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“Good-bye, Miss Francie Pants.”
He'd gotten the last word on her. She stood on the pavement in front of the terminal and faced the undeniable fact that the gorgeous hillbilly had scored the final point in a game she'd invented. An illiterate—probably illegitimate— backwoods bumpkin had outwitted, outtalked, and out-scored the incomparable Francesca Serritella Day.
What was left of her spirit staged a full-scale rebellion, and she gazed up at him with eyes that spoke volumes in the history of banned literature. “It's too bad we didn't meet under different circumstances.” Her pouty mouth curled into a wicked smile. “I'm absolutely certain we'd have tons in common.”
And then she stood on tiptoe, curled into his chest, and lifted her arms until they encircled his neck, never for a moment letting her gaze drop from his. She tilted up her perfect face and offered up her soft mouth like a jeweled chalice. Gently drawing his head down with the palms of her. hands, she placed her lips over his and then slowly parted them so that Dallie Beaudine could take a long, unforgettable drink.
He didn't even hesitate. He jumped right in just as if he'd been there before, bringing with him all the expertise he'd gained over the years to meet and mingle with all of hers. Their kiss was perfect—hot and sexy—two pros doing what they did best, a tingler right down to the toes. They were both too experienced to bump teeth or mash noses or do any of those other awkward things less practiced men and women are apt to do. The Mistress of Seduction had met the Master, and to Francesca the experience was as close to perfect as anything she'd ever felt, complete with goose bumps and a lovely weakness in her knees, a spectacularly perfect kiss made even more perfect by the knowledge that she didn't have to give a moment's thought to the awkward aftermath of having implicitly promised something she had no intention of delivering.
The pressure of the kiss eased, and she slid the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip. Then she slowly pulled away. “Good-bye, Dallie,” she said softly, her cat's eyes slanting up at him with a mischievous glitter. “Look me up the next time you're in Cap Ferret.”
Just before she turned away, she had the pleasure of seeing a slightly bemused expression take over his gorgeous face.
“I should be used to it by now,” Skeet was saying as Dallie climbed back behind the wheel. “I should be used to it, but I'm not. They just fall all over you. Rich ones, poor ones, ugly ones, fancy ones. Don't make no difference. It's like they're all a bunch of homing pigeons circling in to roost. You got lipstick on you.”
Dallie wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and then looked down at the pale smear. “Definitely imported,” he muttered.
From just inside the door of the terminal, Francesca watched the Buick pull away and suppressed an absurd pang of regret. As soon as the car was out of sight, she picked up her cases and walked back outside until she came to a taxi stand with a single yellow cab. The driver got out and loaded her cases into the trunk while she settled in the back. As he got behind the wheel, he turned to her. “Where to, ma'am?”
“I know it's late,” she said, “but do you think you could find a resale shop that's still open?”
“Resale shop?”
“Yes. Someplace that buys designer labels... and a really extraordinary suitcase.”
Chapter
9
New Orleans—the city of “Stella, Stella, Stella for star,” of lacy ironwork and Old Man River, Confederate jasmine and sweet olive, hot nights, hot jazz, hot women—lay at the bottom of the Mississippi like a tarnished piece of jewelry. In a city noted for its individuality, the Blue Choctaw managed to remain common. Gray and dingy, with a pair of neon beer signs that flickered painfully in a window dulled by exhaust fumes, the Blue Choctaw could have been located near the seediest part of any American city—near the docks, the mills, the river, skirting the ghetto. It bumped up to the bad side, the never-after-dark, littered sidewalks, broken street lamps, no-good-girls-allowed part of town.
The Blue Choctaw had a particular aversion to good girls. Even the women the men had left at home weren't all that good, and the men sure as hell didn't want to find better ones sitting on the red vinyl bar stool
s next to them. They wanted to find girls like Bonni and Cleo, semi-hookers who wore strong perfume and red lipstick, who talked tough and thought tough and helped a man forget that Jimmy Asshole Carter was sure enough going to get himself elected President and give all the good jobs to the niggers.
Bonni twirled the yellow plastic sword in her mai-tai and peered through the noisy crowd at her friend and rival Cleo Reznyak, who was shoving her tits up against Tony Grasso as he pushed a quarter in the jukebox and punched in C-24. There was a mean mood in the smoky air of the Blue Choctaw that night, meaner than usual, although Bonni didn't try to put her finger on its source. Maybe it was the sticky heat that wouldn't let go; maybe it was the fact that Bonni had turned thirty the week before and the last of her illusions had just about disappeared. She knew she wasn't smart, wasn't pretty enough to get by on her looks, and she didn't have the energy to improve herself. She was living in a broken-down trailer park, answering the telephone at Gloria's Hair Beautiful, and it wasn't going to get any better.
For a girl like Bonni, the Blue Choctaw represented a shot at the good times, a few laughs, the occasional big spender who would pick up the tab for her mai-tais, take her to bed, and leave a fifty-dollar bill on the dresser next morning. One of those big spenders was sitting at the other end of the bar... with his eye on Cleo.
She and Cleo had an agreement. They stood together against any newcomers who tried to sink their butts too comfortably onto the Blue Choctaw's bar stools, and they didn't poach on each other's territory. Still, the spender at the bar tempted Bonni. He had a big belly and arms strong enough to show that he held a steady job, maybe working on one of the offshore drilling rigs—a man out for a good time. Cleo had been getting more than her fair share of men lately, including Tony Grasso, and Bonni was tired of it.
“Hi,” she said, wandering over and sliding up on the stool next to him. “You're new around here, aren't you?”
He looked her over, taking in her carefully arranged helmet of sprayed blond hair, her plum eye shadow, and deep, full breasts. As he nodded, Bonni could see him forgetting about Cleo.
“Been in Biloxi the last few years,” he replied. “What're you drinking?”
She gave him a kittenish smile. “I'm partial to mai-tais.” After he gestured toward the bartender for her drink, she crossed her legs. “My ex-husband spent some time in Biloxi. I don't suppose you ran into him? A cheap son of a bitch named Ryland.”
He shook his head—didn't know anybody by that name —and moved his arm so that it brushed along the side of her tits. Bonni decided they were going to get along fine, and she turned her body just far enough so she didn't have to see the accusing expression in Cleo's eyes.
An hour later the two of them had it out in the little girls’ room. Cleo bitched for a while, jerking a comb through her tough black hair and then tightening the posts on her best pair of fake ruby earrings. Bonni apologized and said she hadn't known Cleo was interested.
Cleo studied her suspiciously. “You know I'm getting tired of Tony. All he does is complain about his wife. Shit, I haven't had a good laugh out of him in weeks.”
“The guy at the bar—his name's Pete—he's not much for laughs either,” Bonnie admitted. She pulled a vial of Tabu from her purse and generously sprayed herself. “This place sure is going to hell.”
Cleo fixed her mouth and then stepped back to scrutinize her work. “You said it there, honey.”
