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With that, he disappeared through a sliding shoji screen off to her right. She stared after him, her emotions catapulting between alarm and curiosity. He had obviously mistaken her for someone else, but since Bobby Tom Denton wouldn’t accept any phone calls from Windmill Studios, she wondered if she shouldn’t take advantage of the misunderstanding.
The old Gracie Snow would have patiently waited for him to return so she could have explained her mission, but the new Gracie Snow craved adventure, and she found herself following the sound of raucous music along a curving hallway.
The rooms she passed were like none she had ever seen. She had always been a secret sensualist, and sight alone didn’t satisfy her. Her hands itched to stroke the rough pieces of sculpture sitting on oxidized iron pedestals and the granite
blocks that held irregularly shaped tabletops that looked like cross sections cut from prehistoric trees. She wanted to trail the pads of her fingers over the walls, some of which were lacquered a pale gray, while others were covered with long swatches of distressed leather bleached to the color of human ashes. The deep-seated, low-slung furniture upholstered in canvas and zebra-print beckoned to her, and the scent of eucalyptus trailing from ancient urns tantalized her nostrils.
Mingling with the eucalyptus, she caught the scent of chlorine. As she rounded a massive set of boulders tumbling artistically from the wall, her eyes widened. The hallway opened out into a luxurious grotto, whose walls were constructed of sweeping sheets of sandblasted glass rising to the roof. Mature palms, stands of bamboo, and other exotic foliage grew from free-form beds cut into the black marble floor, making the grotto look both tropical and prehistoric. The black tiled, asymmetrical-shaped swimming pool gave the appearance of a hidden pond where dinosaurs might have gone for a midday sip. Even the starkly designed chaises and chunky tables made of flattop boulders blended with the natural ambience.
The surroundings might be prehistoric, but the guests were thoroughly modern. There were perhaps thirty people in the mixed group. All of the women were young and beautiful, while the men, both black and white, had bulging muscles and thick necks. She knew nothing about football players except for their unsavory reputations, and as she observed the scanty bikinis worn by most of the women, she couldn’t suppress a small spark of hope that some sort of orgy might be about to take place. Not that she would ever participate in such a thing—even supposing anyone should ask her to—but it would be interesting to observe.
Shrill female squeals drew her attention to the foaming hot tub that sat inside a cluster of boulders on a raised platform near the windows. Four women frolicked in the bubbles, and Gracie experienced both envy and admiration as she observed their glistening, suntanned breasts bouncing in brief bikini tops. And then her gaze moved beyond the women to the lone man occupying the platform, and everything inside her went still,
She recognized him at once from his photographs. He stood next to the hot tub like a sultan surveying his harem, and as she watched him, all her deepest and most secret sexual fantasies came to life. This was Bobby Tom Denton. Dear Lord.
He was the embodiment of every man she’d ever dreamed about; all the high school boys who’d ignored her, all the young men who never remembered her name, all the handsome professional men who complimented her on her clear thinking, but never thought to ask her out for a date. He was a glittering superhuman creature who must have been put on earth by a perverse God to remind homely women like herself that some things were unobtainable.
She knew from the photographs she had seen that his Stetson concealed a head of thick blond hair, while the brim shadowed a pair of midnight blue eyes. Unlike her own, his cheekbones could have been chiseled by a Renaissance sculptor. He had a strong, straight nose, a determined jaw, and a mouth that should have come with a warning label. He was utterly and supremely masculine, and as she gazed at him, she felt the same piercing longing she experienced on warm summer evenings when she lay in the grass and stared at the stars. He shone as brightly, and he was just as unreachable.
He wore a black Stetson accompanied by snakeskin cowboy boots and a velour bathrobe patterned in red and green lightning bolts. He held an amber beer bottle in one hand, and smoke curled from the cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. The skin between the tops of his cowboy boots and the bottom of his robe was bare, revealing powerfully muscled calves, and her mouth went dry as she wondered if he was naked underneath that robe.
“Hey! I told you to wait by the door for me.”
She jumped as the burly man who had let her in the house came up behind her, a small boom box in his hand.
“Stella said you were hot, but I told her I wanted a blonde.” He regarded her doubtfully. “Bobby Tom likes blondes. Are you blond under that wig?”
Her hand flew to her french twist. “Actually—”
“I like that librarian’s get-up you’re wearing, but you need a lot more makeup. Bobby Tom likes his women with makeup.”
And breasts, she thought, as her eyes wandered back toward the platform. Bobby Tom also liked his women with very large breasts.
She returned her gaze to the boom box, trying to grasp the specifics of the misunderstanding between them. As she began to frame a proper explanation, the man scratched his chest.
“Did Stella tell you we want something a little special, on account of how depressed he’s been lately because of his retirement? He’s even talking about leaving Chicago to live in Texas year round. The boys and me thought this might give him a couple of laughs. Bobby Tom loves strippers.”
Strippers! Gracie’s fingers convulsed around her fake pearls. “Oh, dear! I should explain—”
“There was one stripper I thought he might even marry, but she couldn’t pass his football quiz.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe that the greatest wideout in the game has hung up his helmet for Hollywood. Goddamn knee.”
Since he seemed to be talking to himself rather than her, Gracie didn’t respond. Instead, she tried to absorb the incredible fact that this man had mistaken her—the last thirty-year-old virgin left on Planet Earth—for a stripper!
It was embarrassing.
It was terrifying.
It was thrilling!
Once again, he regarded her critically. “Last one Stella sent over came in dressed like a nun. Bobby Tom likes to bust a gut laughing. But she wore a lot more makeup. Bobby Tom likes makeup on his women. You’d better go fix yourself up.”
It was long past time to put an end to this misunderstanding, and she cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, Mr.—”
“Bruno. Bruno Metucci. I played for the Stars back in the old days when Bert Somerville owned the team. ‘Course I was never a starter like Bobby Tom.”
“I see. Well, the fact is—”
An outburst of shrill, female squeals erupting from the hot tub distracted her. She lifted her eyes to see Bobby Tom gazing indulgently at the women frolicking at his feet, while in the distance the lights of Lake Michigan glimmered through the glass behind him. For a moment she had the illusion that he was floating in space, a cosmic cowboy .in his Stetson, boots, and bathrobe, a man not governed by the same rules of gravity that kept ordinary mortals earthbound He seemed to wear invisible spurs on those boots, spurs that spun at supersonic speed, shooting off giant pin-wheels of glittering sparks that illuminated everything he did and made it larger than life.
