Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes

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Lone Star Country Club: The Debutantes Page 21

by Beverly Barton


  “That’s why she sends you all those presents and postcards and pictures.”

  Frankie had read the cards and thought that someday her mother would come to live at the ranch with her, that someday she would want her only daughter.

  Frankie knelt and lifted a card from the drawer, reading it swiftly.

  Cairo

  Darling—

  Having fun.

  Ha!

  It’s hot though.

  Ha!

  Wish you were here.

  Love you bunches,

  Heather

  Always Heather. And now Princess Heather. Never Mother. The only reason Heather had married her father and stayed married to him for those six short months was to give her baby daughter his name. At least Heather wrote her and dutifully invited her to come to visit wherever she was for a week every July. Not that Frankie ever went anymore, not after that week in Greece.

  Frankie’s father had had four wives. He never wrote her at all.

  “What can I say? He’s a playboy,” Aunt Susie had explained.

  “And Mother?”

  “She was always the most popular girl in school. Not that she studied. She was simply too beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  “She was different. Her candle always burned a little too brightly. She liked to be noticed. What can I say? She wasn’t meant to be a mother, and I was. Only I couldn’t get pregnant.” Aunt Susie’s eyes had misted. “And she did. So, she gave you to me. There was no other solution. You’re the only daughter I’ll ever have. And Uncle Wayne, why he’s better than ten fathers, isn’t he?”

  “Better than ten thousand. And Grandma Ellie…She’s wonderful, too.”

  “So you see, life has a way of working out…after a few surprises. There’s always a few curve balls in any game.”

  Frankie replaced her mother’s picture in the album and stared at her reflection again.

  The wide-eyed girl in the mirror with the smudge on her nose in no way resembled the perfectly coifed elegance of the overly made-up blonde in the photograph. Why couldn’t Matt see who she really was?

  With a sad smile, Frankie reached up and plucked another sticker burr out of her tangled red curls. She’d fallen when she’d run from that javelina in the brush after she’d accidentally surprised one of its baby javelinas. Wild javelinas made more attentive mothers than…

  Frankie puckered her dirty nose. Not only didn’t she look glamorous, she smelled bad, too. She didn’t even own a single bottle of expensive French perfume like her mother wore. Her jeans, not designer jeans, but discount store jeans, were torn and so muddy and stank so foully of sweat and horse and barn, they would take at least a couple of washings.

  Quickly she began tearing them off.

  When she was naked, she eyed her reflection even more critically. No hourglass, movie star curves like Princess Heather had! Frankie was long and slim, too slim on top—that was for sure.

  But you’ve got big nipples. Matt’s voice had been raw and hoarse.

  Just the memory of the hunger in his eyes made her nipples bead.

  A chill shot through her. Maybe she was too skinny and too flat-chested. Somehow that devil still found her sexy.

  Which was the problem. Sex was all he saw or wanted from her.

  Who cares what he thinks? Put him out of your mind.

  Instead, she caressed her breasts. Remembering the way he’d kissed them, gently circling her nipples with his lips, she moved her fingertips round and round in the same way.

  “See how they perk up to attention,” he’d whispered.

  Hardly knowing what she did, she trailed her fingertips down her belly and traced the same path his lips had followed. She shivered a little and then yanked her hands away. It was no use. Her hands didn’t feel nearly as good as his hot wet lips.

  All Matt had to do was touch her to make her go achy and breathless.

  She wanted his lips on her body again.

  She wanted him again—plain and simple.

  Only her feelings were way more complex than his.

  She wasn’t like her mother.

  So—what was she like?

  As always, questions like that confused and frustrated her.

  When a knock sounded on her bedroom door, she jumped. In a flash, she grabbed the tail of her navy bedspread and ripped it from the bed, wrapping it around her waist.

  Aunt Susie burst inside.

  Groping to pull the spread higher, Frankie whirled indignantly. “I didn’t say come in.”

  “You don’t have a stitch on. Whatever were you doing?”

  Touching myself the way Matt Dixon—

  “This is my room! I—I was about to take a shower,” Frankie spoke primly, hating herself when she blushed.

  They stared at each other.

  “You’re up to some mischief.”

  No way could she confess her crush on Matt Dixon, of all people!

  Her aunt came up to her and kissed the smudge on the tip of Frankie’s nose. “I never could keep you clean when you were a little girl. I still can’t. Promise me…promise me…that you won’t tromp out to the barn in your ball gown to groom Jez.”

  They both laughed.

  “You can’t ride her in that dress, either.”

  “I know! I can’t even breathe in it.”

  “You have the prettiest skin…so soft and smooth. And your hair. Youth—” Aunt Susie fluffed at the curls that fell over her shoulders. “All that glorious red hair. And that long, lean body of yours. You’re so graceful, too. Why, you could be a model.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a rancher! A cowgirl!”

  “I never saw a girl that had so much and did so little with it. You don’t even date.”

  Frankie blushed. No, but I have the hots for the next-door rancher you despise.

  “You’re not going to be young forever.”

  Frankie sighed. “We’ve had this conversation before, you know.”

  Aunt Susie laughed. “Not that it ever does the least bit of good.” She paused, her eyes glued to her niece. “Seriously, Diane Randal called and said you’ve only been in the hospital’s gift shop once when you worked those two hours. I hate to pressure you, but you can’t keep putting this off. You have to do your community service.”

  Pulling free, Frankie notched her nose up rather defiantly. “I—I’m doing something else.”

  Where had that come from?

  “What?”

  “Does it matter, so long as it qualifies as community service?”

  “I suppose not.” Aunt Susie admitted. “You do know how much all this means to me, don’t you?”

  Frankie nodded. “I suffered through all those boring etiquette lessons, didn’t I?”

  “But you yawned and never participated.”

  Frankie sighed. “I’m sorry. This isn’t easy for me.”

  “Your season brings back your mother’s and my coming out season in Houston. Oh, how wonderful it all was to be young and beautiful, to have your whole life ahead of you.” Aunt Susie smiled. “You know, I really think it would be nice if you got a new hairdo at the country club’s Body Perfect spa.”

  “They’d make me look weird.”

  “Just for the debutante ball. Oh, please. Please…”

  “All right.”

  “About the gift shop… You’re sure you’re doing something else—”

  “Very.”

  That settled it. Frankie had to go back to Dixon Ranch—tomorrow.

  Not just for Aunt Susie.

  But for herself.

  For Matt too!

  She had to prove to that stubborn hunk that she wasn’t what he thought she was.

  The screen door banged, and Matt sprang awake.

  “Doesn’t anybody around here wash the dishes—”

  Frankie.

  His heart lifted at the sound of her voice.

  His sex hardened.

  Relief flooded him. So—it wasn’t broke
n. He couldn’t resist touching himself down there—just to make sure.

  He grinned and stretched. Thank God.

  “So what if I forgot to wash them,” came Lee’s sullen rumble.

  The kid had actually gotten up on time like he was supposed to. Maybe the sheriff was right about the brat after all.

  “No time like the present to do them, then.” Frankie’s impertinent voice made Matt’s heart skip a beat. “Where does the lazy slave driver keep the pancake mix anyway?”

  Cupboard doors slammed so jauntily, Matt grabbed his head and rubbed his pounding temples. The lazy slave driver had a helluva headache.

  What was she doing here? He’d deliberately driven her off.

  Not that she’d been far from his mind—ever—not for one single minute. It was like she was a ghost—haunting him, and at the most embarrassing moments, too. Like last night when he’d tried to bed a new woman.

  Only Frankie was worse than any ghost.

  She was alive—a soft-skinned wanton with long slim legs that went forever. It hadn’t helped that Vince had mentioned her again right after he’d called about his father’s loans.

  As if the pressure in his life hadn’t been great enough already, every time Matt lay in bed lately, he’d wondered where Frankie was sleeping. Was she in Vince’s arms or lying in her own bed, alone, just two miles down the road? Either image drove him crazy.

  A damned debutante—Princess Heather’s daughter. Did being a princess’s daughter make her a princess, too? Any way you sliced the cupcake, Francesca Moore was way too rich for his blood.

  “You are my sunshine…”

  Matt’s heart skipped lightly when she began humming.

  Groggily he got out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom.

  “My only sunshine…”

  Because of you, Miss Moore, I tied one on at the Saddlebag Bar last night. Hell, I did my best to get laid. Didn’t work out though.

  When he’d started kissing, Sally—or was it Sarah?—Frankie had taken hold of his mind. Or at least his body. His appalling failure in Sally’s or Sarah’s bed had totally humiliated him.

  Matt took a long, hot shower, lingering in the steamy cubicle deliberately, scrubbing in places, like the inside of his ears that he usually forgot about, soaping his hair twice. Then he shaved with a new blade. He slicked his wet hair back with a comb, spending way more time on it than usual. He grabbed his best jeans, the ones with the razor-sharp creases. It took him more than five minutes to choose the black shirt she’d once said he looked so cute in. He was jamming an arm through a sleeve when she laughed at something Lee said.

  What the hell are you doing, Dixon?

  Frowning, he tossed the shirt and jeans down on the floor. Leaning down, he yanked his dirty clothes from yesterday off the back of his chair.

  No way was he dressing up for her.

  You sure as hell want to, though.

  On his way out, he stole a glimpse of his clean-scrubbed face and shining yellow hair. Catching himself again, he flushed.

  He didn’t give a damn what he looked like. He didn’t.

  The smell of pancakes and her merry singing drew Matt to the kitchen door like a siren’s song. Once there his long legs seemed to lock up, and he stood paralyzed.

  What was wrong with him? He felt as gun-shy and tongue-tied as a high school kid who was afraid to talk to a popular girl.

  Matt swallowed convulsively. Was he going to cower behind the door forever? He had to throw her out. There was no other way.

  Matt pushed the door open and charged into the kitchen like a bull on a rampage.

  She jumped slightly. Then she whirled to face him, holding the spatula up in a defensive position. “You hungry?” she whispered in a voice that was as sweet as sugar and as soft as velvet.

  His eyes devoured her slim body encased in jeans so tight she looked like she’d sewn herself into them. Her demure green blouse was buttoned all the way up her neck concealing those sexy breasts of hers. Lush fiery tendrils tumbled about her rosy face.

  Hungry? Just looking at her did what Sally’s kisses hadn’t been able to do last night. Hungry?

  Hell, he was about to burst inside his jeans. He wanted her so badly he wanted to tell Lee to scram, so he could take her in his arms and make love to her. Always, always she’d been so innocent and virginal, he’d had to hold himself back.

  No kissing. No touching, Dixon.

  He felt like he was going to fly apart if he didn’t let go of some of what he felt. He wanted to kiss her and for her to kiss him back as she had sometimes when she’d forgotten to be afraid. Then he would strip her slowly, reverently removing each garment.

  When she was naked, he would lick her everywhere.

  Just the thought of her naked and his tongue exploring her made him so hot he wanted to grab her and push her up against the wall.

  No kissing. No touching. No thinking about it either.

  Maybe after he’d had her, he’d get her out of his system.

  As if she read his mind, a telltale blush crept up her throat. “I meant—”

  “I know.” His stomach tightened. It was his turn to feel awkward. He looked away. “Smells good,” he admitted almost wistfully.

  “Want some pancakes?”

  More than anything. Almost anything.

  So, instead of ordering her off his land and out of his life, he swallowed. Slowly he dragged the chair beside Lee back from the table, scraping the legs across the wooden floor, scarring it some more.

  “So, you washed the dishes, huh?” he said to Lee because it was easier to talk to him than to talk to her.

  “Yeah.” Lee swigged his milk straight from the carton. “She made me.”

  “How’d she do it, when I can’t?”

  “Said I couldn’t have any pancakes.”

  “Syrup?” she said sweetly to Matt as she handed Lee a glass. “Use a glass,” she whispered. “If you were a deb, they’d teach you not to drink like that in etiquette class.”

  The two of them laughed conspiratorially, and Matt felt a stab of jealousy.

  That voice. That smile. That laughter—so easy and light.

  She was so damned beautiful.

  He liked the simple pleasure of waking up to her in his kitchen, too.

  That rebel thought got him so hot and bothered he got really riled. His hand fisted around the plastic syrup bottle, squeezing it with such a vengeance that a geyser of golden goo shot onto his pancakes.

  “Somebody’s got a sweet tooth,” she purred.

  The first bite of her syrup-drenched pancakes was literally melting on his tongue when her slim hand placed a cup of coffee next to his tanned fingers.

  When had anybody ever cooked him breakfast? He couldn’t remember.

  The white smooth hand beside his had not released his saucer yet. “Can I stay?” she whispered. Her low, vulnerable tone made him ache.

  Lee dropped his fork with a clatter, causing Matt and Frankie to jump.

  Then the kitchen got really really quiet.

  “Sorry, guys!” Lee whispered, growing self-conscious as the tension built.

  Frankie was the first to turn away. Still, even with her back turned, Matt was keenly aware of her rigid posture, as she waited for his answer.

  “She’s a good cook. Better than you,” Lee interjected. “Why can’t she stay?”

  Matt lifted his coffee cup and sipped the hot, flavorful coffee, considering.

  “How’s the coffee?” she asked.

  “Perfect,” Matt admitted.

  “It’s hazelnut,” she said. “Freshly ground this morning. I brought it from home.”

  “It’s fit for a princess.”

  When she turned toward him helplessly, the mixture of raw pain and mute longing he read in her eyes ate him alive.

  “Can I stay?” she repeated softly.

  His heart thudded.

  “Can I?”

  In a low voice calculated to reveal nothing, he said,
“Maybe…just for today.”

  She edged closer to him, a smile fluttering at the corner of her pretty mouth. “Maybe?” she taunted. “Just for today? I don’t think so—you lazy slave driver.”

  Then she laughed.

  When Matt jerked his head up, he saw the sheen of new tears at the corners of her sparkling green eyes. He wanted to touch her face, to pull her close, to dry her tears with his kisses.

  How she thrilled him! Suddenly life didn’t feel so bleak or hopeless.

  Not with a bellyful of the best damned pancakes inside him.

  Not with her here.

  Suddenly he laughed too.

  “What’s so funny?” Lee growled.

  “Nothin’,” Matt said, unable to stop staring at her.

  “Ya’ll are crazy.”

  “You’re right about that,” Matt admitted. Then to her alone he repeated himself.

  “Just for today.”

  She saluted him with way too much relish.

  Chapter 4

  Just for today. Famous last words.

  Matt rubbed his forehead, and then squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the column of numbers was as blurry as ever. The negative balance at the bottom slammed him like a fist in the gut.

  Deflated, he sank back in his chair where he’d been sprawled half the night. Then with a frown he hurled himself away from his massive rolltop desk. Pitching the last ledger on top of the others littering the floor, he rolled his chair up to the desk again. Slowly, he opened his checkbook again and ran a callused thumb down the numbers.

  “Damn.”

  He slammed the register closed. Next he grabbed the thick stack of unopened bills, put a rubber band around them and threw them into the top drawer.

  What was the use? He’d juggled the numbers every way he could—to no advantage. He flung himself wearily to his feet, stretched his long arms. Then he stepped over the neat piles of cancelled checks that lay in little stacks all over the floor. Jamming fists into his pockets, he started pacing. His strides lengthened and speeded up.

  He was still pacing when red rays spilled like feathers of flame into his office. Outside the leaves seemed on fire. He stalked over to the tall window and leaned on the windowsill.

 

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