Texas Rich

by Fern Michaels

  Billie reached for the punch cup and at that instant Agnes’s hand flew upward, the bright red drink splattering all over the front of Billie’s white dress.

  Coming around the corner from the hallway just then, Moss saw Billie step backward, but not in time. Her dress was ruined. He stood still for a minute. There was no point in ruining his uniform. When Billie finished wiping at the deep red stains, he walked forward.

  “Oh, Moss, I’m so glad you’re here,” Agnes said anxiously. “Will you please take Billie home so she can change her dress? Billie, I’m so sorry. I thought you had the cup in your hand. You don’t mind, do you, Moss?”

  “Of course not.” His eyes searched Agnes’s. He’d been wrong; it wasn’t panic at all. It was fear. A tight smile escaped him as he took Billie past the small, knotted crowds.

  Agnes watched them leave. Her glance went to the oversized clock on the wall, somewhat difficult to see with all the crepe-paper decorations hanging above. Ten minutes to drive home, another fifteen for Billie to change, ten for them to return. She would wait. This would be Billie’s chance and it might be the only one she’d get. Agnes pushed down all maternal uncertainties. It was a terrible gamble, but she was doing it for Billie’s sake. Her daughter was going to be one of the Colemans of Austin. Agnes smiled. And one way or another, she’d be one of them, too.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Moss took the latchkey from Billie’s hand and opened the front door. He admired the way she was handling her disappointment and embarrassment. Other girls, he knew, would have fretted and complained about the ruined dress, making the situation miserable for everyone. Not Billie. During the ride home she’d laughed and joked and teased him about being the most popular man at the dance.

  “I’ll only be a minute. Maybe two.” She laughed. “I’m afraid I’m soaked clear through to the skin. Why don’t you turn on the radio to keep you company?”

  “I’m sorry about your dress, Billie,” he told her sincerely. “You were the prettiest girl at the dance. No, not just pretty, beautiful.”

  Billie felt his words warm her. Now it didn’t matter if she had to wear sackcloth and ashes. Moss had said she was beautiful and she felt beautiful when he looked, at her this way, with fires glowing behind his eyes.

  He watched her disappear into the room off the parlor. After tuning in a radio station, he jammed his hands in his pockets and paced the darkened room. There was a line of light seeping from under Billie’s door; he could see it flicker and waver as she moved about inside.

  Billie stripped off her dress, knowing she’d find that the red punch had seeped through to her white taffeta slip. Even her skin was sticky and she needed a quick wash. How could Mother have been so careless? She’d need a complete change of clothes, everything.

  Moss opened the door to Billie’s bedroom; the soft, pink light from the bedstand shafted into the open closet door where he could hear her rummaging. He leaned against the doorjamb, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, his cap tilted low over his eyes.

  Unaware of his intrusion, Billie reached for her terry robe and stepped out of the closet, humming softly to the tune of “I’ll Be Seeing You” playing on the radio in the parlor. Moss surveyed her from the shadow of his cap, seeing the long naked length of her back, her small round rump, and her tapering legs, firm and lightly muscled. Her bare shoulders were dusted with the dark gold of her hair. She turned slightly, affording him a view of her small uptilted breasts with nipples as pink as the inside of seashells. Her waist was tiny and he grinned at her little round tummy, a vestige of girlhood.

  Billie shrugged into her robe, gathering it closed with the belt before turning to see him, her face registering surprise. Moss looked at her, his gaze never wavering from her face. It was there, the woman’s heat. It had turned her hazel eyes to gold.

  A flush of warmth crept down Billie’s body, touching embers to her breasts, her belly, between her legs. Still staring into his eyes, she opened her robe, allowing it to slip off her shoulders and caress her arms as it slid to the floor. Just as she discarded the scruffy white robe, so did she cast off her girlhood. It was a woman’s arms that lifted to welcome him.

  Agnes kept watching the clock on the wall. All around her, skirts swirled and music played. She was oblivious to everything save the passing of time. Nearly an hour had gone by since Billie had left with Moss. Agnes walked to the cloakroom for her sweater. Her step was determined as she left the high school and went out to the street.

  Her movements were controlled as she drove her seldom used Studebaker, both hands clutched on the wheel. Instead of coming in from the south end of her block, she drove an extra two blocks so she could swing around and come in from the north and park on the opposite side of the street. There she sat, staring across at the gray-and-white house on Elm Street. Moss’s borrowed car was parked in the drive. The house was dark and uninviting.

  The light from the outside streetlamp filtered through Agnes’s rayon curtains into Billie’s darkened bedroom, splashing onto her narrow, girlish bed and puddling a silvery sheen onto their nakedness. She lay close in Moss’s embrace, sensually aware of his coarse chest hairs tickling her breasts. His lips nuzzled her neck, trailing familiarly now to the hollow between her breasts and beneath them. He cupped and caressed their swollen firmness and seemed to take such pleasure in them that she wished they were bigger, fuller, for him.

  “I don’t know what’s sweeter, Billie, you or the fruit punch. You’re still sticky with it and delicious,” he murmured against her flesh, rekindling the throbbing of her pulses. She wanted to be sweet for him. She wanted to be everything for him.

  Billie sighed, stretching languorously beside him. She was a woman now. Moss had made love to her and made her a woman. His woman. He’d been so tender with her, so careful, arousing her to such a fever pitch before penetrating her flesh with his that she’d hardly noticed the quick, sudden rending of her maidenhead. Then, as he’d moved slowly within her, she’d felt herself dissolve wetly, her flesh opening itself to him, taking him fully inside her. She’d imagined that she was his canvas and he the artist, painting her with the vivid colors , of her awakened sexuality, designing her to his pleasure as he traced intricate patterns along her body with his lips and hands. His wonderful hands. There was not an inch of her unkissed or unloved, and Billie Ames felt she had metamorphosed from a dun-colored caterpillar into an exotic butterfly.

  Leaning up on one elbow, Moss trailed a teasing finger from the hollow of her throat down her body to the mossy bank of her sex, still moist and warm from their loving. “It’ll be better for you next time, Billie. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t. It was wonderful. I’ve never felt this close to anyone before, Moss. I love it. I love you.”

  His only answer was to kiss her, softly, his lips lingering on hers in an intimate caress. She parted her lips, allowing him entrance just as easily as she’d allowed him to enter her body. She was sweet and warm with the aftermath of their loving, but he knew she hadn’t come to, a climax and this was something he wanted to share with her, wanted to give her. “Being close isn’t enough,” he breathed. “There’s so much more, and I want to show you.”

  “More? Show me, Moss. Show me now,” she insisted, feeling a growing pressure at the center of herself that she knew he alone could assuage. Was it possible to be closer to him than she felt this minute? Was it possible to take a part of him that she could keep for her own and never lose no matter what happened, no matter how far away he would go?

  Moss was shaken by her invitation. He had expected to find pleasure in making love to her, but he’d never guessed at the depth of that pleasure or anticipated such uninhibited willingness. She’d been wonderful, accepting his caresses, the possession of her body, offering herself to him as though she were a gift created for him alone. Their eyes met in the dimness, clear and level, heated and eager without a trace of regret or embarrassment. Seeing her lips part in anticipation of his k
iss, he lowered his mouth to hers, touching and seeking that special sweetness that was Billie’s alone. He felt her fingers graze his back, lowering to his haunches, reawakening his desire for her. At that moment he believed he could never be sated in his hunger. Billie was special, unexpectedly so. She enchanted him with her responses, enthralled him with her eager, unpracticed touch. She was an untapped spring of sensuality and he determined to follow her courses to the deeply hidden source.

  Her body turned in his arms, offering itself to his explorations. Her skin was soft, supple beneath his touch. He watched her face as he caressed her breasts, slowly, intriguingly, lowering to her belly, between her parted thighs. The upsweep of her lashes lowered sleepily as she gave herself over to him, trusting him to take her to that place he had promised.

  His hand roamed the soft flesh of her thighs, rising upward. He watched her expression of wonder as she moved against his touch and she heard his response to her passion in the catch of his breath and the husky sound of his voice. “I love to touch you this way,” he whispered. “I love to watch you surrender yourself to me. Touch me, Billie,” he encouraged. “Touch me.”

  She sought him with her hands, eager to know him, to explore the mystery that promised such pleasure. Her own excitement grew as she realized his delight. The hardness of his sex was somehow vulnerable and tender, throbbing with desire. His body delighted her, tempting her fingers to find the breadth of his chest and the flatness of his belly and the strength of his thighs. The sound of her own heart thundered in her ears as she explored the fragility between his legs and the round firmness of his buttocks.

  Moss found himself breathless from her touch, seeing in her eyes that she took as much pleasure in him as he did in her. Her lashes fluttered and the tip of her tongue moistened her lips as though she were about to taste a delicious morsel. He brought his mouth to hers once again, hungering for it, darting his tongue against the silky underside of her full lower lip. His hands never broke contact with her body, following the rhythmic rise and fall as she pressed herself against him, following his hand, seeking passion’s reward.

  Billie was ravaged by this hunger he created in her; confused by it, not knowing where it would end, afraid it would. There was an emptiness at her center that craved him, demanded release. There was an exquisiteness in this contact and it was as though she were being fragmented, separated from herself, and nothing existed in the world but her body and his hand.

  Moving over her, he placed himself between her thighs, his eyes igniting embers wherever they touched her. The gold spill of her hair on the pillow, her white skin, her gentle curves that were young and appealing, all beckoned to him. His eyes locked with hers as he continued his caress; his passions were fired as she met his gaze with abandon, letting him see the desire that dwelt there and echoed-in the trembling of her loins. “Billie, Billie.” He murmured her name as if it were a love lyric. “You’re lovely, so lovely.”

  He fed her passions, gentled her desires, and brought her slowly and inexorably to the point of no return, smiling tenderly when she gasped with the sweetness of her release. She climaxed beneath his touch, crying her surprise, rolling her head back and forth as she called his name. He eased the tension in her thighs, pressed his palm into the contractions of her belly, smiling down at her reassuringly and persuading her doubts away. When she calmed, she smiled with the wonder of this discovery he had unfolded for her, and Moss had never felt such a surge of tenderness as he did for Billie at that moment. He wanted to be her lover, to carry her over the threshold of her passions, to explore the mysteries of her sensuality.

  “Tell me you want more, Billie. Tell me again how you want me to show you more.” His voice was so deep, a rumble in her ears, but she understood and eagerly whispered the words he wanted to hear.

  He leaned forward, entering her, gently, so gently, filling her with himself. Her flesh closed around him, capturing him in an exquisite embrace. She caressed the smooth expanse of his back, arched her breasts against his chest. Her mouth yielded to his, deeply, lovingly. She encouraged his embrace, heightened his passions, grasping his buttocks and holding him deep within her. She felt the heat rise again from the contact of their flesh. She felt herself matching the slow sensual rhythm he initiated. She was aware of the building of tension again at her center, driving herself and him once more to that sweet release.

  He felt her tighten and become rigid with her climax, her pulsations beckoning him to his own release. He raised himself up, grasping her bottom in his hands, lifting her, thrusting himself into her with shorter, quicker strokes.

  Her body was a delight, her responses instinctive, and the expression of complete surrender on her lovely face brought him to the edge of passion and he plummeted over to the other side to join her in the celebration of her womanhood.

  Their bodies glistened with the sheen of their pleasure and satisfaction. They lay side by side on the narrow bed, legs entwined, her head resting upon his shoulder. He brought her back from the far side of passion with caresses to her breasts and throat. He kissed her brow and inhaled the fragrance of her hair. His voice was soft and husky as he exulted in the delight he had found in her, enumerating those qualities he found so beautiful.

  “I love you,” she breathed, nuzzling her lips into the furring on his chest.

  “I know you do, Billie. I know.” And his answer was a kiss, so gentle and tender that it brought a tear to her eye.

  Agnes walked across the front yard, keeping to the grass so her heels wouldn’t click on the flagstones, and let herself in through the kitchen door. Laying her purse on the kitchen table, she went into the darkened living room. Frank Sinatra was crooning on the radio. Billie’s bedroom door was closed and Agnes drew in her breath when she heard Moss’s soft, intimate-sounding laughter and Billie’s urgent whispers.

  Sitting down on the dark brown Morris chair that had been her mother’s favorite, Agnes faced the door to Billie’s room and contemplated the quiet sounds she heard from within. She was aware that Moss was in there with Billie and she knew what they were doing.

  It seemed strange to Agnes to be sitting out here when any decent mother would be breaking down the door to save her daughter. But, in many ways, Agnes was saving Billie—and herself as well. In all likelihood, considering Billie’s recent behavior and the glow in her eyes, Moss would have landed her in bed sooner or later. The trick was to turn every disadvantage—such as having a lovestruck daughter who no longer wanted to be a virgin—into an advantage. Deliberately spilling the punch down the front of Billie’s dress and arranging for her to be alone with Moss had been a terrible gamble, but so far things seemed to be going just as she’d planned. Taking a deep breath, Agnes waited. The next move in this little game had to be well played and she had to keep her head about her.

  Hands folded in her lap, her face expressionless, time had no meaning as Agnes waited. When the door finally opened and Moss, naked except for his white slacks, stepped out, the first thing he saw as the Andrews Sisters sang “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” was Agnes glaring at him with icy calm. Billie, her robe clutched tightly about her, bumped into him and saw immediately what had brought him up short.

  “Mother!”

  Agnes stared first at Billie and then at Moss. Yes, it was a terrible gamble to take. Moss grinned at her, his eyes saying he knew what she’d done. Agnes recoiled slightly, but she knew she’d won. She could feel it in her bones, in every breath she took. Billie was going to be Mrs. Moss Coleman. What was disturbing Agnes at this moment was the knowledge that she hadn’t won this little game by outsmarting Moss. No, Lieutenant Coleman had allowed her this victory.

  As he’d walked out into the living room, Moss’s thoughts had been filled with Billie. What an exciting bed partner she was! Willing. So very willing to please. And she was beautiful, in her soft, sweet way. Even now, thinking about it, he could hardly believe her boldness. One minute she’d had the robe on and the next, after seeing him in the doo
rway, she was lifting those warm tender arms to him, inviting him to be her lover. A wry, satisfied grin was stretching across his face—and then he saw her sitting in the chair watching the door. Agnes. He hadn’t needed a bolt of lightning to tell him she’d been sitting there for a very long time. And the look in her eyes reminded him of Pap’s just after he’d closed a very profitable business deal. In that split second, Moss knew that if he had a chance to do it all over again, he’d do it. Agnes or no Agnes. Billie was worth it.

  One of Pap’s famous admonishments skittered through his brain. Mothers automatically think in terms of rape; they can never accept that their darling daughters are ready and willing. Their second thought is of bastard children and social embarrassment. Their last—and most comforting—thought is of marriage.

  “Close your zipper, Lieutenant,” Agnes said softly. “It’s getting late. There’s no point in going back to the dance. It would be a good idea if you got dressed and left.”

  Dismissed. Caught just like a kid with his fist in the cookie jar. Moss wanted to laugh. He’d just stolen her daughter’s innocence and virginity and she was dismissing him. But Moss knew she wasn’t finished with him, not yet, not till she’d gotten what she wanted. He saw her eyes flick to Billie and realized that Agnes would say what she had to say when Billie wasn’t around to hear or object. The urge to laugh was so strong that his throat began to tickle. Pap, you old bastard, you didn’t tell me there were mothers like this one.

  Billie, standing just behind Moss, pulled the belt of her terry robe tighter. The sight of her mother calmly sitting there made her feel faint. Grasping Moss’s arm, more to keep herself steady than in any gesture of protectiveness, she protested Agnes’s sending him away like a naughty boy. “Mother, this wasn’t Moss’s fault. I made him do it. I wanted him to and I’m not sorry!” she cried defiantly. “You have to believe me. I love him. You have to understand that.”