just as well. And Alan's comments about Linda Eckhardt, the artistic director, were downright unfair.
"Hey, Earth calling Tracy." Alan's voice cut into Tracy's thoughts, and she glanced up to see him studying her with a puzzled look. "Where are you this morning, kid?" he asked. "Off in fantasyland, dreaming about Prince Charming?"
"What makes you think that?" she countered.
"Oh, nothing much. You're only with that guy twenty-four hours a day. "
Tracy smiled. She and Alan had become casual friends, and he never failed to notice how much time she spent with Anthony. "Well, we don't have any definite commitment," she pointed out.
"Good. Then why don't you go out with me, Tracy? I've asked you only five hundred times."
"Five hundred?" Tracy echoed incredulously. "Don't you think that's just a bit of an exaggeration?" Inwardly, however, she realized she was only dodging the issue with Alan. She liked him as a friend, but couldn't conceive of dating him.
"Have mercy on me, will you, Trace?" Alan continued. "How would you like to be stuck all morning with fifteen gangly geese, all of whom have two left feet?"
"Alan," she admonished with a smile, "what kind of attitude is that for one of our instructors to take? I'm certainly glad you're not writing any of my press releases." Then she added, "Say, I haven't even asked you why you came in here."
"You know that, Tracy. To take you to pick up your car."
"Oh, yes, right." She laughed. "You had me so distracted, I almost forgot."
"Our campaign is beginning to vork after all," he said with a leer and a mock German accent. "Ze female iss distracted."
"Oh, Alan!" She glanced at her watch. "But aren't you rather early? I thought we agreed on one o'clock, and it's just eleven-thirty."
"I'm taking you to lunch first," he announced, adding, "as soon as I change, of course."
Eyeing his unitard, she giggled. "You mean you're not going to do grand jetes all over the restaurant?" At his groan, she continued more seriously. "Alan, it's very kind of you to offer to take me to lunch, but you're doing enough by taking me to the car dealership. Besides, I've a number of things to do here—"
"Nonsense, Trace, you work too hard," he interrupted smoothly. "You know, the association is impressed with results, not hours, and you've already accomplished enough for your entire tour of duty here. Besides," he added melodramatically, "if you want to pick up your car, my dear, you're simply going to have to endure lunch with me first. I'm starving."
Alan's words left her little choice. It would be downright rude of her to expect Alan to take her to the dealership before he had something to eat. "I'd be delighted to have lunch with you, Alan," she found herself telling him.
"Enjoy your car. miss."
Waving at the salesman, Tracy proudly steered her car out of the used car lot and headed back toward Memorial Drive and the Houston Repertory Company. She shifted gears gently and drove with extreme caution. The car might have 50,000 miles on it, and it might be an economy sub-compact, but it was Tracy's pride and joy. Wouldn't Anthony be surprised!
She thought of him as she turned onto Memorial Drive. She was going to his house later in the day. After hearing her brag of her chicken surprise, he had invited her over to cook for him tonight. Instead of giving him a definite time to pick her up, she had promised to call him when she was ready to leave work. Her game plan was to drive up to his house and surprise him with more than just chicken!
She was excited about the evening for another reason as well: She and Anthony would be totally alone. Anthony had a live-in housekeeper, but since Tracy was coming over to cook this evening, Mrs. Hernandez would be spending the night with her son and his family in Richmond, about twenty miles away. Tracy and Anthony would be truly by themselves in an intimate setting. It made her wonder what surprises he might have in store for her. That "magic moment" could be closer than she thought!
"Oh no!" Tracy suddenly exclaimed. Her thoughts had drawn her attention from the road for an instant, and she had to brake vigorously to avoid hitting a station wagon in front of her. The tires squealed loudly, and though she didn't hit the wagon, the brakes reacted rather sluggishly. That was strange, since the salesman had told her the brake linings had just been replaced. Oh, well, she remembered her father once saying something about new brakes having to harden up.
Tracy went back to work for a few more hours, then hurried home to bathe and dress. Afterward, she stood at the mirror and surveyed herself approvingly. She was wearing pleated white shorts and a turquoise vest of knitted cotton. The vest hugged her like a glove, showing off her slim torso and firm breasts, while the white shorts contrasted nicely with the deep tan of her legs. Anthony liked her legs; let him be tempted tonight, she thought with a smile.
Tracy left her apartment and drove off toward Anthony's home, stopping at the grocery store to buy the ingredients for their dinner. His address was in a wealthy section of Memorial just east of the area where the Houston Repertory Company was located. Soon she was turning onto a quiet side street and approaching his house, a large brick contemporary on a huge, shady lot. Tracy was feeling positively elated as she turned into the long driveway, and she drove a bit faster than she should have. She rounded the house and pressed on the brakes as she approached the garage. The pedal held for a split-second then plunged straight to the floor!
The brakes didn't slow her down at all, but Anthony's BMW did!
Tracy felt her body fly forward as she absorbed the force of metal grinding against metal. Her forehead hit the steering wheel and she tasted blood in her mouth. For an instant she felt dizzy, almost nauseated, then she was thrown back against the headrest.
She blinked, trying to gain her bearings. The first thing she saw was the back door of Anthony's house flying open. Anthony tore outside, quickly took in the scene, then rushed toward the car. He opened her door and stared at her speechlessly.
She grinned crookedly and said with a hysterical giggle, "Surprise!"
He said something in Italian, then asked hoarsely, "Are you all right?"
"I think so," she replied bravely, if shakily. "Tell me, did your father teach you how to curse?"
"What is this?" he asked, ignoring her comment.
"This?" she echoed weakly.
He reached over her, turned off the ignition, and then straightened, gesturing toward the two locked cars. "This."
"It's my new car," she replied, feeling lightheaded. "I think it's having a love affair with your BMW."
More Italian sputtered forth before he asked worriedly, "Can you be moved?"
"Well, of course I can be moved, you nut." She laughed and got out of the car to demonstrate her point. Instantly, her head felt as if it had just been slammed by a sledgehammer. She tottered and he grabbed her, holding her firmly against him, his eyes wild with concern.
"Good Lord," he said, studying her forehead, "I can see the beginnings of a goose egg already. Weren't wearing your seat belt, were you, Tracy?"
"Well, I—no—" * "Just as I thought. Damn, that's a nasty-looking bruise. You may have a concussion."
"A concussion? Anthony, don't be ridiculous, of course I don't have a—"
But then he saw her mouth. "You're bleeding!"
"For heaven's sake, Anthony, I only bit my lip. Don't you think you're being a bit irrational about this?"
"Who did this to you?" he demanded.
"Did this?"
He pointed at her smashed-up car. "What idiot sold you this heap of junk?"
Now she was enraged. "Idiot? Heap of junk? If it's a heap of junk, that's not saying much for my judgment!"
"Sweetheart, I think your judgment speaks for itself," he replied sarcastically with a nod at the two locked cars. His voice was filled with anger when he went on. "Now, tell me who foisted this jalopy on you. The sooner he's behind bars, the better."
"Behind bars? Are you crazy?"
"You could have been killed," he said hoarsely. "What if you'd been near a ravine or something?"
"Oh, yes, there are so many mountain passes between your house and mine," she replied sweetly. She had to smile at his bizarre logic, since Houston was so utterly flat.
"We're going to take it back," he went on vehemently, ignoring her.
"It?"
"The car. We'll get X rays on the way."
Her jaw dropped. "X rays of the car?"
"No. Of your head."
"You're telling me I need my head examined?"
"Precisely."
"What a despicable thing to say!"
"You could have a fractured skull or something."
"Anthony! I'm just about ready to fracture your skull. I don't need my head examined."
"Better safe than sorry. We'll have your lip looked at too."
Her voice shook as she spoke. "Oh, by all means. Let's get X rays, stitches, crutches, and we mustn't forget to schedule my orthopedic surgery."
"Now I'm sure you have a concussion, the way you're babbling."
"Anthony, for heaven's sake!" Never had she felt so exasperated with him.
"Come on, we're going," he continued, motioning for her to get in.
She sighed and did as he bid. "In the passenger seat," he scolded, "with your seat belt on. You're not driving this car with a concussion."
"Anthony, I don't have a damn—oh, forget it, you're impossible. Look, if we have to go back to the car dealership, can't we at least put my groceries away first?"
He got in beside her. "Groceries? You're talking about groceries at a time like this?"
"Yes! Don't you remember that I'm cooking dinner for you tonight? The chicken's in the back seat."
"Doubtless it has broken bones," he snapped.
"And a concussion," she snapped back.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Anthony climbed out of the car. He located the grocery bag, which was leaning against the front seat. After flipping the front seat forward and pushing the bag back, he grimaced at the stain spreading down the brown paper. He shook his head as he pulled out a head of Romaine lettuce covered with raw egg and flecks of eggshell. "I see the Caesar salad is already prepared," he remarked dryly.
"Should we have the chicken X-rayed too?" she asked, feeling giddy again.
He looked at her, horrified. "I hope the damage isn't permanent."
"Oh, it is, believe me."
He grabbed the bag and shook a finger at her. "Don't you dare move. I'll be right back with some ice."
"Ice? You mean you're not calling the paramedics? I might need a transfusion, you know."
Shaking his head, he took the groceries into the house and soon returned. He got into the car beside her, handed her an ice pack, and turned the ignition key. He shifted the car into reverse and backed gently. The two cars separated with a groan, and he eased to a stop. "Damn, these brakes are mushy as hell. No wonder they failed on the driveway," he muttered. He shifted into neutral and at last surveyed the damage to his BMW. "I guess we'd better leave. You don't want to see a grown man cry."
On the way to the car dealership Tracy somehow managed to convince Anthony not to stop at the hospital. But there was no way to deter him from confronting the salesman at the used car lot.
Tracy truly felt sorry for the young salesman. Anthony ranted and raved about Tracy's life being endangered. "This is the woman I'm planning to marry," he shouted. "She could have been killed!" He pounded his hand on the car's crumpled hood for emphasis, making both Tracy and the salesman jump. "I guess you guys really saw her coming, didn't you?" he demanded.
Tracy gritted her teeth while the salesman patiently explained. "Sir, we just had the brakes replaced on that car. It must be some sort of adjustment problem."
"You idiots should have your heads adjusted," Anthony retorted. "The car has virtually no brakes at all. The pedal hit the floorboard twice coming over here and I had to pull the emergency brake. I wonder what the Better Business Bureau will think of this?"
The salesman began loosening his tie. "Sir, that won't be necessary. Surely we can work something out—"
Anthony noisily opened the car's hood—no mean feat considering the damage—and surveyed the interior grimly. "Look at this," he said disgustedly. "Frayed hoses and belts, oil all over the place." He turned to the salesman angrily. "What are you guys trying to pull?"
The young man ran a hand through his brown hair. "Sir, it's an older car. There is bound to be some minor oil leakage."
"It looks more like the Great Flood." The car's hood ground closed with the horrible sound of metal defying metal. "This jalopy isn't ready for anything but the scrap heap. So what are you guys going to do about it? Or should the young lady and I go directly to my lawyers?"
Tracy could have crawled right under the car, and the salesman looked stunned. She felt compelled to explain to the young man. "I think he's mad because it was his BMW that stopped my car."
"No." Anthony contradicted hotly, "I'm angry because my fiancee was hurt by your negligence, and it's a miracle she wasn't seriously injured."
Tracy was flabbergasted by Anthony's repeated assertion that she was his fiancee, but there was no opportunity to correct him. The chagrined salesman was talking a mile a minute in an attempt to salvage the situation. "Okay, sir, you've made your point. The young lady can have her money back, no questions asked. As a matter of fact"—he glanced around the lot—"we just got in a new little number this morning. Purrs like a kitten and it's much newer than the model the young lady purchased. A bit more expensive, but..."
"Do you really think we're going to trust you again?" Anthony asked incredulously.
"Anthony, please," Tracy begged. "Do you have to be so hard-nosed about all of this? I do need a car. you know. Can't we take a look at it at least?"
Grudgingly, Anthony went with Tracy and the salesman to the other car. As soon as she saw it Tracy's heart melted. It, too, was a small foreign sub-compact, but it was in so much better condition than the one she had purchased. Whereas the other car had been a dull, nondescript tan, this one was a shiny metallic blue. There was not a scratch on it, and it looked as if it could not be more than two years old.
Anthony, however, looked unimpressed. He opened the door and checked the odometer. "Twenty-two thousand miles—not bad if it hasn't been altered," he said.
Tracy groaned and bit her lip, offering the ashen-faced salesman a frozen smile. In the next few minutes Anthony checked the car out thoroughly, inside and out, looking under the hood, crawling beneath the car to check for leaks and exhaust problems, examining the tires, and finally taking it for a test drive. "Okay," he told the salesman when he returned, "you may have something with this one. Now I want to see the sales contract the young lady signed."
"Anthony!" Tracy glared at him, but his stern look instantly silenced her.
Anthony examined the contract with a deep scowl on his face. "Well, the price seems about right," he finally said, "for the newer model."
The young man's jaw dropped. "Sir, you can't mean—"
"If you return the young lady's down payment, of course."
"Sir, I don't think we can—"
"And lower the percentage on the loan—oh, three points. As a matter of fact, maybe I'll just write a check for it so we can be done with you people permanently."
"Anthony, you will not!"
Anthony shrugged. "You heard the young lady," he told the salesman. "You'll just have to lower the percentage rate and return her down payment."
"Sir, I'm afraid your terms will be impossible—"
Anthony summarily handed the young man the contract. "I knew we should have gone straight to my attorneys."
"I'll speak to my boss," the man said.
The salesman tore off, leaving Tracy and Anthony to glare at each other in stormy silence. Within minutes the young man returned, explaining hastily that the deal had been approved. "And regarding your BMW, sir, my boss said if you'll just bring it by—"
"I wouldn't let you touch it with a forty-foot pole."
In due course the changeover was made, and Tracy and Anthony left in the new car, with him driving. As soon as they were a block away from the dealership, she exploded. "Dammit, Delano, how could you do that to me back there? You made me look like an imbecile! I don't want another mother, you know!"
"Tracy," he replied with infuriating calm, "I assure you, darling, my instincts toward you are far from maternal."
Tracy blushed brilliantly, but was far from placated. "Alan told me the Japanese make wonderful cars."
"They do, but any piece of machinery will break down if abused. And who the hell is Alan?"
"The company's principal dancer."
"And when did Alan tell you this?"
"Over lunch, before he took me to pick up the car. Alan was hungry."
"I'll just bet he was. Dammit, Tracy, why didn't you ask me to go with you? I know a lot about mechanics, you know."
"Has it occurred to you, Delano, that maybe I want to fight my own battles, make my own mistakes?"
"You sure made a lulu of a mistake this time, sweetheart."
Tracy turned away, furious, and watched the lush green landscape flash by as they moved through Memorial. Her head was beginning to throb and she felt perilously close to tears. She had been so proud of herself when she'd purchased the car, and now the episode had ended in total disaster.
As they pulled into Anthony's driveway she knew she was not far from breaking down entirely. Then she saw his car with its crumpled rear end, and her heart sank. Fighting for control, she told him tersely, "Anthony, I want to go home."
"Tracy, what are you saying?"
He had braked the new car to a stop on the driveway, and she blurted out miserably, "My head hurts, dammit. Will you please get out of my car so I can go home?" Never had she felt so close to succumbing to heartbroken sobs.
"No," he replied tersely. He opened his door. As he got out she reached for the key, but found he had taken it. Seconds later he was at her side opening her door. "Okay, Tracy, what is it?"
"I want to go home!"
With surprising gentleness he pulled her out of the car and into his arms. "You're home now, darling," he whispered into her hair. It was the last straw. She began to weep as if her heart were breaking.
"What is it?" he asked, looking aghast. "Damn, I knew I should have taken you to a doctor."
"No, no it's not that, it's—"
"What?" he demanded.
"Your car!" she sobbed.
"My car?"
"Just look at it!" she wailed. "It's two feet shorter. Oh, what a disaster this is!"
He pivoted toward his car, still holding her. "Well, my car has looked better."
"I was j-just—" she stammered, "so mad at you for taking over that I forgot all about your car. No wonder you were so angry."
"No," he denied vehemently, "I was angry because the thought of you being hurt drove me wild." And he brought his mouth down on hers.
She clung to him, still dizzy, but no longer because of the bump on her forehead, and he kissed her tears away. "But your car," she said shakily. "I arranged for insurance this morning, and I'm sure it will pay—"
"No, don't give it a thought," he insisted. "I'll give my insurance agent a call shortly. Besides," he added, "I always pay for all my guests' damages. If you want to take an ax to my atrium next, that's fine too."
"Oh, Anthony!" She couldn't help laughing. "I don't care what you say, though, I'm contacting my insurance agent about this. And furthermore, I still don't like the way you're trying to take over my life."
"You're a public menace, Tracy," he told her, his mouth against her throat. "Someone must keep you off the streets."
"Off the streets! Now you're making it sound as if—as if someone needs to make an honest woman of me."
"Precisely." He kissed her again and she forgot what they were arguing about. "Do you really want to go home?" he cajoled. "You know, you promised to cook me that chicken. That is, if your head isn't bothering you."
"My head is spinning," she said without thinking.
He laughed. "What about the chicken?"
"It has broken bones," she reminded him.
"And a concussion," he added, chuckling.
"Oh, okay. We'll see if we can salvage it."
He led her to the back door, but she gasped in dismay as he turned his back on her to insert the key. "Oh, Anthony, your pants!"
He opened the door and turned to her, looking curious as he glanced down at his tan slacks. "What about my pants?"
"There's grease on the back of them—oh, dear, you never should have climbed under that car."
"Still trying to get my pants off, aren't you?" he teased.
She blushed profusely and gave herself away.
"Ah-ha! Caught you!" He laughed triumphantly, pulling her into the house and back into his waiting arms.
Eight
Tracy awakened in Anthony's bed.
She sat up, stretching, and looked around the large room. It was tastefully done in cool beiges and warm browns. Beyond her was a huge panel of glass with a view of the backyard, with its towering trees surrounding an inviting free-form pool.
Looking down, she noticed that she wore only her panties and one of Anthony's T-shirts. Yawning, she got out of bed and padded barefoot into the hallway to look for him. Not for the first time, she paused to admire his house. The spacious living room was positioned in the center of the house, with a large fireplace on one interior wall. Directly opposite, French doors opened onto the cabana and pool area.
She loved this house, loved the way it was laid out. Anthony had told her he had designed the house himself, with the help of an architect, and she supposed she loved it most because it reflected his personality: warm, dynamic, enticing. She could get lost here, in his bed, in his T-shirt, in his arms. . . .
She crossed the dark, dramatic Persian rug on the living room floor, then continued toward the kitchen. Something smelled heavenly. She entered the room and couldn't suppress a giggle when she spotted Anthony at the cooking island, a pair of tongs in his hand, a chefs apron around his waist, and a scowl lining his handsome face. "You're cooking?" she asked.
"About time you got up, sleepyhead. If you aren't a sight for sore eyes. As for my cooking, what kind of sexist remark is that, Miss O'Brien?"
She laughed. "I was supposed to cook, silly."
"You were indisposed," he reminded her. Leaning over, he took the lid off the skillet and took a whiff. "Not a bad job, if I do say so myself."
She walked over to join him. "That looks like chicken surprise, all right. But how . . . ?"
"You were taking out the recipe just as you got dizzy," he reminded her. He laid aside the tongs and turned to take her in his arms. "How are you feeling, darling?"
She looked up at his concerned face. "The aspirin and the nap helped. It was sweet of you to carry me to the bedroom, although I could have used some help undressing," she taunted, wrinkling her nose at him.
"A gentleman never takes advantage of a dizzy blonde," he returned huskily. "But sweetheart, about your head," he added more seriously. "Look, I know a good neurologist—"
"Will you stop it, Anthony?" Irritably, she moved out of his arms.
"I guess I'm going to have to marry you to keep you in line," he growled back. Turning away from her, he began chopping a green pepper.
"You would, just to get your way," she teased, not really believing him.
While he worked she took a moment to admire the huge kitchen in which they stood. The butcher-block countertops complemented custom-built oak cabinets. She stepped into the archway leading to the dining room and glimpsed the contemporary glass table set for two, with flickering candles and a long-stemmed yellow rose in a crystal vase in the center. She walked back to Anthony's side. "Oh, Anthony, the table's so lovely."
Abruptly, he turned and pulled her into his arms with a groan. "Are you really feeling okay now, darling?"
"Yes, silly. If the chicken can make it through that accident and still be edible, so can I." Realizing what she'd just said, she blushed and added, "I mean—"
"Oh, you're edible, all right." He chuckled and kissed her. His mouth was very warm and tasted slightly of scotch. She curled her arms around his neck. Seconds later he drew back and studied her, his eyes gleaming with passionate intensity. "You in my T-shirt with that mussed-up hair," he said hoarsely. Shaking his head, he whistled, then lifted her onto the countertop. "There. Sit right there so that I can admire your legs while I cook. On second thought," he amended hastily, "you'd better go get dressed before I decide to have you for dinner."
"Would that be such a crime?" she asked.
He hooked his hands beneath her arms and lowered her to the floor, swatting her playfully on the bottom. "Get out of here, Tracy."
She laughed and went off to dress in her shorts and sweater.
Later, as they sat in the dining room eating their dinner, she said to him, "You know, I hadn't given this too much thought before, but I do think you have a rather intense streak, Anthony."
"Intense?" he asked, grinning at her over the candlelit table.
"Intense," she repeated. "You know, hot-blooded. "
"Oh, yes, I'm a hot-blooded Italian. You've told me as much before. Look, Tracy, I wasn't that bad today."
"Baloney!" she cried. "You took over everything, made all my decisions."
"Someone needed to."
"See? Now you're defending your Marine tactics! You were a veritable bulldozer—with me, with the salesman."
"If I was bull-headed, then perhaps, miss, you were pig-headed."
"Pig-headed? What a rotten thing to say!"
"Okay, try stubborn, impossible, intractable— you can have your pick."
"Anthony, it's my life, and the car I drive is my choice."
"You know, Tracy," he went on with infuriating patience, "there's a difference between being independent and behaving foolishly."
"Foolish? Now I'm being foolish?"
"You wouldn't want me to stay 'stupid,' now, would you?" he asked with a maddening grin. Before she could choke out a retort, he went on smoothly. "If you and I were on a boat together and you fell overboard, I bet you'd drown rather than ask me to throw you a life preserver."
"Anthony, what are you saying? I was hardly drowning."
"No, you were only bashing into the back of my BMW and almost getting yourself killed. "
"Killed, indeed! I still don't understand what you're saying," she said exasperatedly.
"Why didn't you ask me for help in selecting the car? As I told you, I know a great deal about mechanics."
"I hadn't thought—"
"No, you hadn't thought. And you didn't ask because you're too damn proud to ask for help. Well, don't expect me to stand idly by in the future while you bring disaster down upon yourself as you did today."
Now Tracy was furious. "Bring disaster down upon myself? What do you think you did? Maybe I didn't ask you for help because I figured you'd pull something like that humiliating scene at the used car lot today. If anything was disastrous, it was your conduct."
"Now you don't even sound grateful," he pointed out. "You know, you could still be stuck with that heap of junk, if not for me."
"I think I'd prefer my heap of junk—and my pride."
"You would." He was grinning, and she blushed when she realized she had just played into his hand, proving the truth of his statements about her pride. All at once she did feel foolish, extremely foolish. He was right. She should have asked him for help.
After a moment she ventured, "Anthony, about the car ... I really am grateful you got me the better model. It's just that you were so warlike about the whole thing."
"There are times when one must be aggressive, Tracy, and today was a classic example of one of them." He grinned. "Sometimes it pays to have a nasty boyfriend, doesn't it?"
"Well, maybe," she hedged. "Anyway, I'll have to find a way to pay you back."
"Oh, you will. Now you can chauffeur me around while my BMW is being repaired."
She laughed, and the tension between them dissolved.
"How's your chicken?" he asked her.
"Delectable," she said, cutting a morsel. The chicken had been cooked in a rich sauce, with rice, mushrooms, and green pepper. "My hat's off to the chef. I couldn't have done a better job myself." She took a bite. "We've been through a lot, this chicken and I."
He laughed and poured her more white wine.
"Tell me," she asked a few minutes later, "how did you come to learn so much about mechanics?"
"Oh, today was hardly my first experience with a used car lot. In fact, I know several very good used car lot operators I'd be happy to introduce you to."
"You've made your point, Anthony," she said with a groan.
He chuckled. "How did I come to learn so much about mechanics?" he repeated thoughtfully. "I guess my father was a believer in that old maxim 'What we gain too easily, we esteem not.' He didn't believe in just handing his kids things on a silver platter—even though he could have—so when it came time for me to have my first car, I had to earn the money to buy it. After I bought it, I had to maintain it."
Tracy listened to Anthony with great interest. In some ways their backgrounds were not so dissimilar after all. "Your father sounds like a very interesting person. Was he in the furniture business too?"
"No, not at all," Anthony replied. "Dad made his fortune in the import-export business, though of course there were some furnishings and objets d'art involved. The furniture business was entirely my idea. Dad did shock me, however, by making a very generous contribution to get me started. But I paid him back every cent of it later."
"That says a lot for you both. Did you inherit your—um—intense streak from your father?"
Anthony's dark eyes sparkled. "This intensity of mine seems to hold some sort of fascination for you." He stroked the stem of his wineglass thoughtfully and winked at her. "We may just have to do something about that. But to answer your question, yes, I did inherit my intense streak from him, I suppose." He grinned sheepishly. "If you think I was bad today, Tracy, you should see Dad with Mother. I'll never forget the time when I was six and Mother went horseback riding with some friends without Dad's permission—"
"Horseback riding? What was so awful about that?"
"Mom was pregnant at the time."
"Oh."
"Anyway, you never heard such goings-on as when Mother got home. My father shouting, my mother going to their room and slamming the door—"
"Were these altercations frequent at your home?"
"I think my parents rather enjoyed fighting just so they could make up." He smiled. "Mother usually ended up seeing things Dad's way."
"I mean this with no disrespect for your mother, Anthony, but that doesn't sound like a very modern attitude."
"Modern?" His grin was maddeningly triumphant. "But Tracy, Dad was always right."
"Anthony!" How could he be so utterly rotten, and so irresistibly charming, all at once! "Is that another attribute you've inherited from your father? Always being right?"
"Of course. You know, Tracy, as much as you talk about being modern and liberated and all that, I really think things don't change that much." Holding up a hand at her shocked expression, he quickly amended, "Oh, women have made some remarkable and well-deserved strides forward, particularly in the workplace. But the dynamics of a relationship between a man and a woman . . . that's something else again. As time goes on we attach different labels, perhaps. But men will always be men, women always women, and love . . . will always be love." His voice drifted off; then he asked with a firmness that startled her, "Tracy?"
"Yes?"
"I don't want you to choose a car again without asking for my help."
"Oh, all right."
"And I don't want you to have lunch with Alan again."
"Now, wait a minute—"
"Ever again."
"Delano, give me a break, will you? You're like something out of the last century, charging in here on your white steed and sweeping away fair maidens."
"I think I know what's best for you, Tracy, and I think I know how to take care of you."
"That makes two of us," she returned flippantly.
"I didn't like the idea of your nearly being killed today." His voice was husky with emotion.
"Yes, I could be lying in a ravine somewhere at this very moment—"
"What is it going to take to get you to listen to me?"
"Well"—now her expression was maddeningly triumphant—"we could always have a terrible fight and then make up, though I won't guarantee I'll see things your way afterward."
He fought a grin and lost. "Touche."
"Have you heard the old maxim 'When in doubt, slug it out'?" she asked, now thoroughly enjoying herself. "And there's another one: 'Let's get physical.' "
His grin widened. "We might just try that for a round or two."
"Nah!" she jeered. "You're too busy waiting for that ever-elusive moment when the time is right."
"Perhaps I just want to savor you like a fine wine," he said, taking a sip.
"Wine improves with age. I'll only get wrinkles."
"You'll get better."
"I'll get wrinkles. You'll have to push me to the bedroom in a wheelchair."
He was having fun, too, now. "We'll have wheelchair races, then. I'll chase you around the bed."
"Fat chance. I should live that long. You'll never find that perfect moment."
"Come here," he said.
"What?"
"You heard me. Come here."
Cautiously, she got up and went around to his side of the table. She looked down at him with eager, expectant eyes. "Damned if you aren't irresistible," he said raggedly.
He pulled her into his lap and kissed her, startling her with his passion, with the boldness of his lips, his tongue. When one of his hands slid up the silky inside of her leg, she almost came unglued. After a moment he pulled back, resting her neck in the crook of his arm as he looked down at her dreamily. "Perhaps the moment is—"
"Is what?"
"Right."
"When?"
"Tonight."
She reached out to stroke the slightly rough texture of his cheek. "So you know all about mechanics, you with your intense streak. Tell me, what else do you know all about?"
"Take my hand and perhaps I'll show you."
She took his hand.
"Maybe I just zigged when I should have zagged," Tracy said.
It was some time later, and Tracy was again in Anthony's bed, this time with nothing on except the sheet. Yet this time, instead of feeling languorous and happy, she felt miserable. Nearby, Anthony was pacing in his hastily donned trousers. His chest was bare, his handsome face tight with frustration and concern. His tanned torso was beautiful, and the golden matting of hair on his chest was almost irresistible. Never had he looked so desirable—and never had she felt so undesirable.
"Don't give me that baloney, Tracy," he scolded. "I know I was hurting you."
"Yes, you were hurting me and now you're humiliating me!" she cried, turning away to hide her smarting eyes. It was almost impossible not to cry when images of the two of them naked on the bed drifted through her mind. Having his warm male body next to hers had been the most beautiful experience she'd ever known in her life; then all at once the spell had been shattered. All she had done was flinch slightly, and he was gone. Suddenly, his trousers were on, the room was brightly lit, and he was demanding to know what the problem was. Remembering his question, she clutched the sheet and turned farther away. "I thought a gentleman wasn't supposed to ask these things," she said miserably.
He came to her side and took her in his arms, holding her gently. "Darling, this gentleman very much wants to know the truth."
"You don't want me," she accused, sniffing.
"Of course I want you," he denied hoarsely, burying his lips in her hair.
"Then why are you doing this to me?"
He pulled back and lifted her chin with his fingertips. "Because if this is your first time with a man, I want you to tell me."
"Why should that make any difference?"
"If you're implying that I wouldn't want you if you'd been with a man before, Tracy, you're entirely wrong. But if this is your first time, I think I have a right to know that."
"Oh, I give up. Yes, you're right," she said wretchedly.
"I'm right that I should know?"
"No, you're right that"—she turned away in embarrassment—"you're right that I haven't been with a man before."
He smiled tenderly, almost exultantly, at her words. "My head just shot through the ceiling." Then he sobered. "But I'm very curious, Tracy. Why did you want to give me the impression that you were much more experienced? Why did you tell me, for instance, that they call you Racy Tracy?"
She sighed. "The kids in school called me that in a sort of ironic sense, I suppose. The truth is, I'm not racy at all. It was impossible in the small town where I grew up. One time I went a little too far with a guy on a date, and the next day it was all over town. I think perhaps even Mother heard, though she never let on. That was the beginning— and the end—of my attempt to be a swinger." she concluded ruefully.
Anthony got to his feet, scowling, and again began to pace distractedly. "This changes things," he said dramatically. "What do you mean, this changes things?" "I think we should wait until we get married." "What?" she asked incredulously. "I thought that attitude went out with the Dark Ages."
He came to her side again and took her hand. His eyes had never been more intense or sincere as he said, "Tracy, I love you, I want you to be my wife, and—I'm glad that you're not racy."
The words I love you just about melted her, but she couldn't drop her defenses yet. "You mean you want to marry me just because you found out I'm—I'm a virgin?" "No, I wanted to marry you anyway." She lowered her eyes, fighting tears again. Half of her wanted to throw her arms around him and agree to anything. Yet the other half still wanted to assert her independence, the independence she had never been able to enjoy before. She thought over her next words carefully before she spoke. "Anthony, I'm deeply touched by what you just said, but I'm not sure I'm ready for this. Heavens, I left home for the first time only two months ago. All those years I worked and scrimped to get an education and help Mom and help Rick. . . . When I told you I'd just gotten out of prison, I really meant that. Now, at last, I'm free, and it seems like you want to box me in again. I've got to learn more about myself before I consider getting married. I'm just not sure I'm ready to make a commitment to one man for the rest of my life."
Her words left him scowling. "What are you saying, then? That you don't want to marry me, but you do want to go to bed with me—no promises, no commitments?"
"Well—um—yes," she admitted.
Angrily, he got to his feet. "I'm sorry, Tracy, your terms are unacceptable."
"What about your terms?" she cried back. "You want too much!"
"And you want too little," he countered, reaching for his shirt. Pulling it on, he continued. "Tracy, you're young and I'll try to be patient. But I'm not willing to have a no-strings-attached relationship with you. If you think I'd ever be willing to share you with other men, you're crazy. You're going to have to discover on your own that sometimes freedom comes from making a commitment, from giving yourself without reservation."
"I really do want you, Anthony," she said shakily, feeling miserable.
"Do you?" he challenged bitterly. "It seems to me you're holding a great deal back. I'm greedy, Tracy. I won't settle for less than all of you."
She bit her lip. "I guess it's time for me to go home," she said in a small voice.
"I'll leave so you can get dressed," he told her quietly.
Early the next morning, after tossing and turning fitfully all night, Tracy awakened to a knock at her door. She groaned and glanced at the clock. Dammit, who would come to her apartment at 9:00 A.M. on a Saturday?
She stumbled out of bed and put on her robe. "Coming!" she called out irritably as the banging continued. Near the door she snapped, "Who is it?"
"Memorial Interiors," came the reply.
"I hope they've come back for his damn bed," she cursed under her breath. She unlatched the door and flung it open.
The uniformed boy standing outside held a large cardboard box. He blushed when he realized Tracy was wearing nothing but a nightgown and robe, and stammered, "Uh—ma'am, Mr. Delano asked me to deliver this to you."
"I don't want it," she told the boy tersely.
He looked miserable. "Ma'am, Mr. Delano told me I wasn't to take no for an answer and—and if you don't accept this, I'll get in really bad trouble."
He looked so wretched that her conscience made her relent. "Oh, very well." She could always mail it back to Anthony later, she told herself. And yes, darn it, she was curious.
The boy beamed. "Thanks, ma'am."
"You're welcome," she grumbled, grudgingly taking the box. She shut the door and yawned as she reentered the apartment. After a brief search for scissors she cut open the tape on the box. "What the hell . . . ?" she muttered.
The box was filled with balls of string, dozens of balls of string. Tracy glowered at the assortment in confusion, and then she spotted the card; it read, "Let me know when you're ready to get tangled up."
"Damn you, Delano!" Angrily, Tracy threw a ball of string across the room, hitting Captain Action, who awakened, shook his furry head, and managed to look mildly astonished.
"Let him know when I'm ready to get tangled up, indeed!" she exclaimed to the cat.
Captain Action played with the ball of string and purred.
Nine
On a Saturday evening a month later Tracy stood in her bedroom, applying makeup and fixing her hair in preparation for a theater date with Alan Sanderson. Once she had completed the finishing touches, she stood back and surveyed her image in the mirror.
Her hair fell softly, sensuously, to her shoulders; her makeup lent an air of mystery and seductiveness to her countenance. Her dress was a sheath fashioned of sapphire blue silk, with spaghetti straps and a low neckline that exposed an enticing glimpse of cleavage. A matching short-sleeved jacket and a wide, pastel-striped belt completed the outfit. Alan should find her most attractive tonight, she thought to herself. Was that what she wanted?
Tracy went to sit on her bed—Anthony's bed—as she donned her panty hose and high-heeled sandals. She wanted something, that was certain. If she were totally honest, she wanted the man who had given her this bed. It was his terms that she couldn't accept.
She had known Anthony Delano for three months now, but never had they seemed so far apart. She had seen him only three times since their fight a month ago, and always on business. They had had lunch together once. "Has anything changed, Tracy?" he had asked. Oh, how she had been tempted to fly into his arms and give up anything, everything, to be with him; yet she had held on to herself, saying only, "Has anything changed with you, Anthony?"
Stalemate. They were still locked in that hopeless stalemate and they both knew it. She often asked herself why she resisted him. He was truly a prince out of a fairy tale and she was like a stubborn Cinderella who didn't want to go to the ball and wasn't even sure Prince Charming existed. In her weaker moments she was sure she loved him. She wanted him so badly it hurt, but she wasn't ready to commit herself to him until she had had an opportunity to sample life on her own terms.
Was that the reason she had finally accepted a date with Alan? she wondered. If she couldn't find what she wanted with Anthony, perhaps it was time to brave new oceans. Alan certainly didn't seem the type to make long-term demands of her: he could provide the fling she was looking for.
Somehow, though, she couldn't deny the voice in her heart that said she was deceiving only herself, and she didn't feel right about it at all. . . .
"Did you enjoy the play. Trace?" Alan Sanderson asked once they had left the small community playhouse and were traveling down a near-deserted road in northern Harris County.
"The play was all right, I guess," she told him. "I think it's wonderful that they're producing a first play from a local playwright, but I just can't seem to relate to the story of a woman who has a phobia about drowning in a water bed."
In the darkness next to her Alan chuckled. "Water beds don't scare you, eh, Trace?"
"It's just that the whole plot seemed so pointless. I mean, if the poor woman feels that way, why not simply sleep in a normal bed?"
"Ah, but the point of the story was that the protagonist had to transcend her fear." He chuckled again, something she found increasingly unnerving in the darkness of his van. "And I must say, the playwright came up with quite an original twist for making the poor woman come to think of water beds as pleasurable."
"About as original as original sin," Tracy remarked dryly.
Alan laughed, then said, "You know, Tracy, water beds are something worth fighting for. I happen to sleep in one, as a matter of fact." He tossed her a sly grin, which looked more like a leer in the shadowy light. "Want to come over and try it sometime?"
"I'm not just dying to dive in," Tracy replied sarcastically.
"What kind of bed do you sleep in. Trace?"
"Oh, it's straight out of a bordello," she found herself blurting out, not caring if she shocked him. "As shocking crimson as they come. A friend gave it to me."
"Anyone I know?" he asked.
Rather than answer his question, she responded with one of her own. "Say, Alan, do you know where the heck we're going?" She stared out at the hulking gray shapes of the trees sweeping by them.
"Looks like we're smack dab in the middle of the Big Thicket or something."
"Oh, I thought we'd take the long way home, enjoy the scenery."
"But Alan, it's pitch black out there," she argued, feeling increasingly uneasy on this deserted expanse of road. "Didn't you promise me dinner after the play?"
"I certainly did, and as a matter of fact, I'm starving." Saying these words, he braked the van to a stop at the side of the road.
"Alan!"
"Would you join me in my dining room, Miss O'Brien?"
Alan inserted a Rod Stewart tape in the cassette deck, then climbed between the seats toward the back of the van, extending a helping hand to Tracy. She had little choice but to follow him, and seconds later they were seated on the plush carpeting at the back of the van next to an ice chest. A small ceiling light was the only illumination. "Isn't this cozy?" he said, handing her an opened beer.
"Cozy, yes, but hardly dinner," Tracy complained.
"Not to worry. My cooler is stuffed with fruit, cheese, cold cuts, whatever your heart desires." He grinned and wrapped an arm around her.
She studied him warily. Alan was a handsome man, with his dark thick hair and compelling blue eyes. Most women would find him enormously appealing. Why was it then that the part of her that was always set aflutter by Anthony's merest glance felt nothing in Alan's presence except nervousness and distrust?
He might have read her mind. "Do you have fears to transcend, Tracy?" he asked.
"Not of water beds," she replied, taking a sip of beer.
All at once Rod Stewart's husky voice crooned out "Tonight's the Night." Alan grinned and drew her closer. "Thatta girl. Drink some more beer. Trace."
"I'm not much of a drinker," she told him, lowering her bottle. Certainly not around you, she added to herself. This was not at all what she'd had in mind for their date. She was growing angry that Alan had manipulated her into this potentially explosive situation.
"Well, if you're not the kind of girl who likes to drink," Alan went on in a husky tone, "then you must be the type who likes to get straight down to business." With this pronouncement he took the beer from her hand and abruptly kissed her.
Tracy was too shocked at first to react. But shock was soon replaced by revulsion and indignation, and she began to struggle to free herself even as he tried to slip one hand inside her dress.
"No!" she cried.
"C'mon, baby. You know you want this."
"Alan, for heaven's sake, this is only our first date!" She was struggling in earnest now. "Hey, stop it, will you?"
But he didn't stop until she jerked herself away from him. She cursed as the spaghetti strap of her dress snapped. "Look what you've done!" she shouted. "I paid a week's salary for this dress!"
Tracy managed to push him away and climb back into the front seat. He soon followed, looking furious. "What the hell was that for? I'm not Jack the Ripper, you know."
"A petty distinction at the moment. You sure don't waste any time, do you, Alan?"
"Just what did you think tonight was about anyway?"
"Are you saying you expect every woman you go out with to go to bed with you?" she asked incredulously.
"Yes."
She shook her head in amazement. "You have got to be the most shallow man I've ever met in my life."
"What about you, babe? That dress, the makeup, the perfume . . . You're broadcasting a siren call that would have put Circe to shame. Then you come up with this Little Miss Victorian act." Disgustedly, he ejected the tape cassette. "I'll take you home."
"Never mind," she retorted hotly. "I'm not going anywhere in this mobile seduction lab. You can let me off at the nearest phone."
To her chagrin, he did just that.
Tracy stood, trembling, at the small convenience store on Crosby-Huffman Road, watching Alan's van spin out of the parking lot. "Better luck next time," she called after him angrily.
She returned to the relative safety of the building and approached the outside pay phone, pausing in the dim light to fish through her purse for change. To her left were two men in a pickup truck, drinking beer and exchanging amused comments while they leered at her. Darn, this was nerve-racking, and she didn't even have the right change for a phone call! She had been foolish to let her temper get the better of her, she now realized. She had felt insulted back in the van. All she could think of at the time was getting away from him. She shouldn't have raged at him so. It was just that—
He wasn't Anthony.
Sighing despondently, she went inside the small store to get change. But when the clerk behind the counter learned that she had nothing but a twenty-dollar bill, he insisted that she use the store's phone instead of the public one.
As luck would have it, there was no answer at Aunt Fayetta's house. Tracy found herself close to tears. She kicked herself for insisting that Alan let her out. Here she was in the middle of nowhere, and her twenty-dollar bill would never suffice to get her home by taxi even if she could get a cab to come out to this godforsaken place. There was only one solution other than calling the police, and it meant swallowing a great deal of pride. . . .
The two cowboys she had seen outside now came in to purchase more beer. Both wore tight jeans and had beer bellies bulging against the fabric of their western shirts. They ogled Tracy as they came up to the cash register with a six-pack of Lone Star. "Have a fight with your boyfriend, honey?" one of them asked her. "I sure the heck wouldn't let a pretty thing like you out of my van. Would you, Wayne?" he asked his friend.
"Not before hens sprouted teeth, I wouldn't," the one called Wayne replied. He was chewing tobacco, which Tracy found repulsive. "Say, honey, can we give you a ride back to town?" He winked at his friend.
Tracy turned, picked up the phone, and dialed Anthony's number. She heard the one called Wayne say disgustedly to his friend, "Guess we'll have to take a number and get in line with that little filly."
Anthony's phone rang several times, and Tracy was near desperation when his husky voice finally answered. "Hello."
He was there! Anthony was there! His voice sounded rather sleepy. Tracy was almost in tears. "Anthony, can you come get me?"
"Tracy, where are you?" Instantly, he sounded alert and very tense.
"I'm not sure where I am," she said miserably.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine, I'm just not sure ..." She turned to the clerk. "Can you tell my friend where we are?"
The man nodded and took the phone. There followed a five-minute discourse between Anthony and the clerk, and finally, he returned the receiver to her. "You're in a convenience store near Lake Houston?" Anthony shouted as she picked up the phone. "At eleven o'clock on a Saturday night? What the hell are you doing there, Tracy?"
"Buying milk for my cat?" she suggested hopefully.
"Tracy!"
"Okay, don't blow a gasket, I had a date."
The cursing that spewed forth from the phone was so horrible that even the clerk looked stunned as Tracy held the receiver a foot from her ear. "He's blowing a gasket," she explained to the man lamely.
When she finally put the phone back up to her ear, Anthony hoarsely demanded, "What the hell happened?"
"The date . . . didn't work out."
"Is the bastard still hanging around there?"
"No, but there are these two cowboys ..."
There was more cursing, then the vehement words, "I'm calling the police."
"No, Anthony, I'm sure I'm safe in here with the clerk. Just come, will you? Please?"
"I'm out the door now. And if you budge an inch from there, I may resort to physical violence."
"Yes, Anthony." She sighed and hung up the phone. "He has an intense streak," she explained to the grinning clerk.
Tracy went to the ladies' room and repaired her hair and makeup. All she could do to right her dress was to tie the two ends of the spaghetti strap in a knot. Anthony wouldn't be fooled, she knew, and her bravado was rapidly evaporating.
A tense half hour later, when she saw Anthony enter the store, saw his stony features in the stark light, her knees almost buckled. His hair was ruffled, his eyes filled with concern, and he wore dark jeans and a half-open black shirt that made him took terribly intimidating. He quickly came to her side and took her hand firmly. "Let's go."
Not trusting herself to speak, she let him help her out the door. As they walked, his eyes swept over her figure, her dress, her hair. When they reached his car, he paused to press her against the cold metal. His hand pushed aside her jacket and he fingered the knotted strap on her dress. "Did he?"
"D-did he?"
He raised an eyebrow meaningfully, and she knew better than to avoid his question. "N-no," she stammered.
"If he had, he'd be dead," Anthony replied in a voice that made her blood run cold.
He helped her into the car and soon he was beside her, shutting his door with a bang. He said not one word as they drove back to town. Tracy was utterly miserable; she almost wished he would yell at her, strangle her, anything but just sit there in a cold, relentless rage. She stared out the window to hide her tears; the distance between them seemed insurmountable, and she had only herself to blame. She hadn't meant to hurt him like this. How could she explain to him that every minute she had been with Alan she had felt awful, just plain wretched? It was he, Anthony, whom she wanted to be with, he that she loved. It was true, she loved him, she realized, a sob rising in her throat. And she feared she had driven him away forever.
When they got back to town, he did not go to her apartment, but drove instead up to his house. The car stopped, his door slammed shut, and she eyed him in confusion when he came around to his side and opened the door. "Anthony, what is this?"
Still he did not speak, but firmly took her hand and led her into the house. Once they were in the shadowy hallway, he abruptly pressed her against the wall and kissed her almost savagely, holding her in an embrace that approached a stranglehold. She gasped for air and stared up at him in bewilderment. Even in the darkness she could see the tears in his eyes as he said hoarsely, "You win, Tracy."
Abruptly her feet were swept off the floor and he was carrying her through the living room and on toward his bedroom. "Anthony, I didn't mean to hurt you," she said in a half-sob.
He didn't respond as he took her into his room and kicked the door shut. He laid her down on the bed. Then he devoured her. There was no other way to put it. Tracy was almost frightened by the intensity of it, but she knew there was no other way to close the horrible, aching distance between them.
Quickly, he removed first her clothes and then his own. He covered her naked body with his, holding her legs slightly apart as he buried his head between her naked breasts. She was acutely aware of every sensation; the slight roughness of his cheek against her breasts, the hard maleness of his body pressing on hers. His mouth closed around one breast and she almost went crazy. "Anthony..." she moaned.
"Hush," he whispered, taking her mouth in a searing kiss. She knew then that he was a desperate man, wild with passion and pain, and that he was saying something to her with his body that he could not put into words.
He said it eloquently. She did not resist when his hands slipped beneath her to position her. His strong, rough thighs parted her slim, silky legs. His penetration was inexorably male; it hurt in a way that was wonderfully healing. He forged his way inside her until they were totally joined. "Oh, Anthony," she moaned.
He tensed. "I'm hurting you."
She couldn't totally deny it, but told him, "It would hurt so much more if you left me."
"Oh, sweetheart," he choked out, kissing away her tears. "Wrap your legs around me, darling."
She did, and he went wild, drawing her tightly against him and breathing raggedly, as if in pain. "Forgive me, darling, but I can't stop."
She wanted to tell him there was nothing to forgive. She didn't want him to stop. But her thoughts became jumbled up as he claimed her softness like a man possessed, branding the deepest part of her with his love. As he moved harder, faster, she felt herself softening, melting. Never had she known anything so beautiful, so intimate or revealing. His movements reached a powerful peak, and then he buried himself deeply inside her. They were one, totally at peace.
Later they sat at the kitchen table sipping wine, Anthony in his pajamas, Tracy wearing his robe. She felt strangely shy, overwhelmed by the intensity of what had happened between them. And it was beautiful; making love with Anthony was beautiful. Now she truly felt a part of him in every way. Every inch of her body remembered his possession, and she knew she would never be quite the same again. Nor did she want to be. She hoped their coming together had quenched the fierce desperation inside him.
"Darling?"
He spoke, and she looked up to see him smiling at her from across the table. "I like you in my robe," he told her with a wink. "Only you're too far away." When she didn't respond, he added huskily, "Come here."
Putting down her wineglass, she moved around the table, and he pulled her into his lap with a groan and kissed her. His kiss was heavenly, and she fought tears when their lips parted. "Are you still mad at me, Anthony?"
"Mad?" he asked, his dark eyes gleaming with desire. "I'm mad with wanting you, darling." His hand slipped inside the robe to find her breast, and his mouth followed. She gasped as the tender nipple hardened beneath the fleeting touch of his tongue. "Darling, your breasts are so beautiful— you're so beautiful," he whispered moments later. "Don't you know it drives me crazy to think of another man touching you there—anywhere?"
"Anthony," she gasped, "you're the only man who has ever touched me—like that."
"I know, my sweet." He groaned. "I just found out. And if I have my way, I'm the only man who'll ever touch you like that."
While his tongue still tantalized her breast, his hand slid boldly lower and she stiffened slightly. "Was I too passionate?" he asked gently.
"No, not at all," she replied, embarrassed.
"You do know how to bring out the beast in me," he murmured, parting the robe farther. His warm mouth trailed down her bare belly, and she could hardly catch her breath. She shuddered in his embrace, running her fingers through his thick hair. "There's only one solution," he whispered, his hot breath tormenting her naked flesh.
"Y-yes?"
"We'll just have to do it again."
"Uh—again?"
"Again. This time for you, darling."
"Wasn't last time for me?"
He chuckled in a low, seductive way and drew her to her feet. Tracy's blood pounded in her veins as he led her back down the plushly carpeted hallway with him. Inside the dark bedroom he removed her robe and then his pajamas. He loved her more gently this time, arousing every inch of her body with his wonderful mouth, even that last part of her that she would have withheld. She was crazy with wanting him by the time he began to bring their bodies together; when he did, he entered her so slowly that she finally surged forward herself. She heard his throaty chuckle above her. "I've unleashed a tigress," he whispered.
"Anthony, please, just—just—"
"What?"
"Monster!"
Abruptly, he withdrew and pulled her on top of him. "Show me what you want, darling."
She did, her moonlight-streaked hair streaming about him. Loving instinct guided her movements and he helped, teaching her everything: how to move, how to touch him, how to let go. She soared from one dazzling climax to another, until his need grew overpowering and he pulled her beneath him to bring them both to that ultimate release. When the moment came, it was so intense and shattering that Tracy totally lost control of herself; she grabbed a pillow, clutching it over her face and biting her lip. Instantly, the pillow was flung away and Anthony's mouth latched hungrily on to hers. "Oh, darling, I love you," he whispered shakily moments later.
"I love you too, Anthony," she whispered back, and when she looked up at him, she saw tears in his dark beautiful eyes.
They snuggled together for a long time, but finally Anthony broke the contented silence between them. "What was his name, Tracy?"
"His name?"
"The guy who took you out tonight."
"Oh. Alan Sanderson."
"Ah, yes, the infamous Mr. Sanderson, the one you had lunch with. I thought I told you I didn't want you to see him again. Promise me you won't, Tracy."
When she didn't respond immediately, he pinned her beneath him and said, "Either promise me you won't see him again, or I'll keep you here and make love to you until you can't move from this bed."
She couldn't resist a smile. "Okay, I promise. Gee, but you're intense."
Above her he grinned. "Now tell me about the pillow."
"The pillow?"
"Why did you pull the pillow over your face?"
"Anthony, for heaven's sake, you're mortifying me to death!"
He was relentless. "Tell me why you grabbed the pillow."
"Dammit, Anthony—oh, all right. I was afraid I might..."
"Yes?"
"Scream."
He laughed delightedly. "In pain?"
"No, not in pain, silly, in—"
"Ecstasy?"
"You're determined to humiliate me, aren't you?"
"No. But I'm determined to hear you scream."
"You're kidding. What about Mrs. Hernandez?"
"She's way on the other side of the house."
"And she's used to hearing the sounds of ladies' screams coming from your bedroom?"
"I stand on the fifth."
"Reprobate!"
"Now, now, Tracy, don't get huffy," he teased, his lips against her throat. "Looks like I'm going to have to soften you up a bit."
"Anthony, you said if I promised I wouldn't see Alan again, you wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't what? You know, you should be patented, darling, you're so delicious—"
"Look, if you don't stop this, I really won't be able to move from this bed."
"Actually, I've decided that's a splendid idea. Besides"—the rest of the pillows hit the floor—"I do very much want to hear you scream."
He did.
Ten
"I want to look at you, darling."
The sound of Anthony's voice invaded Tracy's dreams. She awakened to find Anthony pulling all the covers off her naked back. He straightened, grinned, and let out a low wolf whistle. Embarrassed, she flipped over and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
He crossed his arms over his chest and stood admiring her naked figure, the disheveled hair tumbling about her shoulders, the lovely pink nipples which tautened at his mere glance. His eyes moved lower. There was another wolf whistle.
"Anthony, you're mortifying me again." She reached for the covers at the foot of the bed, but instantly he was beside her, his hand on her shoulder.
"I said I want to look at you," he repeated huskily. And he did. "Now turn over."
"Anthony!"
"I'll rub your back," he coaxed, already turning her with his hands.
"Anthony, this is ... I don't have any clothes on."
"Just the way I like you." His wicked hands swept down her spine, caressing, kneading, driving her insane.
"Can't I wear your robe or something?"
"Nope. I'm wearing it, in case you hadn't noticed." His lips tickled the back of her neck and she writhed in delicious torment. "You're so beautiful, Tracy. My golden girl. And to think all those delectable white places are mine alone." His hand cupped her bottom. "At least, they'd better be."
Tracy was about to succumb to his seduction when she spotted something on the chair beside the bed. "My dress!"
"What?" he asked with a laugh.
She managed to push him away and turn over. "My dress! It's on a hanger, laid across the chair. Someone fixed the strap!"
"Oh. That would be Mrs. Hernandez."
Tracy eyed him quizzically. "Didn't she have— um—any questions?" At his leer she added, "Right, by now she must be used to ladies' shrieks—and torn bodices. Well, do you deny it?"
"I generally don't answer a loaded question." He turned to the night stand and picked up a wicker tray. "I almost forgot, I brought you orange juice and a croissant."
"Oh, how sweet, but—"As he positioned the tray on her lap she asked him incredulously, "You can't expect me to eat it stark naked!"
"I'll wrap the croissant in a napkin, then."
"Anthony! I'm referring to my—my—"
"Yes?"
"Nudity."
"Right. I intend to ogle your—um—nudity all through breakfast."
"Knowing you, you'll do more than ogle."
"You're right again."
Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes and began eating the croissant and raspberry preserves, which were delicious. He snuggled next to her and watched her solemnly. Finally, he asked, "Finished?"
"Yes—no."
He took the tray from her lap and set it aside. "You have raspberries on your mouth, Tracy." He kissed her. "Mmm. Delicious."
Brazenly he pulled her naked body into his lap. The sensation of the silky velour of his robe against her bare skin was wicked and wonderful. He smelled so good, so male, she couldn't resist nuzzling her face against his neck.
He held her tightly, but with arms that nonetheless trembled slightly. "Darling," he whispered against her hair, "what you gave me last night, what you continue to give me, is so precious. Marry me, Tracy. Marry me, my darling."
"Anthony..."
"Did my ears deceive me, or did you say you loved me last night?"
"Yes, I said it."
His hand caressed her long silky leg. "Did you mean it?"
"Yes."
"Then marry me, Tracy. Be my wife. Let's be close like this every minute of every day."
"Anthony, please ..." she whispered miserably. "I care for you so much, but I'm not ready to be pressured like this just yet."
"Oh." He groaned. "You've no idea of the pressure I mean to apply."
"I think I've gotten a taste of it already. But, I—this isn't the right time, Anthony."
He released her suddenly and got out of bed. He began pacing up and down the carpet and running a hand through his hair. "So you're not going to marry me?"
He looked so handsome and distraught that she was hard-pressed to hold her ground. "Well, not now, right this minute. Anthony, can I please put some clothes on?"
"No." He came back to the bed and sat down beside her, staring at her very seriously. "I guess in a way I was rash last night," he admitted, touching a golden curl that rested on her shoulder. "You mean you're regretting last night?" "No. But you weren't protected, were you?" "Protected?" She felt herself beginning to blush. "You could have become pregnant." Now her entire face burned. "Oh. I never even thought of that."
"Nice girls don't," he told her with a laugh. "It's wicked men like me who do." He pulled her closer almost roughly. "If I were you, Tracy, I'd run for the doctor. You're not putting me in any frame of mind to play fair."
Tracy didn't make it home until well into the afternoon. And, as luck would have it, they had no sooner stepped from the car at Tracy's apartment complex than they were stopped by the manager, Mr. Henderson. "I'd like a word with you. Miss O'Brien," the retired insurance salesman told Tracy as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
Tracy studied the obviously angry man in confusion. "Yes, Mr. Henderson?" Surely, he would not make some rude comment about her being gone with Anthony the previous night, she thought. Mr. Henderson had always seemed like such a reasonable man.
"I've no quarrel with you, young lady," the man went on, shaking a finger at Tracy, "but that cat of yours has to go."
"Cat?" Tracy asked tremulously. "What cat?"
Even as Tracy asked the question, Anthony chuckled. "Your cat. The cat that was shrieking all night at a female in heat out on your balcony," Mr. Henderson said.
"Oh, that cat—gee," Tracy murmured, nudging Anthony with her knee when he continued to laugh shamelessly. "You don't mean—not Captain Action? Surely, you're kidding, Mr. Henderson."
"I only wish I were. That animal kept half the tenants up all night with his antics. I should know— they all called me about it. I only wish"—he cleared his throat and stared sternly from Anthony to Tracy—"that you had been here to contend with my irate tenants, young lady."
"Oh—oh, I see." Tracy felt herself blushing.
"You are aware, Miss O'Brien, that the apartment complex doesn't allow pets, and that you agreed to this stipulation in your lease?"
"Yes, sir." She could have crawled under a bush by now.
"Then either the cat goes or you do. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Henderson," Tracy replied, biting her lip. "I'll take care of it. I promise it won't happen again."
"Not while I'm manager, it won't." Mr. Henderson stared meaningfully from Anthony to Tracy.
When Mr. Henderson had walked off, Anthony burst out laughing. "It was a hot time in the old town last night," he teased Tracy.
"You!" She tossed him a glare as they headed for the stairs. "You would have to find this funny."
"You mean, it isn't?"
"Certainly not!"
Anthony was still chuckling when they entered Tracy's apartment. "Captain Action, how could you?" Tracy demanded.
Captain Action, who had been sleeping on the love seat, raised his head and opened his eyes to gaze at Tracy curiously. "Oh, don't you give me that innocent expression!" Tracy exclaimed, shaking a finger at the cat. "You were tomcatting at the balcony door last night, weren't you? Shrieking like a hooligan and disgracing me! Come on, admit it!"
Captain Action stared at Tracy and purred.
"Oh, you're the most exasperating cat! A fine fix you've gotten us into now! Either you go or I do. What are we going to do?"
"May I make a suggestion?" Anthony interjected diplomatically.
Tracy turned to him distractedly.
Anthony laughed and shook his head. "Darling, it's not the end of the world. For a fun-loving girl, you sure do take things seriously. As for Captain Action's shenanigans, you know what they say about the pot calling the kettle—"
"Oh, Anthony!" Now Tracy couldn't help but laugh.
He walked over and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Look, why don't you let me take Captain Action home with me for a while?"
She eyed him suspiciously. "Anthony, that's very generous of you, but I just don't know."
"What else can we do at the moment?" he asked reasonably. "If you don't find a temporary home for Captain A, you'll be forced to move. Not that I wouldn't mind taking you both," he added with a grin.
"You can take Captain Action," she blurted out before she could think. "But only until I find a place where we can live together."
"The three of us?" he asked hopefully.
"Anthony! No, of course not. I'll just have to find another apartment where they will take Captain Action."
"Tracy," Anthony scolded, "now you're the one who's not thinking clearly. Don't you have a lease for this place?"
"Why, yes—"
"So, if you move now, you'll lose your deposit. And in three months your assignment will be over and you'll have to move anyway, won't you?"
Tracy stared at the floor, sobered by his words. "Yes, in three months I'll be leaving—permanently."
Anthony gently lifted Tracy's face with his fingertips. "Darling, why not pack up and come home with me and Captain Action?" he asked her with exquisite tenderness. "Don't you want to be—um—with your cat?"
Tracy's heart began to pound erratically. "I—I can't. Today's my only day to clean my apartment, press my clothes—"
He chuckled and shook his head. "There you go, ducking the issue again." He gently placed his lips against her throat, making her shudder involuntarily. "Fine. I'll send Mrs. Hernandez tomorrow to clear things up for you. Come home with me, Tracy. Don't leave Captain A without a mother."
"Oh, Anthony." He was nipping her throat, making it impossible to think clearly. "Heavens, I just can't."
He sighed and released her. "Lady, you're enough to make a reasonably sane man resort to caveman tactics."
"What would you call the last fourteen hours?"
"A taste of things to come," he promised wickedly, swatting her on the bottom.
Anthony released her and was moving toward the couch to get Captain Action, when the doorbell rang. He watched curiously while Tracy opened the door and was handed a long silver box by a boy in a gray uniform. "Flowers for you, ma'am."
Tracy thanked the boy and shut the door, frowning at the box. When she looked up at Anthony, they merely stared at each other for a moment. "I take it they're not from you?" she asked.
He shook his head. She walked over to the pass-through and laid the box down, still frowning. He joined her as she removed the lid, revealing a half-dozen long-stemmed roses. She picked up the card and read it silently.
"Well?" Anthony finally asked.
Wordlessly, she handed him the card.
" 'I was a heel last night,' " Anthony read aloud. " 'Can you ever forgive me? Alan.' " He looked at her in challenge. "How touching. Well, can you forgive him, Tracy?"
"No. But I'll be civil to him, for professional reasons."
"Good girl." Putting the lid back on the roses, Anthony said, "I'll send you three dozen later." With that he dumped the box in the kitchen trash can.
"Anthony, don't!" When he turned to glare at her, she explained, "Don't throw the roses away, please. It's a shame to waste beautiful flowers. Let me give them to Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, as a sort of peace offering."
He hesitated for a moment, then smiled grudgingly. "You're right," he conceded, retrieving the box and bringing it back to the pass-through. "It's not the flowers' fault. Actually, it's Alan I'd like to dump."
"Anthony!"
"Right, I won't be so intense about it." Though he looked amused now, he shook a finger at her. "I am, however, determined to find a way to keep you in line, lady."
She giggled. "I think perhaps you have."
Grinning with pleasure, he went back to the couch. He picked up Captain Action, who immediately began purring. Winking at Tracy, Anthony told her, "Don't forget, lady. I've got your cat. I've got a hold on you now."
Did he ever!
"Are you sure I can't order you one of these margaritas, sweetie?" Aunt Fayetta asked Tracy, interrupting her niece's description of Anthony Delano. "This tastes heavenly, you know." The two were catching up on each other's news over lunch at Bennigan's.
Tracy shook her head. "No thanks, I'll stick with my pineapple juice. Actually, the last time I had too much to drink ..." She paused, smiling, at the memory.
"Yes?" her aunt prompted.
Tracy wrinkled her nose. "I got rather tipsy and nearly pulverized Captain Action." At her aunt's shocked expression she added hastily, "By accident, of course."
"And thereby hangs a tale; I can tell," her aunt quipped, making Tracy groan. "Tell me more about you and this Anthony Delano," Aunt Fayetta went on. "I adore his furniture stores, by the way."
Tracy smiled. She had mentioned Anthony a few times to Aunt Fayetta, but hadn't really told her how deeply she and the handsome businessman were involved. She did now, saying carefully, "It's pretty serious, Aunt Fayetta. But, gee, I have some doubts."
"Yes?"
Tracy sighed. "He wants to marry me."
Aunt Fayetta clapped her hands and laughed, her face lighting up. "Tracy, honey, that's wonderful!"
"It is very flattering," Tracy agreed. "He's a fine man. It's just that—well, I've only just gotten away from home, and I'm not sure I'm ready to settle down yet."
"You know, honey, we can't always pick the perfect time for our Prince Charming to come along. Sometimes we have to take him while he's here."
"That's a valid point," Tracy conceded, "and don't think I haven't considered it. But if I'm not ready, I'm not ready."
Aunt Fayetta wore a thoughtful expression as she snuffed out her cigarette, her silver bracelets jangling. "Or maybe you've got a martyr complex, like your mother."
Tracy struggled not to laugh. "A what?" Aunt Fayetta was a dimestore psychologist, and invariably came up with bizarre explanations for everything.
"A martyr complex, tike your mother has," her aunt repeated patiently. "You know, Tracy, I've given a lot of thought to why your parents were never happy."
"I think Mom and Dad loved each other, but there was just so much pressure, particularly financial." Tracy frowned. "But tell me what you mean about my mother having a martyr complex."
"I guess I'm talking about a matter of attitude," Aunt Fayetta told her. "Your mom—well it just seemed that nothing ever pleased her. I know my brother never pleased her—all his schemes, his attempts at a political career, his business going bad. Maybe I'm being too hard on Mildred, but I often wonder if a different type of person might have viewed life with Tommy O'Brien as an adventure rather than as a cross to be borne. And it makes me wonder if your mother didn't rather enjoy her role as forbearing saint." Aunt Fayetta paused and took a sip of her drink.
"You really miss Dad, don't you, Aunt Fayetta?" Tracy asked gently.
The older woman nodded. "Oh, yes, honey. When Tommy O'Brien died, a light went out of my life."
"I miss him too," Tracy said quietly.
The two women sat for a moment in reflective silence; then the awkward interlude ended as the waitress brought their lunch. "Mmm, this seafood quiche looks delectable!" Tracy told her aunt.
"Ditto my chicken salad," Aunt Fayetta returned.
"So tell me," Tracy went on, "what this martyr complex has to do with me."
"It's just that I don't want you to make the same mistakes in life that your mother did—attitude mistakes."
"Attitude mistakes," Tracy repeated. "Please enlighten me."
"All right. I hope you're not taking the attitude that joy and happiness are something sinful, something you don't deserve. It has to do with guilt, I believe."
"Guilt? Whew!" Tracy laughed. "You certainly are on a psychological tear today."
"Aren't I always?" her aunt admitted with a laugh. "But don't forget what I've said, Tracy. I'd hate to see you miss out on happiness because of unnecessary feelings of guilt."
"Right. The martyr complex, the attitude problems, the feelings of guilt. May we please change the subject?"
"Sure, sweetie. As a matter of fact, there is something else I've been meaning to tell you."
"Oh?"
"You remember that little parcel of land Henry and I have owned for years down off Gulf Freeway?"
"Yes."
Her aunt beamed. "Well, we just sold it to a developer for a very healthy piece of change."
"Really? Hey, that's marvelous!"
"And we want to use part of our newly acquired wealth to finance the rest of Rick's medical training."
"Gee, Aunt Fayetta, I'm not sure," Tracy said hesitantly.
"This is not a subject open to debate," her aunt countered firmly. "Rick has been like a son to Henry and me. As busy as he is, he always stops by and offers to help with things at the house. So we're taking on his education."
Tracy shook her head. "That's very generous, Aunt Fayetta, but I can handle it."
Aunt Fayetta reached across the table and firmly pressed Tracy's hand. "Tracy, you're going to have to learn to let people do nice things for you. Accepting help graciously is an art, my dear. And in this case the help is for Rick, so you really have nothing to say about it." Her aunt straightened and smiled. "Consider this your first opportunity to shed your martyr complex and abandon your pride."
"Ah, yes, my martyr complex, my pride," Tracy said grumpily.
Aunt Fayetta snatched up the check even as Tracy reached for it. "Now, go catch that hunk of yours before he gets away!"
Tracy left the restaurant and drove toward Anthony's house. He'd told her that he had a surprise waiting for her there, and she'd promised to stop by for a few minutes before returning to work.
As she drove she thought over Aunt Fayetta's words. Was she resisting Anthony in an attempt to deny herself happiness? It didn't make sense. She had thought she was pursuing freedom and her own identity since she'd left home; yet if Aunt Fayetta was right, in resisting Anthony, she was pursuing safety instead.
Tracy sighed, maneuvering the car around a corner. She thought there was a different explanation for her hesitancy. To her, marriage was a very serious step. It was hard to be sure she'd found true love the very first time she'd become involved with a man. It was also a little disturbing that Anthony had decided so hastily who the love of his life should be. Might he not decide just as rashly that his romantic urges should be directed elsewhere?
Frowning, Tracy parked her car in Anthony's drive under a towering tree and hurried to the front door, again wondering what the mysterious surprise could be. She was more eager to see him than she cared to admit. Because it had been a hectic week for her at work, she'd seen him only a few times, and then on business, since that beautiful weekend when they'd first made love.
She rang the bell, and a moment later Anthony himself answered the door, greeting her with a warm kiss. "Come on in," he told her, drinking her in with his dark eyes.
He took her hand firmly and led her through the foyer. They had just stepped into the living room when Tracy heard voices coming from the hallway. Anthony grinned proudly and Tracy stared in blank amazement as a tall, beautiful blond woman and a young boy joined them in the living room.
"Tracy, meet Estelle and Teddy," Anthony told her with an infuriating grin.
Eleven
For a moment no one spoke. Tracy stared from Anthony, to the woman, to the child. The little boy was about four years old, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and he was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. The woman was young and strikingly beautiful, with shiny long blond hair, deep brown eyes, and a voluptuous figure that was well displayed by her maize-colored knit shirt and navy shorts.
At last Anthony broke the strained silence. "Estelle and Teddy are my sister and nephew, Tracy."
Tracy glowered at Anthony for a moment. "Why, you scoundrel!" she burst out. Hastily, she turned to the woman to explain. "You won't believe the tall tale this stinker told me about you two!"
The pretty woman laughed. "Knowing what a tease Anthony is, nothing would surprise me." She extended her hand. "I'm Estelle Reynolds, and this is my son, Teddy. You've got to be Tracy."
"Yes, I am, and I'm so pleased to meet you, Estelle," Tracy replied sincerely, taking the other woman's hand. "I'm particularly pleased to learn that you're Anthony's sister," she added, turning to give him a reproachful look.
Laughing, the three adults sat down, Anthony in an easy chair, Estelle and Tracy across from him on the couch, while little Teddy played on the floor nearby with Captain Action. "Estelle and Teddy are here from Denver for a week's visit," Anthony told Tracy.
"We moved to Colorado a few months ago when my husband, Wally, was transferred," Estelle explained to Tracy. "We love Denver and the mountains, but we sure miss our family here in Texas."
"I miss Uncle Anthony!" Teddy put in importantly.
"Then come on over here, tiger," Anthony told the boy.
Tracy smiled as she watched Teddy bound across the room toward his uncle, dangling a limp Captain Action under one arm. "Your son is precious," she told Estelle.
"He's the light of our lives," the blond woman said, smiling. "And he sure dotes on his Uncle Anthony. Speaking of which"—she frowned at her brother in mock reproach—"I got an odd letter from Anthony a few months ago, in a woman's henscratching, no less."
Tracy giggled. "That was my handwriting."
Estelle glanced from Tracy to Anthony. "Okay, you two. This story sounds too good to keep secret. Spill it out." When neither spoke, she said sternly to Anthony, "Come on, brother. Tell me why you tried to give this lady the impression that I was your estranged mistress!"
Anthony laughed. "Actually, I didn't try to give her any impression at all. It was Tracy who assumed I was about to unload my latest playmate." At Estelle's confused glance, he explained.
"Tracy saw me in the grocery check-out line about to purchase a bottle of wine and a tablet of writing paper. I really was getting ready to send you a note, sis, but Tracy let her imagination loose and decided I was about to dump my latest heartthrob instead, while drowning my sorrows, Of course. Since I come from the old-fashioned school that dictates a gentleman never contradicts a lady, I simply played along with her little scenario."
Estelle laughed, shaking her head in amazement. "And thus was composed that outrageous little note I received." She looked at Tracy. "You know, I did send Anthony a shower massage for his birthday and I also invited him to come see us in Denver, but that note—" She shook her head again ruefully. "Strictly off the wall."
"Like your brother," Tracy couldn't resist throwing in.
"Now I'm really getting roasted," Anthony said with a groan. "Count on two women to go for the jugular." He tousled his nephew's hair. "Hey, Ted, how 'bout a chocolate milkshake?"
Anthony and Teddy left the room to fix drinks for everyone. Once Tracy and Estelle were alone, Tracy remarked thoughtfully, "You must be the one who went horseback riding at an early age."
"I beg your pardon?" Estelle said, laughing.
"Anthony never mentioned having a sister," Tracy explained, "but he did tell me once that his parents had an argument about his mother's going horseback riding while she was pregnant."
"Oh, yes, I'm the one." Estelle laughed. "I can see why Anthony didn't mention me, since he was trying to pass me off as an old girlfriend." She leaned over to place a friendly hand on Tracy's arm. "If I were you, Tracy, I wouldn't worry about Anthony having other girlfriends. He doesn't. As a matter of fact, he's done nothing but talk about you since we arrived."
Tracy felt herself blushing. "That must have been boring for you."
"Not at all," Estelle assured her. "I'm delighted to see my confirmed bachelor of a brother finally falling in love."
"Confirmed bachelor? Finally falling in love?" Tracy echoed.
"Yes. Anthony was always so independent. Mom and Dad were about to despair of ever having a grandchild to carry on the Delano name—not that they aren't head over heels in love with Teddy. Anyway, the entire family was relieved when Anthony told us about you."
"Anthony. . . told you about me? You mean he's told his parents too?"
"Oh, sure, weeks ago. He told our folks about you the last time he visited them in San Antonio."
Tracy thought back, remembering a weekend about a month before when Anthony had flown to San Antonio to visit his parents. He had asked her to go along at the time, but she hadn't been able to get away due to a speaking engagement for the ballet. She was mulling over this latest bit of information when Estelle added, "Mom and Dad were delighted to learn the two of you are planning to marry."
"M-marry?"
"Of course Anthony told me the truth," Estelle went on casually.
"And what might the truth be?"
"That you're hedging, giving him a rough time." Clearing her throat, Estelle went on in a low voice. "Tracy, please forgive me if I'm speaking out of line here. But I know my brother so well. When he wants something, he goes for it and he gets it. He loves you, Tracy, and he wants to marry you. But please remember that he has his pride too. I just hope you come to your senses before he gives up on you."
Tracy nodded in misery. "I appreciate what you're saying, Estelle, but try to see things from my perspective. Anthony walked into my life one day and just took over. I don't feel ready for lifelong decisions and commitments yet." She sighed. "And he's always doing things for me too. That's hard for me. It makes me feel as if I can't take care of myself."
Estelle shook her head and smiled. "You know, you remind me a lot of my husband."
"Oh? In what way?"
Estelle took a deep breath, then said, "You're both stubborn and full of pride."
"Damn, that's the second time today! You know, you're about as outspoken and exasperating as your brother!"
Tracy immediately regretted her outburst, but Estelle's deep melodic laughter demonstrated that she was not at all offended. "You're right, Tracy. I'm a Delano and we tend to speak our minds."
"Don't I know it," Tracy said ruefully.
"But I do so because I like you."
"I like you too," Tracy responded with equal honesty. "And I must admit I'm curious. Please explain why you think I'm so much like your husband."
Estelle sighed. "Wally is an assistant manager employed by a large chain of department stores. His salary is modest, and we've had a real financial struggle from the first day of our marriage. Of course my parents and Anthony always wanted to help us out, but Wally invariably turned them down."
"I can understand his attitude," Tracy interjected.
"I can too—to a degree," Estelle replied. "But Wally takes his pride too far. He used to make us pay double for furniture rather than buy it from Anthony at cost. And when my parents had their beach house in Galveston, he refused to go stay there—ridiculous things like that. But the real showdown came over Teddy."
"Yes?"
"Do you recall Anthony's mentioning Teddy's education in the letter you two sent me?"
Tracy nodded.
"Last Christmas, Anthony decided he wanted to set up a trust fund for Teddy's future education. I was for it, of course, but Wally fought it tooth and nail. We almost got a divorce over it, in fact. Luckily, at that point Wally was offered the transfer to Denver, and I guess that was what saved us."
Tracy put two and two together and said, "You mean, Wally agreed to the trust fund if you moved to Denver with him?"
"That's about the size of it. The transfer was custom-made for Wally, the perfect opportunity to get Teddy and me out of my family's clutches. Since then I haven't been home much. In fact, Teddy's never even been to my parents' new home in San Antonio. I had a tough time getting Wally to agree to this visit."
Tracy was thinking over Estelle's story when Anthony and Teddy reentered the room with a tray full of drinks. Anthony looked so handsome, she almost forgot that she wanted to murder him for telling his parents that they were planning to marry!
While they sipped their drinks they took up their conversation again. Tracy learned with great interest that Estelle had been a member of the repertory company. Her involvement was one of the reasons her parents had donated the land for the theater. All too soon, though, Tracy had to excuse herself to return to work. Anthony walked her to her car.
Outside, he asked her, "Any trouble with your new wheels, Tracy?"
"Nope," she replied, touching the metallic blue paint fondly. "As a matter of fact, this car was selected by an expert."
"An expert at what?" he teased.
"Oh, mechanics—stuff like that." As he drew closer to her, she added, "Your sister is a doll, Anthony."
"I'm glad you two hit it off so well," he responded eagerly. "That means we'll all have a splendid time together when we fly to San Antonio."
"What?"
"I want you to come with Estelle and Teddy and me to San Antonio on Friday. I'm sure the ballet will let you off for a few days, and it's high time you met my folks."
"Anthony!" Tracy threw her hands wide in exasperation, remembering at last that she was supposed to be angry with him. "Look, Mr. Delano, whatever possessed you to tell your parents we're going to get married?"
"Simple. We are."
"Don't I have anything to say about this?"
"Sure. Anytime you want to say yes, I'm listening. Otherwise"—he grabbed her for a long, devouring kiss—"we have ways to keep you silent." He smiled down at her. "Come home with me to San Antonio, Tracy."
His kiss had sent her reeling, but she managed to reply. "Anthony, I don't think I'm ready to go home and—and meet your mother. I'm sorry."
"No problem." His teeth nibbled her ear. "I'll change your mind."
"You won't."
His hand playfully slapped her bottom. "I'm not listening until you say yes." He gave her another potent kiss, then pulled back and snapped his fingers. "Hey, I almost forgot."
"Forgot?" she repeated.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dazzling heart-shaped gold pendant studded with diamonds and sapphires. "Merry Christmas," he said simply.
"Merry Christmas? You nut, it's September!"
"You're not planning to be here at Christmas— unless I change your mind," he pointed out. Encircling her neck with the chain, he added, "So I'm giving this to you now."
"No, you're not! Oh, Anthony, it's gorgeous, but it's much too expensive."
"Be still while I fasten this, or I'm going to mortify the hell out of you, right here in public."
"You're going to ... ? You wouldn't!"
"Wouldn't I? If you'll glance discreetly across the street, darling, you'll notice that Mr. Farbash is already getting quite an eyeful of us as he trims his hedges."
She did as he told her. The elderly gentleman across the street grinned and waved his hedge trimmers at her. "Why that—you—you're both nothing but a couple of—"
"Dirty old men?"
"Right."
Anthony chuckled. "There," he said once the chain was securely clasped about Tracy's neck. "The stones almost match the brilliance of your eyes." He leaned over and gently placed his lips on her throat.
"Oh, Anthony . . . please—"
"It's yours," he growled, his lips traveling up her neck. "Now, won't you change your mind about San Antonio?"
"No, Anthony. Please, I can't—"
Undaunted, he reached into his pocket again. "Give me your right hand, Tracy," he ordered.
"I beg your pardon?"
He reached over and took her right hand. "To match the necklace," he stated simply, slipping a diamond-and-sapphire ring on her finger.
"Anthony, no, I absolutely can't—"
He reached into his other pocket. "Now for your ears, my dear." He dangled dazzling diamond-and-sapphire earrings in front of her and grinned lazily.
"Anthony, no way—"
"Hush and be still. We'll just take off those studs you're wearing."
"Why are you doing this?"
He removed her gold studs and secured the earrings on her ears. "To change your mind," he told her matter-of-factly. "So nice with those blue eyes. Now for your wrist—"
"No, don't you dare!" But fighting him was useless. He encircled her wrist with a delicate gold chain studded with tiny diamonds and sapphires.
"And your ankle," he went on.
"No, dammit," He bent over and slipped a similar chain of diamonds and sapphires around her left ankle. "Why do you think this will change my mind?" she demanded.
He caressed her calf and glanced up at her with wickedly sparkling eyes. "Because I know it practically nauseates you to have people do things for you, give you things. So it is my intention to torture you exquisitely"—his hand did precisely that—"until you give in."
"Oh—oh, please," she moaned, drowning in sensation as his hand slowly and remorselessly slid up her leg.
"Sorry, lady, no quarter." Abruptly, he straightened and pulled her to him, his lips finding hers unerringly. "Will you come with me to San Antonio?" he asked huskily.
"Will I come with you . . . ?"
"To San Antonio," he repeated patiently.
"Yes, anywhere," she said.
Twelve
The day was clear and glorious as Anthony guided the rental car through San Antonio to his parents' home. But despite the fine weather, Tracy was full of misgivings.
From the moment they'd taken off from Houston Hobby Airport she had regretted giving in to Anthony. She was sure that once he saw her with his family, he would realize how diverse their backgrounds and life-style were, how impossible their relationship was. If the opposite were true and she fit in with his family, she feared he would pressure her to marry him immediately. And though the idea of marrying Anthony was becoming increasingly appealing, she didn't want to be pushed.
She glanced at him as he turned the car into a posh residential section of town. He looked beautiful today, and she was vividly conscious of how very much she loved him. Why did she continue to resist this wonderful man? She sensed that he wasn't willing to wait forever. Why did she risk losing him altogether?
Tracy was lost in thought as they pulled into a wide driveway leading to a large white Spanish-style brick home with a tiled roof and an enormous blooming cactus garden out front. "Are we here?" Teddy cried excitedly from the back seat, where he was sitting with Estelle.
"Yes, we're here, champ," Anthony responded with a laugh.
No sooner had the car stopped than a handsome couple emerged from the impressive house. The man was an older version of Anthony, dressed in elegant but casual gray slacks and a light blue shirt. The woman looked very much like Estelle, her short, sleek blond hair streaked with silver, her slim body clothed in a polished cotton green skirt and a very feminine handkerchief-linen blouse. Both smiled and waved greetings as they approached the car.
A moment later everyone was embracing. Tracy felt almost like an interloper, yet within seconds the elder Delanos turned their attention toward her, and welcomed her as warmly as she could have wished.
"You must be Tracy!" Ingrid Delano cried, hugging the younger woman warmly. She stood back to smile at her guest. "I'm Ingrid Delano. Oh, you're simply precious! Just like Anthony said!"
Anthony's mother was very pretty and vivacious, and spoke with a slight Swedish accent. Her face was classically beautiful, the cheekbones high, the few lines around the eyes and mouth adding dignity to her visage.
Before Tracy could respond to the lovely woman, Anthony's father came up and wrapped her in a bear hug. "So here is the pretty young thing who has stolen my son's heart," Renaldo Delano said, his deep voice touched with an Italian accent.
Everyone was waiting for Tracy to respond, but she was saved by little Teddy. With a sweeping gesture toward the Delanos' large Spanish home, he blurted out, "Gramma, is this the Alamo?"
The five adults broke into laughter. "He's been doing that all morning," Estelle explained to her parents, "pointing to every barn or large structure we flew over and saying, 'Mom, is that the Alamo?' You should have seen him when we flew over Hemisfair Tower—he can't wait to ride that elevator to the top, and he practically split the plane apart with his excitement."
"Did not!" Teddy pouted, tugging on his mother's khaki-colored skirt. "Uncle Anthony's plane is all in one piece at the airport."
Again, everyone laughed. "Darling, this isn't the Alamo. Ingrid Delano explained to her grandson. "It's Gramma and Grampa's new home that you and your mother are going to stay in. But don't worry. While you're here, Grampa and I will take you to the Alamo, and to the missions, and maybe even for dinner at Hemisfair Tower!"
"Yippee!" Teddy exclaimed. "Can Tracy come?"
Tracy smiled. She and Teddy had become much better acquainted on the plane. "Of course Tracy can come. We wouldn't dream of going anywhere without her. She's one of the family now."
Tracy felt her face warming as Renaldo asked Anthony, "Need help with the luggage, son?"
While the men brought in the luggage, the women and Teddy chatted in the living room over iced tea. The rest of the afternoon passed merrily out at the Delanos' pool, then everyone went inside to rest and dress for supper. Tracy, in one of the lovely guest bedrooms, donned the sapphire blue silk dress she had worn for her date with Alan Sanderson. In a way she hated to wear the dress again. It might bring both bitter and sweet memories to Anthony, but it was the finest and most elegant dress she owned. She also decided to wear the sapphire-and-diamond jewelry he had given her. Try as she might, she had been unable to convince him to take any of it back, and she knew he would be hurt if she didn't wear his gifts tonight. She stared at her reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror, taking in the curls piled on her head, the jewelry at her neck, ears, finger, and wrist. She'd left off the ankle bracelet. "He's got me in chains," she told herself ruefully. "He's got my heart in chains."
On the way out to the dining room she ran into Anthony in the hallway; instantly, she knew she had chosen the right thing to wear. His dark eyes lighted with pleasure the moment he saw her. "Oh, darling." He drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. "If you aren't a feast for the eyes."
"You too." she murmured, unable to resist curling her arms about his neck. He did look wonderful in his ecru-colored linen jacket, brown shirt, and dark trousers. He smelled heavenly too. His aftershave was woodsy and seductive, and she found herself running her fingertips over his smoothly shaven face, the beloved cleft in his chin.
"Anthony, your family is wonderful," she told him sincerely. "They're so warm and friendly. I can't believe your dad was chasing your mother around the pool with a garden hose this afternoon! Your folks seem so much in love—"
"No more than I am." He embraced her more tightly and groaned. "You were some sight in your bikini this afternoon. Don't be surprised if you have a midnight visitor to your room."
"Estelle and Teddy might hear," Tracy scolded him. "Their room is next to mine."
"Good try. There's a rather large bathroom between the rooms, and I doubt they'll hear a peep—that is," he added with a deliciously wicked leer, "if you promise not to scream."
"You mean you'll let me keep the pillows on the bed tonight?"
He nodded and smiled in a way that made her face burn. "But only tonight." He leaned over and kissed her ear, drawing her even closer. "Well, darling? Do you want me to come to you later?"
She shuddered. "Oh, Anthony, you're making it hard ..."
"Indeed I am," he said devilishly.
"Anthony! What an awful thing to say!"
"You said it, darling." Without waiting for a reply, he kissed her ravenously, backing her into a small alcove.
"Darling, wouldn't it be wonderful if we could make an announcement to my parents while we're here?"
Instantly, she stiffened. "An announcement?"
"Yes. If we could tell them we plan to marry right away. Or even better—let's get married while we're here."
She bit her lip as she watched him, and he went on excitedly. "Sure, why not get married while we're here? That way, my parents could be present for the service. Oh, Tracy, how they would love that! I don't know if there would be time for blood tests and all—heck, the border's only three hours away. We could load everyone into Dad's car and make a day of it tomorrow."
"Anthony, stop it!" Tracy whispered, appalled.
Instantly, he sobered.
"I was afraid something like this would happen if I came with you," she said.
"Something like what?"
"I was afraid you'd try to back me into a corner while we were here."
He laughed rather bitterly and stepped out of the alcove. "An apt description under the circumstances. By all means, don't let me keep you in the corner, Tracy."
She knew she was alienating him and the knowledge made her miserable, yet fear forced her to hold her ground. "Anthony, I warned you—"
"Oh, yes, you warned me," he repeated ruefully.
"I just don't want to make a final decision about our relationship yet."
"Right, you want your options open, you're not ready to commit yourself," he repeated cynically. "Dammit, Tracy, you're making our relationship sound like some sort of stock merger. Love is an act of faith. It's taking risks, with no guarantees. I'm willing to do that with you, Tracy. But it's different for you, isn't it? For you, it all comes down to one thing. You want to share my bed but not my life."
"Anthony, that's not true!"
"It's true," he repeated bitterly. "If you loved me, it would be different."
"Darling, I do love you," she said, tears stinging her eyes.
He shook his head. "Why don't you save that for someone you can say it to and mean it."
With those words he turned and left her there. Tracy found she could not stop the tears and hurried to her room. She managed to get herself under control, wash her face with cool water, and reapply her makeup. She had hurt him, she thought dismally as she started down the hallway again. She had really hurt him this time. Was it so awful not to want to rush into a hasty marriage? Evidently, it was to Anthony; she felt as if she had destroyed their future together.
When she reached the dining room, she discovered that everyone else was already seated. Anthony got up from his chair to seat her. She smiled weakly at him and said, "Thank you," but he merely nodded perfunctorily, his face a mask of grim detachment.
Despite the tension between Tracy and Anthony, little Teddy kept the adults amused throughout the meal with stories about his gerbil, Calvin. Tracy did her best to keep up her end of the conversation during dinner and afterward, but her heart wasn't in it. Anthony was still ignoring her. He didn't even come over to give her a good-night kiss at bedtime.
Later, as Tracy might have expected, her midnight visitor never came. She hugged her pillow and cried, feeling achingly empty.
Thirteen
The next morning Anthony was still distant and preoccupied, so Tracy spent the day shopping and sightseeing with Estelle, Teddy, and Mrs. Delano. The foursome started out early and did the town, stopping at the Alamo, the Mexican village of La Villita, the Spanish Governor's Mansion, and a few of the better known missions, as well as Market Square, where they lunched. Though it was extremely difficult for Tracy to get her mind off her problems with Anthony, she did enjoy the sights, particularly El Mercado, the century-old Victorian market house, where they explored numerous gift and specialty shops.
At one of the small shops Tracy fell in love with a fiesta-style outfit—a vividly patterned, layered skirt and coordinating blouse of puffy white gauze. Tracy ended up buying the costume to prevent Ingrid from giving it to her as a present. She was unable, however, to keep Anthony's mother from buying her a pair of mother-of-pearl combs to wear as an accessory with the outfit.
The foursome arrived home late in the afternoon, laden down with souvenirs and packages. As soon as the women and Teddy entered the living room, Renaldo told Estelle, "Honey, I think you'd better call Wally. He phoned three times while you were out."
Estelle nodded and hurried to her bedroom, looking preoccupied. Meanwhile, Renaldo and Ingrid listened raptly to their grandson's account of the day, and Anthony took Tracy aside to the dining room. "We're going out to dinner alone tonight, Tracy," he informed her tensely. "We've got to talk."
"Sure, Anthony," Tracy said. She studied him but found his features distressingly unreadable. She would have loved to touch the tanned strength of his arms, to stroke her fingers across his slightly rough face, but she didn't. He hadn't even smiled at her since she'd returned to the house. "What time should I be ready?" she asked him rather defeatedly.
"Is seven-thirty too early?" His words came just as stiffly as hers, and when she shook her head, he added, "I guess I'd better let you go get ready."
As he was about to leave the room, she tried valiantly to coax a smile out of him by asking, "Should I plan to buy my own plane ticket back to Houston?"
He turned sharply at her words, looking infuriated rather than amused by her quip. "Seven-thirty," he growled, and stalked off.
"Oh, great," Tracy groaned to herself, biting her lip so hard it hurt.
Back in her room, Tracy threw off her clothes and ran a bubble bath in the huge, elegant marble bathtub. Maybe she could improve Anthony's foul humor by looking delectable tonight. She began to feel grateful that she had purchased the dazzling new outfit. She soaked in the fragrant water, letting the tightness ease from her strained muscles.
As Tracy was about to get out of the tub, she heard the phone ringing in the room next door. Estelle answered it, then moments later Tracy heard her say angrily, "I just tried to get you, but there was no answer." Silence followed, and then she went on. "Okay, so you went out for a beer. Do you feel better now?" Again there was silence, then Estelle's voice rose to an angry crescendo. "For heaven's sake, Wally, we were taking your son to the Alamo, to the missions. Am I supposed to spend my entire vacation sitting on the edge of my seat waiting for you to call?"
Tracy hopped out of the tub and grabbed a thick towel, feeling like an eavesdropper. She was hearing entirely too much of this conversation. When she went back into her own room and shut the door, the muffled sound of Estelle's voice still filtered through, but the words were no longer intelligible.
Tracy dried herself off and donned her underwear and slip. Once the murmured sounds of Estelle's telephone conversation had ended, she went back into the bathroom to style her hair. It was then that she heard Estelle sobbing in the next room. Worriedly, Tracy knocked gently on the connecting door.
Estelle did not respond, even though Tracy called her name and knocked several times. Finally, Tracy opened the door and slipped into Estelle's room. She found her lying on the bed, weeping her heart out. Tracy quickly crossed the room and sat down next to her friend, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Estelle, what is it?"
Estelle sat up, her face tear-streaked. "Oh, Tracy, it's just awful."
Tracy reached across Estelle to pluck a couple of tissues from a box on the nightstand. "Here," she said, placing them in her friend's hand. "Tell me what's wrong."
Estelle blew her nose and wiped her tears. "What's wrong?" she repeated bitterly. "Nothing, except that my marriage is over."
"What?" Tracy exclaimed.
Estelle nodded dismally. "That was Wally just now."
"So I guessed."
Estelle placed a hand on Tracy's arm. "Hey, Tracy, I'm sorry about all the yelling. You must have thought the walls were about to come tumbling down."
"Oh, don't be silly. Just tell me what's wrong. Why do you say your marriage is over?"
Estelle sighed. "Wally and I just had a showdown. He said either Teddy and I come home now, or our marriage is over."
"Good Lord!" Tracy exclaimed. "But why? Didn't Wally agree that you could come to Texas for this visit?"
"Yes. But now he says that I didn't tell him I was coming to San Antonio as well as Houston."
"But that makes no sense. Didn't he realize you would want to see your parents as well as Anthony? San Antonio is only a couple hundred miles from Houston."
Estelle's head bobbed up and down. "I know that and you know that, but Wally's not being very rational right now. The truth is, we hardly even discussed my plans before I left because he was so busy sulking about my deserting him. Anyway, this whole fight is only a smokescreen to mask the real problem."
"And what is the real problem?"
"He doesn't want to share me with my family. He never has."
"Oh, yes," Tracy said, remembering her earlier conversation with Estelle. "He's pretty possessive, huh?"
"Don't I know it. But it goes deeper than that, Tracy. Wally came from an unhappy home. He wants nothing to do with his own parents, and I think that's the reason he resents mine." Looking agitated, Estelle got to her feet and began to pace. "I understand his possessiveness, Tracy, I really do. I also understand how it goes against the grain with him whenever my family does something nice for us." She turned to Tracy, her face ravished by grief and turmoil. "But why should we all suffer because his home life was unhappy? My family is happy and we want to be together. Wally has put me in an impossible position—making me choose between him and my family."
"So you told him you were staying?" Tracy asked quietly.
Estelle nodded, too distraught to speak.
Tracy stood and embraced the other woman. "Oh, Estelle, I'm so sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure you did the right thing." Her own eyes burned with tears. "If they were my family, I wouldn't give them up either."
Estelle hugged Tracy back and said sincerely, "Thanks, Tracy. I—I guess I'd better go check on Teddy now."
"Sure."
Back in her own room, Tracy thought over her conversation with Estelle. For some odd reason, her own words kept drifting through her mind again and again: "If they were my family, I wouldn't give them up either. ..."
There was a message there somewhere, she kept thinking. A message . . .
But what? Tracy wandered over to the window and pulled open the drapes. She spotted Anthony and his father seated on lawn chairs near the pool, conversing very seriously. Her heart went into a tailspin, and she ached to be near him, to close the agonizing rift between them. Whatever Renaldo and his son were discussing, it looked deadly serious. What revelation did Anthony intend to make to her tonight?
Fear clenched her heart. Half of her wanted to race outside and beg his forgiveness. But as always, the other half balked at the idea.
Estelle was right, she thought disgustedly. She was just like Wally, stubborn, proud—
If they were my family, I wouldn't give them up either. . . .
Staring at Anthony and his father, she suddenly realized why she had resisted Anthony all these months—and why she never wanted to resist him again. Even as her mind cleared, her love for him filled her to the brim.
She would tell him; she would have to tell him. If only it were not too late. . . .
Two hours later, Anthony and Tracy were strolling down the dramatic Paseo del Rio. The river was a dark peaceful mirror tonight, reflecting the moon and the myriad lights marking their way. The cobbled walkways were dotted with strolling lovers and banked by dark tropical foliage that had been brought in from all over the world.
Tracy had visited the river walk a few times previously, and as always she was entranced by the colorful restaurants and shops, the fabulous stone archways that allowed tourists to cross from one side of the river to the other.
Tracy had worn her vibrant new Mexican outfit, and her hair, secured by the exquisite combs, was pulled dramatically away from her face before it tumbled to her shoulders in shiny blond ringlets. The gauzy white blouse hinted at the shape of her breasts, while the full skirt swept softly over her hips and legs in bright tiers. With the diamond-and-sapphire jewelry Anthony had given her, Tracy made a dazzling picture that turned many a head as they walked. But the one head Tracy wanted to turn was fixed straight ahead as they walked.
Anthony had been stonily silent ever since they'd left the house. He had not even touched her except to help her into and out of his car. Now he walked along in grim silence, his balled fists in his pockets. Wearing perfectly fitting navy slacks, a gray-blue sport coat, and a pale gray shirt, he had never looked more desirable. Yet she knew she could not reach him. He seemed totally immune to the magic of the Paseo, to the laughter of lovers, the sense-stirring mixture of bright sights and spicy smells.
As they turned a bend in the path, a long, open boat approached them filled with happy diners, mariachi musicians, and attentive waiters. "Oh, Anthony, look!" Tracy cried. "They're eating Mexican food on the boat, and just listen to those guitars! Oh, it's glorious! Can we eat on a boat too?"
Still, he seemed unaffected. "Not tonight, Tracy. I've made reservations at the Little Rhine. I want a quiet place where we can talk."
Tracy nodded soberly and followed Anthony, trying her best to keep up with his determined stride. Things were going horribly. She was convinced that he was planning to break up with her tonight. This was the classic way it was done, wasn't it? At a sedate, elegant little restaurant where the woman won't make a scene.
The Little Rhine Steak House was, indeed, the perfect setting for that classic good-bye. Tracy and Anthony sat on a quiet terrace, looking out at tiers of greenery dotted with miniature white lights. The food was excellent, but Tracy had no appetite. The silence between her and Anthony didn't help either. As she picked at her salad, she studied him covertly and thought over her theory once more. Yes, he was almost certainly planning to end things between them tonight. Never had she seen him this way—his body looked rigid, his face tight and cold. She might not have been there for all the attention he paid her. It became harder and harder to hold back her tears. When her steak arrived, it was all she could do to swallow a bite or two.
"Tracy?"
Anthony's tense voice broke into Tracy's worried thoughts.
"Tracy, you've hardly touched your dinner."
"The steak is great, but I suppose I'm not really hungry. I guess"—she eyed him guardedly—"I guess I want to hear what it is you have to say."
Anthony nodded and motioned to the waiter, who came over and removed their dishes. She stared at him and he stared back at her for an anguished moment, then he tore his gaze away. At last, his words came hoarsely. "Tracy, this has got to be just about the most difficult thing I've ever done. When you love a woman, it's so very hard to let her go, but..."
"Oh, no . . ." she choked out.
Without any warning he smashed his fist upon the table, making her jump. "All right, dammit! You win!"
She was flabbergasted. "I—I win?"
"You win the game, or whatever the hell it is you've been playing with me," he said angrily. "I don't like it. In fact, I damn well resent it, but I love you so much that I'll play by any rules you choose. You win, Tracy."
"I—I win?" she repeated, still astounded.
A smile touched his sensual mouth. "You know, you do have something of an obtuse streak, darling." He reached across the table and took her hand. "What I mean, Tracy, is that I'll quit trying to force you into marriage. I'll wait for you—for just as long as it takes. But," he added fiercely, "I'll be damned if I'll share you with other men."
"Oh, Anthony," she said hoarsely. She was so relieved, she began to tremble, and then, to her horror, she dissolved into tears.
"Tracy, darling, what is it? Is it something I said?"
"It's everything you said!"
"Oh, good Lord."
"No, no," she hastily amended, struggling to catch her breath between sobs. "I mean, what you said was beautiful, and—oh, heavens, I was just so sure I had lost you. ..."
"Fat chance," he exclaimed vehemently, and she wept even louder. "Now what's wrong?"
"I'm happy," she wailed. "And relieved. I can't tell you what hell it's been, thinking I had lost you."
He shook his head and handed her his handkerchief. "Darling, you're not going to lose me. Dry your tears, then tell me all about it."
When she had calmed herself, she looked at him with her heart in her eyes and said, "Anthony, today I finally realized why I've been resisting you so long. You see, my home was not a happy home—oh, my parents were never in the divorce courts, but there was so much tension between them. I guess somehow the fear of becoming stuck in a similar situation was inbred in me. I suppose I developed the cynical attitude that a happy homelife was something that existed only in fairy tales." She looked at him through her tears. "But then I met you, Anthony. At first you seemed almost too good to be true, but gradually you calmed my fears. Then when I met your family— your parents are so happy and in love, Anthony—I guess it really renewed my faith, made me believe in 'happily ever after.' " She smiled ruefully. "As far as my 'game' goes, I always told you I wasn't ready, but I realized today that that wasn't really true. I guess I've been sidestepping the idea of commitment to you out of fear that it just wouldn't work out. But not any longer. What you said yesterday was true. Love is taking risks, and I'm now completely willing to take those chances with you— that is, if you'll have me."
 "Darling! Of course I'll have you. But what is it, exactly, that you're saying?"
She took a deep breath. "I'm saying I love you, Anthony, and I don't want you to wait, or compromise. I can understand why you don't want to share me with other men because I don't want to share you either." Looking him in the eye, she added, "I need you, Anthony, and I want to marry you."
He reached for her joyously, but she restrained him with her hand. "Wait, there's more. There's something else I must tell you." She smiled wryly. "Confession is good for the soul, so they say."
"Yes?" he asked, frowning slightly. "Don't tell me you're having an affair with the milkman?"
"You nut!" She laughed. "No, this kind of has to do with Wally and Estelle."
He nodded gloomily. "I'm praying they'll come to some sort of compromise that they can both live with."
"Me too. Anyway, their situation has given me a lot of food for thought. I guess I'm a lot like Wally, very proud. It just killed me when you did nice things for me, Anthony."
"You think I didn't notice, darling?" he asked with a laugh. "But I do have a perverse streak. The more you balked at my good deeds, the more determined I was to be your white knight." He grinned. "Just wait until you see the rock I'm going to slap on your finger for our engagement!"
"Oh, brother!" She laughed. "I can tell I'm going to have to try to improve." She went on more seriously. "Anyway, I guess what I want to tell you is that I never could quite understand why you would want me, Anthony. You have everything." She averted her gaze from his. "All I have to give is myself."
His firm hand reached across the table to take her chin and turn her toward him. "Darling, there's nothing more I could ever possibly want," he whispered. "You're so fresh, Tracy, so adorable. You view life with such a sense of wonder. I don't know how I could ever live without you. Now, come closer."
"You mean you're going to—uh—"
"Come closer."
She slid her chair closer to his, and he leaned over and claimed her lips soulfully. Each of them poured all their emotions into the kiss. They left the restaurant exuberantly, arms wrapped around each other.
As they passed an outdoor cafe a little farther down the Paseo, Tracy stopped in her tracks, watching a waiter pass with a tray of desserts, one of which was the most enormous chunk of cheesecake she had ever seen in her life. "I want that!" she cried to Anthony.
"I thought you weren't hungry," he teased.
"Now I'm ravenous," she told him, wrinkling her nose.
As they both ate cheesecake on the restaurant's terrace, he asked her, "Do you know there's a hotel down around the bend with the river running through it?"
"You're kidding!"
"On my honor. When you're through gorging yourself, my darling, we're going to go there and make love."
She almost choked on a mouthful of cheesecake. He chuckled and told her, "I think we should seal the bond between us. Really seal it. Also, sweetheart—I'm nuts about that outfit you're wearing."
"You—you are?"
"Oh, yes. You're lucky I haven't torn your clothes off you yet. And about two dozen men we've passed tonight are lucky to have escaped busted jaws. And—urn—there's no way you're going to make it home tonight unravished."
"Unravished? Is there such a word?"
"There won't be for you. Not tonight. We're going to the hotel with the river running through the lobby—and when we leave, my darling, you may never be the same again."
She giggled. "Gee, I can hardly wait. And to think, an hour ago I was ready to drown myself in that very river."
"Drown yourself? No way as long as there's breath in my body. Besides, one drop of water and that sexy little blouse you're wearing would turn scandalously transparent."
"Anthony." She blushed becomingly. "You really did notice." Her blush deepened. "But—but we don't even have any luggage."
"What's luggage? We'll bribe some tourists into letting us borrow theirs if necessary." He reached out to stroke her delicate neck. "You'll like the hotel. There are shops in the lobby too. I may buy you one."
"One what?"
"Shop."
"Brute!"
"Ever made love in a hotel with a river running through it, Tracy?"
"You should know!" she responded with mock indignation. "Have I ever made love with anyone but you? And how did you find out about this hotel anyway?"
"Trade secret."
"Monster!"
"What if I said my dad told me about it?"
"Don't say it. I wouldn't believe you."
"But it's true. You see, Dad mentioned once that he and Mother sometimes go there to—um— celebrate their anniversary—"
"Okay, he's your dad. I believe it."
Anthony laughed his delight. "Dad thinks you're wonderful, by the way. So does Mother."
"I think they're great too."
"Well? Shall we go, darling?"
She giggled. "Do you suppose the river drowns out screams?"
"We'll find out," he promised. He leaned over and kissed her cheek tenderly. "Oh, woman, I'm so glad you're mine! I can't wait to make you my wife."
"Do you still want to get married across the border?" she asked.
He shook his head and said mysteriously, "No, I've something else in mind, though it may take a few days to arrange."
She eyed him quizzically and he whispered, "I believe you mentioned something about a boat. ..."
Three nights later a long open boat made its way down the gleaming Paseo del Rio. Strollers along the walk stopped in their tracks to witness the glorious sight. The boat was trimmed with flowers and multicolored lights. At the stern were Estelle, Teddy, and the elder Delanos, dressed in their finest. Nearby, two mariachi musicians strummed quietly. Estelle wore an expression of serenity, and there were tears of joy in her eyes, not only because of the ceremony she was witnessing but also because Wally had phoned her to apologize for his hasty ultimatum. Things were far from perfect between them, but it was a beginning.
At the bow stood Tracy, Anthony, and the minister, Tracy in a flowing white Mexican-style dress and a lacy mantilla, Anthony in a dark suit. Both of their faces shone with the promise of everlasting commitment as they repeated their vows of love.