Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes

by Beverly Barton

  James chuckled. “And in the end, the truth came out—that the baby she was carrying wasn’t Jace’s, after all.”

  “But the damage had been done,” Mary said in a mock-somber tone. “Lou Lou had already drowned herself in despair—which is a little extreme, if you ask me.”

  James touched the side of her face with his hand. Heat bloomed at the point of contact. “You wouldn’t…die for love?”

  Mary thought of her father, wasting away so quickly, once her mother was gone. Waste. Yes. That was the operative word, though until now, she had never really let herself think of her father’s death as a waste. But tonight, posing as Olivia, she seemed to have a fresh perspective on a lot of things. “No, I wouldn’t die for love—or at least, not because my heart was broken. I would…go on. Try to live a full and productive life. I might die to save the one that I loved. But life, well, it’s just too precious. We should never waste it—or throw it away.”

  Warm lips brushed her hair. “I like the way your mind works, Olivia.”

  She laughed. The sound surprised her—surely that laugh could not have come from her mouth. It was low, husky and frankly sexual. She whispered words as bold and teasing as that laugh. “Oh, so it’s my mind that you’re after.”

  His lips found her temple, lingered there. “I’d say it’s the whole package.”

  “Ah.” She pressed herself closer, sliding her hands up over his hard chest to clasp his broad shoulders. “The whole package.”

  “Yeah. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk. Those poems you keep quoting from—”

  “Oh, come on, admit it,” she interjected. “You could do without the poetry.”

  He laughed. “And did I mention your sense of humor?”

  “Oh, well, I’m a very funny woman.”

  “And a certain shyness, behind your eyes. As if there’s someone else altogether in there, someone tender and sweet and nervous as a scared kid.”

  He’d come so close to describing her real self that Mary stiffened.

  “What?” he whispered. “What did I say?”

  She ordered her body to relax, pressed herself close to him again, because she wanted to—and also, to keep him from dwelling on what might have bothered her right then. “Nothing. Really. I liked what you said.”

  “You did?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He took her face in both of his big hands, whispered her name—and then he kissed her again, a long, sweet, incredible kiss, one every bit as passionate, as thorough, as the first one. When he lifted his mouth from hers, she swayed toward him, wishing he hadn’t stopped, that he would never stop, that they could just go on and on forever, kissing and kissing, until the end of time.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get comfortable.” He shrugged out of the fine black tux jacket he wore and tossed it carelessly over a chair. His white dress shirt seemed to glow in the darkness. He pulled off the small black strip of silk at his collar, undid the top two buttons of the shirt and then removed his cufflinks, shoving them in a pocket.

  She watched him roll those white sleeves to the elbow, warmth pooling in her belly, a slow, lazy desire claiming her—to run her hand along his forearm, feel the texture of his skin, the muscle underneath.

  She did it—so easily. Just reached out, put her hand on his wrist and caressed upward, toward his elbow. Oh, he felt so good, hard and hot, the silky dark hairs lifting as she brushed them against the grain.

  He caught her hand before she could pull it away. And he reeled her in to him again.

  Another kiss. Their third.

  And many more to come. She intended to get a lot of kissing in, before this impossible, perfect night was through. Yes, she decided, they would share so many kisses that she would lose track. Kiss upon kiss upon kiss upon kiss. When the night ended, she would have fifty, a hundred, a thousand kisses to remember in the long years to come.

  When he lifted his head again, he guided her toward one of the wide sofas. “There are lights in here,” he confessed. “But if I turn them on, we’re likely to attract the attention of one of the groundskeepers.”

  “Then don’t turn them on. The shadows are nice. And my eyes have adjusted, anyway.” That is, as much as Mary’s eyes could adjust, which wasn’t a whole lot. Things would remain pretty much of a blur to her anyway, lights or no lights. Not that she would ever tell him that. As far as he would ever know, Olivia Leigh had 20/20 vision, excellent eyesight to go with her great looks and her fine mind and her naughty-but-utterly-charming sense of humor.

  “Sit here.”

  She took the spot he indicated, on the sofa, brushing her hand briefly against the curving shadow that was the back of it, identifying it: wicker. The cushions were soft and deep and there were throw pillows plumped against the arms and lining the back.

  He stood above her, his head tipped to the side in a manner that seemed to say he was studying her.

  “What?”

  “You look pretty comfortable already.”

  “Maybe that’s because I feel pretty comfortable.”

  “But there are—”

  “What?”

  “Those pretty shoes you’re wearing.”

  She bargained, shamelessly, “If I take off my shoes, then you have to take off yours.”

  “Deal.”

  They regarded each other. Then she said, “You go first.”

  “No problem.” There was a chair just a foot or two behind him. He sat, untied his shoes, and removed them, pausing when he had them off to ask, “Socks, too, I suppose?”

  She waved a hand. “Well, of course.”

  So he took off his socks, and she wondered why that felt so much more dangerous than when he had only removed his shoes. There was just something so…private, about it. About his being barefoot with her, here in the darkness.

  He slid off the chair—and onto his knees before her. “Let me help you.”

  Her breath got all tangled up in her chest as he lifted her left foot and slid the strap over the curve of her heel. His hand felt so warm and lovely cradling her heel, she almost wished he would never let go. “Pretty toes,” he whispered.

  And she wiggled them for him. She wore no panty hose—Margaret had seen to that. “You’re slim as a willow,” Margaret had told her. “And it’s a warm night. You don’t need stockings. Just skip them.”

  “You think so?” Mary had asked, unsure.

  “Skip them,” her friend had said again.

  At the time, she’d never imagined what would happen. That she’d end up alone in the pool house with James, and that he would hold her bare foot in his big hands. He set that sandal aside and took her other foot, sliding that sandal off, too, making of the whole procedure something lovely and intimate, deliciously wicked.

  That time, before he let go, he slid his hand up the back of her leg.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, a hot little thrill coursing through her at the feel of his palm cupping the swell of her calf. Then she laughed. “I think you’d better come up here and sit beside me.” She patted the cushion next to her.

  He didn’t argue, just swept upward and turned, dropping easily into the place she had indicated. He put one arm along the back of the sofa, and one hand under her chin.

  “Another kiss,” he whispered.

  It seemed like a wonderful idea to her. She offered up her mouth eagerly. He didn’t hesitate to claim it.

  That time, when he pulled back, he slipped a finger under the gleaming chain of her evening bag. “I think we can do without this.” He slid the chain down her arm. She allowed him to take it.

  He weighed the bag in his hand. She was close enough to see that he glanced down at it, then back up at her. “I am tempted…”

  She took his meaning. “Oh, James.”

  “There could be important information in here. A phone number, an address. The things I need you to tell me. The things you haven’t told me.”

  She tried to tease him from his purpose. “Y
ou don’t need my phone number. Or my address.”

  But he wouldn’t be teased. “Yes, Olivia. I do. There’s no other word for it. I need them.”

  She saw she had no choice but to say it right out. “Well, you can’t have them.”

  “Why not?”

  Mary sighed. She knew that whatever he did, the bag would not betray her. It contained a comb, a lipstick, a blusher compact, a car key—and nothing more. “Just…please don’t.”

  He looked at her for a long time. She stared right back at him, not giving an inch—not on this issue. Never. She couldn’t. No matter how angry he became at her.

  At last, he turned and set the bag on the side table at the end of the sofa.

  He faced her again. “All right. Happy?” He looked anything but.

  At that moment, she almost wished she could give him what he asked for—the truth about who she really was.

  But then she saw it all, in quick, awful flashes—the way it would be. At first, when she told him, he wouldn’t even remember the pathetic little sales clerk who had served him cold tea just a few days ago.

  And then, well, he’d insist on coming into the shop in broad daylight. And he would see her as she really was—see Mary.

  Oh, God. She was not a person who planned to die for love. But looking at James’s face when he saw her as she really was…

  That just might do her in.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But you said you understood.”

  “I don’t,” he said harshly. He reached for her, pulled her to him, a little roughly that time. His mouth was less than an inch from hers, his eyes so hot and dark it made her dizzy looking into them—but she didn’t try to turn away.

  She couldn’t turn away.

  “You’ll tell me how to find you,” he breathed the tender threat against her parted lips. “Before tonight is over, you know that you will.”

  She wouldn’t. Tonight was it. All. Everything. “No,” she whispered. “I won’t.”

  She saw in those dark eyes that he didn’t believe her. He thought that there would—that there could—be more.

  “Just kiss me, James,” she pleaded.

  He gave her what she asked for, taking her mouth hard. She moaned—and so did he.

  He guided her down among the pillows.

  Chapter 7

  It wasn’t real.

  It didn’t happen.

  Not to her real self, anyway.

  It happened to Olivia, bold and beautiful Olivia—but the memory of it would be Mary’s, forever.

  She would remember.

  His eyes through the darkness. The kisses she lost count of, on her mouth—everywhere.

  The delicate silk straps of her gown, light as something woven of cobweb, slipping down her arms. The dress itself, skimming down her body, when he took it away. Her own blush—oh, she blushed all over—when the dress was gone. Under it, she had only a strapless silk camisole and tiny bikini panties to match.

  Like the dress itself, they were Margaret’s doing—that camisole, those panties. Margaret had presented them, along with the shoes. “Nothing like the right underthings to give a woman confidence, to make her know that she’s beautiful all the way to the skin, that even what no one will see is just perfect.”

  Well, Margaret would never know it. But someone did see.

  James saw. And what he saw pleased him. Aroused him. Excited him.

  He whispered all the right words—that she was so soft, so sweet, so tender to hold—as he took away that camisole and the little panties, too.

  She tried, then, to cover herself.

  But he caught her hands. “No. Please. Let me see you.”

  So she let him see. He praised her beauty, and he did it so sincerely, that even if she’d doubted him—which she didn’t—she would have been convinced.

  He stood. And he took off his clothes while she lay back among the pillows and watched—she was, after all, Olivia, who thought nothing of watching as her lover undressed.

  And besides, she couldn’t really make out the details that might have shocked poor, plain Mary. His body seemed to gleam, hazily, in the darkness, big and broad. Strong-looking.

  Naked, he picked up his jacket from where he’d thrown it earlier, across the chair. He felt in the inside pocket, took something out—a wallet? Yes. And then he took something from inside the wallet.

  She understood, then. Protection. Something she probably should have had sense enough to consider on her own. But she hadn’t.

  The night, after all, was a magical one. Not quite real to her, more like a dream.

  And she did get a little confused, now and then, almost believing that she really was Olivia, who, judging by her behavior, knew very little of consequences.

  No matter what happened, Olivia would pay no price at all for the caresses she and James shared, here in the dark. When the night was over, Olivia would vanish forever, in her white dress and her perfect underthings, leaving Mary to deal with the results of her folly.

  But now, Mary didn’t have to worry. There would be no consequences. James would make sure of that.

  And she wasn’t going to let herself think the kinds of things a silly virgin would be thinking now, either—things like how many other women he had held naked in his big arms, how many other times he’d looked in his wallet for the protection he always kept there, just in case.

  She opened her arms and he came down to her.

  There were more kisses. Secret kisses, kisses in places she had never dared imagine she might be kissed. Those kisses thrilled her. She tried not to cry out too loudly—after all, she didn’t want to get caught, naked with James, in the men’s cabana. And even more than her fear of getting caught, she didn’t want to be interrupted in the middle of this wonder, this magic, this glory, this dark and intimate adventure.

  She wanted all of it. And she wanted it in this one night.

  When he rose up over her, she felt she was ready, that it might hurt a little, but certainly not too much.

  He pressed into her. In spite of her arousal, her untried body burned. She boldly wrapped her legs around him and lifted herself toward him, urging him to do it, to go ahead, to fill her.

  He thrust in—and felt the barrier. He made a shocked sound, low in his throat, and he pulled his head back to meet her eyes. He looked…wounded, as if she had struck him, or somehow betrayed him. “Olivia, what…?”

  He started to pull out.

  She didn’t allow it. She wrapped her legs tighter around his hard waist and she bucked up hard against him, letting out a cry as her innocence finally gave way.

  They were both still, then. And silent, except for their ragged breathing.

  And then, very softly, he whispered, “Why?”

  She stroked his silky, sweat-damp hair, pressed her lips to his temple. “You are so special to me. I wanted it to be you. And I’m glad—so glad—that it is.”

  “You know me.” It was half accusation, half question. “Before tonight, I mean. You knew me, knew who I was.”

  “Oh, James.”

  “Just give me that. Please. Tell the truth about that.”

  So she whispered, though she shouldn’t have, “Yes. All right. Yes. I’d seen you before. I knew who you were.”

  “But we’ve never spoken, right? Never actually met, face-to-face?”

  How could she answer that? It just wasn’t wise. “Don’t,” she said. “Please…”

  So he took her mouth again, his tongue delving in.

  And he began to move.

  It hurt, but she didn’t care. She did her best to move with him. He made love like he danced, simply, gracefully, in a way even an untried girl could follow.

  When he finished, he cried out—a low, harsh sound, something ripped up from the depths of him. She held him close, so close, memorizing the scent of him, the flesh and bone of him, the heat and hardness, pressing her down into the cushions.

  He lifted his head, sought her eyes, then
sighed and rested his damp forehead against hers. “You should have told me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “If I had, we wouldn’t be here, like this, would we?”

  He seemed to think that question over, but he never did actually answer it. Instead, he asked, “Did I hurt you?”

  “It’s all right.”

  “In other words, I did.”

  “It was what I wanted.”

  “To be hurt?”

  “No. I…oh, just leave it. Please. Don’t ask me to explain.”

  He was silent. She knew he wanted to keep after her for answers. But then he finally whispered, rather sadly, “All right.”

  He slipped to the side a little, pulling her with him, settling her in close, getting them as comfortable as possible, given the narrowness of their makeshift bed. For a brief, lovely time, they simply lay there, cuddled close, his strong arms around her, his cheek on her tangled hair, as the sweat of their lovemaking dried on their skin.

  But they couldn’t stay like that forever, and Mary knew it.

  So did James. Too soon, he was moving again, pulling away from her. When he got to his feet, he reached for her hand.

  “Come on. This way.”

  He led her through the door at the rear of the tent, to the dressing rooms and showers. She took note of the exit sign glowing red above another door there, judging that it had to lead to the grounds outside the pool area.

  James didn’t turn on any lights, which was just fine with Mary. Her natural shyness had resurfaced with a vengeance and she was having some difficulty pretending it didn’t bother her to be wandering around the men’s dressing rooms without a stitch on. She didn’t need the added agony of doing such a thing in the hard glare of overhead lights. It was definitely soothing to her tattered nerves, to see only shadows and the vague shapes of things—and to know that James couldn’t see that much more than she could.

  He was wonderfully tender with her, taking such pains to get the water the right temperature in the shower, even drying her himself, rubbing her down with one of the club’s thick white cotton towels.