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My Fair Gentleman
Jan Freed


Jan Freed writes with spice and flair! An exciting new voice in contemporary romance.–Susan WiggsIt's My Fair Lady in reverse!Catherine Eliza Hamilton and her fiancé have a bet on. At stake? Catherine's professional future. To win, she needs to pass of a man of her fiancé's choosing as a wealthy "blue blood." For just one night.Sound simple?It's about as simple as making a silk purse out of a pig's ear. In fact, her fiancé takes her to a dive called The Pig's Gut to find the perfect "subject." His name is Joe Tucker–he's the handsome ex-baseball player who's hell-raising in the bar.Now all Catherine has to do is convince Joe that this bet can change his life as well as her own. She also has to convince Joe's twelve-year-old daughter. And keep Joe from treating the whole bet as a joke, with Catherine as the punch line.And she can't fall in love with Joe….









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#ufde5b12e-e3a5-5c1a-a265-22b9da31a7c8)

Excerpt (#u9fea1c16-985e-5b7a-9ccf-a6032b478ac4)

About The Author (#u393d4438-cd5d-50c6-9e8b-3ce906bb91ba)

Title Page (#u39c739c0-69d5-5de7-adb1-62c22543c4ec)

Dedication (#u28a8e2ba-ea47-5a94-8968-7aa33bb0efab)

CHAPTER ONE (#ubede2356-ce91-5b53-8b8b-cf48a827751e)

CHAPTER TWO (#u687767f3-c7f4-5d47-88cb-7ca4546886fa)

CHAPTER THREE (#u794a837a-f6a9-51e8-931f-4c971b9008b1)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ud3164176-ac32-58dd-ad76-6b4c882fc2b8)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)







Special Books by Special Writers The Book:

My Fair Gentleman

A contemporary, provocative and just plain funny story about changing your life—and other people’s. This is a book to be read and reread. A book to cherish.

The Characters:

Catherine Eliza Hamilton. A lady (actually, an engaged lady). A dedicated psychologist who’s in danger of being turned into “the perfect hostess.” Faultlessly polite, compulsively neat, she’s also (of all things) a pool hustler And a woman who takes risks…

Joe Tucker. An ex-baseball player who’s looking for a new job—one that doesn’t entail modeling underwear. A single father who’s never quite picked up the knack of parenting. A man’s man—a woman’s sex object. And definitely not housebroken.

The Author:

Jan Freed first burst onto the Superromance scene in May 1995, and readers can’t stop talking about her! Her first novel—Too Many Bosses—is nominated for three Romantic Times awards, and she’s still getting fan letters about her second. The Texas Way.

“Jan Freed…has a truly gifted light touch with characters who still manage to tug at the reader’s heart.”

—Alexandra Thorn




ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#ulink_56d6e81d-d678-53f2-9b8a-f653c07b69d5)


Jan Freed is proud to write in a genre that “presents a hopeful view of life without diminishing its hardships.” A huge fan of musical theater, Jan enjoyed creating her own Americanized and modernized version of My Fair Lady with the roles reversed. “In writing Catherine and Joe’s story, I realized that the strongest romantic partnerships are forged by a willingness to learn from each other, In other words, mutual respect.”

Jan lives in Texas with her husband and two children. She loves to hear from readers and invites you to write her at P.O. Box 5009-572, Sugar Land, Texas, 77487.




My Fair Gentleman

Jan Freed












www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


With love and thanks to my parents,

Alta and Vilbry White

For giving me the confidence to try,

a belief in “happily ever after”

and a normal name




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_69f86c49-d961-5b57-9ad4-c9b0ea7f132e)


CATHERINE ELIZA HAMILTON swallowed hard as the duck à I’orange sitting in her stomach threatened to take wing up her throat. If anyone had told her two hours ago she’d wind up in a dive like The Pig’s Gut, she would have choked on her cognac.

Glancing toward the adjacent bar stool, she noted her fiancé’s expression and mentally cringed. Carl was feeling particularly smug tonight. And why not? Driving from the posh Houston restaurant to this small industrial town had been a brilliant tactical move.

She should have set recruiting rules of course. Or at least tried to slant the odds in her favor. Instead, she’d let anger overcome a mind trained in the science of emotional processes. Some psychologist she was. No wonder Carl had seemed amused at dinner by the idea of her establishing a private counseling practice. She’d “counseled” herself into a situation Freud would have sold his id to analyze. Catherine sniffed in self-disgust.

Flat beer, acrid smoke and the smell of male bodies straight from a shift at the oil refinery made her wrinkle her nose. The noise was almost as bad. A country-and-western tune hissed and crackled from an ancient jukebox. Billiard balls clacked. Gruff voices cursed or whooped according to the shot.

Who would have thought Carl Wilson, heir to one of the oldest fortunes in Houston, would have known this hole-in-the-wall existed? Then again, who would have predicted he’d ask her out at all, much less propose marriage after only three months of dating? No one but his parents, that was for sure.

Carl had been disarmingly candid from the beginning. After two failed marriages with beautiful bim-bos, he had to choose a “suitable” wife and provide grandchildren soon, or be cut from his parents’ financial cord once and for all. So this time he’d looked deeper than superficial beauty. This time he’d bypassed lovelier candidates and chosen Catherine for what was in her heart.

Her blue blood.

A fair exchange, all things considered. She was thirty-two years old and both plainer and smarter than most men liked. She’d always longed to have children, and now she had a shot at starting both a family and a new career.

Impatience set her fingertips drumming on the bar. She wished Carl would hurry up and select a guinea pig. One beer-swilling, belly-scratching Cro-Magnon would do as well as another.

“Why not just take the shirt off my back!”

Catherine swiveled her bar stool toward the bellowing voice.

A dark-haired giant of a man whacked down his cue stick, grabbed the hem of his baseball jersey and jerked it over his head. Muscles rippled and stretched. A garish tattoo flashed on one arm.

“How ‘bout my pants, too? They should be worth a few bucks.” He reached for his belt and fumbled with the buckle.

Uh-oh. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe Carl wasn’t watching the spectacle. Maybe he’d spotted himself in the mirror behind the bar.

“I’ve decided,” Carl said in her ear, excitement lending a shrill edge to his voice.

She pressed her eyelids tighter. “Which one?”

Guffaws and whistles broke out in the room. Carl chortled in triumph. “The one mooning his opponent at the second table!”

Wincing, Catherine cracked open one lid and stared through a carcinogenic haze. Bare buttocks glowed red beneath a neon Budweiser sign.

She closed her eye and thought rapidly. No good to panic. On the civilization scale, the man was an amoeba. But the stakes were too high for her to back down now.

Resting his chin on her shoulder from behind, Carl slipped both arms around her midriff and rubbed his dark blond hair against her cheek. “You know, darling, you can still call off this whole thing. Dr. Hamilton would definitely not approve, and he trusted me to take care of you this summer.”

The pleasant tingle his uncharacteristic caress evoked vanished. “Dr. Hamil—Father won’t ever have to know about our little wager, unless you tell him.” Catherine pried away Carl’s forearms and swiveled to face her handsome fiancé. “Are you afraid I’ll win?”

His condescending smile reflected forty years of too much money and too little challenge. “You constantly amaze me, Catherine. By all means, if you insist on conducting this experiment, go ahead.” He waved his hand airily and propped an elbow on the bar. “I can’t wait to watch you try and convince your subject to cooperate.”

You and me, both. Catherine slipped off the stool and nervously smoothed her black linen sheath. How did one sway a man who looked as if “fee, fie, fo, fum” were the extent of his vocabulary?

Carl reached out suddenly and caught her hand, his expression earnest. “If .he gives you any trouble, darling, I’ll be here.”

Although fit and trim, her fiancé only stood nose to nose with her own five feet nine inches. She squeezed his fingers with a rush of affection.

“Thanks, Carl. That’s nice to know.” Turning, she faced at least a dozen death-row-inmate stares.

Her chin came up. Her aristocratic mask came down. Fixing her gaze above billed caps and cowboy hats, she located her quarry. He’d managed to pull up his jeans, thank heavens.

The man stood bare-chested, his arms crossed and boots planted wide. Thick black eyebrows pulled together to form a V. A square dark-shadowed jaw angled aggressively. His bold nose appeared to have been broken at some point in his questionable past.

He needed a haircut, a shave and a strong cup of coffee, from the looks of his bleary expression and swaying stance.

His opponent, a scrawny grizzle-haired man clutching a baseball jersey, shook the fisted material high. “Dammit, Joe! I’m the best man with a cue this town ever seen, and you know it. You had no call to make me play, ‘specially with you bettin’ money you don’t have. Now go on home and sleep it off.”

“Joe” was muscular without being muscle-bound and at least six foot four. Maybe taller.

As Catherine drew nearer, she began to feel almost petite. It was a new unsettling experience.

“Don’ wan’ your charity.” Joe scowled fiercely. “I can take you, Earl—double or nothin’.”

“You got a dry well for brains, son? I said go home.” Earl flung the jersey on the table. “I ain’t gonna play you.”

Joe’s biceps bulged, his forearms corded, his long fingers curled into fists. He clenched his jaw and shifted slightly. The garish tattoo on one arm sharpened into red-and-blue dancing teddy bears.

Staring, Catherine walked smack into a billiard table and had to brace her palms on the felt top to catch her balance. Catcalls and whistles rang in her ears.

“Another one bites the dust, Joe.”

“This one fell harder’n most.”

“Think what she’d do for an autograph, lover boy.”

Her cheeks burned. Then a hard arm was draping her shoulder, steadying her. She tilted her head back and stared into deep brown eyes warm with concern—and so bloodshot they were painful to view.

“You okay, miss?”

He smelled like a brewery. “I—I’m fine, thank you.” She lifted the oak log of his arm from her shoulders and stepped back. Several voices urged Joe to follow.

His expression darkened. He swept a meaningful look full circle, waited for the clack of ivory and rumble of conversation to resume, then looked back at her.

“I’m not usually so clumsy,” she admitted. “But then, it’s not every day I see a tattoo like yours.”

He glanced down at his arm as if startled. A dull flush stained his neck. “It’s, urn, practice,” he mumbled. “My, um, daughter. You know…for a carnival?”

She blinked.

“You know…face-painting booth? To raise money for her softball team.”

Catherine didn’t know. A fund-raising carnival—or any kind of carnival, for that matter—was beyond her sheltered experience.

His flush deepened. He looked somewhere over her shoulder and shrugged. “Didn’t expect to shuck my shirt.”

Recalling his naked bottom, she felt her lips twitch. “Those bears wouldn’t have been safe anywhere, to-night.”

His dark gaze snapped to hers and lit with devilment. One corner of his mouth lifted in a rakish grin. He was as swarthy as a pirate and certainly as cocky. And suddenly she wished Carl had picked anyone in the bar but this man.

“I’m Catherine Hamilton,” she said, extending her hand.

He reached out simultaneously, his hair-dusted chest filling her vision. “Joe Tucker.”

Her hand disappeared, swallowed to the wrist by his grasp. Against his bronzed skin her forearm looked pale and fragile. Flustered, she withdrew her fingers. No wedding ring on his left hand, though he’d mentioned a daughter. No telltale tan line, either. Divorced? She hoped so. A wife would complicate things.

Cloth whizzed past her face. Joe snatched the bundle from midair with lightning reflexes.

“Mind your manners and put your shirt on, fool,” Earl commanded. “Can’t you see she’s a lady?”

The words had a startling effect. All traces of affability fled as Joe pulled the wrinkled Astros jersey over his head. Propping his knuckles on his hips, he cocked his head. “What’re you doing here, Catherine Hamilton? Looking for excitement on the wrong side of the tracks?”

Yes. But not the way he meant. She drew a calming breath. “I’d like to talk with you in private.”

His lids drooped. He gave her a leisurely head-totoe inspection. “Sorry, doll. You’re not my type.”

So what else is new? “Ditto, beefcake. Now, can we talk—or not?”

“Not.” He turned to the billiard table and began plunking balls into a triangular rack. “So what d’ya say, Earl? Double or nothin’?”

The infernal man was going to ruin everything for her!

“I done said I won’t play you, Joe, so quit askin’.”

“How about me?” Catherine blurted.

Both men’s heads whipped around.

She held Earl’s incredulous gaze. “Eight ball, regulation rules. If I win, Joe’s debts are wiped clean. If I lose, I’ll pay you double his current losses, whatever they are, and leave you both in peace—”

“Wait the hell one minute,” Joe interrupted, his eyes narrowed. “What do you get outta this, lady?”

A long story. Too long to explain now. “Your charming undivided attention for fifteen minutes.” She arched a brow and looked from one man to the other. “Well, boys, what d’ya say? Double or nothing?”

JOE LEANED against the paneled wall and chugged from a long-neck beer. Not that it helped any. His pleasant buzz was history, thanks to a stranger meddling in his business.

He’d driven to The Pig’s Gut knowing the regulars would lynch any sports reporter daring to shove a microphone up his nose. After all, he was a local legend, the first major-league baseball player Littleton had ever produced. If their boy Tucker wanted to get wasted in private, they’d see to it he could.

It was his own fault they’d let Catherine Hamilton get near him. He’d never met a woman he didn’t like. They’d heard him say so over and over, and it was true, except for a certain type of bored socialite—the “ladies” who pursued him behind their husbands’ backs in private, but looked right through him in public.

During eight seasons with the Houston Astros, he’d learned to keep his nose—and other important appendages—out of tight spots that could spell trouble. In the end he’d still screwed up.

His celebrity status had fallen a bit once news was out that his contract hadn’t been renewed. But not as much as he’d deserved. Grimacing, Joe plunked his empty Lone Star bottle on the concrete floor.

He was thirty-four and his career was over, destroyed along with the cartilage of his left knee on a ski slope this past winter. Tomorrow he would assume full responsibility of his daughter for the first time in twelve years. And he was dead broke. A man couldn’t sink much lower.

Don’t look now, Tucker, but you’re letting a woman try to clear your debt.

Resettling against the wall, he glared at Earl. The inveterate pool hustler had won the break and was positioning the cue ball. Catherine stood to one side, her expression disinterested as Earl bridged his cue stick and took aim. The shattering crack of the opening break didn’t even make her blink.

Something wasn’t right. There’d been no sultry glances Joe’s way. No accidental touches. No hair tossed coyly out of her face. He focused on details that had escaped him before.

A tall thin body in a shapeless black dress. Discreet gold jewelry. Straight black hair swept back from her face with a tortoiseshell headband. A longish nose, hollow cheeks and extremely pale skin. Definitely not a beauty. And yet…

She looked up and met his gaze. Challenge, determination and keen intelligence blazed from her light green eyes with laser-beam impact.

“Get out your wallet, miss,” Earl said, cackling. “You’re gonna need it soon.”

She turned again to the table, and Joe released his breath.

“Excuse me if I don’t rush,” she said dryly.

“Suit yourself.” Earl drew back his cue stick and let fly. A solid orange ball dropped into the side pocket. Moving farther down the rail, he lined up a second shot. “Two in the corner,” he called, sending the solid blue ball rocketing home.

Catherine watched poker-faced while Earl shuffled here and hunched there over his cue, slamming or finessing balls into pockets at will. One by one, players from nearby tables abandoned their own game to watch the master at work. Within minutes, only the eight ball and a solid red ball stood between Earl and more money than he made in a month at the refinery.

Scanning Catherine’s seven striped balls, Joe accepted the inevitable with a twinge of disappointment. He’d been curious as to what she wanted to talk about. Now he would always wonder.

Propping his cue stick against the rail, Earl made a show of chalking the tip. “Sorry t’hafta do this, Miss Hamilton, but you can’t say you wasn’t warned.”

Catherine moved into the light from a bare bulb hanging over the table. “Don’t apologize, Earl.” Her eyes flashed with catlike luminosity. “You’re going to miss the next shot.”

Billy Tremont raised the bill of his Texaco cap and grinned. “Hooee, listen to her, would ya?”

Skeeter Johnson snickered around a wad of chewing tobacco. “He’s shakin’ in his boots, ain’t ya, Earl?”

Joe pushed off the wall and shouldered his way through the crowding circle of men.

“You’re very good, Earl,” Catherine admitted. “But putting left English on the ball requires a steady touch. Now that I look closely, you seem a little shaky to me.” Her glittering green eyes locked with the old man’s baby blues for a long moment.

Skeeter moved forward and jabbed the undisputed Pig’s Gut pool champ between his narrow shoulder blades. “C’mon, Earl, get this over with. I’ve got a run goin’ at table five.”

Frowning, Earl slid grimy-nailed fingers up and down his standing cue stick before hoisting it up into shooting position. Was it Joe’s imagination, or did the old buzzard take longer than usual lining up the shot?

“Three in the side,” Earl finally announced, drawing back his elbow.

Ivory clacked.

Patsy Cline crooned.

“You miscued,” Billy said on a groan, sending his idol a stunned look. “You never miscue.”

Curses and disbelieving grumbles broke out. Earl stared at the undisturbed red ball as if it had just sprouted horns. Lifting a trembling hand, he rubbed the back of his neck.

Joe moved close and spoke low in his friend’s ear. “Don’t worry, buddy. She’ll screw up her first shot, and then you can finish her off.”

Earl glanced up with a shaken expression. “I think she’s a damn witch. Did you see them eyes?”

Joe’d seen them. “She psyched you out, all right. But remember, we’ve got the home-stadium advantage.”

He searched the room and found Catherine removing several cue sticks from the back-wall storage rack. After rolling each one on a nearby table, she settled on the twenty-one-ounce cue with an Astros sticker on the handle. Coincidence, or had she picked his cue on purpose? It was much too long for her, but comparatively new and unwarped.

Ignoring the suggestions for what to do with a “man-size shaft,” she headed for the table, balancing the cue on one shoulder with all the nonchalance of Huck Finn carrying a cane pole.

The lady had guts, Joe admitted. He almost hated to see her razzed by the guys. But she’d invaded their turf, not vice versa, which made her fair game.

She laid her cue on the table rail and studied the scattered balls intently. A red-haired man Joe didn’t recognize thrust a blue chalk cube under her nose.

“Here you go, babe,” the stranger said, checking to make sure he had his audience’s full attention. “Rub the tip real good now. You look like you could use some friction.”

Ribald laughter erupted all around. Pinkening cheeks were the only sign that Catherine heard. She took the cube and calmly rotated the end of her cue stick in the chalk.

“Ooh, that’s it, babe, don’t stop,” the man continued, urged on by hoots and whistles. “With hands like that, who cares if you ain’t much to look at?”

The laughter trailed off nervously.

Joe saw the flash of hurt in her clear green eyes. Anger and shame clenched his fists. He headed around the table, aiming to plug the jackass’s mouth with his knuckles.

Catherine set the chalk cube on the rail. Turning to the leering redhead, she pressed the tip of her cue on his crotch seam and met his astonished eyes. “What’s your name?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “G-Gary.”

“Well, Gary. I can explode a rack of billiard balls into all four rails with a single stroke. What do you think I could do to these itty bitty things?” she asked, her voice coldly speculating. Sweeping the circle of men with a contemptuous look, she lifted her chin. “One more word out of any of you, and I just might have to satisfy my curiosity. Do we understand each other?”

Heads nodded, none more vigorously than Gary’s.

She smiled and lifted her cue stick from chalkmarked denim. “Excellent. Now, everyone please step back three paces from the table so I can breathe.”

Joe obeyed along with the rest, intrigued by a woman who could be Olive Oyl one instant and Popeye the next. He suddenly found himself rooting for her, the money be damned.

For the second time that night, she examined the table end to end. When she finally moved into action, Joe had the feeling every shot had been planned.

She was an ace pool player of course. Sometime during the past half hour he’d decided she would be. Her strokes were strong, her aim damn near scary, her movements graceful and efficient. When she stretched over the table for a double-bank shot, her dress tightened and his eyebrows rose. She might be thin, but she sure as hell wasn’t shapeless.

As striped balls spun, whammed or lipped over into pockets, he started to believe she would run the table.

Earl did, too, from the grim look on his leathery face. The reigning champion turned slightly green watching her last ball ricochet toward a side pocket. It hit hard, almost jawed out, then dropped out of sight.

Once she nailed the eight ball, history would be made at The Pig’s Gut. Earl studied the table…and slowly grinned. Murmurs broke out in the crowd. Joe followed their gazes and silently groaned.

The eight ball guarded a corner pocket. Blocking it from a clean shot sat doom—the solid red ball that had defeated Earl. There was no way around it, unless…

He watched Catherine assess the situation from several angles and knew the exact moment she made her decision. When she stepped up to the table and positioned her cue, his muscles tensed in empathy. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, winning run on third. Been there, done that.

She struck the cue ball hard, low and at precisely the right angle to lift it up and over the red ball. It landed with a thud and nicked black ivory, sending the eight ball rolling with agonizing slowness toward the pocket. Was it enough? Would it fall?

Yess!

Joe’s whoop rang out in the stunned silence. Catherine straightened and sent him a grateful smile, her flush of triumph giving him a glimpse of the woman she might be, given a little happiness or makeup.

She looked toward the bar as if seeking someone’s congratulations. Her smile dimmed.

Joe’s head snapped around.

A man watched her from a bar stool. Blond hair, medium build, disapproving expression. Obviously her companion for the evening. Joe didn’t like him.

The man’s gaze moved to him, and Joe stiffened. Pretty Boy’s appraisal was cold, amused and very thorough. Joe’s dislike verged on something stronger.

“I’ve been hustled,” Earl protested, breaking the hostile moment.

Joe turned and grinned at the old man’s sour expression. “No, you were beat fair and square. My debt’s canceled and you owe the lady a handshake.”

Earl glanced at Catherine with grudging respect. “Maybe she could show me how she did that jump shot. I never been able to do it worth a damn.” He shuffled over to the table, where Catherine stood racking balls with awkward jerky movements.

Where had her gracefulness gone? Joe eyed the blond-haired man at the bar thoughtfully, then looked back at the disgruntled customers returning to their own interrupted games. Manhood had suffered a blow tonight. They were not happy campers. An irresistible idea hit him.

He went with the moment and cupped his hand to his mouth. “Listen up, guys. There’s a free beer for anyone who’s interested.”

Heads turned and faces lit. Skeeter took three steps forward then stopped, his expression suspicious. “Hey, you couldn’t even pay off Earl. How’re you gonna buy us all a beer?”

Joe couldn’t contain his slow grin. “I’m not buyin’.” His thumb jerked toward Pretty Boy at the bar. “He is.”

CATHERINE GLARED across the small round table at Joe’s casual sprawl and straightened her spine. He’d insisted on waiting for their beers to arrive before listening to her proposal. The delay gave her too much time to think. Too much time to analyze.

She, Catherine Eliza Hamilton, who could trace her paternal ancestry back to English royalty, had threatened a man’s family jewels with her cue stick. She’d used her Ph.D. in psychology to rattle Earl’s composure and win a game of billiards. And as if that wasn’t enough, she’d enjoyed herself tremendously during both activities.

Thank heavens her father was away, lecturing at Oxford University. She wouldn’t have to hear him rant about her appalling lack of decorum—the product of her mother’s working-class genes of course. He’d blamed Mary Lou Hamilton for his daughter’s every fall from grace since Catherine was three years old.

Mary Lou had been a waitress before marrying Lawrence Hamilton, of the impoverished but socially prominent Connecticut Hamiltons. He’d divulged that tidbit the year Catherine had turned sixteen and begged to work at a movie theater with her friends. Instead of serving popcorn, she’d spent the summer serving up research for his latest Psychology Journal article.

Although she now cowrote those articles, her father had never gotten around to adding her name to the byline.

Sighing, she watched a miniskirted blonde approach their table carrying a tray. Joe’s teeth flashed white against his dark stubble as he drew in his long legs. The woman’s faux-leather hips swayed harder. Her breasts jiggled in the aftershock. Disgusting. Why, she looked old enough to be his…older sister. And that smile was positively incestuous.

Bending low, the buxom waitress set two frosty bottles on the turquoise Formica. “Here they are, Joe, nice’n cold.”

He wiggled his brows at the plump cleavage six inches from his nose. “Want me to warm ‘em up for ya, Tammy?”

She bopped him on the head with her plastic tray, ignoring his indignant yelp. “Behave yourself, Joe Tucker, or I’ll tell Allie you dropped your pants for the whole bar.” Splaying hot-pink fingernails on one hip, she turned toward Catherine. “You watch yourself, hon. Allie’s the only one who can control her dad. Always clownin’ around, he is. Either that, or breakin’ hearts. He’s a real smooth talker.”

An unintelligible grunt sounded from behind her back.

“See what I mean?” Tammy’s blue eyes twinkled as she turned. “That’ll be three bucks for your beer, Joe.” She winked to take the sting out of her demand.

Frowning, he fumbled in his back pocket. “What about the lady?”

“Are you kiddin’? Any woman who can shut Gary up and kick Earl’s butt in the same night deserves a reward. Her beer’s on me.”

Meeting Tammy’s admiring gaze, Catherine took back her snide thought about silicone implants.

Joe flipped open his worn wallet and extracted a five-dollar bill. Catherine couldn’t help seeing it was the last of his cash. She glanced toward the bar where Carl sat brooding over his American Express receipt. Before tonight, she’d never seen her fiancé forced to do anything he hadn’t planned.

“Wait,” she said, halting Tammy’s outstretched hand. “Put them both on Mr. Wilson’s tab, please. And be sure to give yourself a big tip.”

Tammy glanced over her shoulder at Carl and looked back grinning. “Anything you say, hon. The customer’s always right.” Tucking the tray under her. arm, she swished off toward the bar.

Joe twisted the cap off one beer, wiped the glass lip with his sleeve and offered it to Catherine. No quaint mug in sight. Repressing a shudder, she accepted the bottle and told herself his jersey was cleaner than it looked.

He opened the second bottle for himself and cocked his head. “Okay, Catherine, I’m all ears. What’s so all-fired important you wanted to talk to me about?”

At last. “My future counseling practice.”

“Your future…Are you a shrink?” He spat the word out as if it were castor oil.

“I’m a psychologist,” she corrected. “Up until now I’ve acted as research assistant to my father. I’m sure you’ve seen him interviewed on TV—Dr. Lawrence Hamilton? He heads up the Department of Counseling and Educational Psychology at Richmond College?”

Joe looked remarkably unimpressed.

“He wrote The Five-Minute Intelligence Test. All the major talk shows booked him as a guest,” she added helpfully.

Shrugging, Joe spread his hands. “Sorry. Never heard of him.”

Catherine felt a shocking surge of satisfaction. “Where have you been the past year?”

Eyeing her closely through slitted lids, he tilted his head back and took a deep swallow of beer. When he rested the bottle on his muscular thigh, over a third of its contents had vanished. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

She drew her brows together. “Should I?”

He chuckled ruefully. “Guess not. On paper I played for the Astros, but my knees were on ice half the time.”

“You’re a hockey player?” This was terrible.

“I said Astros, not Aeros. As in the baseball team,” he explained, his male disgust palpable.

Baseball, hockey—they both meant road trips, lots of publicity…“Wait a minute. Did you say played?”

“Yeah.” His bleak tone matched his eyes. “Right now I’m kinda at loose ends.”

She broke into a joyful smile, then smothered it at his startled look. “I’m changing jobs, too. That is, I’d like to establish my own family counseling practice. But my fiancé—the man buying the drinks tonightwants a more…traditional relationship.”

Joe knuckled his eye sockets, blew out a breath and held her gaze. “Catherine…work with me here. What the hell do I have to do with any of this?”

Oh, God. She took a tiny sip of beer and grimaced. What she wouldn’t give right now for a snifter of Remy Martin to bolster her courage. “I need you to win a bet I made with Carl.”

“A bet.”

“That’s right. Over dinner, we were discussing Father’s theory that intelligent sophisticates are born, not made. Carl agrees with the theory. I don’t.” She cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I became a tad… vehement.”

Her fiancé had stepped into her father’s shoes for the summer and triggered years of suppressed rebellion. She’d actually raised her voice in a chic restaurant defending environmental versus genetic influence on behavior. Every paternal slur regarding her own “tainted” gene pool had fueled her heated challenge.

“You might wanna speed things up, doll. This place closes soon.” Joe’s dark eyes gleamed with amusement.

She rubbed damp palms down her dress, then folded them on the table. “I wagered I could tutor anyone of Carl’s choosing and pass that person off as a member of high society to the world’s biggest snob.”

He cocked a brow.

“My father,” she said.

“I see.” His rapidly cooling stare sent a shiver down her spine. “So your boyfriend went slumming for a lowlife sure to flunk and picked me?”

It sounded awful put that way. She peeled at the sodden label on her beer bottle. “Please don’t be offended. Carl is very competitive. He hates to lose. And let’s face it, you were mooning the ceiling when he picked you.”

Joe’s hooded gaze never wavered. “Just out of curiosity, what do you get for winning?”

“If I win, Carl has agreed to finance my private practice until I develop a clientele.” She read his unspoken question and shrugged. “The Hamiltons may have impeccable breeding and a history of academic brilliance—but they have no head for managing money.”

Glancing toward the bar, Joe twisted his mouth. “I take it Pretty Boy doesn’t think you can turn a sandlot player into a major-league all-star. What does he get for winning?”

“Stop calling him that.”

“Pretty? Or Boy?”

He wanted sarcasm? Fine. “Carl gets a pedigreed hostess for his parties. Someone who’ll dote on him and his children, instead of her career.”

“You mean he’ll get a slave, while you give up your dream.”

“No, he’ll get a wife, whether I establish a practice or become a stay-at-home mom. When it comes to family, Carl and I have the same dream, the same values. Once I win, he’ll see that my personal obligations won’t suffer for my career.”

Joe snorted and shook his head.

“Are you married?” she asked bluntly.

“No.” His expression grew shuttered.

“Sounds like you don’t think too highly of the institution.”

“Since my wife died, I don’t think about it at all if I can help it. Can we get back to the point, here?”

Embarrassment held her mute. He obviously still grieved for his wife, and she’d intruded on his privacy.

“Earth to Catherine,” he drawled as if addressing an airhead.

Her sympathy vanished. “The point is, I need your help, and you admitted you’re at loose ends right now. So will you do it?”

He looked off into space for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“And just what do I get for helping you win your bet?” he asked, his keen gaze sliding back to hers.

Her mind went blank. “Well, let’s see…” She hadn’t prepared beyond his acceptance. “What do you want?”

Joe drained his bottle of beer in two gulps, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and delivered a volcanic burp.

“I thought you’d never ask.”




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_56281b15-2bd6-5773-8709-488f532660a1)


THE BURP WAS a nice touch, Joe thought, watching Catherine’s opinion of him dip lower than a sinker ball. The disgusted fascination on her face might’ve been funny—if it wasn’t so damned insulting.

That was how shrinks were of course. Arrogant sons of bitches, playing God with people’s lives. He’d wised up to their crap long ago and sworn to handle problems his way. Not that he’d done such a hot job.

Catherine drummed her short nails on the table. “Well? What do you want?”

He narrowed his eyes, his guilt converting into a more tolerable emotion. “I’m thinking.”

Wouldn’t he just love telling her exactly where to put her high-and-mighty bet? Except that her proposition might be the break he needed. His chance to secure Allie’s future. To make amends. He’d be a fool not to explore his options.

But he could sure as hell make the woman squirm first.

“Before we take this any farther, doll, I need you to fill in some gaps for me.” Noting her flinch at the word “doll,” he slouched back and scratched his belly for good measure.

She watched his fingers with a distracted frown. “Gaps?”

“Yeah. Like what you mean by ‘tutoring.’ And what the terms are for winning or losing this bet. Minor stuff like that.” He crossed his arms with a deliberate flex of muscles.

“Oh. Well…” Her gaze lit briefly on his biceps and fluttered away. Then drifted back.

His slouch slowly straightened.

“First I would evaluate your social skills to see which ones need polishing…” Her stare grew languid, sliding as softly as a chamois cloth over his throat. His chest. His abdomen.

Lord have mercy.

“Second I would schedule lessons in those areas where you seem to be lacking—” her gaze moved lower, stopped, and rose swiftly to focus somewhere over his shoulder “—n-not that you are lacking. Anywhere. Th-that is, I’ll have to look harder—I m-mean longer…” A mottled flush crept up her neck. “What I mean is, I’ll have to analyze you further before developing a specific tutorial plan,” she finished primly.

Joe managed a stunned grunt. Vowing to use his little black book soon, he willed the blood back into his brain. “So how long will all this tutoring take?”

Relief flooded her face. “Carl’s parents are hosting an engagement party at the end of June. My father is flying in from London to attend. That gives us a little over four weeks to get you ready.”

“For what?”

“For the party. That’s where Father will meet you.”

“What about your mother?”

Some indefinable emotion flickered in her eyes. “Mother…died when I was very young.” She leaned forward, her manner brisk and professional once more. “You’ll be introduced as a fictional member of a prominent East Coast family. If neither my father nor any of the guests discover your deception by midnight, Carl will concede victory to us.”

Too weird. “How many drinks did you two have before cooking up this bet?”

“One glass of brandy,” she said, taking him literally. “But I assure you we’re both very sober.”

No kidding. They’d turned a lovers’ spat into cold contract negotiations for spouse job descriptions. And maybe that was smart. He sure as hell knew impulse marriages were dumb.

Joe lifted his size-twelve sneaker and pointed the toe this way and that. “Midnight, huh? Think a glass slipper’ll fit?”

Her straight dark brows drew together.

Lowering his foot to the floor, he sighed. “Never mind. If someone finds me out, won’t you and Carl be embarrassed? Won’t your parents be—”

“Cinderella! I get it.” A delighted smile softened and lit her face.

He smothered a wave of uneasiness. She’s a shrink, he reminded himself. She’ll probably never crack another smile the whole four weeks.

Reaching for his beer, Joe realized it was empty and recrossed his arms. “As I was saying, what happens if I’m recognized at this party? Granted, I spent a lot of time in the dugout, but it’s possible a real sports fan would remember me.”

“If you were a polo player maybe. Or even a tennis pro. But this crowd will be too highbrow to follow a sport like baseball.”

He made himself count to five before answering. “Yeah, those Columbia Star Suites in the Astrodome draw a pretty raunchy crowd. CEOs of major corporations, senators, polo players…” Noting her startled expression, he snorted. “We’re not talking mud wrestling, here, Catherine. Baseball is a sport for all fans. Young and old, rich and poor—snobs and just plain folk. Lord have mercy if that ever changes.”

She’d grown paler as he’d talked. “You’re absolutely right. I sounded just like Father. Please accept my apology.”

Joe nodded uncomfortably. He hadn’t meant to get on his soapbox. But she’d insulted baseball, dammit.

“Of course it’s possible someone could recognize you at the party,” she admitted. “Or that you could—that I won’t have done my job properly… Well, you know.”

“I’ll keep my pants on, if that’s what you mean,” he said dryly.

“I don’t anticipate a problem, but if you’re discovered, Carl and I will explain everything to the guests. You won’t be held responsible.”

“How comforting.” Unfolding his arms, Joe examined the fading callus on his glove hand. “Okay, Catherine, I think I have the general picture now. And I figure a month of my time to help you win this bet should be worth…oh, at least five grand.” He looked up. “Not including expenses.”

Her nostrils flared. “Five grand? You must be joking!”

“’Fraid not, doll.”

He thought of the rent due next week, Allie’s softball camp fees, the humiliating thong-bikini-endorsement contract waiting to be signed. His agent had mailed out a slew of his sports-broadcasting demo tapes with no response. Yet a woman reporter in Chicago had salvaged his tape from the reject pile and forwarded it to a swimsuit manufacturer with immediate results.

Catherine twisted toward the bar. Joe followed her gaze, his hackles rising at the sight of Pretty Boy’s smug little smirk. When she turned back around, he steeled himself to hang tough.

“Let’s negotiate,” she said, her features taut.

Billiard balls clacked. A throaty love ballad wound down; a lively two-step started up. Yet Catherine’s gaze never wavered.

Joe was the first to look away. He glared at her nearly full beer, glad he hadn’t paid for it. “I have obligations. You have money. What’s the problem?”

“I told you, I don’t have money. If I did, I would have started my own practice years ago, instead of struggling to pay off student loans. Do you have any idea what research assistants earn?”

He glanced up, moved in spite of himself by the hint of desperation in her eyes. She was either a damn good actress, or honestly couldn’t afford his price.

“If you can’t offer money, Catherine, just how in hell did you expect to sucker someone into going along with your crazy scheme?”

Her gaze faltered, dropping to her tightly clasped hands. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. This whole thing sort of snowballed out of control.” She peeked up through surprisingly long lashes. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m usually very disciplined, very careful to consider all the facts before making a decision.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

Her lashes swept up, exposing her shy pleasure. “You do?”

She’d taken it as a compliment, and suddenly he was glad. All the fun had gone out of playing a goon.

“Sure I do. Everybody breaks loose and acts crazy sometimes. Guess this was your night.” He scooted back his chair and stood. “Now if you’re ready, we’ll chalk this up to a full moon and go about our separate—”

“Wait! We haven’t finished negotiating.”

There was that hint of desperation again. He frowned at her upturned face. “Let it go, Catherine. It’s just a stupid bet.”

“It’s not a stupid bet. Well, it is, but the principle it represents isn’t. Oh, I can’t think with you looming over me like that. Sit down. Please.”

He sat, cursing himself for a fool.

“Look, what you said earlier about Carl coming here specifically to find someone who would ‘flunk’ the bet…well, you were right. He simply can’t imagine anyone without a background and family tree similar to his being able to move comfortably among elite society.” Her expression gentled. “Frankly, Joe, right now you couldn’t.”

He grabbed the neck of her beer bottle, draining half the contents and suppressing his rising belch. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

She choked on a laugh. “I don’t blame you. Elite society is filled with boring people. But there’s no doubt in my mind that with four weeks of tutoring, you can be just as boring.”

“You mean just as good, don’t you?”

The teasing glint in her eyes faded. “No, I don’t. You would simply be proving a point. And you might find that having a little savoir faire—learning a bit about the arts and sophisticated pursuits—will open doors that would otherwise be closed. That could be of real benefit to someone in the job market.”

“I’d benefit from some money, dammit.” Spending four weeks just to get hoity-toity was nuts. It was time to cut his losses and go home. “I sure as hell don’t need savoir faire to work for the refinery.”

“You’re going to work for the refinery?”

“I’ve got a standing job offer.” He’d wear a thong bikini before accepting any position not related to sports, but Catherine didn’t have to know that.

She studied him shrewdly. “I can see that you’d hate working there, but at the same time you’re skeptical about the return on a four-week investment in my plan.”

A chill prickled his arms. Earl was right. She was a damn witch.

“I promise after we win the bet you’ll have employers standing in line to make you an offer—in the field of your choice.”

A damn good witch, Joe amended.

“Did you know that savoir faire means literally ‘to know how’? As Father says—” her expression turned snooty “—it separates those who are cosmopolitan from those who read Cosmopolitan.”

Her father sounded like a prick. “What do you say, Catherine?”

“Me?” She looked startled, as if no one asked her opinion much. “I believe we all have the power to change the circumstances of our birth, to become whatever we choose. Winning this bet will show Father and Carl I’m right.”

Something about her intensity made him think there was more to it than that.

“And it will help you land that job you’re after,” she continued. “Coaching, perhaps? Sports broadcasting?” Her brow arched knowingly. “Ah, sports broadcasting.”

He hastily closed his mouth.

“I was running out of guesses,” she admitted with a chuckle. “Just think. Two candidates. Each knowledgeable about sports. One articulate, polished and experienced on camera. One articulate, polished and an ex-major-league player. Which candidate do you think the station manager knows will attract more viewers?”

She’d made one helluva case, he had to give her that.

A close-the-sale gleam entered her eyes. “I’d say that’s a pretty fair return on four weeks of your time, wouldn’t you?”

Still, a man had to be practical. “It won’t pay my rent next week.”

With a strangled sound of frustration, she yanked the beer bottle from his hand, tipped it to her mouth and threw back her head. Glossy hair slipped away, revealing an arched white throat. Sensual. Feminine. Totally uninhibited.

Joe stared at each rippling gulp and felt his blood head south again. A neck like that rated special attention. Starting at the delicate hollow where her pulse beat, then nibbling up to her smooth jawline—

She clunked the bottle down, snapping Joe out of his fantasy. He scrubbed his face in his palms.

“Did I mention the vacant apartment that comes with my offer?”

His head came up. “It must’ve slipped your mind.”

“It’s a darling little place.”

“I’m all ears.” Hell, he was Dumbo.

“Very cozy. Completely furnished. And it’s free.”

He could fly! “Where’s it located?”

“On the outskirts of Richmond College. Right behind our house, so you could walk up for lessons—”

“Our house?” Everything in him bristled.

“Actually it’s my father’s house, although I don’t see what difference…” She let the sentence trail off and followed the direction of his gaze. “Good heavens, no! I mean, Carl and I don’t…That is, I live with Father. It’s convenient for me to conduct my research where he keeps his private notes.” Her tone could’ve corroded batteries.

What was the story with these three?

She brightened. “He’ll lease the apartment to a student in the fall, but right now it’s just collecting dust.”

His thoughts were already rounding third base. His agent needed a place to park and think for a while. If he sublet his apartment to him for a month, he could tear up that thong-bikini-endorsement contract. And a little polish was exactly what several sports directors had said he lacked.

“What about expenses?”

“I’ll take care of lesson-related costs—tickets, gasoline, rentals and the like—but meals are your responsibility.”

He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but meals he could handle. Allie was a whiz at stretching hamburger…Oh, God, Allie. Lately she’d been so moody he didn’t know what to expect from his little pal anymore.

“How many bedrooms did you say this apartment has?”

A wary glint entered Catherine’s eyes. “One. But it’s very large.”

“Is there a sofa bed by any chance?” He’d slept on worse, and it was only for a month.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Is there a pool?” Allie loved to swim.

“There’s a lap pool nearby…for adults only.” He could see her busy little mind working. “But the tennis courts are open to anyone,” she added hopefully.

Allie loved all sports. She’d be a natural at tennis. “If I did this, my daughter, Allie, would be living with me.”

“How old is she?”

He didn’t like the way she was biting her lip. “Twelve. Is that a problem? I mean, are there restrictions against children at this place?”

“No.”

“You don’t sound too sure of that.”

“No,” she said more forcefully. “In fact, the management loves children.”

He searched her face, reassured by the honest conviction he saw there. “I must be crazy,” he muttered to himself.

“You mean you’ll do it?”

“I have to tie up some loose ends in the next couple of days, and I can’t commit before then, but if everything falls into place—”

The impact of her lithe body hitting his chest whooshed the air from his lungs. Slim arms circled his neck and squeezed. He registered soft skin, silky hair, a flowery scent—and then Catherine drew back.

“Thank you, Joe! I promise you won’t regret your decision.”

Watching her smile light up the dingy pool hall, Joe had a sick feeling he already did.



“I WONT GO!” Allie slammed the door hard enough to rattle her row of softball trophies.

Stalking to her dresser, she moved the tallest trophy a fraction to the left and rubbed the brass-plate inscription: Allison Tucker, Most Valuable Player. Instead of feeling her usual burst of pride, she blinked back the horrible sting of tears.

The doorknob rattled. “C’mon Allie, it’s only for a month. It’ll be fun.”

Fun. Joe’s solution to everything from her earliest memory, from the time she’d actually believed in magic. She glared at the door. “You go on, then. I’ll stay here with Norman.”

“You can’t, honey. Norman needs time alone since Doris kicked him out. Besides, I’d miss you too much. You’re my best pal, remember?” His deep voice was sentimental, wheedling.

She closed her eyes against the images crowding her mind. Making ice-cream sundaes for dinner on Gram’s bingo night, playing hooky from school to share popcorn at a movie—saving a place at her team awards banquet for a father who never showed up.

“Allie, please open the door.”

The ache in her chest moved higher, swelling her throat. Her stomach churned worse than before a big game. She wanted to fling the door open and throw herself into Joe’s strong arms. She wanted to fling the door open and scream the bitter words clogging her windpipe.

“Allie?”

She wanted to be a little kid again, too dumb to know anything about anything.

The silence stretched. Joe sighed, then walked away.

Released, Allie dove for the top of her bed and buried her face in a pillow. The tears she’d been holding back burst free. Why had Gram married that snowbird and moved to Minnesota? Didn’t she know her granddaughter needed her? Depended on her, if not for love and approval, at least for adult common sense?

Now Joe wanted to pack up and move to some place Allie’d never heard of, away from her friends, away from Tommy Burton in apartment 34C. And for what? Some stupid plan some stupid lady’d made that might help Joe get some stupid job. He wasn’t a Houston Astros player anymore, he’d told her, and she would bet her MVP trophy Gram didn’t know. If she did, she never would’ve left two days ago. Allie clenched her soaked pillowcase and gave in to a fresh surge of tears. Why couldn’t things stay the same?

Stretching out her arm, she groped blindly, connected with a soft shape and dragged it close. The stuffed monkey was the closest she’d come to having a pet. Joe had won it for her last year at her softball team’s annual carnival.

Yesterday, when she’d practiced face painting on his arm, he’d promised to win her another animal at this year’s fund-raiser. It was one promise she believed. After all, hadn’t he wiped out the tower of bottles on his first throw last year? Her friends had said later what a cool father he was. And they were half-right. He was strong and cute and a super athlete and way cool about blowing off rules and making people laugh.

But he was no father. At least, not like her friends had.

Flipping onto her back, Allie sniffed hard and gritted her teeth. She hated crying. Only wusses cried. But lately she was out of control. A real loser.

Like when Tommy’d smiled at her by the pool twenty-six hours and forty minutes ago, and she’d giggled like a demented hyena. If he hadn’t already thought she wasn’t worth his super-fine smile, he sure did now. Sarah Sokol had whispered something to him behind her hand, and they’d both laughed. Allie wanted to die just thinking about it.

Lifting the hem of her T-shirt, she scrubbed her face and frowned at the Boyz II Men poster on her wall. Joe’d said his teacher lady friend was real classy. That she’d show him how to act like he’d grown up in a mansion, instead of a run-down shack behind Big Joe’s filling station. Anyone who could teach a guy all that fancy stuff probably knew a lot about girl stuff, too.

Allie lay quietly, feeling more like herself by the minute. She would quit being a baby and face facts. Joe was Joe. She was old enough to take care of herself—and him, too. He needed her.

Swinging her legs to the stained beige carpet, she walked to the door and stood finger-combing her snarled hair, instead of brushing it. Gram would’ve thrown a hissy fit, but Joe wouldn’t notice. Pulling her door open, she moved down the hall and stopped short of the den entrance.

Just like every morning, Joe sat reading the sports page in his old recliner, his bare feet sticking out well past the footrest. He’d dragged his favorite cutoffs and tank top out of the dirty clothes hamper. Again. She’d have to sneak them into the wash before the neighbors complained.

From the looks of the teddy bears on his arm, he hadn’t showered after getting home last night. A bowl of soggy cereal sat on one chair arm. The other supported his tightly clutched beer. He looked scruffy, tired and…sad.

She’d hurt him, Allie realized with a start. Both of him. The playmate she adored and the man who’d disappointed her so many times over the years. Her wonderful impossible dad.

He glanced up and noticed her in the doorway. “Hi there.”

“Hi.”

“Feeling a little better?”

She nodded, hating this awkward politeness.

“Good.” His gaze sharpened. “Then who was named most valuable player for the 1974 World Series? There’s a hamburger in it for the winner.”

It was a game they’d played for years, familiar and safe. She crossed her arms and waited for him to up the ante.

He sighed. “Okay, with fries.”

“Finley with the Oakland A’s. Piece’a cake.”

“I’ll get you one of these days,” he promised, ruining the threat by grinning proudly.

“In your dreams. Can I have a milk shake, too?”

“Not for that no-brainer. Now go do something with that rat’s nest on your head while I get my shoes.” He pushed down on the footrest and sat straight.

Allie slowly touched her head. He’d noticed her hair? “Joe?”

He finished a huge yawn and rolled his shoulders. “Hmm?”

“I’m sorry I slammed the door in your face.”

His eyes met hers, all trace of grogginess gone. “That’s okay. I know you miss Gram, and you’re kind of scared about the two of us getting along without her. I know I haven’t always been there for you. But now I won’t be on the road half the year. Things’ll be different.”

He’d known how she felt? Staring into his anxious eyes, she couldn’t breathe for the love filling her heart.

“We can do this, pal,” he said with forced heartiness. “Together.”

This time Allie didn’t hesitate. Running forward, she threw herself into Joe’s strong arms and held on tight. After a long moment she lifted her head and smiled.

“Course we can, Joe. It’ll be fun.”



CATHERINE STOOD behind father and daughter while they studied the “apartment” she’d promised Joe three nights ago. Heat radiated up from the driveway in brutal waves. How could they look so fresh in this Amazonian hell?

Allie’s cap of short dark hair reached just above Joe’s elbow. Wearing shorts and a ribbed knit shirt, she revealed the compact body of a young gymnast. Yet her budding curves promised future havoc for adolescent male hormones—and Joe’s peace of mind.

When had Joe’s wife died? Catherine wondered briefly. She knew only too well how rough the next few years could be for the girl without a mother’s guidance. Ignoring the odd catch in her heart, she focused on Joe.

He’d shaved recently, a definite improvement over the last time she’d seen him. His khaki slacks and hunter green shirt flattered his broad shoulders and lean hips. Or maybe it was the other way around. She had a feeling he’d look good wearing anything. Especially his bare skin. She glanced away. Then looked slowly back.

Something about his quietness made her nervous. Possibly the fists hanging by his sides like small hams.

“This is it?” Allie finally asked her father, her uptilted face a delicate version of his—yet not like his at all. “This is what we’ll be living in for a month? It’s a garage apartment, Joe.”

“I can see that.” His tone matched his fists.

Okay, Catherine admitted silently, maybe she’d been a wee bit hasty describing it as she had.

“This sucks big-time,” Allie said, grabbing Joe’s arm. “Let’s go call Norman and tell him he can’t lease our apartment.”

“Too late, pal. He’s halfway here from Dallas by now.”

They turned to Catherine in unison, their identical brown glares prodding her guilty conscience. Her sweeten-the-pot offer didn’t seem nearly as brilliant today as it had in The Pig’s Gut.

“Where is my fully furnished apartment with a very large bedroom?” Joe asked carefully.

She looked up and squinted at the redbrick structure shimmering over the garage. “Technically speaking, it’s right in front of you. Just because the one bedroom happens to be the living and dining room, too, doesn’t mean it’s not large.” If her peripheral vision could be trusted, Joe wasn’t amused. “Now calm down. Once you see the inside, you’ll feel much—”

“You lied to me,” he interrupted.

She met his gaze at that. “I never lie.”

“Oh, excuse me. You messed with my head. Psychotherapy, I believe you couch doctors call it.”

This man was no amoeba. “Actually we prefer to think of it as creative ego management.” Her feeble smile died in the face of his deepening scowl. “That was a joke.”

A bad joke, but then, she doubted David Letterman could’ve cracked Joe’s contempt. Someone in his past had really done her profession a disservice.

He lowered his brows. “Where are the tennis courts you promised?”

Relieved, she turned and pointed toward the east. “See those big trees? The courts are right behind them. An indoor lap pool, also. The neighbors love pairing up for a tennis match, if you’re interested. We’re very friendly around here.” Didn’t she always wave at the sweating fools when she walked by on her way to swim laps in cool indoor comfort?

“And I suppose you’ll tell me the management that ‘loves children’ isn’t a lie, either.”

At last, firm ground. “I love children,” she stated unequivocally, frowning when he continued to look skeptical. “You certainly are being unreasonable for someone who’s expecting a Norman from Dallas any minute.”

“Gimme a break, doll. Am I supposed to be happy I gave up my big apartment for a doghouse in your backyard?”

She narrowed her eyes.

The makeup she’d carefully applied after his unexpected phone call was no doubt melting with her sweat. The wraparound denim skirt she’d anxiously selected clung, hot and itchy, to her hose. She’d worked every spare minute for the last month on the haven he’d just called a doghouse, hoping to use it as her summer office. Enough was enough.

“You called me, remember? You were the one who made plans to move into an apartment without seeing it first. I’ve been standing out here without the benefit of air-conditioning for fifteen minutes—ten minutes past my previous record—and I have nothing to show for it but sunburn and your verbal abuse.” She lifted her stinging nose high enough to do her Hamilton ancestors proud. “Considering you have the manners of a mongrel, a doghouse is exactly what you deserve. However, I’m offering you a charming efficiency apartment any number of people would be thrilled to lease. I decorated it myself. Now, do you want it or not?”

Joe looked as if he were choking on his answer.

“No?” Catherine inclined her head regally. “Well, then, perhaps I’ll call Norman when he arrives and see if he’s interested. Can you give me the telephone number, Allie?”

The wide-eyed girl nodded.

“Leave my daughter out of this,” Joe practically snarled. “Show me the damn apartment.” Spinning around, he glared ahead.

Catherine almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“How can I refuse such a gracious request?” Pulling the keys from her skirt pocket, she brushed by Joe and mouthed “ego management” to his daughter in passing. After a startled second, Allie’s brown eyes sparked with feminine comprehension and amusement.

A warm glow spread through Catherine as she headed for the stairs leading up to the efficiency. Hearing footsteps behind her, she grinned in triumph.

“What are you smiling at?” Joe snapped.

Catherine started to turn.

“Would you chill?” Allie said to her dad, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “First you want me to be happy about moving. Now you don’t want me to smile. Make up your mind.”

His grumbled “Sorry” restored Catherine’s grin. She’d felt an instant rapport with Allie and looked forward to gaining the girl’s friendship.

Reaching the unshaded staircase, Catherine began climbing the steps, the biting smell of hot cedar reminding her not to touch the railing. At the small landing she stopped and inserted her key into the cherry red door.

“Well, here we are,” she stated the obvious, turning the knob and pushing forward with a sudden feeling of doom.

Maybe she’d been a wee bit hasty not telling Joe about his roommates.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_92ae0ac9-eb78-553e-8b4e-25018ef69733)


HALFWAY UP THE STEPS Joe paused to rest. He’d come a long way since his surgery two months ago, but climbing reminded him why his contract hadn’t been renewed. Rubbing his left knee, he watched Allie tentatively follow their new landlord into the apartment. He should take his daughter’s advice and “chill.” But it was damn hard to do with Catherine’s little speech ringing in his ears.

The nerve of her, implying he’d been gullible, or worse—foolish—to act decisively and quickly. How many opportunities, how many good times would’ve passed him by in the past year alone if he’d waited to plan every detail in advance? More than she’d experienced in her entire uptight life, he’d be willing to bet.

His mosquito of a conscience buzzed out of nowhere and bit deep.

If he’d planned the off-season vacation his daughter”d begged him for, instead of flying off to Vail on impulse, maybe he’d still be on the Astros roster. Maybe Allie wouldn’t have cried her heart out when his mother left. Maybe—

“C’mon, poky,” Allie called down from the doorway,

Joe straightened and blinked. She had the filled-to-bursting look of someone hiding a good secret. Thank God. The apartment must meet with her approval. He waved and she ducked back inside.

Climbing the remaining steps without much enthusiasm, he reached the landing. The place would be sophisticated of course. And probably as sterile as the woman who’d decorated it. He hoped like hell the carpet wasn’t white. Assuming a carefully bland expression, he drew in a breath and crossed the threshold.

A riot of colors assaulted him.

Green. Purple. Red. Orange. Some others he’d seen on paint chips that never got taken home. Closing his eyes, he gave his pupils a minute to adjust from sunlight to lamplight, then risked another peek. He hadn’t hallucinated.

Lord have mercy, he’d just committed to living in a crayon box for a month.

“So what d’ya think?” His daughter’s eyes, soothing pools of familiar brown, had never seemed more beautiful. She gestured widely and grinned. “Does this place rule or what?”

Rule? It conquered. Overwhelmed.

“Catherine did everything herself. The kitchen curtains. The wallpaper. Even that painting over the sofa. Can you believe it?”

He turned and studied the rectangular canvas of purple and orange flowers, saved from dime-a-dozen blandness by rich texture and disturbing boldness. His mind stumbled. The artist of this painting was no uptight sterile woman. Even his untrained eye detected passion in the vibrant brush strokes.

Catherine laughed uneasily from somewhere behind him. “I’m sure your father’s more interested in the practical features of the apartment. For example, the sofa folds out to a bed.”

He heard the swish of her long denim skirt. Felt the fabric brush the back of his slacks. Inhaled the scent of lush summer blooms and heated female skin. She smells like the painting looks, he thought, spinning around to confront this unforeseen threat to his plans.

She took half a step back. “It’s…it’s a brand-new mattress. Top of the line.”

Noting Allie had wandered to the kitchen, he gave Catherine a thorough inspection. Mascara smudged her left eyelid. Her nose glowed with sunburn. A tight low ponytail did nothing to flatter her narrow face. Hardly a femme fatale. Hardly a threat.

Relaxing, he slid one hand into his pocket. “Where’s Allie going to sleep?”

“There’s a roll-away bed in the closet. I’m told it’s fairly comfortable.”

“What about this thing?” He measured the sofa with a doubtful eye. “I’m not exactly petite.”

“Oh, that mattress is big enough for two and quite comfortable—” She broke off with a frown and glanced away.

Oh-ho! So that’s how it is! He jiggled his pocket change irritably. “Big enough for two, is it?” he said for her ears alone.

Her cheeks pinkened to match her lifting nose. “Three, if everyone cooperates.” She held his gaze long enough for him to feel like a fool, then walked toward the kitchen. “There’s a trick to unfolding the roll-away bed, Allie. And the pilot light sometimes goes out on the stove. How about taking the ten-cent guided tour?”

Allie’s enthusiastic nod made Joe stare. Whatever happened to “This sucks big-time“?

Ignoring him completely, Catherine glided around the apartment touching features with the grace of Vanna White turning letters of the alphabet. He’d never seen a woman move like that. So erect, yet so fluid a book on her head wouldn’t have wobbled.

They spent a long time in the walk-in closet talking about bed latches, linens and storage space. The bathroom tour drew Allie’s appreciative, “Cool.” After that Joe quit paying attention and sat on the sofa with a sigh.

For a man who supposedly understood women, he couldn’t seem to get a handle on Catherine. Take this apartment, for instance.

In his living-room experience acceptable colors ranged from beige to dark brown. Fabrics matched. Walls were covered with family photographs or framed prints. The only purple in sight was grapejuice stains on the carpet. But this…

He stretched out his legs and gazed around. This place was as foreign to him as a subtitled movie.

Now that the shock had worn off, he could tell there was a weird sort of order to everything. Somehow the green-checked sofa blended with the floralpatterned armchair. The glossy green patio table and chairs looked good against the purple back wall. Even the Mardi Gras masks hanging like pictures didn’t spook him the way they had at first. The black iron doorstop, though, would definitely have to go.

Joe examined the thing with a shudder. He hated cats. All cats. Even fake ones. He leaned forward and squinted. Stood up and moved closer. Bent down and reached out.

The doorstop opened slitted green eyes and hissed. Something gray streaked up close and bit Joe’s outstretched hand.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Romeo!” Catherine rushed forward and scooped the gray cat from the floor.

Clutching his injured hand, Joe glared at the scruffiest, ugliest, meanest-looking excuse for a famous lover he’d ever seen. Satanic yellow eyes glared back from the cradle of Catherine’s arms. At her feet, the black doorstop yowled plaintively.

She looked down, her expression softening. “It’s okay, Juliet, he’s not hurt. See?” Catherine lowered the huge gray tomcat to the floor, where he began grooming himself as if soiled irreparably by the incident.

Joe pointed a wounded finger. “He’s not hurt? I need a rabies shot, for cryin’ out loud.”

Frowning, she reached for Joe’s hand, examined his punctured skin with a small sound of dismay, then twisted toward Allie. “Honey, would you get antiseptic and bandages from the medicine cabinet please?

Crouched on the floor stroking the black cat, Allie looked up and met Joe’s stare. Traitor, he accused silently.

Her golden skin flushed. “Sure thing,” she mumbled, loping off to the bathroom.

“Romeo’s had all his vaccinations. You won’t need a rabies shot,” Catherine assured him.

“Where the hell was he hiding all that time?”

“Under the couch. He probably thought you were going to hurt Juliet. He doesn’t like men.”

“No kidding,” Joe muttered.

Bending her head, Catherine probed his wound. “Does it hurt much?”

Like he’d been stabbed with hot pokers. “Nah.”

“Such a manly man,” she said, amusement lacing her voice. “Is this my cue to swoon?”

“You wouldn’t be the first one, doll.”

Her green gaze lifted. The air hummed between them. Her shift in mood from skeptical to speculative didn’t surprise him. His fierce desire to satisfy her curiosity did.

Allie ran up, breaking their locked gazes. “Here’s the stuff you wanted,” she said breathlessly.

Catherine released his hand and reached for the supplies.

“Does it hurt real bad, Joe?” Allie’s expression offered an apology for not asking him earlier.

“Nah.” He grinned and deepened his voice. “I’m a manly ma—Ow-w-w!’

“It’s only a little iodine,” Catherine said sternly, dabbing his fingers with the stinging liquid. “Quit fussing. Manly men don’t whine.”

He dropped his chin to his chest and thrust out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout. Allie giggled. Catherine glanced up and snorted. Reclaiming his hand with a shake of her head, she set to work.

Absurdly pleased, he nodded toward the two cats now vying for Allie’s attention. “What the bell are they doing here?”

She froze, then continued bandaging his fingers. “They live here.”

His good humor fled. “Excuse me?”

“They live here,” she said louder, as if the problem were his hearing, not the cats.

“Don’t you mean they lived here?”

“No.” She finished wrapping his last puncture wound and offered a bright smile. “There you are. Good as new.”

He caught her wrist as she stepped back. “Cats weren’t part of our deal.”

“Didn’t I mention them?” She shrugged elegantly. “Oh, well, they’re so little trouble it must have slipped my mind.”

“Catherine…” he warned.

Her expression sobered, all flippancy gone. “I can’t keep them at the house, Joe. My father is allergic to cats.”

“So have the house cleaned before he comes back from England.”

“I tried that after his book tour. It nearly put him in the hospital. He’s severely allergic.”

“So keep ‘em outside. This neighborhood is a friggin’ cat paradise. All those trees to climb, birds to chase—”

“Dogs to chase them,” Catherine finished, her tone grim. “Juliet’s declawed. She couldn’t defend herself or even climb a tree for safety. I have to keep her inside. And Romeo is devoted to her. He’d die if I separated them.”

Joe made a sound of disgust and released her wrist. “Gimme a break. They’re just cats, for God’s sake.”

Some emotion veiled her face, a vulnerability that said the animals, were much more than casual pets, much more than he could comprehend. The next instant her eyes narrowed, so like the doorstop’s it was eerie.

“The students who rent this apartment come and go, but Romeo and Juliet stay. This is their home. If you can’t share it with them, I’m afraid our deal is off.”

Allie moved up and tugged on Joe’s arm. “They won’t be any trouble. I’ll take care of them myself. You won’t have to do a thing. Please, Joe, can we stay?”

He looked into doe brown eyes and remembered a little girl of six pleading for a kitten, a little girl of eight pleading for a puppy.

“You said yourself it was only for a month,” she persisted, turning his own words against him.

He’d vetoed the kitten and puppy. The subsequent rabbit and bird, too. His mother wouldn’t tolerate an animal in the house, and, as she’d told him, he wouldn’t be there to help care for them.

Before Allie’s imploring eyes grew disillusioned, before his gut could churn with guilt, he cupped her head and rumpled her silky hair. “Okay, pal, tomorrow we’ll bring a load of stuff over and get settled in. But when it comes to those two monsters, forget what I said about us sticking together. You’re on your own.”

Whether his sudden difficulty in breathing came from Allie’s crushing bear hug or the quiet thanks in Catherine’s eyes, he couldn’t have said.



FIFTY MILES AWAY, Mary Lou Denton eased behind the counter of Columbus Truck Stop’s diner and tied an apron over her slim black skirt. The luncheon special—chicken-fried steak as big as a hubcap—would keep things hopping for hours yet. She might run the place now, but she couldn’t sit on her duff in the manager’s office while the waitresses up front ran themselves ragged. She’d walked too many years in their shoes.

Grabbing an order pad and pencil, she slipped into the stream of action without a ripple. Dishes clattered. Voices rumbled. Steam clouded or curled, spreading the smells of grease, coffee and fresh-baked bread. A waitress’s telltale perfume. She’d have to wash and rinse her hair twice tonight, but the thought didn’t annoy her as it used to. She pushed back a surge of uneasiness.

If there was an extra spring in her step, it wasn’t because today was Wednesday. She hadn’t worn her hair up in a French twist for any particular reason. Her heart didn’t leap each time the door jangled open. No, not hers. That would mean she cared who came in. And she was way too smart for that. Irene whizzed past balancing loaded plates on both arms. The harried waitress’s well-timed mumble found its mark and Mary Lou scanned the eating customers. Ah. So Grace had discovered the new driver for Valley Produce, had she?

When the pretty young woman tossed him a parting smile and headed toward the kitchen, Mary Lou stepped into her path. “The family in booth three finished five minutes ago.”

Grace blushed, knowing she’d been caught flirting. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mary Lou nodded and moved out of the way. Yes, ma’am, old lady, ma’am. As if she’d never experienced the thrill of a man’s appreciative gaze. As if she never would.

Without vanity, she knew her thick dark hair had very little gray, her skin few wrinkles, her body little excess flesh for a woman of fifty-two years. Men still cast her second glances. She stared at the front door, realized what she was doing and turned back to the counter wearing a blush of her own.

Drivers sat hunched over their plates in a long row. Cattle at the trough, she’d called them once upon a time, when her dreams were big and her patience shrank in proportion to her swelling feet. She’d been so disdainful then. So…naive. Funny how tragedy changed a person’s outlook. She’d returned from the East a whole lot sadder but wiser.

These men had names. Families. Troubles and triumphs. Her feet swelled worse than ever, but thank God her head didn’t.

“Hey, beautiful, c’mere a minute,” a familiar voice boomed.

Irene, Grace and Mary Lou swiveled their heads at the same time. Nate Dawson grinned at all three but crooked his finger at Mary Lou. The younger women rolled their eyes fondly and returned to their duties.

Smiling, Mary Lou walked to the barrel-shaped trucker who’d become a true friend over the years. The birth of his two daughters, his problems with various employers, the glorious day he’d bought his own rig—she’d shared them all with Nate. Just as he’d cheered her promotion to manager two years ago. She suspected he’d put the original bug in the new owner’s ear that led to a serious interview.

She stopped in front of Nate and patted his arm. “How’s it going, stranger? You haven’t stopped by my office in ages.”

“Been workin’ against the clock the last coupla months. Only stopped today ‘cause I was runnin’ on fumes. By the way, pump 9 is knockin’ real bad.”

“I know. It’s on my list.” Along with a hundred other details to take care of. She tapped Nate’s polished plate and chuckled. “Sorry you didn’t like the special.”

“I couldn’t hurt Danny’s feelings now, could I? In fact, maybe I’d better have some of his peach cobbler.”

“Mmm. Aren’t you forgetting those size-forty pants you were going to fit into for Cindy’s wedding?” His daughter was getting married in three weeks. Short of liposuction, Nate was out of time.

His hopeful expression fell. “I stuck to my diet all morning. Didn’t stop for a doughnut or nothin’, you can ask Frank. He’s been tailin’ my mud flaps since San Antonio. Tell her I didn’t stop, will ya, Frank?” Nate elbowed the driver on his right, nearly knocking the smaller man off his stool.

Frank resettled his skinny rump and slanted his colleague a lethal glance. “Touch me again and Cindy’ll be wearing black to her wedding.”

“Ooh. Big talk from such a little man.”

“It ain’t the size of the dog that counts, buddy. It’s the fight in the dog—”

“Guys,” Mary Lou interrupted before the reference to size could turn sexual. And it would, as surely as men would be boys. “I’ll get you the cobbler, Nate, if you’ll promise to reserve a larger tux for the wedding while there’s still time. They may have to ship one in from another store location.”

Nate threw up his hands. “Forget the damn cobbler! Jeez, you’re worse than Barb. It’s not like I haven’t tried to lose weight. I have. It’s just that I’ve got this…condition.”

Mary Lou stared. Nate never lost his temper. “What do you mean, condition?”

Looking as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut, Nate glanced from side to side, then leaned forward. Alarm shot through her.

“I saw a doctor in Dallas,” he confessed grimly. “There’s a problem with my stomach, Mary Lou.”

“Oh, Nate, no.”

“’Fraid so. Something called dunlop disease.”

“Dunlop disease?” She reached for his beefy forearm and squeezed. “It’s going to be okay, Nate. You’ll do what the doctor says and everything will be fine.”

Eyes cast down, he shook his head, his jowls swaying. “Ain’t nothin’ anyone can do. My belly done lopped over my belt, and that’s all there is to it.”

He raised mischievous hazel eyes an instant before he sputtered into laughter. Frank joined in.

Releasing Nate’s arm with a shove, Mary Lou felt her face heat. Gullible to the end, that’s what she was.

Still hooting, Nate pointed a stubby finger. “Got you good that time, honey, didn’t I, Frank?”

Frank met her narrowed gaze and wisely kept quiet.

Stabbing her pencil into her coiled hair, she stacked the men’s empty dishes with clattering force.

Nate sobered. “Aw hell, Mary Lou, I’m sorry for pulling your leg like that. This damn wedding is making me real mean. It’s all Barb nags me about day and night.” He rubbed at a water ring on the counter. “She expects me to be happy, ya know? But the truth is, I’ll miss Cindy somethin’ terrible.”

Mary Lou scooped up the pile of dishes. “Would you like that cobbler now?”

“Guess I’d better not.” He studied her closely and sighed. “Those cat eyes of yours are still hissing mad. I don’t blame you. I can’t expect you to understand what losing a daughter feels like.”

Her fingers slackened. Crockery hit the floor and shattered. Cursing, she lowered her knees to the black and white tiles and stared at the mess. She hadn’t dropped a dish in at least fifteen years.

“You okay?” Nate’s concerned voice drifted over her head.

“I’m fine,” she managed to croak.

“For a minute there, you turned white as a sheet. You see a ghost or somethin’?”

Did a memory qualify? “No. I’m fine,” she repeated, as much for herself as for him.

Grace rushed up, sympathy in her cluck and glee in her eyes. “Would you like me to clean that up, Ms. Denton?”

Mary Lou sent her a wry look. “No, just give Nate and Frank their checks, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Feeling as fractured as the smashed earthenware on the floor, Mary Lou struggled for composure. She’d thought her past safely buried. Yet one innocent comment had unearthed her clawing guilt.

Is she married? Is she a mother? Is she happy?

Not knowing sliced her heart. She bled as much now as thirty, twenty, ten years ago. Time had only changed the questions.

“Here you go, Ms. Denton.”

Blinking, she smoothed back her hair with trembling fingers. Irene had placed a whisk, dustpan and paper bag within reach. Mary Lou slowly began gathering broken shards. Movement flowed unchecked around her—a stream purling around the rock suddenly dropped in its midst. At some point Nate apologized again and left. Grace announced she was going on break.

Mary Lou’s awareness returned by degrees. She dumped the last dish fragments into the paper bag and sank back on her heels. For the tenth time in as many minutes the front door jangled open.

It was him.

She didn’t question how she knew, she just did. And that scared the hell out of her. Despite her earlier thoughts to the contrary, she’d let herself care too much about someone in her life. If she needed a reminder of the consequences, the past few agonizing minutes provided ample proof.

Very quietly she eased backward until her fanny hit storage drawers. From the other side of the counter, she would be invisible.

Bustling toward the kitchen, Irene paused in midstride, her startled gaze flicking from Mary Lou to someone at the counter. Someone tall. “H-hi there, Mr. Chandler. What can I get you?”

“A Diet Coke please. No, better make that two. I’ll take one to Ms. Denton in her office.” The deep cultured voice soaked through the surrounding Texas twangs like wine through beer nuts.

Mary Lou’s pulse accelerated. The moment for revealing herself came and went.

Irene, bless her heart, never faltered. “Just let me turn this order in and I’ll get your drinks right away.”

“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Swell. Mary Lou swallowed hard and forced herself to think. Once John headed for her office with the drinks, she’d slip out the front door and think up an excuse later. She was simply too shaken—too vulnerable—to face her monthly meeting with the owner of Columbus Truck Stop today.

Thank God the lunch crowd had thinned. Thank God for Irene’s quick wit. Thank God Grace was lingering outside with the new driver for Valley Produce.

“Not that I’m complaining,” John said conversationally. “But worshiping at my feet might be more effective without a counter between us.”

She stopped breathing.

“The game’s up, Ms. Denton.”

Thanks a lot, God.

There was no hope for dignity. Nothing left to do. She rose slowly, her popping joints a crowning addition to her complete and utter mortification.

“How’d you know I was there?” she asked miserably, unable to meet his eyes.

A beat of silence. “I just knew.”

Her gaze snapped up. She caught her breath and stared.

John Chandler’s eyes were the color of freshground coffee, his hair a distinguished salt-and-pepper gray. His European-cut suit complemented his lean body and outdoorsman’s tan. Recently divorced and spectacularly rich, he was a debutante’s dream, a society matron’s fantasy—a truck-stop manager’s delusion. A delusion five years her junior.

His attention shifted to Irene, who hurried forward carrying two fizzing Cokes.

“Ah, thank you, Irene.” His charming smile disappeared the instant he turned back to Mary Lou.

“Shall we go to your office now, Ms. Denton?”

She noted the interested stares of nearby truckers and silently groaned. This had to be a nightmare. “Yes, of course.”

Untying her apron, she tossed it into a hamper and slipped around the counter. She sensed his intense gaze while he followed her through the diner, the adjacent minimart, the unmarked door next to the beer cooler, the short hallway sprouting several rooms on each side. By the time she reached her small office she was ready to scream from the tension.

John entered behind her and all the oxygen left her lungs. As discreetly as possible, she placed her desk between them and settled in her high-back chair.

His eyes flashed. “Feel safer now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she bluffed, forced to dilute her advantage by craning her neck. “Please, have a seat.”

He placed the drinks on her desk, sat in the guest chair and crossed his leg with an elegance that should’ve looked sissy, but made her feel fluttery inside.

“Come on now, don’t play dumb. We both know you’re anything but. My portfolio manager says I should clone you to shore up my other weak investments.”

The compliment surprised and warmed her. She’d worked very hard to turn around a failing business and warrant this man’s faith in her.

“Why are you hiding behind four feet of wood? What’s wrong, Mary Lou?”

She wanted more than his faith, that’s what was wrong. “I think we should stick to surnames, don’t you?”

His surprisingly dark eyebrows lifted and fell. “Funny. Last month you called me John in this very office. If you insist on formality in front of the staff that’s one thing, but after two years of working together—”

“We don’t work together. I work for you. No, that’s not right, either. I work for your portfolio. I’m a weak investment, remember?”

His mouth quirked. “I’d hardly call you weak. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Quite unusual for a beautiful woman, in my experience.”

Hot pleasure spilled through her veins. It was the first time he’d stepped from a traditional employer’s role, other than to brag about his college-age daughter. She reminded herself sternly he was out of her league.

“Do you take such a personal interest in all of your investments, Mr. Chandler?”

“It depends on the potential for return, Ms. Denton.”

She licked suddenly dry lips. “And what kind of return do you expect from me?”

“I expect nothing. I speculate that patience with you would be well rewarded in the long run.”

Oh, God. “What if you’re overestimating my abilities?”

“I don’t believe I am. I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

Her heart was thumping like diesel-pump 9. “You have?”

For an instant his eyes blazed. “Oh, yes, I have.” He lowered his lashes and tweaked the crease in his pants. “Perhaps we should discuss this more fully over dinner tonight.”

She wanted to say yes more than anything she’d wanted in a very long time. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You’ve got to eat, don’t you? When was the last time you had dinner in a nice restaurant?”

She smiled briefly. “I think I’m insulted.”

“Don’t be. I know how hard you work, that’s all I meant.”

What else did he know about her? “Mr. Chandler…John,” she conceded, amazed at the fierce triumph that crossed his face. “Thank you for the invitation, but I really don’t believe in mixing business and pleasure.”

His eyes widened innocently. “Did you think we would have fun? That this would be a date?” He wagged his head and hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’d like to discuss the quarterly profit-and-loss report if you don’t mind. And there’s an interesting treatise about the effect of religious cults on the price of oil and gas I’d like you to look at. You can take a peek over dessert if you’re a fast reader.”

By this time she was chuckling. He made her fears seem ridiculous. Still…

“You can pick the spot. What do you feel like eating? Chinese? Italian? You name it, you’ve got it.”

His boyish eagerness was irresistible. With a rush of defiance, she caved in. “Any place is fine with me—as long as it doesn’t smell like grease!”




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_e257fb0d-ed3c-59ff-a964-d89f27763733)


CATHERINE MEASURED coffee, poured water and started the automatic brewer in her father’s spotless white kitchen. Her new tenants had moved into the garage apartment the day before. Joe was due at nine o’clock for his “orientation” session. She’d no sooner returned from her morning swim about eight than she’d heard his Bronco back out of the driveway. Round trip, the drive to Allie’s softball camp at the Y shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes.

Father and daughter were very close from what Catherine had observed. Still, something about their relationship had nagged at her in the hours after she’d shown them the apartment. It wasn’t just that Allie called her father by his first name, although that indicated a disturbing equality between the two. No, there’d been something else. An interaction she’d recognized and responded to on a deeply personal level.

Then last night an image had crystallized in Catherine’s mind: Allie’s face, pleading with Joe to stay for the month.

The girl’s expression had been resigned, as if she’d experienced disappointment many times in her young life. She’d obviously expected her father to say no and reverse the plans they’d discussed. Yet she hadn’t been able to mask her trace of hopefulness.

Catherine paused now in the act of sponging stray coffee grounds from the counter. How well she understood the adoration, the sick disappointment, the renewed hope. In her case, she’d never been able to meet her father’s expectations. The adoration/disappointment cycle had continued until hope had finally died. The same would happen to Allie unless Joe’s pattern of behavior changed.

Glancing over her shoulder at the wall clock, Catherine winced and massaged her tender neck muscles. Curiosity didn’t always kill the cat. Sometimes it just injured.

Her tenants’ many trips up and down the apartment stairs yesterday had been clearly visible from her office window—if she twisted her head just so. When Joe had spun around unexpectedly and headed for her back kitchen door, she’d nearly sprained her ankle scrambling away from the closed miniblinds.

Foolish, really. He couldn’t possibly have seen her, despite the knowing glance he’d directed at her window.

She’d taken her sweet time answering his knock. Then wished she could slam the door on his cocky smirk. Instead, she’d invited him inside to wait while she retrieved the apartment keys he requested from her office.

Inhaling deeply, Catherine closed her eyes at the heavenly aroma of baking cinnamon rolls. The man couldn’t say her kitchen smelled like a hospital today. When Joe arrived for his lesson, every salivary gland in his mouth would activate. Just the ticket for establishing a cooperative mood. She hoped.

Humming under her breath, she set the smokedglass breakfast table and centered an arrangement of her father’s look-but-don’t-touch hybrid tea roses. The ones Carl had scolded her for picking just last night. A shrill buzz startled the frown from her face. The cinnamon rolls!

Five minutes later she fanned all twelve on a china serving platter and drizzled them with icing. Another glance at the clock sent her rushing to the refrigerator for a glass pitcher of orange juice. Setting it on the table, she stepped back and cocked her head. There. The stage was set. Where was the leading man?

Casting a hopeful look out the window above the sink, she sighed. No Bronco in sight. Perhaps he’d stopped for gas or a newspaper.

She refolded the linen napkins and angled them this way and that. Pulled an only marginally perfect rose from the vase and tossed it in the trash. Dashed into the bathroom and freshened her lipstick.

Time passed. Wandering to her office, she opened the miniblinds and settled behind her mahogany desk where she had an unobstructed view of the driveway. What could be keeping him? She forced herself to relax and decided to pay bills. When the last envelope was sealed, she sprang up and returned to the kitchen.

Could he have been in an accident? Surely he would’ve called her by now if he could, knowing she’d expected him an hour and a half ago.

At the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway, she stopped pacing and ran to the window. A blue Bronco, thank God. Smoothing her black tunic T-shirt over matching leggings, she took a deep breath and reminded herself she was a professional, trained to listen before jumping to conclusions.

A large shadow blocked the kitchen door’s frosted window. Three loud knocks rattled the frame. Flinging the door open, she noted the conspicuous absence of blood, bruises or bandages.

“You’re late,” she said, unable to keep the hard edge from her tone.

Joe looked startled, then wary. Flipping off his Astros cap, he shoved back his shaggy dark hair, resettled his cap and tugged down the bill. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Morning? Morning was one and a half hours ago, the time we agreed to start your session.” She eyed his disreputable army green tank top and gym shorts, the bits of damp grass clinging to his calves and sneakers. “Obviously something more important came up.”

Following her gaze downward, he toed off his shoes and stamped large, startlingly white bare feet. “Allie’s coach asked me to give a few pointers to the kids. Guess I lost track of time.”

His boyish shrug and crooked smile were undeniably appealing—and far too practiced to her discerning eye. Catherine had no doubt they’d served him well over the years.

“Are those cinnamon rolls I smell?” He sniffed the air and peered over her shoulder. The grin he flashed this time reflected genuine delight. “Hey, would you look at that table! This is great. I didn’t eat breakfast before I left.” Starting forward, he pulled up short when she moved to block the doorway.

“I don’t recall inviting you in.”

“Oh, yeah.” He ducked his head endearingly. “Sorry.”

Somehow she managed to hold both her ground and his expectant dark gaze without wavering.

“May I come in?” he asked finally, his voice a bit strained.

“No.”

His eyes rounded. “No?”

“No.”

He thrust out his unshaven jaw and straightened to his full height. She wondered if he always fell back on intimidation when his attempts to charm failed.

“We had an appointment,” he reminded her grimly.

“That’s right, we did. You missed it. Maybe I could’ve rearranged my schedule if you’d called about your delay. But as it is, I’ve got other things to do now.”

He braced a palm high on the door frame, his biceps swelling. “I didn’t miss the appointment. I was late. What’s the big deal?”

His body curved loverlike above her—powerful, dominating, smelling of new-mown grass and musky male. Her skin prickled. Only years of self-discipline enabled her to focus on his question.

“Being late shows you’re not committed to winning the bet, and that affects three lives. Mine, yours—and Allie’s. She’s a very big deal, in my opinion.”

He stepped back suddenly and turned around, staring toward the rosebushes lining the cedar fence. A mockingbird’s full-throated song rose and fell.

“I already apologized,” he muttered. “What the hell more do you want?”

She released her pent-up breath. If it had been just her future at stake she might’ve eased up. But memory of Allie’s pleading face drove Catherine on. “Turn around, Joe.”

He grew very still.

“Please.”

Shaking his head, he turned, a sorely tried man humoring the little woman.

“You didn’t lose track of time, Joe. For some reason, you wanted to be late.” The emotion in his eyes flickered so fast she almost missed it. “You were afraid,” she stated with a flash of insight.

He paled beneath his tan. “That’s crazy.”

“No. It’s a rational, valid feeling.”

“I’m not—I wasn’t afraid. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why not?”

He propped his knuckles on lean hips and snorted, as if to say, Look at me.

She did. He stood with the easy masculine arrogance of a superb athlete, his size and physical strength undeniably impressive.

“So what are you saying?” she challenged. “That a big strong guy like you can’t be afraid? Or at least, that you shouldn’t be?” From his expression, that was exactly what he thought. She huffed softly. “Give yourself a break, macho man. Experiencing a feeling of weakness doesn’t make you weak. People are afraid all the time. It’s how we humans react to fear that makes us strong or weak.”

A light glimmered and faded in his eyes, returning as a cynical gleam. He executed a mocking bow. “Thank you, Dr. Hamilton, for clearing that up for me. I feel so much more in touch now with my feminine self. Or is it my inner child breaking free?”

“My money’s on the brat,” she said wryly. “And I’m not a practicing counselor. Yet.”

He bowed again, this time with grudging respect, and studied her a long moment. “You’re really not going to start my lessons today, are you?”

She already had, but fortunately he was oblivious. “I told you, I have other things to do. Life doesn’t revolve around your whims or convenience, no matter how much you’d like to think so.”

Supremely indifferent, he squinted up at the sun. “Beautiful day.” He slanted her a casual look. “Think I’ll drive to Galveston and check out the beach action. I can work on my tan and still make it back to the Y before softball camp is over.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. If you don’t lose track of time, that is.” Bending over, she plucked his sneakers from the flagstone patio and dangled them out from two fingertips. “The sand gets pretty hot. Wouldn’t want you to burn your feet.”

He stepped forward and snatched the shoes from her hand, his glittering stare promising retribution. She waited until he’d turned and was halfway across the patio before calling, “Oh, Joe?”

He stopped, his back muscles bunched with tension.

“We start tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp. No shoes, no proper shirt—no service. A shower wouldn’t hurt, either.”

His free hand clenched and unclenched once. Without acknowledging her in any other way, he continued on toward the apartment stairs.

Catherine closed the kitchen door and slowly walked to the table. Lifting the pitcher of orange juice from a puddle of condensation, she poured herself a glass, pinched off a piece of brittle white icing from a cinnamon roll and popped it into her mouth. The sugary confection melted on contact.

She’d more than likely just robbed herself of a private counseling practice, Catherine realized, staring into a whorl of rose petals. Yet concern for Allie had left her no choice. Her goading remarks had been catalysts for change, necessary risks. Well, most of them, anyway. She probably should’ve resisted that last dig about the shower.

If Joe accepted the concept that his “self” and his feelings were two separate entities—and Catherine thought she’d seen a breakthrough—they could move on to exploring deeper issues. Like what motivated his fear. And why his daughter expected him to disappoint her. And of course, how a blue-collar jock could transform into a member of the beau monde in twenty-eight days.




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