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“How much do you pay for this place?” Gerry asked as he crumpled his napkin and got up to walk over to the refrigerator.
“None of your business.” She absolutely refused to listen to his lecture on the number of starving children she could feed on her monthly rent.
He pulled out a carton of milk and took a glass from the cupboard. “How's Ma?” His question was casual, but she wasn't fooled.
“She's having a little trouble with arthritis, but other than that, she's okay.” Gerry rinsed out the glass and set it in the top rack of her dishwasher. He had always been neater than she was. “Dad's good, too,” she said, suddenly unable to tolerate the idea of making him ask. “You know he retired last summer.”
“Yeah, I know. Do they ever ask about...”
Naomi couldn't help herself. She got up from the stool and walked over to rest her cheek against her brother's arm. “I know they think about you, Ger,” she said softly. “It's just—it's been hard on them.”
“You'd think they'd be proud,” he said bitterly.
“Their friends talk,” she replied, knowing how lame the excuse was.
He gave her a brief, awkward hug and then quickly moved away, going back into the living room. She found him standing next to the window, pushing the draperies back with one hand and lighting a cigarette with the other.
“Tell me why you're here, Gerry. What do you want?”
For a moment he stared out over the Manhattan skyline. Then he stuck his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, pressed the palms of his hands together in an attitude of prayer, and sketched a small bow before her. “Just a little sanctuary, sis. Just a little sanctuary.”
Dallie won the Lake Charles tournament.
“Of course you won the damned thing,” Skeet grumbled as the three of them walked into the motel room on Sunday night with a silver urn-shaped trophy and a check for ten thousand dollars. “The tournament doesn't amount to a hill of beans, so you naturally have to play some of the best damned golf you've played in two months. Why can't you do this kind of
thing at Firestone or anyplace they got a TV camera pointed at you, do you mind telling me that?”
Francesca kicked off her sandals and sagged down onto the end of the bed. Even her bones were tired. She had walked all eighteen holes of the golf course so she could cheer Dallie on as well as discourage any petrochemical secretaries who might be following him too closely. Everything was going to change for Dallie now that she loved him, she had decided. He would start playing for her, just as he'd played today, winning tournaments, making all sorts of money to support them. They'd been lovers for less than a day, so she knew the idea of Dallie supporting her on a permanent basis was premature, but she couldn't help thinking about it.
Dallie began pulling the tail of his golf shirt out of his light gray slacks. “I'm tired, Skeet, and my wrist hurts. Do you mind if we save this for later?”
“That's what you always say. But there isn't any saving it till later 'cause you won't ever talk about it. You go on—”
“Stop it!” Francesca jumped up from the bed and rounded on Skeet. “You leave him alone, do you hear? Can't you see how tired he is? You act as if he lost the bloody tournament today instead of winning it. He was magnificent.”
“Magnificent my sweet aunt,” Skeet drawled. “That boy didn't play with three-quarters of what he's got, and he knows it better than anybody. How about you take care of your makeup, Miss Fran-chess-ka, and you let me take care of Dallie?” He stalked to the door and slammed it as he went out.
Francesca confronted Dallie. “Why don't you fire him? He's impossible, Dallie. He makes everything so difficult for you.”
He sighed and stripped his shirt over his head. “Leave it alone, Francie.”
“That man is your employee, and yet he acts as though you're working for him. You need to put a stop to it.” She watched as he walked over to the brown paper sack he'd brought back to the room with him and pulled out a six-pack of beer. He drank too much, she realized, even though he never seemed to show any signs of it. She had also seen him take a few pills that she doubted were vitamins. As soon as the time was right, she would persuade him to stop both practices.
He peeled a can from its plastic ring and popped the top. “Trying to come between Skeet and me isn't a good idea, Francie.”
“I'm not trying to come between you. I just want to make things easier for you.”
“Yeah? Well, forget it.” He drained his beer and stood up. “I'm going to take a shower.”
She didn't want him to be angry with her, so she curved her mouth into an irresistibly sexy smile. “Need any help with those hard-to-reach places?”
“I'm tired,” he said irritably. “Just leave me alone.” He walked into the bathroom and shut the door, but not before he'd seen the hurt in her eyes.
Stripping off his clothes, he turned the shower on full blast. The water sluiced over his sore shoulder. Closing his eyes, he ducked under the shower head, thinking about that lovesick look he'd spotted on her face. He should have figured she would start imagining she was in love with him. Everything was packaging to her. She was exactly the sort of woman who couldn't see any further than his pretty face. Dammit, he should have left things like they were between them, but they'd been sleeping in the same room for nearly a week and her accessibility had been driving him crazy. How much could he expect from himself? Besides, something about her had gotten to him last night when she'd told that stupid warthog story.
Even so, he should have kept his jeans zipped. Now she was going to cling to him like a string of bad luck, expecting hearts and flowers and all that other horseshit, none of which he had the slightest intention of giving to her. There was no way, not when he had Wynette looming up in front of him and Halloween beating at his door, and not when he could think of a dozen women he liked a whole lot better. Still—although he had no intention of telling her about it—she was one of the best-looking women he'd ever met. Even though he realized it was a mistake, he suspected he would be back in bed with her before too much more time had passed.
You're a real bastard, aren't you, Beaudine?
