He bristled like a cornered porcupine. “Afraid of? Since when did you get to be such an expert on golf that you know what a professional player might be afraid of?”
“When you host a television show like mine, you get to know a little bit about everything,” she replied evasively.
“If I'd known this was going to be a damned interview, I'd have stayed home.”
“But then we would have missed a lovely evening together, wouldn't we?”
Without anything more than the evidence presented by the dark scowl on his face, Francesca became absolutely, totally convinced that Skeet Cooper had told her the truth, and that not only did her son's happiness depend upon the game of golf, but quite possibly her own did as well. What she didn't know was how to make use of that newfound understanding. Thoughtfully, she picked up her wine goblet, took a sip, and changed the subject.
Francesca didn't plan on ending up in bed with Dallie that night, but as the dinner progressed her senses seemed to go on overload. Their conversation grew more infrequent, the looks between them more lingering. It was as if she'd taken a powerful drug and she couldn't break the spell. By the time their coffee arrived, they couldn't take their eyes off each other and before she knew it, they were in Dallie's bed at the Essex House.
“Um, you taste so good,” he murmured.
She arched her back, a groan of pure pleasure coming from deep in her throat, as he loved her with his mouth and tongue, giving her all the time she needed, sweeping her up the mountains of her own passion, but never quite letting her cross the peak.
“Oh... please,” she begged.
“Not yet,” he replied.
“I—I can't stand any more.”
“I'm afraid you're going to have to, honey.”
“No... please...” She reached for herself, but he caught her wrists and pinioned them at her sides.
“You shouldn't have done that, darlin'. Now I'm going to have to start all over again.”
Her skin was damp, her fingers rigid in his hair, when he finally gave her the release she was desperate for. “That was a dreadful thing to do,” she sighed after she had tumbled back to earth. “You're going to pay for that torture.”
“Did you ever notice that the clitoris is the only sexual organ that doesn't have a dirty-word nickname.” He nuzzled at her breasts, still taking his time with her even though he hadn't been satisfied himself. “It has an abbreviation, but not a real scummy nickname like everything else. Think about it. You got your—”
“Probably because men have only recently discovered the clitoris,” she said wickedly. “There hasn't been time.”
“I don't think so,” he replied, seeking out the object under discussion. “I think it's because it's pretty much an insignificant organ.”
“An insignificant organ!” She caught her breath as he began working his magic again.
“Sure,” he whispered huskily. “More like one of those puny little electronic keyboards than the mighty ol' Wurlitzer.”
“Of all the male, egotistical—” With a deep, throaty laugh, she rolled on top of him. “Watch out, mister! This little keyboard's about to make your mighty ol' Wurlitzer play the symphony of its life.”
During the next few months, Dallie found a number of excuses to come to New York. First he had to meet with some advertising executives about a promotion he was doing for a line of golf clubs. Then he was “on his way” from Houston to Phoenix. Later he had a wild craving to sit in gridlocked traffic and breathe exhaust fumes. Francesca could never remember having laughed so much or felt so absolutely sassy and full of herself. When Dallie put his mind to it he was irresistible, and since she'd long ago gotten out of the habit of telling herself lies, she stopped trying to cheapen her feelings for him by hiding them under the convenient label of lust. No matter how potentially heartbreaking—she realized that she was falling in love with him. She loved his look, his laughter, the easygoing nature of his manliness.
Still, the obstacles between them loomed like skyscrapers, and her love had a bittersweet edge. She wasn't an idealistic twenty-one-year-old anymore, and she couldn't envision any fairy-tale future. Although she knew Dallie cared for her, his feelings seemed much more casual than her own.
And Teddy continued to be a problem. She sensed how much Dallie wanted to win him over, yet he remained stiff and formal with her son—as if he was afraid to be himself. Their outings too frequently ended in disaster as Teddy misbehaved and Dallie reprimanded him. Although she hated admitting it, she sometimes found herself feeling relieved when Teddy had other plans and she and Dallie could spend their time alone together.
On a Sunday late in April, Francesca invited Holly Grace to come over and watch the final round of one of the year's! more important golf tournaments. To their delight, Dallie was only two shots off the lead. Holly Grace was convinced that if he made a strong finish, he'd play out the season instead of going into the announcers' booth in two weeks to do color commentary for the U.S. Classic.
“He'll blow it,” Teddy said as he came into the room and plopped himself on the floor in front of the television. “He always does.”
“Not this time,” Francesca told him, irritated with his know-it-all attitude. “This time he's going to do it,” He'd better do it, she thought. The night before on the phone, she'd promised him a variety of erotic rewards if he came through today.
“When did you get to be such a golf fan?” he had asked.
She had no intention of telling him about the hours she had spent reviewing every detail of his professional career, or the weeks she had spent looking at videotapes of his old tournaments as she tried to find the key to unlock Dallie Beaudine's secrets.
“I became a fan after I developed this incredible crush on Seve Ballesteros,” she had replied breezily, as she settled back into the satin pillows on her bed and propped the receiver on her shoulder. “He is so gorgeous. Do you think you could fix me up with him?”
Dallie had snorted at her reference to the darkly handsome Spaniard who was one of the best professional golfers in the world. “Keep talking like that and I'll fix you up, all right. You just forget about old Seve tomorrow and keep your eye on the All-American Kid.”
Now as she watched the Ail-American Kid, she definitely liked what she saw. He parred the fourteenth and fifteenth holes and then birdied sixteen. The leader board shifted and he was one stroke out of first place. The camera picked up Dallie and Skeet walking toward the seventeenth hole and then cut for a Merrill Lynch commercial.
Teddy got up from his spot in front of the television and disappeared into his bedroom. Francesca put out a plate of cheese and crackers, but both she and Holly Grace were too nervous to eat. “He's going to do it,” Holly Grace said for the fifth time. “When I talked to him last night, he said he was feeling real good.”
“I'm glad the two of you are speaking to each other again,” Francesca remarked.
“Oh, you know Dallie and me. We can't stay mad at each other for long.”
Teddy returned from the bedroom wearing his cowboy boots and a navy blue sweat shirt that fell past his hips. “Where on earth did you get that hideous thing?” She eyed the drooling motorcyclist and the Day-Glo inscription with distaste.
“It was a present,” Teddy muttered, plopping himself back down on the carpet.
So this was the sweat shirt she'd heard about. She looked thoughtfully at the television screen, which showed Dallie teeing up his ball on the seventeenth hole, and then back at Teddy. “I like it,” she said.
Teddy pushed his glasses back up on his nose, all his attention on the tournament. “He's going to clutch.”
“Don't say that,” Francesca snapped.
Holly Grace stared intently at the screen. “He's got to put it just beyond the bunker, over toward the left side of the fairway. That'll give him a real good look at the flag.”
Pat Summerall, the CBS commentator, spoke over the picture to his partner Ken Venturi. “What do you t
hink, Ken? Is Beaudine going to be able to hold it together for two more holes?”
“I don't know, Pat. Dallie's looked real good today, but he's got to be feeling the pressure right now, and he never plays his best during these big tournaments.”
Francesca held her breath as Dallie hit his drive, and then Pat Summerall said ominously, “It doesn't look as if he's caught it flush.”
“He's coming down awfully close to that left fairway bunker,” Venturi observed.
“Oh, no,” Francesca cried, her fingers tightly crossed as she stared at the ball flying across the small screen.
“Dammit, Dallie!” Holly Grace shrieked at the television.
The ball dropped from the sky and buried itself in the left fairway bunker.
“I told you he'd blow it,” Teddy said.
Chapter
31
Dallie had an excellent view of Central Park from his hotel room, but he impatiently turned away from the window and began pacing the floor. He had tried to read on the plane flying into JFK, but had found that nothing held his attention, and now that he had reached his hotel he felt claustrophobic. Once again he had let a tournament victory get away from him. The thought of Francesca and Teddy sitting in front of the television and watching him lose was just about more than he could stand.
But the loss of the tournament wasn't all that was bothering him. No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, he couldn't stop thinking about Holly Grace. They'd made up since their fight at the farmhouse and she hadn't mentioned anything about using him for stud service again, but some of the spunk had gone out of her, and he didn't like that one bit. The more he thought about what had happened to her, the more he wanted to put his fist through Gerry Jaffe's face.
He tried to forget about Holly Grace's troubles, but an idea had been nagging at the back of his mind ever since he'd gotten on the plane, and now he found himself picking up the piece of paper that held Jaffe's address. He'd gotten it from Naomi Perlman less than an hour ago, and since then he had been trying to make up his mind whether or not to use it. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was already seven-thirty. He was going to meet Francie at nine for dinner. He was tired and jagged, in no mood to be reasonable, and certainly in no condition to try to straighten out Holly Grace's troubles. Still, he found himself tucking Jaffe's address into the pocket of his navy blue sport coat and heading down to the lobby to get a cab.
Jaffe lived in an apartment building not far from the United Nations. Dallie paid the driver and began walking toward the entrance, only to see Gerry coming out through the front door.
Gerry spotted him immediately, and Dallie could tell by the expression on his face that he'd received better surprises in his life. Still, he managed a polite nod. “Hello, Beaudine.”
“Well, if it isn't Russia's best friend,” Dallie replied.
Gerry lowered the hand he had been extending for a shake. “That line's starting to wear thin.”
“You're a real bastard, you know that, Jaffe?” Dallie said slowly, not seeing any need for preliminaries.
Gerry had a hot temper of his own, but he managed to turn his back on Dallie and begin walking off down the street. Dallie, however, had no intention of letting him get away so easily, not when Holly Grace's happiness was at stake. For some reason she wanted this guy, and he just might be able to give her a shot at having him.
He began to move forward and soon fell in step next to Gerry. It was dark and there were few people on the street. Garbage cans lined the curb. They passed the grate-covered windows of a bakery and a jeweler.
Gerry picked up his pace. “Why don't you go play with your golf balls?” he said.
“As a matter of fact, I was just stopping by to have a little talk with you before I went to see Holly Grace.” It was a lie. Dallie had no intention of seeing Holly Grace that night “Do you want me to give her your regards?”
Gerry stopped walking. The glow from a streetlight fell on his face. “I want you to stay away from Holly Grace.”
Dallie still had yesterday's defeat on his mind, and he wasn't in the mood for subtlety, so he went in for a swift, merciful kill. “Now, that would be kind of hard for me to do. It's just about impossible to get a woman good and pregnant if you're not right there on top of the job.”
Gerry's eyes turned black. His hand shot out and he grabbed the front of Dallie's sport coat. “You tell me right now what you're talking about.”
“She's determined to have a baby, is all,” Dallie said, not making any attempt to get away, “and only one of us seems to be man enough to do the job.”
Gerry's olive skin paled as he released Dallie's jacket. “You fucking son of a bitch.”
Dallie's answering drawl was soft and menacing. “Fucking is something I'm real good at, Jaffe.”
Gerry ended two decades of dedicated nonviolence by drawing back his fist and slamming it into Dallie's chest. Gerry wasn't much of a fighter and Dallie saw the blow coming, but he decided to let Jaffe have his one shot because he knew damn well he wasn't going to give him another. Righting himself, Dallie started back toward Gerry. Holly Grace could have this son of a bitch if she wanted him, but first he was going to rearrange his face.
Gerry stood with his arms at his sides, his chest heaving, and watched Dallie coming at him. When Dallie's fist caught him in the jaw, he flew across the sidewalk and banged into the garbage cans, sending them clattering out into the street. A man and woman coming down the sidewalk saw the fight and rapidly turned back. Gerry got up slowly, lifting the back of his hand to wipe the blood that was flowing from his lip.
Then he turned and began to walk away.
“Fight me, you son of a bitch,” Dallie called after him.
“I won't fight,” Gerry called back.
“Well, now, aren't you a prime example of American manhood? Come on and fight. I'll give you another free punch.”
Gerry kept walking. “I shouldn't have hit you in the first place, and I won't do it again.”
Dallie rapidly closed the distance between them, jerking Gerry around by his shoulder. “For Christ's sake, I just told you I was getting ready to knock up Holly Grace!”
Gerry's fists clenched at his side, but he didn't move.
Dallie grabbed the front of Gerry's bomber jacket and pushed him against a light post. “What the hell's wrong with you? I'd have fought an army for that woman. Can't you even fight one person?”
Gerry looked at him contemptuously. “Is that the only way you know how to solve a problem? With your fists?”
“At least I try to solve my problems. All you've done is make her miserable.”
“You don't know jackshit, Beaudine. I've been trying for weeks to talk to her, but she won't see me. The last time I managed to get past the guards at the studio, she called the cops on me.”
“Did she, now?” Dallie smiled unpleasantly and slowly let go of Gerry's jacket. “You know something? I don't like you, Jaffe. I don't like people who act like they have all the answers. Most of all, I don't like smug do-gooders who make all kinds of noble noises about saving the world but screw over the people who care about them.”
Gerry was breathing harder than Dallie, and he had trouble getting out his words. “This doesn't have anything to do with you.”
“Anybody who gets tangled up in Holly Grace's life sooner or later runs into me. She wants a baby, and for some reason that I sure as hell can't figure out, she wants you, too.”
Gerry leaned back against the light post. For a moment his head dropped, and then he lifted it again, his eyes dark with misery. “Tell me why it's such a goddamn crime not to want to bring a kid into this world. Why does she have to be so stubborn? Why can't it just be the two of us?”
Gerry's obvious pain touched Dallie, but he did his best to ignore it. “She wants a baby, is all.”
“I'd be the worst father in the world. I don't know anything about being a father.”
Dallie's laugh was soft and bitter. “
You think any of us do?”
“Listen, Beaudine. I've had enough of people nagging me about this. First Holly Grace, then my sister, and then Francesca. Now you're on my case, too. Well, it's none of your goddamn business, do you understand me? This is between Holly Grace and me.”
“Answer a question for me, Jaffe,” Dallie said slowly. “How are you going to go about living the rest of your life knowing that you let the best thing that ever happened to you get away?”
“Don't you think I'm trying to get through to her?” Jaffe cried out. “She won't even talk to me, you crazy son of a bitch! I can't even get into the same room with her.”
“Maybe you're not trying hard enough.”
Gerry's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. “Just leave me the hell alone. And stay away from Holly Grace. The two of you are old worn-out history, and if you even think about touching her, I'll come after you, do you understand me?”
“I'm trembling in my boots,” Dallie replied with deliberate insolence.
Gerry looked him straight in the eye and there was such menace on the man's face that Dallie actually experienced a moment of grudging respect.
“Don't underestimate me, Beaudine,” Gerry said, his tone flat and hard. He held Dallie's gaze for several long moments without flinching, and then he walked away.
Dallie stood watching him for a while; then he headed back down the sidewalk. As he stepped off the curb to hail a cab, a faint, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Francesca had agreed to meet Dallie at nine o'clock at a neighborhood restaurant they both liked that served southwestern food. She slipped into a black cashmere T-shirt and zebra-patterned slacks. Impulsively, she fastened a pair of wildly asymmetrical silver earrings to her earlobes, taking devilish pleasure in wearing something outrageous to tease him. It had been a week since she had seen him, and she was in the mood to celebrate. Her agent had concluded nearly three months of difficult negotiations and the network had finally given in. Beginning in June, “Francesca Today” would be a monthly special instead of a weekly series.
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