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“I'll relax you.” He pulled the snap open and began working on the zipper.
“Dallie!” she exclaimed. “We're outside.”
“Uh-huh. Just you, me, and the swamp.” The zipper gave.
“I—I don't think I'm ready for this.” Reaching under her loose T-shirt, he cupped her breast in his hand and let his lips trail over her cheek to her mouth. Panic began beating inside her. He rubbed her nipple with his thumb and she moaned softly. She wanted him to think she was wonderful—a spectacular lover—and how could she do that in the middle of a swamp? “I—I need champagne. And soft lights. I need sheets, Dallie.”
He withdrew his hand from her breast and settled it gently around the side of her neck. Gazing down into her eyes, he said, “No, you don't, honey. You don't need anything but yourself. You've got to start understanding that, Francie. You've got to start relying on yourself instead of all these props you think you need to set up around you.”
“I-I'm afraid.” She tried to make her words sound defiant, but didn't quite succeed. Unwrapping herself from his legs and stepping down off his cowboy boot, she confessed everything. “It might seem silly to you, but Evan Varian said I was frigid, and there was this Swedish sculptor in Marrakech—”
“You want to hold on to that part of the story for a while?”
She felt some of her fight coming back, and she glared at him. “You brought me here on purpose, didn't you? You brought me here because you knew I'd hate it.” She took several steps back and pointed a shaky finger toward the Riviera. “I'm not the sort of woman you make love to in the back seat of a car.”
“Who said anything about a back seat?”
She stared at him for a moment and then exclaimed, “Oh, no! I'm not lying down on that creature-infested ground. I mean it, Dallie.”
“I don't much like the ground myself.”
“Then how? Where?”
“Come on, Francie. Stop plotting and planning and trying to make sure you always have your best side turned to the camera. Let's just kiss a little bit so things can take their natural course.”
“I want to know where, Dallie.”
“I know you do, honey, but I'm not going to tell you because you'll start worrying about whether it's color-coordinated or not. For once in your life, take a chance at doing something where you may not come out looking your best.”
She felt as if he had held a mirror up in front of her—not a very large mirror and one with clouded glass, but a mirror nonetheless. Was she as vain as Dallie seemed to believe? As calculating? She didn't want to think so, and yet... She stuck out her chin and began defiantly peeling down her jeans. “All right, we'll do it your way. But just don't expect anything spectacular from me.” The slim denim pantlegs caught on her sandals. She bent over to struggle with them, but the heels stuck in the folds. She gave the jeans another tug and tightened the snare. “Is this turning you on, Dallie?” she fumed. “Do you like watching me? A
re you getting excited? Dammit! Dammit to bloody hell!”
He started to move toward her, but she looked up at him through the veil of her hair and bared her teeth. “Don't you dare touch me. I mean it. I'll do it myself.”
“We're not getting off to a real promising start here, Francie.”
“You go to hell!” Jeans hobbling her ankles, she hopped the three steps back to the car, sat down hard on the front seat, and finally extricated herself from the pants. Then she stood up in T-shirt, underpants, and sandals. “There! And I'm not taking another thing off until I feel like it.”
“Sounds fair to me.” He opened his arms to her. “You want to cuddle up here for a minute and catch your breath.”
She did. She really did. “I suppose.”
She curled into his chest. He held her for a moment, and then he tilted back her head and began kissing her again. She'd sunk so low in her own estimation that she didn't even try to impress him; she just let him do the work. After a while, she realized that it felt nice. His tongue touched hers and his splayed hand pressed against the bare skin of her back. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. He reached under her shirt again and his thumbs began to toy with the sides of her breasts and then slid over onto the nipples. It felt so good—shivery and warm at the same time. Had the sculptor played with her breasts? He must have, but she didn't remember. And then Dallie pushed her T-shirt above her breasts and began teasing her with his mouth—his beautiful, wonderful mouth. She sighed as he sucked gently on one nipple and then the other. Somewhat to her surprise, she realized her own hands were once again beneath his shirt, kneading his bare chest. He picked her up in his arms, walked forward with her curled into his chest, and then laid her down.
Over the trunk of his Riviera.
“Absolutely not!” she exclaimed.
“Give it a chance,” he replied.
She opened her mouth to tell him that nothing in the world would convince her to be mauled while she was stretched out on the trunk of a car, but he seemed to take her open mouth as some sort of invitation. Before she could frame her words he started kissing her again. Without quite knowing how it happened, she heard herself moan as his kisses grew deeper, hotter. She arched her neck to him, opened her mouth, thrust her tongue, and forgot about her demeaning position. He reached down and encircled her ankle with his fingers, then pulled her leg up. “Right here,” he crooned softly. “Put your foot right up here next to the license plate, honey.”
She did just as he asked.
“Move your hips forward a little bit. That's good.” His voice sounded thick, not as calm as usual, and his breathing was faster than normal as he rearranged her. She pulled at his T-shirt, wanting to feel his bare skin against her breasts. He peeled it over his head and then began tugging at her underpants.
“Dallie...”
