My Fair Gentleman (11 page)

“Yeah, sure,” Travis mumbled, finally getting the hint and standing up. He moved off in a daze as two women bustled into the booth, apologizing for being late for their shift.

Joe waited through the changing of the guard and two customer demonstrations before stepping closer to the booth.

“Yo, Allie, Catherine! Nobody likes a backseat painter. Come on out and let those women do their jobs.”

Four faces turned. Two of them broke into identical beaming smiles, making him very glad he’d decided to stay. Allie and Catherine slipped out of the booth.

“So what would you ladies like to do first?” he asked, sandwiched between them as they headed for the door. “Eat? Check out the games? There’s a
stuffed elephant at the Bottle Throw with your name on it, Allie.”

He felt a slight tug on his right arm and looked down into hesitant dark eyes.

“I, um, kind of told Holly and Jessica I’d meet ‘em at the Dunking booth. Joe. A hunch of us are gonna try and drown Coach Moxley.”

“Okay, then, the Dunking booth it is. I wouldn’t mind taking a shot at the coach myself.”

He felt a slight tug on his left arm and looked down into direct green eyes.

“I think Allie made plans to be with her friends
alone,
” Catherine explained. He came to a stop.

Allie was his pal. She loved doing the carnival thing with him—didn’t she? Frowning, he turned to his daughter.

“It’s okay, Joe. I didn’t say I’d meet them there for sure. Let’s go on to the Bottle Throw. I want to. Really.”

She
didn’t
want to, he could tell. But she didn’t want to disappoint him, either. Just as he’d never wanted to disappoint his father.

Shaken by the insight, he retreated to familiar territory. “Who beat Babe Ruth’s 1935 record of 714 home runs? Winner gets to sink Coach Moxley—alone.” It was a baby question; one she could answer in her sleep.

Allie searched his eyes as if debating his sincerity.

He shrugged. “Guess I’d better warm up my throwing arm—”

“Hank Aaron, April 1974, fourth inning of the Braves’ home opener against the Dodgers. Piece’a cake.”

Joe forced a grin and checked his watch. “Meet us back here at six o’clock on the nose, hotshot.” He dug out a five-dollar bill from his pocket, slapped it into her palm and curled her fingers tight. “Come find me if you need more money.”

She seemed to hover on the brink of protest, then stuffed the cash into her jean-shorts pocket. “Thanks, Joe. For letting me go, I mean.”

They both knew she referred to more than the Dunking booth. He nodded and shooed her off, experiencing a pang of loss so piercing it gouged a hole in his chest.

He wasn’t the center of Allie’s universe anymore. She was growing up, choosing her friends over him when once there would’ve been no contest. When had this happened? And God help him, what would he do without his little pal?

“Allie hasn’t left the nest, Joe,” Catherine said, demonstrating that uncanny ability of hers to read his mind. “She has a lot of test flights ahead. And she needs you there to catch her if she falls.”

Like he’d saved Vicky? “I’m a lousy catcher, Catherine.”

“That’s bull!” She moved up toe-to-toe and flung her head back. “Who was voted the International League’s Catcher of the Year his second season in the minors? Who called two no-hitters his rookie year with the Astros? Who was plagued by injuries but had ‘an arm like a cannon’ throughout his career? Winner gets a free ticket to any game at the carnival.”

Joe couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d spit in his face.

“Bzzz! Time’s up. The answer is Joe Tucker, a very
good
catcher by anyone’s standards. And I’d trust you to be my safety net anytime.”

Her fierce green eyes compelled him to believe, to absorb some of the feminine strength she offered so generously to anyone who was confused or hurting. If a woman like
this
believed in him…

The empty hole in Joe’s chest filled with a mixture of wonder and tentative hope. He suddenly felt like leaping tall buildings in a single bound, slaying firebreathing dragons with a magic sword, sweeping the Bake Sale table clear of goodies and sampling the sweetness of Catherine.

Instead, he lifted his elbow with as much respect as he could infuse into the gesture. “Looks like I owe you a free game.”

Smiling, she accepted his arm and strolled by his side through the cafeteria. Her small hand made him intensely aware of his greater height and strength, his inherent obligation to protect her. There was an ageold sense of rightness to this gentlemen stuff that transcended snobbish rules.

“Do you by any chance like stuffed elephants?” he asked on impulse.

Her startled glance turned mischievous. “About as much as I like stodgy Democrats.”

He chuckled, remembering how he’d once thought her humorless. “Feel like checking out the Bottle Throw first?”

“No way. I’m not wasting my free ticket on something that requires skill.” She seemed to consider her options a moment. “I know, take me to the Lollipop Tree. If I don’t win a prize, at least I’ll get to keep the candy.”

Joe silently groaned. Fair was fair. But with luck, he could divert her to another booth along the way.

“T
HAT MAN IS LEANING OVER
again, Mommy.”

“Hush, Angel, and put your hook back in the pond.”

“But he can reach it better’n me. No fair!”

Grinding his teeth, Joe straightened. The angelic blond whiner couldn’t have been more than four or five. She clutched a cane pole in one hand and a small teddy bear in the other. Slanting him a resentful look, she stuck out her tongue, then dangled her line over the multicolored bath toys bobbing in the kiddie pool.

He concentrated once more on The Fish, the one that would win the prize he’d spotted on his way to the Bottle Throw. The one that’d looked so easy to catch fifteen minutes ago.

But snagging a metal ring protruding from
any
of the floating backs—much less The Fish’s pale blue one—was not a piece of cake. Every missed swipe was another ticket down the toilet, and so far he’d flushed the bowl nine times.

“Why don’t we go on to the Bottle Throw?” Catherine suggested, her words slurred around the lollipop in her mouth. Standing at his side, she balanced a half-eaten bag of popcorn, a balloon poodle and a wrapped chocolate cake in her arms.

“In a minute.” Ten was his lucky number. This was it. He could feel it in his bones.

“Mom-my, he’s hogging the blue fishy. That’s the one I was gonna catch. No fair!” The little girl edged close to Joe and pressed against his side. A pudgy elbow jabbed his hip. “
My
fishy.”

The booth attendant, a girl about Allie’s age, frowned at her small rowdy customer. “No touching, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

The mother rushed forward and pulled her struggling child from Joe’s side. “Now, honey, we don’t touch or talk to strangers. Look, there’s a yellow fishy by your hook. It wins a pretty red necklace. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t want a red necklace. I want a
green
necklace. No fair!”

The attendant dug into a box by her feet and came up holding a plastic green necklace. The mother looked pitifully grateful, the child petulant but unsure what she should complain about next.

Joe turned back to the pool and steadied his hook over his rocking plastic target. Almost…just a fraction to the right…bingo!

An errant fishhook swung over and hit his line, jerking his hook from The Fish’s ringed back. He glared down in time to see Angel smirk.

Ignoring her mother’s embarrassed gasp, he held the child’s triumphant blue gaze. “Do you like your teddy bear, Angel?”

Something in his tone must’ve warned her, because she hugged it tighter as she nodded.

“Then keep your hook away from my blue fishy. Do you understand?”

This time her mother gasped in outrage, but Angel seemed to get the picture. She nodded solemnly and dangled her hook as far away from his as possible.

The booth attendant gave him a secret thumbs-up. signal. “You want to keep trying, mister?”

Catherine spit her lollipop stick into a nearby trash can and nudged her knee against him for lack of a
free hand. “This is ridiculous. Let’s go try the Bottle Throw. Please.”

Joe looked longingly up the hallway toward the line of men and boys waiting to hurl baseballs at a stack of bottles. He might not throw like a cannon anymore, but he could still nail what he aimed at twenty out of twenty times.

“In a minute,” he promised, shoving another ticket toward the attendant.

Angel’s hook made a pass at the yellow fish and missed. “No fa-a-air,” she wailed as her mother dragged her away. The child’s replacement hooked a green fish on his first try, earning a piggy bank as his reward.

Joe grimly handed another ticket to the attendant.

The new angler beside him missed once, sorted through a pocketful of empty candy wrappers for her last ticket and landed a pink fish and inflatable beach ball for her trouble. Joe avoided the attendant’s eyes and forked over another ticket.

He’d gone way past irritation to a declaration of war. Sweat beaded his brow. Determination clenched his jaw. He was going to catch that mother Fish if he had to use every last ticket out of his original chain of thirty—which was a distinct possibility at the rate he was going.

Maneuvering his hook closer to the rocking blue bath toy, he silently coached himself. Finesse, not brute strength; savoir faire, not arrogance. He dipped his line, lifted gently and gaped at The Fish dangling from his hook dripping water into the pond.

“All right!” the attendant yelled, lifting her hand for a high five.

He put down his pole and slapped her palm weakly.

Grinning, she reached behind her and plucked the blue fish prize from a shelf. “Boy, did you ever earn this, mister. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He took the prize and moved away from the booth, gazing down at a twelve-inch plastic Snow White. Her clothes were poorly made, her features painted on. The impulse that had driven him to bypass a perfectly good stuffed animal for the doll seemed silly now.

“She’s much better than an elephant,” Catherine said, her ESP no longer surprising him.

“You think?” He could swear Snow White’s painted laugh was directed at him. “I could’ve gone to Wal-Mart and saved myself a bundle.”

Catherine shifted the items in her arms and shook her head. “A store-bought doll wouldn’t be nearly as special as this one. Not many fathers would go to so much trouble, Joe. Allie will be thrilled.”

Her wistful expression fisted his free hand. Man, would he like a few minutes alone in a dark alley with Dr. Lawrence Hamilton. Forcing his fingers to relax, he took the cake from her arms and held out his prize.

“It’s for you.”

Her eyes widened. “But…you worked so hard.”

Self-conscious as hell, he thrust the doll closer. “Take it, Catherine. Allie hates dolls.”

Her bag of popcorn and balloon poodle dropped unnoticed to the floor. “Oh, Joe,” she breathed, reaching for the prize as if the cheap plastic were bone china, the thin cotton dress plush velvet. She pressed the doll to her heart.

Damnation. Did no man in Catherine’s life appreciate how extraordinary she was? He mentally consigned Carl into that dark alley with Dr. Hamilton.

“Thank you, Joe,” she whispered, her smile wobbly and tender.

Some shred of self-preservation kept him from pulling her into his arms. Clearing the huskiness from his throat, he glanced at his watch.

“Guess we’d better head back to the cafeteria. Allie will be there soon.”

For the second time that day Joe fled from a woman without looking back. Only this time, he forced every step.

C
ATHERINE FROWNED
at Joe as they walked side by side through the Galleria mall. He’d been uncooperative for three days—ever since the Fish Pond incident to be exact—and she was fast losing patience.

Breaking through a cluster of women dressed in saris, she pulled him through and headed toward an up escalator. “This is an investment in your future as much as mine, you know. You need new clothes for job interviews.”

Sometime during the past week it had become as important to groom him for his own broadcasting career as it was for her engagement party. She’d spent hours tutoring him in basic grammar, delighting in his quick progress. When she’d worried about his Texas drawl, he’d assumed Cary Grant’s suave accent with uncanny accuracy. Too bad Joe hadn’t mastered the actor’s suave manners as well.

“Don’t you agree?” she persisted.

Joe responded with a grunt. Shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets, he trudged beside her with dragged-by-wild-horses enthusiasm.

“You’d think I was making you scrub toilets, for heaven’s sake. What is it about shopping you hate so much?”

“You got an hour?”

“Do I
have
an hour,” she corrected. “And no, I don’t have time to waste and neither do you, unless you plan on losing the bet before you even open your mouth at the party.” She’d checked out his meager wardrobe the day before. This trip was a necessity.

“Thanks for your confidence.”

She rolled her eyes and hitched up her shoulder-bag strap. “I didn’t mean that as an insult and you know it.”

Not trusting herself to say more, she surged ahead of him into the crowd, wishing she’d never gone to that damn carnival.

All her life she’d worked hard to justify her very existence. Her father’s rare praise, her Ph.D., even her engagement to Carl had been earned through model Hamilton behavior or scholarship.

Yet Joe had given her the Snow White doll with no expectation of gain. That in itself had made his gift special. His added implication that she was a desirable woman made the plastic doll a cherished treasure. At least, she
had
cherished it until he’d turned surly to keep her at arm’s length.

Well, she’d gotten his message loud and clear. She no longer attached undue significance to the doll. He had Allie and his career to worry about. She was engaged to another man. She’d be Carl’s ball and chain—not Joe’s. He could relax.

Slowing her steps, Catherine fell back beside Joe, unwilling to explore her sudden desperation to win the bet and lock in a demanding career.

“Maybe you’re taking this clothes thing too personally. You’re Cary Grant, remember? You’ve been cast in the role of Sebastian Doherty, a socially prominent Easterner visiting Houston on business,
and you’re attending a party full of prospective customers. We’re here to find you a costume that fits his character. It’s as simple as that.”

“Sebastian.” The word might have been skunk spray, from Joe’s expression and tone. “Why the hell can’t this guy have a normal name?”

Catherine bit her cheek until the urge to maim passed. “Normal is a relative term. The name Skeeter may have a certain
je ne sais quoi
at a pool table, but Charlotte Wilson’s buffet table is quite another story.”

They tailgated the heels of two men arguing about where to eat lunch, then passed on the inside lane. The escalator loomed ahead.

“Trust me on this, Joe. Sebastian is a powerful name. It means ‘revered’ in Greek.”

He snorted. “It means ‘pretentious ass’ in Texan.”

“Ah, but Father is a
Connecticut
Hamilton. He respects pretentious asses—watch your feet.” She grabbed his forearm and steadied the transfer of size-twelve sneakers onto size-ten escalator steps.

He gripped the rubber banister and twisted around. “My navy sport coat is pretentious,” he insisted, his jaw daring her to disagree.

An image of shiny elbows and too-wide lapels flashed in her mind. How to put this tactfully? “It’s not made of silk, linen, wool or tweed. Father would spot that across a crowded room and dismiss you as an insignificant stranger.”

He lifted a sardonic brow. “Some enchanted evening.”

After a startled glance, she chuckled. “Exactly. Now, I think we’ll shop for your coat and trousers first and move on from there.”

“What do you mean, move on from there? What else is left to do?”

Oops. “Oh, this and that. Relax. I promise it’ll be better than scrubbing toilets—Watch your feet.”

They lurched off the escalator and she prodded him to the right. This was her favorite part of the upscale Houston mall. Glitzy storefronts encircled a large iceskating rink in three tiers. Shoppers on the upper levels could look over the inside railing for a bird’seye view of the rink.

She cast a wistful peek down at the whirling skaters before guiding Joe into the flow of international shoppers. “The store I’m taking you to has a wonderful selection of Armani suits. And, of course, all the top American labels.”

He scowled and picked up his pace.

“Any necessary alterations will be finished in plenty of time for the party.” She hop-skipped to keep up with his long strides. “Carl says they serve the best cappuccino this side of Seattle. Who knows, Joe? You might even enjoy yourself.”

“And the pope might marry Madonna. Gawd. Spare me the Pollyanna crap and just get me in and out of there fast,” he ordered, the verbal equivalent of throwing ice water in her face.

Recoiling, she gazed in frigid silence straight ahead and matched him step for wooden step. Shoppers chattered around them. The piped in chorus of “It’s a Small World” wafted up from the skating rink. She sensed him looking at her but only lifted her nose higher.

“Catherine…”

He couldn’t say it, the coward.

“Catherine…”

Pitiful. He could just forget it now.

“Catherine, I’m sorry,” he said at last, as if each word squeezed his testicles.

She kept walking. No more jumping through hoops for rude bastards.

“I said I’m sorry,” he repeated more loudly.

Well, goody for him. He could take his apology and stuff it where—

He grabbed her elbow and pulled her to a stop at the atrium railing. “Dammit, Catherine, I said I was sorry. Did you hear me?”

She met his eyes coolly. “Pollyanna was paralyzed, not deaf. Now please let go of my arm.”

His grip slackened along with his jaw. After a moment he seemed to find his voice. “Pollyanna wasn’t paralyzed.”

“She most certainly was. She fell from a tree trying to reach a doll she’d won at the town carnival’s Fishing Pond booth. Her legs were paralyzed. As I recall, Pollyanna got really bitchy after that.” Catherine gave him a pointed look. “A person can only take so much abuse, you know.”

He speared fingers through his hair, loosening a spill of dark strands down his forehead. Chagrin twisted his rugged features. “I
am
sorry, Catherine. My only excuse is that I haven’t been sleeping too good.”

“Too well,” she corrected, for the first time noticing the shadows under his eyes, the lines of weariness bracketing his mouth. She felt a niggle of alarm. “Why haven’t you been sleeping? Is your knee still hurting you?”

He averted his eyes.

“I should have stopped you from playing that tennis match. Or at least made you go for a follow-up exam.” Without conscious thought, she lifted her fingers and brushed back the hair from his forehead.

His hand shot up with rattlesnake speed and captured her wrist. Gasping, she stared into eyes shifting with browns and golds in a kaleidoscope of turmoil.

“Save your tender concern for Pretty Boy,” he warned. “I don’t want it, and I sure as hell don’t need more complications in my life.”

Mortified, she tried to twist out of his grip and succeeded only in hurting her wrist. She stopped struggling and focused on a stunning red cocktail dress in the window display behind him. The alluring blond mannequin was everything she’d never be.

“Let me go,” she demanded, hating the slight quaver in her voice.

The sound he made seethed with frustration. Or disgust.

If he didn’t let her go, she would cry. “Please,” she whispered.

“Dammit, woman, it’s not my knee keeping me awake at night.” The sensual growl in his hushed baritone brought her gaze up.

There was no mistaking his meaning. Masculine fantasies woven in the darkness were reflected in his heavy-lidded eyes. She stared in wonder and felt her bones melt. His gaze flared with satisfaction and lowered to her mouth. For one suspended heartbeat, all noise and motion ceased as he slowly lowered his head.

Someone whizzed past, bumping Catherine’s hip and breaking Joe’s hold on her wrist.

“Daniel, come here!” A young mother grabbed her runaway toddler and cast an apologetic look over her shoulder. “Sorry.”

Catherine nodded and managed a weak smile.

Joe whirled around and leaned his forearms on the wrought-iron railing. Thin white cotton tightened across his broad back; soft denim hugged his muscular catcher’s legs. He looked powerful, frustrated and intensely masculine.

Her breath seeped out in a shaky sigh. She felt flushed and swollen in areas that had no business swelling in a public mall. Oh, God, what now?

What about Carl? What about Joe’s aversion to “complications“? What about. Allie’s need to have her dad’s full attention and her own need to establish a career outside her father’s shadow? What about the children she wanted so desperately?

Her questions flew wildly, smacking hidden obstacles like birds against a windowpane.

“Don’t worry,” Joe muttered, staring down at the skating rink below. “I’m not going to do anything to screw up your engagement—or the bet. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Catherine opened and closed her mouth, knowing silence would serve her best. At the moment her jumbled thoughts were not those of a perfect lady.

A
CROSS TOWN
in the gymnasium at the Y, Allie sat cross-legged on the varnished wood floor with three of her camp buddies: Kim, a tall curvy blonde with great bat speed; Emily, a petite brunette who could field a bad hop quicker than a kitten on a frog; and Holly, who fell somewhere in between blond and
brunette, tall and petite—but whose whirlwind pitches made her anything but average.

Most of the camp ate lunch outside under the trees, which was why Allie had sneaked into the gym. She wasn’t feeling so hot. Plus, she was sick to death of watching Sarah hang all over Tommy.

Finishing her last bite of sandwich, Allie hugged the bloated ache in her lower abdomen that had gotten worse every hour. “Aw, ma-a-a-n, I
hate
getting my period.”

Kim, the oldest of the three, looked properly sympathetic. “Maybe it’s a false alarm. Sometimes I get cramps and nothing happens. I’m still pretty irregular.”

“Me, too. Mom says it’s the Taylor-women curse,” Emily volunteered.

Holly pulled apart an Oreo and licked the center without comment.

Allie sighed. She’d gotten her first period the day after her twelfth birthday. She’d be thirteen next month. “Nah, I’m due anytime.” She made a face. “Like I don’t wear enough pads behind home plate as it is.”

“Yu-u-uck!” Kim dropped her half-eaten sandwich onto a square of paper towel.

Emily giggled. “You can always let Mr. Tampon make a real woman of you.”

Just the thought made Allie shudder. She’d probably be a virgin till she died.

Holly dusted cookie crumbs off her palms and hugged her bony knees. “My mom’s thinking about taking me to the doctor if I don’t start soon. Why do I have to be such a freak?”

“Be glad you don’t have to mess with it yet,” Kim said, removing a plump peach from her bag.

Allie nodded agreement and stared into space. “Y’all ever wonder why boys have it so easy? I mean, think about it. Girls lose blood on a regular basis. We grow these…
things
on our chests that control our popularity with boys.” She shared a look of mutual resentment all around before continuing the list. “We suffer horrible pain having babies—”

“Don’t forget pap smears,” Kim interrupted, drawing three pairs of curious eyes. “You don’t know about those?” She said it like Gram had once asked Joe, “You don’t know about Harry’s cancer?”

Like Gram, Kim proceeded to tell what she knew in a hushed tone, describing skimpy paper gowns and cold metal stirrups and probing rubber gloves until Harry’s chemotherapy sounded like a piece of cake. Allie drifted with the others into stunned silence, pondering the injustice of it all.

“Betcha can’t make the basket from this distance sitting down,” Holly suddenly challenged, eyeing the hoop a good twenty feet away.

“A dollar says I can.”

“You’re on, Tucker.”

Allie grinned, secretly thanking Joe for buying mushy apples on his last grocery run. She’d taken one bite and flung it back into her bag, uneaten. Crumpling the weighted lunch bag for a one-handed push shot, she drew a bead on the basketball hoop, coiled her muscles and released the trash in a sailing arc.

Paper dropped through net without a swish.

“Two points!” she crowed, dodging the cookie Holly threw at her head. Looking for a weapon, Allie
snatched the peach on its way to Kim’s open mouth and hurled it at Holly.

Holly shrieked and ducked the overthrown fruit, then grabbed a potato chip from Emily and sailed it into Allie’s nose.

And the war was on.

There’d be extra laps around the bases as punishment and an awful mess to clean up, but not one of them hesitated to join the front-line action. Bread crust, pickles, corn chips, grapes—the air flurried with food missiles until each lunch sack was empty.

Laughing so hard she drooled, slipping on smushed fruit and crunched chips, Allie began throwing stuff that had fallen to the floor. A piece of bologna slapped her in the cheek and stuck. Emily pointed her finger and hooted.

Allie unpeeled the meat from her skin and spun in a circle, searching for something large enough to wipe the glee from Emily’s face. There, by the stacked bleachers! Kim’s half-eaten peach, just oozing slimy pulp. Lunging forward, Allie scooped up the fruit and grinned. She’d fire the last shot and rule!