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“The last time was when I was seventeen, and I promised myself I'd learn a lesson from i
t. Damn, Francie, I'm thirty-seven years old, and you're—what—thirty?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Both of us are old enough to know better, and here we are, acting like a couple of horny teenagers.” He shook his blond head in self-disgust. “It'll be a miracle if you don't end up with a sucker bite on your neck.”
“Don't blame me for what happened,” she retorted. “I've been on the wagon for so long that anything looks good to me right now—even you.”
“I thought you and that Prince Stefan—”
“We're going to. We just haven't gotten around to it yet.”
“Something like that you probably shouldn't put off much longer.”
They started walking again. Before long, Dallie took her hand and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. His gesture should have been friendly and comforting, but it sent threads of heat traveling up Francesca's arm. She decided that the best way to dissipate the electricity between them was to use the cold voice of logic. “Everything is already so complicated for us. This—this—sexual attraction is going to make it impossible.”
“You could kiss good ten years ago, honey, but you've moved into the major leagues since then.”
“I don't do that with everybody,” she replied irritably.
“No offense, Francie, but I remember back all those years ago that once the serious business got started, you still had a few things to learn—not that you weren't a real good student. Tell me why I get the feeling that you've pretty much put yourself on the honor roll since then?”
“I haven't! I'm terrible at sex. It—it messes up my hair.”
He chuckled. “I don't think you care too much about your hair anymore—not that it doesn't look real good—and your makeup, too, by the way.”
“Oh, God,” she moaned. And then, “Maybe we should pretend none of this happened, just go back to the way things were.”
He tucked his hand, along with hers, into the pocket of his parka. “Honey, you and I have been circling each other ever since the second we got back together—sniffing and snarling like a couple of mongrel dogs. If we don't let things take their natural course pretty soon, we're both going to end up half crazy.” He paused for a moment. “Or blind.”
Instead of disagreeing with him, as she should have, Francesca found herself saying, “Assuming we decide to go ahead with this, how long do you think it will take for us to—to burn out?”
“I don't know. We're entirely different people. My guess is if we do it two or three times, the mystery'll be gone, and that'll pretty much be the end of it.”
Was he right? She chastised herself. Of course he was right. This kind of sexual chemistry was just like a brushfire —it burned hot and quickly, but had no real staying power. Once again she was making too big a deal out of sex. Dallie was acting completely casual about the whole thing and so should she. This was a perfect opportunity to get him out of her blood without losing her dignity.
They walked the rest of the way to the farmhouse in silence. When they got inside, he performed all the rituals of a host—hanging up their jackets, adjusting the thermostat so the house would be comfortable, pouring her a glass of wine from a bottle he'd brought in from the kitchen. The silence between them had begun to feel oppressive, and she took refuge in sarcasm. “If that bottle has a screw top, I don't want any.”
“I took the cork out with my very own teeth.”
She repressed a smile and sat down on the couch, only to discover that she was too nervous to sit still. She got back up. “I'm going to use the bathroom. And, Dallie... I didn't—bring anything with me. I know it's my body and I consider myself responsible for it, but I didn't plan to end up in your bed—not that I've actually made up my mind about that yet—but if I do—if we do—if you're not better prepared than I am, you'd better tell me right now.”
He smiled. “I'll take care of it.”
“You'd better.” She gave him her most ferocious scowl, because everything was moving too quickly for her. She knew she was getting ready to do something she would regret, but she didn't seem to have the willpower to stop herself. It was because she'd been celibate for a year, she reasoned. That was the only explanation.
When she returned from the bathroom, he was sitting on the sofa, with one boot crossed over his knee, drinking a glass of tomato juice. She sat at the opposite end of the couch, not pressed up against the arm exactly, but not cuddled next to him, either. He looked over at her. “Jeez, Francie, I wish you'd loosen up a little bit. You're starting to make me nervous.”
“Don't give me that,” she retorted. “You're as nervous as I am. You just hide it better.”
He didn't deny it. “You want to take a shower together to warm up?”
She shook her head. “I don't want to take off my clothes.”
“It's going to be pretty difficult—”
“That's not what I mean. I'll probably take off my clothes—eventually—maybe—if I decide to—it's just that I plan to be already warmed up before I do it.”
