My Fair Gentleman (6 page)

Until Catherine.

Her penetrating gaze had seen through both his smile and his bluster right to the core of his fear. Somehow the fact that she recognized him for a coward had calmed the panic he couldn’t explain, the instinct to flee that usually followed. And damned if she hadn’t cinched his cooperation by bringing Allie into the picture.

Unlatching the front door, he paused at an ungodly eruption of sound from the other side—a cross between grinding gears and a colicky infant. Forewarned, he cautiously opened the door.

Romeo catapulted past his knees, slowed to an arrogant walk and rounded the corner into the kitchen. Joe could hear Juliet’s purr from where he stood. What the hell did she see in that guy?

Closing the door, he clomped down the stairs and eyed the two-story plantation-style home Catherine shared with her father. Huge pecan trees shaded much of the backyard except for a rose bed along one fence line. A wrought-iron umbrella table and matching chairs filled a corner of the flagstone patio. The Hamiltons might not have the kind of money they wanted, but they
had
it. More than he’d ever saved, anyway.

Ignoring a pang of guilt, he crossed the patio, knocked firmly on the kitchen door and prepared himself for his tutor’s smugness. The door opened immediately. Catherine moved into a filtered sunbeam.

That had to be why her eyes lit up as if in pleasure.

“Good morning, Joe, I’m so glad you came!” She studied him from head to toe and met his gaze again, her smile warm with approval. “How nice you look today. Come in, please.” Stepping aside, she opened the door wider.

And his heart expanded in his chest.

He crossed the threshold with a bounce in his step and glanced hopefully toward the breakfast table. Clean as a pinch hitter’s uniform. In fact, the whole kitchen smelled like disinfectant again.

“Have you eaten anything this morning?” she asked.

He shrugged a shoulder and tried to look gaunt. “A fish stick. Cold. Kinda greasy.”
Cinnamon rolls, come to Papa!

“Good. Then you’ll have a clean palate. Follow me.” She smiled and walked to an open doorway on the right, her loose white knit dress cupping and releasing her bottom in a rhythm he found mesmerizing. Turning, she caught him staring and blushed, the color intensifying the green of her eyes.

Careful, Tucker. She’s on Pretty Boy’s menu, not yours.

Recovering her poise, she arched a brow. “Well?”

“I’m right behind you,” he said, his long stride making up ground fast. He followed her through the door and pulled up short. “What the…?”

The room’s large oval dining table held an assortment of trays and dishes filled with…stuff. Some of it appeared to be edible, but he couldn’t be sure.

Catherine smiled and made a ta-da gesture. “Behold, the Wilson-Hamilton engagement-party buffet. Well, not the whole buffet. Just a few things Carl’s mother will be watching like a hawk.”

Joe stepped up for a closer look and identified what he could. Several tins of slimy caviar, ranging in color from golden brown to deep gray. Triangles of that mushy kind of cheese he hated. A heap of muffins that, swear to God, looked blue. A bowl of pasta shaped like tiny bow ties and mixed with…hell if he knew. A partially sliced thing resembling a Stuckey’s pecan log, only pecans weren’t black that he knew of.

Not a cinnamon roll in sight.

“I give up,” he said. “Animal, vegetable or mineral?”

She shot him a wry look but hovered over the table obligingly. “Here we have fish roe, not to be confused with that smallest tin of tiny gray sturgeon eggs, which is the only true caviar. Over there is Camembert
cheese. Do you like corn bread?” She waited for his nod. “Then you’ll love those blue-corn muffins in the basket. Wonderful with the farfel-and-porcini salad.”

“Huh?”

“Pasta and mushrooms,” she clarified before moving on. “Oh, and the caterer’s big on sushi this season. I sliced a bit of this
tekka makki
already.”

He was afraid to ask.

Her eyes twinkled. “Chopped raw tuna rolled in rice and seaweed.”

“Remind me to stop for a Big Mac on the way to the party,” he said, ridiculously pleased when that got a laugh. She had a nice laugh, he decided. It sort of floated, like the way she moved.

She assumed a serious-teacher expression. “The sophisticated gourmet goes for quality, not quantity. Charlotte Wilson judges a person’s status by what he selects from her table. Carl and I opted for a self-serve buffet, instead of a formal dinner. Still, there’s plenty that might trip you up.”

Hiding a prick of irritation, he studied a marbletopped table against one wall that looked like it might be antique. He bet Pretty Boy would know.

Catherine placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “When you realized I wasn’t familiar with the sport of baseball, what did you think of me?”

Her question caught Joe by surprise. Shifting gears, he remembered his reaction to her mistaking the Aeros for the Astros. “I thought you were visiting our planet from another solar system.”

“But did you think less of me?” she persisted “Be honest.”

“No.” He adopted the grave tone and expression of his wife’s shrink. “I felt extreme sorrow for your misfortune. Pity for your ignorance. But I didn’t think less of you.”

“Exactly. These next few weeks we’ll be reviewing a lot of information—most of it trivial. If I have to worry about ruffling your feathers, we won’t cover nearly as much ground.” She squeezed his arm briefly. “Believe it or not, we’re on the same team.”

Team. More important than individuals. Deserving of unquestioning loyalty and commitment. The concept had been drilled into his head until it was a permanent part of his creed.

He covered her soft pale hand with his own callused palm, thinking two more different teammates couldn’t exist. “Hey, teamwork I understand. I’ll do my best to learn the rules of the game, Catherine.”

“That’s good enough for me,” she said, her smile brilliant with confidence. Releasing his arm, she set about filling a plate with tidbits of food.

Joe’s sudden queasy feeling had nothing to do with slimy fish eggs. Catherine might believe in him now. But it was only a matter of time before she learned the sorry truth.

Joe Tucker’s best was never good enough.

A
LLIE STRAPPED
on her bulky catcher’s gear a lot more quickly than two days ago, when nervousness had made her clumsy. Instead of dropping her off the first day of camp and leaving, Joe had stuck around to check things out. He’d only seen her play a few times in the past and she’d gotten better since then. Still, she’d been pretty freaked.

She shouldn’t have worried, though. He’d been funny, nice to the other kids and proud of the way she’d improved. It’d been one of those perfect times that made up for a lot of crap over the years.

Tightening the buckle of her chest pad, she sighed. If he didn’t have that society stuff to learn, maybe he’d stick around for every practice. But even she could see that Catherine wasn’t the type to put up with all his excuses.

Not like Gram, who grumbled a lot but melted at the first sign of Joe’s smile. Or the women he’d dated, who left a million phone messages that never got returned. No, Catherine was different.

Sheesh, she’d gotten Joe to live with two cats—and he
hated
cats.

Allie hadn’t figured out what that meant exactly, but she was impressed all the same. Enough so to stick around for a month and see what developed.

Slamming her locker door shut, she grabbed her mitt from the bench and followed a few stragglers outside. Dew sparkled, the sky was as blue as it got, and the air was nice and cool. Her favorite time of day.

She shaded her eyes and scanned the playing fields. Kids stood talking or goofing around with equipment, waiting for the coaches to show up. Her gaze backtracked to a tall blond boy juggling three baseballs for a group of peewee campers.

Tommy Burton.

Her breathing sped up. Her stomach dipped worse than when she rode Greezed Lightnin’ at Astroworld. Bending over, she pretended to adjust the straps of her shin guards while she drew a deep breath. Then another. Better. She straightened and walked toward the senior girls’ softball field, wishing Tommy would look at her, knowing she’d puke for sure if he did.

He hadn’t said hi to her yesterday. But then, she hadn’t said anything to him, either, since they’d met. He probably thought she was a total retard.

Two months ago, she and Joe’d been walking past apartment 34C when Tommy’d burst out the door. He’d recognized her dad right off, which was unusual enough to make Joe feel flattered. Listening to them talk, she’d sifted out the important details. Tommy was fourteen, new to the apartment complex and a big fan of baseball. He had eyes the color of bluebonnets a smile that made her heart pound and an upcoming summer job at the nearby YMCA.

A month later she’d asked Joe’s permission to register for the Y’s summer softball camp—the same program she’d said was for nerds last summer. He
hadn’t even asked why she’d changed her mind. Totally clueless. She wondered when he’d notice she wasn’t a little kid anymore.

“Hey, Tucker, get the lead out!”

Her gaze snapped toward the voice. Coach Harrison stood near third base, his knuckles propped on each side of his beer belly, a whistle resting against the T-shirt slogan, “Y? Because we
like
you.” He looked more puzzled than mad.

She glanced around the field. Holly rolled her eyes from the pitcher’s mound, impatient to warm up. The other “red” team members stood in their starting positions, all heads turned her way.

Embarrassed, Allie jogged to home plate. “Sorry,” she yelled with a quick wave.

“You got that right,” a sarcastic voice mumbled, drifting from the direction of the “blue” team dugout. Giggles followed.

Up yours, Sarah,
Allie thought, sinking into an easy catcher’s squat. It wasn’t enough that Tommy’s girlfriend was attending softball camp, or that Sarah not only wore a C cup, but filled it without padding. Oh, no. For some reason, the popular girl had decided to pick on Allie, too.

Pulling down her face mask, Allie relaxed a little as her world narrowed to the view between metal bars. Familiar yet exciting. More important than any single person could be, no matter how blond, blue-eyed or handsome.

She lifted her mitt and punched a fist into the sweet spot. “Okay, Holly, put ‘er right down the middle. You can do it.”

The ball smacked into leather with a satisfying thud. She threw it back without rising.

Catch, throw. Catch, throw. The rhythm seized her, blocking out everything else. No boy to attract. No father to impress. No girl to ignore. In this one area at least, she felt totally at ease with her body, totally confident in her skill.

Warm-ups ended and the game started, adding new rhythms. The swing of a bat. The slashing hands of the umpire. The pinball action of a double play. Allie moved with the beat, enjoying herself more than she’d expected. These girls weren’t as experienced or skilled as her All-City League team, but they really got into it. With more practice, a few of them would be able to hold their own against the best. Sarah wasn’t one of them.

She ran like a girl, caught like she’d just painted her nails and threw like a shot-putter. It was so totally obvious she’d only registered in softball camp to be near Tommy. But her spazoid coordination didn’t seem to bother her—or the other girls. They fought for her attention, even when it usually came in the form of rude cut-downs.

Coach Harrison was actually a pretty decent coach, treating both teams and every player the same. “This is a practice game,” he reminded them. “We’re here to work on basics and concentrate on technique, not worry about winning.”

Behind his back, each team had picked a secret captain to lead the players to victory. Sarah now had another reason to give Allie a hard time—and vice versa.

By the seventh inning, the sun had burned off the dew and Allie was sweating bullets under all her padding. The red team was leading by three, but Holly’s pitching had run out of steam.

Allie centered her mitt over the diamond and chanted, “C’mon, Holly, easy out, easy out.”

The batter swung, catching a piece of the curve ball and popping it high.

Allie’s adrenaline surged. She flipped off her mask and ran, her gaze locking on target, her legs pumping hard. Harder. She gritted her teeth, put everything she had into the leap and reached high.

Her shoulder slammed into chain link. She slid down the bumpy wire and hit the ground rump first.

But the softball nestled snugly in her mitt.

“Way to hustle!” Coach Harrison yelled from near first base. Cheers erupted from her fellow teammates on the field.

Grinning, she stood up and brushed the dirt from her shorts.

“Showoff,” a voice hissed from behind.

Allie whirled around. The blue team dugout was right beyond the fence. Most girls avoided her eyes. Three didn’t. Sarah and the two brunettes on either side of her—Pam and…what’s-her-name.

“Think you’re hot stuff because your dad was in the major leagues?” Sarah said, glancing at her two sneering friends for confirmation. “Well, if he was so great, how come when I asked my father, he didn’t even remember a player named Joe Tucker?”

Allie spit through the fence and held Sarah’s gaze. “Because morons run in your family?”

Gasps and a few snickers broke out.

Sarah’s face reddened. “Why you…you…”

“I rest my case.”

“Burly girl!” Sarah exploded, the slur on Allie’s femininity prompting giggles from her sidekicks. “For your information my father is a full partner at
one of the biggest law firms in Houston.
And
he has his own research assistant who’ll do whatever he asks. Like look up information on a has-been major-league baseball player.”

“Is there a problem, girls?” Coach Harrison yelled from first base.

Sarah ignored him. “Your father was quite a character, wasn’t he, burly girl? Breaking curfew. Pulling practical jokes. Getting suspended for fighting.” She glanced slyly at what’s-her-name. “Joe Tucker played all right—just not much baseball.”

Allie lurched forward and curled her right-hand fingers through the chain-link fence. A balloon of hatred swelled in her chest. “My dad broke into the major leagues after only two years in the minors. He batted .311 his first season—.328 his second. If Tory Jackson hadn’t landed a cheap shot to Joe’s knees when he slid into home, he would’ve clinched the league’s highest batting average his third year out—”

“Play ball!” the umpire called loudly.

“Even with injuries,” Allie continued, “he managed to stay on the team roster and play through pain that would’ve probably
killed
your wuss father. You gotta problem with me, that’s fine. You scrape up the guts to come around this side of the fence and we’ll settle it here and now. But don’t you dare bad-mouth my dad again, understand?”

Nobody on the bench moved a muscle. Allie rattled the chain link. “Understand?”

“What’s all this about, girls?” Coach Harrison demanded, gripping Allie’s shoulder from behind.

Relief flooded Sarah’s face. “She ought to be kicked out of camp, Coach. I mean, she could have a gun in her locker for all we know.” She nudged Pam
in the ribs. “Tell him what happened, Pam. How she threatened me and picked a fight and everything.”

“Drop it, Sarah,” a young male voice said firmly.

Every head turned.

Tommy Burton stood outside the far right dugout fence staring directly at Sarah.

She paled but recovered quickly, sending him that sickening fake smile Allie hated. “Tommy! What are you doing here?”

“I had a ten-minute break and thought I’d say hi.”

“Well, why didn’t you, silly?”

He gave her an odd look. “You seemed pretty busy to me.”

Coach Harrison lifted his hand from Allie’s shoulder and scratched his head. “You know what happened here, son?”

Bluebonnet eyes bypassed the older man and focused on Allie. “Yes, sir.”

She was suddenly aware of her mashed and sweaty hair, the dust turning to mud on her skin, the bulky pads making her a burly girl in appearance, if not in fact.

Coach Harrison blew out his breath. “Well? So what happened?”

Allie watched Tommy’s internal struggle between his desire to tell the truth and his reluctance to get Sarah in trouble. It was a no-win situation.

“I lost my temper and got out of line,” Allie said. “Sorry, Coach. It won’t happen again.” The look she sent Sarah said it’d better
not,
or there’d be trouble.

“Are you okay with that, Sarah?” Coach Harrison asked.

Sarah glanced at Tommy, who avoided her eyes, then gave a sullen shrug. “I guess so.”

“Good, good. In the future, Tommy, I’d appreciate your taking a break somewhere inside the building please. I want these girls paying attention to their game—not you.”

Tommy smiled sheepishly. “I’ll do that, sir.”

“Okay then, how ‘bout we finish this game now? The ump’s got your mask, Allie.”

Nodding, she couldn’t resist a last peek from under her lashes at Tommy. He stared back as if seeing her for the first time. And he kept staring, she knew, all the while she walked toward home plate, looking about as feminine as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

She barely managed not to puke.

T
HE BRONCO SWUNG
into the last parking space outside Laurette Stimson Gallery. A good sign, Catherine hoped. The more crowded the gallery was, the less likely they were to be approached. She unbuckled her seat belt and turned to Joe.

“Okay, remember the rules. Keep your mind open and your mouth closed, and we’ll finish in plenty of time to pick up Allie from the Y.”

Wrist draped over the steering wheel, he shrugged his broad shoulders. “Relax, Catherine. You won’t even know I’m there.”

I
wish.
She glanced at the gallery’s chrome-and-brass front door, at the Mercedes parked to her right, at the huge oak trees shading the museum district of Houston—anywhere but at this well-groomed stranger wearing dark slacks and a crisp white dress shirt.

“If someone comes up to us,” she said, removing her sunglasses and nearly stabbing herself in the eye, “let me do the talking.”

“Yeah, I got the message.”

“Just stand there with a thoughtful expression on your face and we’ll be fine.”

“What gives, Catherine? Why are you so nervous?” He seemed a little miffed.

You’re too attractive. Too…unexpected.
“I told you, Laurette is Father’s good friend. He’ll be impressed at the party if you mention visiting her gallery. Especially if you talk intelligently about the current artist’s work.”

“Which you don’t think I’ll do.”

“Did I say that?” She raised a brow at his darkening expression. “No, I did not. Don’t palm your insecurities off on me, Joe. I’ve got enough of my own.”

He perked up slightly. “No kiddin’? Like what?”

“Like…” She caught his speculative gleam. “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not spilling my guts for someone I haven’t paid to listen.”

“Okay already—” he patted her arm briefly “—so I’ll take your money. What are friends for?”

Her huff was half laughter.

“1 thought so. You don’t have any.”

Shoving her glasses into their case, she frowned. “We’ve been through all this before. If I had any money, I wouldn’t—”

“What I meant was you don’t have any insecurities,” he clarified. “Guess I’d be confident, too, if I were a witch.”

Her mouth opened and closed. She must have heard wrong. Even he couldn’t be that outrageous. Still…

“Did you just call me a witch?”

“Actually Earl did first, after you beat him at pool. He said you put a—Hey, don’t look like that. I told him you’re a
good
witch.”

Incredible. And painful. “
You think I’m a witch?
”

She shook her head, remembering Carl’s “constructive” criticisms of her predominantly somber wardrobe, her straight black hair, the dark shadows beneath her eyes after a long day of research. He’d given her the name of his mother’s beauty salon and suggested she make an appointment before the wedding.

Joe’s rumbling chuckles penetrated her daze. “Catherine, Catherine,” he said, his dark eyes filled with gentle amusement. “I was only teasing. You’ve got to stop taking yourself so seriously. Life’s too short to risk spending it with an ulcer.”