Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes

by Beverly Barton

  He supposed he should have welcomed the feel of her voluptuous little body rubbing way too intimately against his.

  But James had grown somewhat weary of pretty, spoiled rich girls coming on to him. Since high school, he’d hooked up with a number of the county belles—women closer to his own age than sweet little Susie here. But otherwise, very much the same: pretty and so feminine. Girls who looked good on a man’s arm and even better on the tangled sheets of his bed. They were high-maintenance women. They wanted compliments and thoughtful gifts and to be the center of their man’s world.

  With them, a relationship was like a game—an important one, with extremely high stakes. They played that game for all they were worth and they expected their men to do the same.

  Recently, in the last year or so, after he’d lost his folks and found himself thinking more and more about what really mattered in life, James had started to realize that the relationship game bored him silly—at least as it was played by the pretty, spoiled daughters of the Mission Creek elite.

  James smiled to himself. He was twenty-six. A little young to be so jaded.

  But lately, he’d been thinking a lot about how empty the house would seem when Jules went to Austin for college in the fall. He’d been hoping that maybe, soon, he’d find someone he could talk to, a real companion, a friend as well as a lover.

  Susie sighed and looked up at him dreamily. “You are a wonderful dancer, James. A girl feels like she’s floating right off the ground with you.”

  He grinned and told her how good she looked in a bikini—among the slides earlier, there had been one of her and two other debs back when they were toddlers, splashing in a wading pool.

  “I was only two then. You should see me now.”

  “Is that an offer?” As soon as the question escaped his mouth, he wondered why he’d asked it. It got to be kind of by rote after a while, he supposed. He knew every move in the game and he played it without a second thought.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “It’s most definitely is an offer….” That gleam in her eyes was harder and brighter than ever.

  And the song came to an end. Deck Holloway, quarterback on the Mission Creek High football team—and Susie’s escort, if James remembered right—came striding toward them.

  “Here’s your date,” James said mildly, feeling nothing short of rescued by the younger man.

  Susie let out a little huff of breath. “Oh, don’t worry about Deck. I’ll get rid of him and we can—”

  James peeled her hand off his shoulder and stepped back. “Thanks for the dance.”

  “But—”

  “Hey, Deck. How’s it going?”

  “Just fine thanks, Mr. Campbell. Come on, Suze. Let’s dance.” Deck grabbed Susie’s arm and hauled her off into the crowd.

  James shook his head and turned for the exit again, promising himself that he would not, under any circumstances, dance with another deb that night. He would go downstairs to the quiet, dim bar off the lobby and he would order a bourbon and branch water and he would sip it slowly and he would think about what he really wanted in a woman, about friendship and someone to talk to and—

  Right then, he saw her.

  She stood just beyond the entrance to the ballroom, in the wide aisle that led out onto the moonlit balcony and the curving staircase to the lobby below, the most beautiful creature he’d ever set eyes on. She was tall, very slim and striking, with small, perfect breasts and a long, sinuous waist, a woman for whom the word “elegance” might have been coined. Her features were delicate, fine-drawn—except for the wide, tender mouth and the huge cat eyes. Her dark hair had been smoothed up into a sleek twist and the gown she wore clung to every singing curve, glittering and gleaming like new snow under a winter moon.

  So much for trying to find a woman he could talk to, James thought wryly. A woman who looked like that didn’t have to be able to talk.

  She stood alone. He couldn’t decide if she looked charmingly unsure as to what to do next, or if she merely waited for something to happen. Or for someone—her escort maybe—to come and claim her.

  What the hell was she doing here? He knew all the debs and she wasn’t one of them.

  But then again, who cared where she’d come from? She was here, at the Lone Star County Debutante Ball. And he intended to meet her.

  Now. Before whoever had been foolish enough to leave her waiting alone had a chance to come back and sweep her away from him.

  He started toward her, weaving his way through the crowd. It wasn’t that far. It only seemed to take forever to make it to her side.

  But at last, he was there.

  “Were you waiting for me, maybe?” he heard himself ask. Damned if she wasn’t even more beautiful close up, her skin translucent, with the lightest dusting of adorable freckles at the bridge of her nose, her eyes a rich and golden brown.

  She blinked, as if she hadn’t really seen him until he spoke. And then—oh God. She smiled. “As a matter of fact, yes, I was.”

  She carried a small beaded evening bag on a platinum chain in one hand. He reached for the other hand, which was cool and smooth and sent a flash of heat arcing through him as he imagined those slim fingers sliding over his skin.

  Since she didn’t object, he dared to tuck that hand into the curve of his arm. “I’m James Campbell.”

  “Yes,” she said, in a tone that teased. “Of course you are.”

  He stared right into those fabulous cat-slanted amber eyes, waiting for her to say her name. She did, after a moment, though somewhat reluctantly, he thought.

  “Olivia.” She gave him no last name. Fine. He didn’t need it right then. He’d get it out of her soon enough.

  “Olivia.” He found he liked the feel of her name on his lips. It was a romantic name, he thought. A little old-fashioned and yet also sophisticated. Mysterious, too. Like the woman herself. “Dance with me, Olivia.”

  “I would love that.”

  People were staring—probably wondering the same things he wondered: where she had come from, who she really was.

  And how he had gotten so lucky.

  He thought of that missing escort of hers. The man would come back and find her gone. Then the poor guy would have to go looking for her.

  Too bad, James thought. His loss—and my gain.

  “This way.” He led her through the wide-open doors into the ballroom. The bandleader must have read his mind. A slow number started up just as he walked her out onto the floor.

  She turned into his arms and once he had her there, he realized he was going to find it difficult to let her go. There could be a problem, when that fool who had brought her here showed up.

  But no. He was a reasonably civilized man. He could let her go when he had to—for tonight, anyway. He’d get her number before she escaped him. He’d call her tomorrow and they’d take it from there.

  She lifted her head from where it belonged—on his shoulder—and looked into his eyes. “What is it? You’re scheming.”

  “More like planning.”

  “Planning what?”

  “You have a last name?”

  She hesitated again. Then whispered, “Leigh.”

  “L…?”

  “E-I-G-H.”

  “Olivia Leigh.” For a moment, he was certain he knew that name—but then the tenuous thread of recognition broke. He told her, “I like it, your name. I like the sound of it—and I’ll need your phone number.”

  She laughed, a laugh both musical and husky. “I don’t think it’s really a question of need.”

  “The hell it’s not.”

  “You have nothing to write with, nothing to write on.”

  “So? I’ll remember it, don’t worry.”

  That amber gaze scanned his face, seeking…what? He couldn’t have said. At last, with a sigh—and without giving him what he sought—she laid her head near his heart again.

  “You’re not getting away from me until I get your number,” he murmured into h
er shining hair.

  “Oh, James…” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I have no desire to escape you.”

  It was so exactly what he wanted to hear that he didn’t push her further right then. They merely danced, their bodies so temptingly close, touching, then sliding away, driving him a little bit crazy, making him hunger for what he knew damn well he wouldn’t be getting that night.

  His luck held out. The next song was a slow one, too. He kept her in his arms and they danced another dance.

  As he led her around the floor, it came to him that everything he knew about her so far pleased him. He liked the sound of her laugh. And the scent of her, which was fresh, faintly floral. Dewy and sweet—but not too sweet. He liked her voice, a little deeper than the average woman’s voice. A little husky. If a caress had a sound, it would be this woman’s voice. He liked her eyes, her wide mouth, her long, slim body and those beautiful uptilted little breasts.

  He wanted her. A lot. It was that kind of blind, groping wanting that a guy rarely felt after his first agonizing high school love affairs. A wanting so acute, it hurt.

  He was aroused, had been since that moment she first turned and entered his arms. Luckily, his tux jacket kept the world from knowing how he felt. And he took care not to pull her too close, not to let her know for sure how powerfully she affected him.

  The second song ended. And a fast number began.

  He stepped back enough to lift an eyebrow at her. “How about if we sit this one out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  He let her move free of his embrace, but kept hold of that slim, cool hand. “This way.” He set off toward the main doors that led out of the ballroom again, planning to lead her onto the balcony where they could find a quiet corner under the stars.

  He got about five steps and then he almost plowed into Maddie Delarue, the club’s events manager.

  “Hello, James. Going to a fire?” Maddie was gorgeous, redheaded, still single in her early thirties—and extremely rich. Planning and coordinating the various entertainments at the club was more of a hobby for her than anything else. She certainly didn’t need the job. But she did take it seriously. She’d worked almost as hard on the ball this year as Mrs. Adair herself.

  “Just headed out to the balcony,” he said. “Nice to see you, Maddie. You’ve done a great job tonight.” He clutched Olivia’s hand tighter and tried to feint around the redhead.

  But Maddie slid a step to the right and blocked his path. “I don’t believe I’ve met your friend.” Maddie wore a knowing grin and those bright blue eyes of hers gleamed with questions.

  James resigned himself to a quick introduction. “Olivia Leigh, Maddie Delarue.”

  Maddie offered her hand. Olivia took it, rather stiffly, James thought. Maddie said, “Your name is familiar.” She frowned and peered at Olivia more closely. “You look familiar. We’ve met, haven’t we?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t think so.” Olivia blinked—and yanked her hand free of his grip. “Oh! Who’s that?” Her tone was brittle, aggressively false. “I believe it’s Teddy Youngblood.” She stared, wide-eyed, toward the main exit from the ballroom. “You’ll both excuse me? I just have to say hello.”

  And before he thought to stop her, she was picking up that shimmery skirt and striding swiftly away from him on those long legs of hers.

  Maddie chuckled. “She’s moving pretty fast, James. Better get going or you’ll lose her—oh, and I’d keep her away from Frances Adair. The girl is stunning, but she’s not a deb and she’s not in a deb’s family. Which makes her something of a gate-crasher, now doesn’t it? And Frances has been known to bite the heads off of gate-crashers, if you know what I mean.”

  James heard only half of Maddie’s advice. He’d already turned to chase after Olivia before she could vanish from sight.

  Chapter 3

  He caught up with her right beyond the ballroom doors, midway between the spot where he’d first laid eyes on her and the curving staircase that led down to the lobby. He grabbed her arm, but gently.

  She allowed him to catch her, freezing in midstride, hovering undecided for a moment—then, at last, turning toward him, her sleek head bent a little, her gaze cast down.

  He moved in closer, spoke for her ears alone. “Sorry. I think Teddy Youngblood has vanished into thin air. Teddy’s a strange one that way.”

  She made a low noise in her throat. “Very funny.”

  “There is no Teddy, is there?”

  She slowly shook her head.

  He put a finger under her chin and got her to meet his eyes. “Why did you run off like that?”

  “I should have kept going—and you should have let me go.”

  “Not a chance. And that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh, please. You already know the answer. I don’t belong here. I never should have come.”

  He captured her hand again, wrapped it securely around his arm. “But you are here. You did come.”

  “It was a crazy idea.”

  “I disagree. From where I’m standing, it was a great idea.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “You…you mean that?”

  “I do.”

  She looked so lost—and yet hopeful, too. Vulnerable, he thought. And that surprised him. In his experience, beauty and frank vulnerability rarely went hand-in-hand.

  He led her past the inviting conversation areas in the aisle, toward the wall of high windows and graceful French doors opening onto the balcony that overlooked the grand front entrance to the clubhouse below.

  Outside, the night was warm and windless. Not a cloud marred the dark beauty of the wide dark sky. James found a small round iron table in a cozy corner next to a potted palm. He slid into one chair, she took the other.

  He was careful not once to let go of her hand. They ended up leaning close, elbows on the table, hands meeting in the middle.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Did you come here tonight with someone?”

  The puzzled way her smooth brows drew together gave him his answer before she even said a word. “With a date, you mean?” He nodded. She swallowed, then straightened those fine white shoulders. “I came all on my own.”

  He said exactly what was in his mind. “I’m glad.”

  “Well.” Her incredible face showed pure pleasure. “Then so am I. But I really shouldn’t stay very long.”

  “You’ve barely arrived. No more talk about leaving. Not for at least an hour or two.”

  “But I—”

  “No, I mean it. Let’s talk about you.” He cleared his throat. “So tell me. Do you live here—in Mission Creek?”

  “Oh, James.” Her mouth twisted with distress. “You can’t ask me a lot of questions. If you do that, I won’t answer. And if you keep doing that I’ll have to—”

  He squeezed her hand. “Don’t say it.”

  She looked at him for a very long time, then she whispered, so softly, “Don’t say it. Goodbye is not a word we know. Between us, there is only, and always…hello.”

  He sat back in the chair. “It’s a poem, right?” She tugged, as if to pull her hand from his. But he didn’t let go. “It’s beautiful.”

  She looked away. In the moonlight, he could see a faint blush on her cheeks. “It’s corny, I know. Old-fashioned.”

  He leaned near again, dared to brush the back of his knuckles along the velvet skin of her white neck. She shivered slightly at the touch, which pleased him. Greatly. “Olivia, don’t apologize for the things you love.”

  “I’m not apologizing. I’m only…embarrassed, I guess.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes were very dark right then, that mouth he wanted so much to kiss drawn down. “I’m not what you think, James.”

  He smiled at that. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know quite what to think. And you know what else?” Now her mouth q
uivered in a smile half-born. “Go on,” he coaxed. “Do it. Smile all the way.” And she did. He let out a long breath. “You are so beautiful.” He groaned. “Now, that was original.”

  She laughed her wonderful husky laugh. “Some things don’t need to be original.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No. For some things, all you really need is to mean them sincerely—and what else?”

  He frowned, not following.

  She helped him out. “You said that you didn’t know what to think, about me—and then you said, ‘And you know what else?”’

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Well?” She made a face. “What else?”

  He turned her hand over, opened the slim fingers, traced a heart in the center of her palm. “I don’t even care—that I don’t know what to think. I saw you. And all at once, this perfectly ordinary world was magic.”

  Her eyes seemed to glow from within. “Then there was you. Finding me. Magic. Wonder. Eternity.” A small, abashed sound escaped her. “Oh, God. I did it again.”

  “Keep doing it. It’s fine with me.” He looked up at the wide starry sky. “We’ll just sit here forever, all right? You and me, under the stars. You’ll quote me every poem you know. We’ll talk and we’ll laugh and—”

  “You talk,” she said. “Please.”

  “About what?”

  “Yourself. Your life. What you long for, what you dream…”

  He gave a shake of his head. “You don’t want to hear all that.”

  “Oh, but I do, James. I want to hear it all, everything about you. But mostly, the important things.”

  “Like…?”

  “Favorite color?”

  “That’s important?”

  “Oh, yes. To me. But then, I have to admit. It’s all important. Every detail. Whatever you’re willing to share with me.”

  “Well then, I’d have to say…the color of your eyes.”

  “Brown?” She wrinkled up that delicate nose.

  “No, not merely brown. Golden-brown, honey-brown. The softest, most unusual brown.”

  “Hmm.” She considered a moment, tipping her head to the side. “Unusual brown. That’s good. I like that. Tell me about your work.”