Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes

by Beverly Barton

  But Mary refused to be dragged along any farther. She dug in her heels right there, at the edge of the wide drive, beneath a huge old oak tree. “I’m sorry, James.”

  He turned to her, his eyes, through the shadows, narrowed and gleaming. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

  “It’s time for me to go.”

  “No.”

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  He put a finger against her lips. “Don’t say it.” His touch was warm. And gentle as a breath. Tears constricted her throat, to feel that—his flesh pressed to hers. “If you say you shouldn’t have come, it’s like saying you wish we’d never met.”

  “No.” Mary swallowed, pushing down the dangerous tears. “That’s not it. You know it’s not. As far as you, and me, well, that’s been pure magic. But Mrs. Adair was right. I had no business coming here tonight.”

  “Stay.” His jaw was set. He’d put his hand over hers again.

  She shook her head. “I can’t. And you have to let go of me. Now.”

  A long moment passed. Behind them, from the ballroom, the music poured out into the night, another slow song, one Mary recognized, a song of unrequited love.

  He released her and stepped back. “Give me your phone number.”

  Oh, how she wanted to do that. She would have risked almost anything to do that—almost anything.

  But not the inevitability of him learning her real identity.

  So far, she’d given him few clues that might lead him to the shy, mousy woman who worked for Margaret McKenzie and could barely bring herself to speak in his presence. If she left now, never saw him again and gave him no way of finding her, chances were excellent he would never have to know that Mary Clark and the fascinating Olivia were one and the same.

  And she didn’t want him to know. Ever. She wanted to have this too-brief time they’d shared to treasure in her heart for always.

  It was enough for her. And it was going to have to be enough for him.

  “I can’t give you my number, James.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, I just have to go.”

  “Damn it, Olivia—”

  “Let me go. Let it be.”

  He only stared at her, that gleam in his eyes suddenly hard and unforgiving.

  “Goodbye, James.”

  Mary stepped around him and set off down the drive beneath the wide canopy of oaks. She’d entered the massive grounds of the two thousand acre country club by a service road Margaret had told her about. And she’d left her car tucked away in a corner of a parking lot not far from the stables. But she wouldn’t head in that direction yet—not until she was certain James wouldn’t see where she’d gone.

  She got about fifty yards when she realized he was coming after her. She could hear his footfalls on the drive. Oh, why? Why was he doing that? She’d made it very clear to him. She was leaving. Their time together was done.

  She walked faster, refusing to look back.

  He picked up his pace, as well.

  Her heart beat too swiftly and a dew of nervous sweat beaded her brow. She swiped it away.

  What to do now?

  No good to halt, to turn, to engage him, to demand that he stop this, that he leave her alone. That would only get them started all over again.

  Mary shoved the chain of her evening bag up over her shoulder, anchoring it there. Then she gathered her skirt in her fists, getting all that silky, clinging fabric out of the way as much as possible. And she walked faster.

  So did he, increasing his speed to match hers. She could hear him behind her, moving briskly in her wake. She sent a glance over her shoulder. He paused, a shadowed, blurry figure, perhaps fifteen feet back—and then he kept coming for her.

  That did it, the sight of him, relentlessly following her.

  Mary clutched her skirt tighter in white-knuckled fists and took off at a run, veering to the left, moving beneath the trees and then out onto the sweet-smelling endless lawn of the Lone Star Country Club, wishing she could see better, scared she would run into something, yet somehow managing to dodge hedges and clumps of bushes when they reared up out of nowhere into her path. She found herself headed for the parking lot, aware somewhere in her frantic mind that James couldn’t be allowed to see her get into her car—and yet not knowing where else to go.

  He came on behind her, the same as before, quickening his pace to a run—a run just swift enough to keep up with her. Her evening sandals hobbled her. And the grass was so soft. She ran for all she was worth, but she knew it was no good. She would crash into a hedge soon, or trip on her own skirt.

  Then she made the mistake of glancing back again, toward the clubhouse lights and the music, toward the man of her dreams, who didn’t seem to have the sense to stay where he belonged—in the lovely little fantasy she’d woven around him.

  She turned—and tripped, losing her grip on her gathered-up skirt, falling with a sharp cry, facedown in the thick, green grass.

  He called to her then, “Olivia!”

  She rolled over, got her legs under her and struggled to her feet just as he reached her.

  He took her by the arms, a gentle grip, but a firm one, scanned her face through worried eyes. “Olivia, are you all right?”

  “Oh, James, why did you follow me?”

  His dark brows drew together. “I…I don’t know. I just couldn’t let you walk away like that, let it end like that, before it’s even really begun.”

  She’d torn the hem of her fabulous dress, but she hardly noticed. James filled up the world for her right then. She looked at him and he looked back—a shared lightning bolt of a look, a look that made the air burn and crackle.

  He muttered, “Damn it. Stay, won’t you? Just for a little while.”

  Then he pulled her into his big, strong arms and brought his mouth down to cover hers.

  Chapter 5

  Never had Mary known such a kiss.

  She hadn’t even come close. How could she? That kiss was her first. She had never in her life kissed a man. Or a boy. Or anyone, except her father and her mother, on the forehead. Or on the cheek.

  Never, ever, full on the mouth.

  And James wasn’t satisfied just to put his mouth on hers. Oh, no. There was more. So much more.

  It was a revelation, that kiss. It gave meaning to words she’d known but, until that precise moment, hadn’t really understood.

  Words like desire. And lust, too. Oh. Yes. Lust. Definitely.

  She felt the hot, probing pressure of his tongue at the seam where her lips met. It thrilled her, to feel that wetness. His tongue was…silky. And yet rough, at the same time. She gasped.

  And then she sighed, opening, letting him in.

  He made a noise, a low, growling sort of sound. And she heard herself moaning a little, as if in answer to that growl. His arms banded tighter. And his hands caressed her in a hungry, possessive way, molding her waist, sliding up the curve of her spine and then back down again.

  She could feel him, down low. She might be a virgin, but she knew what that was down there, knew what it meant, what he wanted of her.

  Should she have been shocked?

  Probably.

  But somehow, she wasn’t. Not in the least.

  It made her want more.

  Made her want to go on kissing him, touching him. To press herself closer to him. His big body radiated heat and need. And she responded with utter, complete abandon, thrusting her small breasts up against his chest, lifting all of herself tight to him, longing to just melt right into him, to fuse her body to his.

  Lines from one of her mother’s love poems echoed in her mind: Body to body. Soul on soul. What is this rough and tender magic? This beast between us, shy and bold….

  All at once, he pulled away. She cried out at the loss, at the sudden absence of that incredible kiss.

  He took her by the shoulders again, stared into her eyes. She stared back, stunned, thoroughly aroused—and completely his. His m
outh was swollen, his skin flushed. And his gaze claimed her every bit as completely as that kiss had done.

  His fingers gripped tighter, digging in just a little. “You’ll stay, for a while. Say that you’ll stay.”

  She swallowed, knowing he would expect an answer, yet much too dazed with yearning to actually speak.

  “Say it,” he commanded.

  She blinked, her gaze drawn beyond him, over his shoulder, past the sweep of lawn and the row of oaks and the long, curving drive, to the soaring pink granite front of the clubhouse.

  “No,” he whispered. “Not back there. We’ll go where we can be alone.”

  Not wise, she thought. Not wise in the least to be alone with him right now.

  But then again, what did wisdom have to do with this, with any of this, from the wild insanity of her coming here tonight, to the astonishing, erotic kiss they’d just shared?

  There was no wisdom in any of it.

  And why should there be? Tonight was not in the least about wisdom.

  Tonight was magic and wonder. A Cinderella night. Tonight she had shed her real identity like an ill-fitting skin, leaving the stunning Olivia Leigh to take her place, to meet James. And to whirl with him beneath the chandeliers in the ballroom of the Lone Star Country Club, to listen to the secrets of his heart—and to accept his kiss, right there, where they stood, on the sweet wet grass beneath the wide, star-scattered Texas sky.

  Wisdom could come later, when she was plain, shy Mary again. There would be years for wisdom—and years to remember this night. Might as well give herself a memory good for a lifetime of dreaming. After all, a chance like this would never come again. After tonight, her dreams were all she would have.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked roughly.

  She only smiled.

  “Say that you’ll stay,” he commanded again.

  Then she remembered Julie. It was, after all, Julie’s special night. “What about your sister? Shouldn’t you go back to the ball, for her sake? Won’t she be worried, when she realizes that you’ve disappeared?”

  “Jules doesn’t need me right now. She probably won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  “But what if—”

  “Olivia, the ceremonies are over. Jules has an escort, her boyfriend Toby, who brought her here in the first place. Toby will take her home. And we have a live-in housekeeper, so she won’t be alone when she gets there—not that it matters, for this one night. After all, Jules is eighteen, old enough to be home by herself.”

  “Still, it seems wrong to—”

  “Olivia. Stay.”

  “You’re sure she won’t miss you?”

  “I am positive. Say that you’ll stay.”

  She’d run out of arguments—and she was glad that she had. “All right. Yes. I’ll stay. For a while.”

  “Good.” His big, warm hand slid down her arm. She shivered in pleasure at the long caress. He twined his fingers with hers. “This way…”

  And they were off again, racing across the grass. She shoved the chain of her evening bag back up on her shoulder and grabbed her skirt in her free fist, hiking it high to keep it from tripping her again.

  Neither of them thought to glance back to the place where he’d kissed her—and it’s unlikely they would have recognized anything strange if they had.

  Rose petals, after all, are delicate in nature. And by then, Margaret’s three petals—white for innocence and secret love, freed when Mary tore the hem of her gown—had been trampled under their careless feet and lay curled to little more than pale, battered slivers on the thick damp grass.

  Chapter 6

  James led her away from the parking lot, between the lighted tennis courts and the original clubhouse, which was swathed in darkness now. They entered the formal gardens and wound their way through a series of paths lush with blooming roses, tumbling bougainvillea bushes and bright hibiscus, their way lit for them by in-ground lanterns tucked among the greenery. Once or twice, on those paths, Mary heard a woman’s laughter and a man’s low, answering chuckle. Faintly, she heard voices, too. But they didn’t see anyone. And always, on the warm spring night, the music from the ballroom played on, muffled by high, thick walls, yes, but always there, if you listened.

  They emerged from the garden onto another stretch of lawn. James pulled her onward, to a wide walk that led up to a gate.

  They went through, to a pool area fenced in stone and furnished with rows of cushioned lounges and wrought-iron chairs pulled up to matching round tables shadowed by broad umbrellas.

  There was a small building near the fence: the pool bar. The bar was closed and the whole area appeared deserted right then, the lounges all in a line, waiting for lazy sunbathers, the lights at the bottom of the pool shining up into the night, making that eerie, rippling effect as the brightness welled up through the water. More light was provided by round, moonlike globes perched on iron pillars at each of the fence corners.

  “Almost there,” James whispered. And right then, back in the ballroom, the band started in on something slow and bluesy. James stopped, lifted her hand, brushed the back of it with his lips, making her skin burn where his mouth touched—and her heart stutter in her chest. “Dance with me.”

  Mary dipped her head in acceptance. And he took her into his arms. They danced, slow and easy, along the wide tiles at the edge of the pool.

  Like breathing, Mary thought, her head on his shoulder, a dreamy sigh on her lips. Easy and natural as breathing, to dance with James.

  Mary had done very little dancing in her lifetime. Once or twice, her dad had danced with her, in the living room at home. He’d led her across the floor to old standards on the stereo, while her mother watched, tapping her toe, a loving smile on her wide mouth. And sometimes, in her room alone, Mary would dance with one hand against an imaginary broad shoulder and one hand held high, as if cradled in a man’s light grip, doing her best to master the basic steps without a partner to take the lead.

  James knew how to lead, but he kept it simple, too. He didn’t do anything fancy, just a straightforward box step and few waltz-type glides.

  They glided past the end of the pool and then he waltzed her in among the deserted umbrella-topped tables. Mary laughed low, delighted, imagining people sitting at the tables, sipping tall, bright-colored drinks garnished with fruit and little paper umbrellas, watching admiringly as James and the lovely Olivia danced by.

  The song ended as they danced very close to the pool bar. And he took her hand again, leading her forward toward a green-and-white tent—the round kind, with a high spire on the top—tucked in between the bar and the back section of the stone fence.

  “The men’s cabana,” James explained, and gestured toward an identical tent in the opposite corner. “The women’s cabana is over there.”

  The tent flaps, tied shut, were the kind that could be pulled wide whenever guests used the pool. It was a simple matter to untie them and slip through into a shadowy space furnished with sofas and several chairs, and big, fat pillows everywhere. Mary could make out the shadowy shapes, though poorly, by the light that bled in from outside.

  “It’s a sitting area, mainly,” James explained. “A pool lounge, more or less, and everybody uses it—men, women, kids, too—older kids, I mean. There’s a separate pool for the little ones. They call this the men’s cabana because the men’s facilities are back that way.” He gestured toward the dim area opposite the way they’d come in. “A door back there is actually a gate in the fence and outside the fence are restrooms, showers, changing areas—all that.”

  “You know this club well, don’t you?” she whispered, and then smiled to herself for being so secretive. They were alone here. Somehow, though, the darkness made whispering seem like a good idea—as if they were a couple of naughty children, sneaking around where they shouldn’t be.

  And then again, why not whisper? They might not be children, but they were somewhere they probably shouldn’t be.

  “I pract
ically grew up here at the club,” James said. “I’ve been swimming in that pool out there since I was old enough to graduate from the little kid’s pool on the west side of the clubhouse. My great-grandfather was one of the founding members, way back when Big Bill Carson and J. C. Wainwright kicked in a thousand acres each to create the club in the first place. That was a long time ago, before the start of the feud—you’ve heard all the old stories, haven’t you? You know about the Carson-Wainwright feud?”

  Mary did know. The Carson-Wainwright feud was the stuff of legend in Lone Star County. Big Bill’s eldest son had loved J.C.’s only daughter, Lou Lou, and Lou Lou had loved Jace Carson in return. But their great love had gone wrong. Lou Lou Wainwright died a tragic death. And two fast friends became bitter enemies—an animosity that lived on through their children and their children’s children.

  And beyond knowing the old story, Mary understood that James was testing her, trying to pin her down as a local girl, since a local girl would almost certainly have heard the tale.

  But it wasn’t much of a trap, really. A girl from out of town might have heard the story, too. So she told him honestly, “Yes. I’ve heard about the Carsons and the Wainwrights. So sad, really, the way it all got started. All Jace Carson wanted was to have more than his daddy’s money to give Lou Lou.”

  “Don’t forget, he did betray her with another woman.”

  “Yes, he did. But he was drunk at the time.”

  His eyes gleamed with humor. “So. It’s okay to betray the woman you love—as long as you’re drunk when you do it?”

  “That’s not what I said. I just meant, well, there were extenuating circumstances. The way I heard it, he was celebrating some successful business deal he’d made and he had more than he should have to drink. And that other woman—what was her name, anyway?”

  “Ramona Parks, daughter of Elliott Parks, who was mayor of Dallas at the time.”

  “Well, I think that Ramona was a schemer. She was out to trap herself a husband, the way that I heard it. She lured poor Jace into her bed and then—surprise, surprise—turned up pregnant.”