Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes

by Beverly Barton

  But he had a tendency to linger over the whole process. More than once, she urged him to hurry. She’d become so acutely aware that the night was passing, that they’d been lucky so far, but there was always a chance someone might come upon them.

  Back in the tent, they put on their clothes, except for their shoes. And James didn’t bother with his jacket.

  Mary had lost track of most of the pins that had held up her hair. She didn’t even try to sweep it up on her head again, just got her comb from her bag and worked out the tangles as best she could, then left it loose on her shoulders.

  There was a little blood on the cushions. She happened to touch the sticky spot, by accident, and realized what it was just as she brought her hand up to check.

  “It’s nothing,” James told her. “Don’t worry about it.”

  But then he must have seen from her face that she simply could not do that—just put that sticky stain from her mind as if it wasn’t there at all. So he went back to the dressing rooms to get her a towel.

  “Here,” she said, when he returned. “Please. Let me.”

  He gave her the towel, which was dry. For heaven’s sake, what good was a dry towel on a bloodstain?

  She scrubbed at the spot anyway, thinking of the rich ranchers and businessmen and their wives, members of the country club, sitting on that sofa and guessing what that stain might be.

  Then again, maybe they’d have no chance to wonder. She’d heard somewhere that Flynt Carson, the club’s current president, had seen to it that they hired a new club manager, a Mr. Harvey Small, who now ruled the place with an iron hand. Everyone said Mr. Small was a real stickler for detail. No doubt the stain would be discovered right away—and the sofa taken off to be cleaned or recovered.

  “Olivia,” James said, so gently, “You’re going to wear a hole in that couch if you’re not careful.”

  She stopped scrubbing and stared up into his shadowed face, thinking how she had to go, very soon. And wondering if, when she told him she was leaving, he would try again to make her stay.

  Maybe not, now that they’d done…what they’d done. Now that he’d found out she wasn’t anywhere near as sophisticated as she’d pretended to be. Now that she’d left a stain on the couch cushion—and then been so gauche as to insist on trying to scrub it out. Maybe he’d feel only relief when she left. She certainly wouldn’t blame him for feeling that way.

  Oh, what had happened to her Cinderella night? It seemed to be going seriously sideways. And it was her fault. She’d blown it. Hadn’t run off at the stroke of midnight the way any sensible Cinderella would. Oh, no. She’d had to go and have sex with her prince. And now there was this…awkwardness, this feeling of embarrassment, of being more plain Mary than she ever wanted to be in his presence—and much less the glamorous Olivia.

  He was holding out his hand.

  She passed him the towel and muttered sheepishly, “Best I can do, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s fine.” He dropped the towel at his feet with the ease of a person used to having others wait on him, taking it for granted that someone would come along later and pick it up. “Come up here.” His deep voice thrummed along her nerve endings.

  And she understood. It wasn’t the towel he’d been reaching for.

  He was reaching for her.

  She gave him her hand and he pulled her up into the warm, strong cradle of his arms, close enough that she could see his eyes—and the miracle waiting in them.

  He still wanted her.

  She could hardly believe it. She felt like plain Mary. But he still saw Olivia. A musing smile played at the edges of that wonderful mouth of his—the mouth that had kissed her mouth, not to mention all those other parts of her body.

  “You are just so extraordinary. Never the same, from one minute to the next. Nothing short of wayward, then suddenly, all innocence. And then so worried about a little stain.” He brushed at her hair with the backs of his knuckles as her vanished confidence came flooding back, heady and sweet as sparkling wine. “I mean it. That stain is nothing to worry about.”

  She laid her hands on his shirtfront. “All right. I’m through worrying.”

  “Good.”

  She slanted him a look from under her lashes, thinking what she shouldn’t think, about how incredible it felt when his lips touched hers. “I wonder…”

  “Anything.”

  “Kiss me?”

  “No problem.” He speared his fingers in her hair, capturing her face between those fine, tender hands.

  He took her mouth. And plundered it.

  When he lifted his head, her knees had gone wobbly and her blood pumped hard and hungry through her veins. She saw in his eyes that he was thinking what she was thinking. About the two of them, on that sofa, making love….

  Down low, where their bodies were pressed close together, she could feel that he was ready all over again.

  He groaned, grasped her shoulders and put her a little away from him. “No.” He seemed to be talking to himself as much as to her. “I’m not a complete animal. Tonight was your first time. And I hurt you, I know I did, even if you never would quite admit it. You’re safe from me—for tonight, anyway.”

  She heard herself murmur in a voice that was all Olivia, “I don’t remember saying anything about wanting to be safe.”

  He laughed then, low and knowingly, and he pulled her close again. She sighed in anticipation of another bone-melting kiss.

  But just as their lips met, she heard it: laughter and voices, out by the pool.

  Chapter 8

  James heard it, too. He lifted his mouth from hers. They stared at each other as the voices got closer.

  “Come on, there’s no one here.” That was a woman’s voice, provocative and hopeful.

  They heard a man’s chuckle. “In there? You’re kidding.”

  “Stay here,” James whispered. “I’ll get rid of them.”

  Mary nodded—and knew an instant of devastating loss as he stepped away from her. She longed to reach out and grab him back, to never let him go, to hold him there, in the darkness, just the two of them, alone together, forever.

  As her mother had written in a lighthearted mood, Stay. Just a little. Till forever, and I’ll let you go. Or maybe…just a little longer. The day after forever. That’s better for me. How about you? Will the day after forever do for you, too?

  Yes. Till the day after forever and not a day, an hour, a minute less. Let that man and woman out there burst in on them and know just what they’d been doing in here. Mary didn’t care.

  Or rather, if only she really were Olivia, she wouldn’t care.

  But she wasn’t Olivia.

  And she’d better stop dwelling on silly love poems and get a grip on herself. It had to be very late. And, come to think of it, now she listened for it, she couldn’t hear the music from the ballroom anymore.

  How long ago had it stopped?

  Was the ball over? Had everyone gone home? Oh, she had to leave now. She had to get away.

  James turned from her. She let him go, staring after the tall, proud shape of him as he left the tent, her throat tight, her half-blind eyes blurring even further with tears she would not allow to fall.

  Goodbye, she thought, biting her lip hard to keep the word from actually escaping. Oh, James. Goodbye.

  The man and the woman out there would know immediately what he’d been up to—his shirt was half-buttoned and he wore no shoes. But he was one of the confident people, the successful, self-assured people. He didn’t give a damn what that man and that woman thought.

  Her beaded evening bag caught an ambient ray of light from some unknown source in the dark tent and glittered at her from the side table as she turned. She grabbed it and raced for the door to the dressing rooms, remembering when she was halfway there that she’d forgotten her shoes.

  But she didn’t break her stride, didn’t even considering going back for them. The shoes were somewhere at the other end of the wicker sofa an
d James would be returning any second now. She’d just have to leave them. She’d be faster barefooted, anyway.

  A true Cinderella, she couldn’t help thinking ruefully. One who left both of her slippers behind, instead of just one.

  She reached the dressing area and made for the door with the red-lighted exit sign above it. It gave, heavily, when she pushed on the bar-latch and closed silently behind her as soon as she slid through.

  She headed straight for the stone fence that rimmed the pool area, following it around to the wide walk that ran along next to what was left of the east wall of the original clubhouse. Better to avoid the gardens, she decided. It would be way too easy, with her limited vision, to get lost in them.

  But following the walk worked just fine. And her bare feet made no sound on the cool concrete. Plus, she was in the shadows, less likely to be spotted by any sharp-eyed club member or curious employee who might happen to be out on the grounds at that time of night.

  When she reached the front of the construction area, she veered off across the grass again, poignantly aware of the lack of cover, yet having no other choice, really, but to sprint for her car. She held her skirt out of the way and ran for all she was worth, the breath coming fast and hard in and out of her chest, around the tennis courts, then between them and the stables, to the parking lot.

  There were trees around the lot. She hovered in the shadows of one and dug her key from her bag, holding it ready in her hand as she started out again, remaining at the edge of the lot, using the cover the trees provided. The lot was quiet, only a few lonely cars spread far apart. The gravel-spattered asphalt was a lot harder on her poor feet than the grass. More than once she had to hold back pained cries when she stepped on sharp pebbles.

  Never in her life had she been so grateful to reach her little white car. She stuck the key in the door, gave a turn—and pulled the door wide, scooping her skirt out of the way, sliding into the driver’s seat, and closing the door, shutting herself safely inside.

  Still panting hard, she rested briefly, putting her forehead against the steering wheel, thinking, It’s okay. I made it. I’m safe.

  Her glasses waited in the glove compartment. She flipped it open and got them out. The world swam into focus as she settled the heavy, ugly frames onto the bridge of her nose.

  A swift glance around showed her just what she hoped to see—no one. James hadn’t followed her. The lot was deserted.

  She stuck her key in the ignition and gave it a turn. The car started right up. She put it in gear and backed out of the parking space.

  The other couple, as it turned out, presented no problem. They ducked into the women’s cabana on the opposite side of the pool just as James emerged from the men’s tent.

  He waited for a minute or two, at poolside, making certain the two didn’t decide to pop right back out again.

  When they stayed where he wanted them, he went back to Olivia—only to find that she wasn’t there.

  For a number of endless, wasted seconds, he just stood there, staring at the emptiness, half expecting her to jump up from behind one of the sofas, laughing that husky laugh of hers, whispering teasingly, “Scared you, didn’t I?”

  But she didn’t jump out at him. There was no husky laughter, no naughty whisper. Nothing but silence.

  He was alone.

  He scoured the tent anyway, looked behind every last stick of furniture. Then he went in back, to the dressing rooms, and called for her softly. No answer.

  He walked through the dressing areas and the locker room, the showers, even the big empty rest room, calling for her, willing her to answer.

  But she didn’t.

  So he returned to the cabana and dropped to the sofa where he’d lain with her, naked, less than an hour before. He sat there for a long time, remembering those incredible eyes of hers, staring up at him, nodding yes when he told her to wait for him here.

  Damn her. The little liar.

  Gone without a trace. He had only her name—or did he? She’d been so secretive about everything else, why should he imagine she might have told him the truth even about that?

  So what did he have of her?

  The memory of her kisses, the intoxicating scent of her hair and her soft, soft skin, the sound of her laughter, still echoing in his ears. A few lines of poetry—

  No. Wait. Wrong.

  He didn’t have the poetry. He couldn’t remember a single line of it. She’d only said each line once. How was he supposed to remember from that?

  James closed his eyes, muttered, stumbling over the words a little, “Don’t say it. There is no goodbye between us. There is…” He swore low. “No. That’s not right.” He growled out another oath and slumped back against the cushions. Nothing, he thought. Nothing much at all.

  It all might never have happened, might simply be something he’d made up in his mind.

  He sat up straight. And then he reached for the lamp on the table beside him, flicking it on.

  Yeah. There it was. Right there on the couch cushion. That stain she had tried so damn hard to scrub away.

  The stain existed. It had happened, all right.

  A hot flash of something like triumph coursed through him. She did exist. They had danced, and talked. And made love. Right here, on this couch.

  And so what?

  Emptiness chased the hollow triumph away.

  She was gone now. And she’d left no way for him to find her. She’d made it painfully clear that tonight was all of it, all he’d ever have of her.

  Just one hell of a one-night stand.

  He was never going to see her again and he’d damn well better get used to the idea. Time to pack it in. Head on home.

  So where had he put his shoes and socks?

  He bent over the arm of the couch and spotted them—right next to those fine high-heeled sandals she’d worn.

  He shook his head, whispered, “Olivia, Olivia…ran off so fast, you forgot your shoes.”

  He reached over, hooked the strap of one and dangled it up to eye level. A glittery oval etched in black with a designer name twinkled at him from the high curve of the arch.

  “Gabrielle Amalfi,” he read.

  The same name Jules had used to describe the pretty satin shoes she’d bought at Mission Creek Creations to wear to the debutante ball.

  Chapter 9

  The next day was Sunday.

  Margaret knocked on Mary’s door at a little after two in the afternoon. She had on a thick pair of red oven mitts and she carried a covered casserole. She also cradled a bottle of white wine in the plump curve of her arm.

  “My special Shrimp Florentine,” she proudly announced. “Got a couple of plates and some forks?”

  “Oh, Margaret. It smells like heaven. You shouldn’t have—”

  “I’ve got hot rolls, too. And a salad. But I couldn’t carry everything at once.”

  “Come on in.” Mary stepped out of the way, her stomach growling. She hadn’t even thought about eating all day, had been much too busy thinking about other things. And trying not to think about them.

  But the scent of Margaret’s casserole had done the trick. Mary realized she was starving.

  “Go over and get the rolls, will you?” Margaret headed for the kitchen. “And the salad. I left the door open. It’s all on the kitchen counter.”

  So Mary ran over to Margaret’s and got the rest of the feast. They set Mary’s table, uncorked the wine, and sat down to eat.

  “Here’s to you, Mary,” Margaret toasted, raising her wineglass high. “My dear friend who has no idea what a special, special person she really is.”

  Mary felt herself blushing. “Oh, Margaret. You are so sweet.”

  Margaret chuckled. “Drink up, now. Go on.”

  Mary took a sip of her wine. “Um. Delicious.” She set down her glass and tasted the shrimp casserole, sighing at the lovely, delicate mingling of flavors. “Now this is pure heaven.”

  Margaret picked up her own fork. But
she didn’t even manage to take her first bite before she set it down and demanded, “All right. I can’t stand it. What happened? Tell me everything. Was it wonderful? Scary? Perfect? Awful?”

  Mary couldn’t help grinning. “Yes.”

  Margaret scowled. “Meaning?”

  “All of the above.”

  “Did you dance?”

  “Yes.”

  “With…?”

  Vivid as if it was all happening again, Mary saw James’s face, his eyes only for her, as they danced. And then, a little later, leaning close across that iron table out on the balcony while they talked and laughed beneath the stars.

  And later still, in the tent by the pool, his eyes looking into hers, shocked and a little hurt, at that moment when he realized it was her first time.

  Mary set down her own fork, her appetite suddenly gone.

  Margaret’s eyes had widened with alarm. “What is it? What’s happened? Tell me, dear.”

  “Oh, Margaret…”

  “Please. Tell me about it.”

  So Mary told. More than she should have, probably—though not the whole truth, not everything that had happened in the men’s cabana. She said that she danced with James and James only, that they talked for hours. That, yes, he had kissed her.

  She told about the ball itself: the music the band had played, the decorations—well, what she had been able to see of them, anyway—about how she and James had taken a break from dancing to enjoy a glass of lemonade. About the encounter with Maddie Delarue and the scary confrontation with Mrs. Adair.

  And the way she had tripped on the lawn, tearing the hem of her dress just a little, about the way James had caught up with her and kissed her and led her to the men’s cabana, where, as she described it, they had “whispered together, sharing secrets.” She even told how she’d run out the back at the end, leaving her shoes behind.

  “But why?” Margaret demanded when Mary finished. “There was no need for you to run off like that. It’s clear the man was completely taken with you. You’ll be seeing him again, and soon, I’d bet on it. He’ll be dropping by the shop. He’s even got a nice little pretext for it—to make sure you get your shoes back.”