My Fair Gentleman (9 page)

The tension seeped out of his perfect features. “Is that all you’ve been worried about?”

“All? Think of the expense! Not to mention the planning and logistics of serving that many people in a private home.” And the increased chances of someone recognizing Joe’s true identity.

Carl set his glass on the cherry coffee table, placed her own beside it and took both her hands in his. “Between the two of them, my parents have a huge circle of friends and business associates. And since you refuse to let them help with the wedding
costs—” he placed two fingers against her parting lips “—don’t argue, I’m not opening that can of worms again. I’m simply pointing out that this is their only chance to show you off to people who might not be invited to the wedding.”

She arched her brow. “Come on, Carl, show me off? Why don’t we just include a copy of my family tree in a wedding announcement and save all this fuss and money?”

“It’s too late. The invitations have already gone out.”

She saw the moment he realized his mistake.

“Catherine, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted, torn between laughter and sadness. “Your inheritance is safe. You’ve never lied to me about your reason for proposing, and honesty is more than many marriages start out with. But Carl—” she bit her lower lip, then plunged ahead “—we need to settle something before our engagement goes any farther.”

He pulled back, wariness evident in every taut line of his body. “That sounds ominous.”

“Ominous, no. Serious, yes.”

“Is it about starting a family?” He looked genuinely worried now. His inheritance depended on producing a grandchild.

“No. Well, sort of,” she amended.

“Is it about working after the children are born?”

“No.” Oh, damn. “Well, sort of.”

His brow smoothed. He flashed the smile that had raised $1,500 for Richmond College at a bachelor auction four months ago. The winning bidder had introduced Carl, her prize “dinner date,” to Catherine
of the Connecticut Hamiltons—and the rest, as they say, was history.

“I’ve got it,” he said happily. “You’ve decided to call off our bet and stay home to raise the children.”

“No!” She reached for her glass of chardonnay and took a fortifying sip before turning to face him again. “It’s not about your inheritance, or the bet, or what you and I want individually. It’s about
us,
Carl, and the reality of our living together. Making children together.”

She could tell by his puzzled expression she would have to spell it out. “What if we’re not physically compatible? What if we can’t stand making love? To each other, I mean.”

She wasn’t a virgin. But she’d never responded to anyone—including her fiancé—as she had to Joe. So far Carl had shown no inclination to test their compatibility beyond kissing her good-night after their dates. Was she doomed to a passionless marriage? Suddenly she had to know.

Comprehension dawned on his face and, with it, a gentle smile. For the second time that evening he set her wineglass on the coffee table and took both her hands in his.

“Catherine, darling, I didn’t realize you were such an innocent. There are things you can do, ways to please me…Well, when the time is right, I’ll show you what I mean and it’ll be fine. Really.”

“You’ll show me ways to please you,” she repeated.

“Of course I will. I’m not an oaf.” He squeezed her fingers. “Now, don’t waste another minute worrying about satisfying me in bed, is that understood?”

“Okay.” She jerked her hands from his grasp. “I’ll worry about
you
satisfying
me.
Because quite frankly, I’m not at all sure you can.”

His look of shock might have been funny another time. Right now it roused the grateful spinster in her to fury.

Catherine jumped up and strode back and forth in front of the large bay window. “Of all the selfish, insensitive,
oafish
remarks I have ever heard—and as Lawrence Hamilton’s daughter, I’ve heard plenty— your comments win the Pulitzer, Carl.”

She whirled toward the sofa and set her hands on her waist. “You’ll show me how to please you? I shouldn’t worry about satisfying you? Ha! I could reduce you to a quivering mass of begging testosterone if I put my mind to it. Because you know what, buster? I am sexy.”

The statement echoed in the silence. Her bravado faltered.

And suddenly Joe’s voice was in her head, making her believe the words, infusing her with sultry confidence as she walked forward. The sleeveless coral silk jumpsuit she wore clung to her figure in a way Carl apparently found fascinating. The spinster inside her grew bolder.

“My eyes are like aspen leaves in the wind,” she informed him in a chesty voice, batting her lashes for emphasis. “My skin—” she ran her fingertips from her wrist up her bare arm, then lifted a coy shoulder “—is as soft and smooth as Snow White’s.” No wait, you couldn’t feel a cartoon. “And…white satin,” she added, memory of a crooning description sending a shiver up her flesh. She reached the sofa and looked
down into eyes that had warmed up considerably past frosty.

“My neck is…” Uh-oh. Joe hadn’t gotten around to describing her neck. But his groan had spoken volumes. “My neck is like a Botticelli painting, as graceful as Venus rising from the sea,” she improvised, figuring this was her show and she could write the lines to suit herself.

In one fluid movement, she sat in Carl’s lap and threaded her fingers through his precision-cut blond hair. “I can please you, Carl.” Astoundingly, the proof pressed hard beneath her thighs. “Now let’s see what you can do for me.”

And darned if he didn’t seem eager to try.

His enthusiastic kiss should have pleased her greatly. It was wet and hot and accompanied by roving hands seeking her bare skin in a feverish frenzy. It had all the genuine passion missing from his kisses in the past, plus the advantage of her being primed and ready—no,
aching
to be set aflame.

But instead of wanting to tear his clothes off, she felt an insistent urge to keep her jumpsuit buttoned tight. His teeth nipped her neck too hard, his hands stroked her skin too roughly. His hair was too short and silky, his shoulders too narrow.

She pushed against his chest and said, “Stop.”

The action only seemed to arouse him more. He pressed her closer and captured her mouth in another bruising kiss. When his fingers jerked her first button free, he moved his lips to the exposed skin and she began struggling in earnest.

“Carl, stop!”

“Get your hands off her,” a steely voice ordered, “before I shove your ass straight through your teeth.”

O
NE SHOULDER
against the living-room door frame, Joe watched Catherine’s face register intense relief. She scrambled up from Carl’s lap and fumbled to fasten her top button. Obviously her protest hadn’t been an act.

Joe’s anger turned ugly. He stared long and hard at Pretty Boy.

Blanching, Carl rose from the sofa and adjusted his clothing. “How dare you break into this house and disturb our privacy! Catherine, call 911.”

She darted a nervous look at Joe. “I don’t really think that’s necessary—”

“Of course it’s necessary. If you won’t report him to the authorities, I will.”

“Yeah? You and what army?” Joe asked insolently.

“Ah, spoken like a true Pig’s Gut gentleman.”

Joe came off the door frame so fast the other man didn’t have time to step back. Toe-to-toe with Catherine’s gentleman fiancé, he leaned down and thrust out his jaw. “Until you learn what the word ‘stop’ means, I’d be careful what I called other people if I were you.”

Carl glared up balefully. “Fine. I’ll wait until after you make a complete fool of yourself at the engagement party.”

“You’re gonna be pukin’ crow the next morning, so save your breath—and your allowance pennies. Catherine wants a big corner office in Greenway Plaza for her practice.”

“You just stay over the garage where you belong and I’ll take care of Catherine’s needs.”

“From the look of things when I came in, you weren’t takin’ care of anyone but your little buddy Dick there.”

“Why, you…insufferable swine!”

Joe blinked, then propped one hand at his waist. “Why, you
meanie,
you,” he said, stamping his foot.

Carl’s apoplectic sputter released Joe’s wolfish grin. He was starting to have fun.

“Boys, boys!” Catherine said, pulling the two of them apart with surprising strength. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. We’re not on a school playground. Grow up and let’s discuss this rationally.” She folded her arms and eyed Joe narrowly. “Exactly how
did
you get inside my house?”

It took all of his advanced experience to hold a poker face. He shrugged. “The back kitchen door was open.” That much was true, anyway. “When you didn’t answer my knock, I came in to make sure you were okay and heard you telling this joker to get his paws off you.”

Carl audibly ground his teeth. “That is
not
what she said.”

“What would it take for you to get the message, pal—a goddamn singing telegram?”

“Boys!”

Joe turned to Catherine and grew still. Her color was high, her eyes full of shivery green sass. Her agitated breathing drew his attention to small plump breasts encased in scalloped lace, if he read the silk embossing correctly. And he was a master at deciphering what hid beneath a woman’s clothing. When he slowly raised his gaze, her cheeks had grown pinker.

His muscles tensed as she seemed about to call his bluff.

“Next time, knock louder,” she said wryly, bending over to pick up two wineglasses from the coffee table. “I think I could use a refill. Would you…gentlemen care to join me?”

Without waiting for an answer, she headed for the kitchen. Carl sent Joe a poisonous glance before following.

Expelling a relieved breath, Joe stared at the empty doorway. The truth of his pathetic behavior embarrassed and confused him.

He’d seen Carl drive up an hour ago and had gone damn near crazy wondering what the two of them were up to. Telling Allie he needed to borrow a book from Catherine, he’d crept around the house and struck pay dirt at the living-room bay window. The sight of her slinking forward like some Marilyn Monroe reincarnation, then sitting in Pretty Boy’s lap and twining her fingers in his hair…well, he’d almost smashed his fist through the window.

Instead, he’d charged through the back door and heard her say the magic word—“Stop.”

Joe didn’t want to think about what his murderous reaction meant.

“Joe?” Catherine called in a “get your butt in here” tone.

Rumpling his hair, he thrust his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and walked to the kitchen. Catherine and Carl sat at the breakfast table sipping wine. A third full glass sat in front of a chrome-and-caneback chair angled conspicuously away from the table.

Joe flipped the seat around and sat in a straddle, enjoying Pretty Boy’s contemptuous sneer.

“I’d like to clear the air here and now,” Catherine began.

Lifting his glass, Joe gave the contents a long noisy sniff.

“You two are behaving like children and it’s got to stop.”

Joe swirled his wine next, licking the rivulets that spilled over the brim as if they were drips from an ice-cream cone.

“I want you to shake hands and agree to a truce until the engagement party is over.” Her voice sounded tight and strained. “Joe? Carl? Which one of you is gentleman enough to make the first move?”

Holding Carl’s disgusted gaze, Joe raised his glass to his lips, threw back his head and downed the wine like a shot of tequila. Then be wiped his mouth on his T-shirt sleeve and risked a glance at Catherine.

She was not amused.

Sighing, he set his glass down and reached across the table at the same time Carl did. Their gazes locked with their hands. The shake was prolonged and just short of painful.

“Weights?” Joe asked, impressed against his will.

“No, tennis. Batting?” Carl asked.

“No, weights. But I play a little tennis, too.”

He recognized the competitive spark of interest in Carl’s eyes and accepted the unspoken challenge. They were both smiling when their hands parted.

“Well, then, see?” Catherine said brightly. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Now you can go your separate ways with no hard feelings.”

Carl met Joe’s gaze. “I’m a member of Seven Lakes Country Club. I could probably get a court for around noon tomorrow.”

“Grass or clay?”

“Clay. Top-notch shape, too.”

“You’re going to play tennis together?” Catherine asked, her tone incredulous.

Joe flashed her a grin and turned back to Carl. “My racket needs restringing. I doubt if I can get it done by noon.”

“Borrow one of mine. The Yonex is a little long for me—it ought to be just right for you.”

“Thanks, I might take you up on that.”

“You’re borrowing a racket from Carl?” she squeaked.

Joe would never in a million years understand the workings of a woman’s mind. “You wanted us to shake hands and make up, but you don’t want us to play a friendly game of tennis?”

She opened and closed her mouth, then lifted her chin. “What about Allie? Tomorrow’s Saturday, remember? There’s no camp.”

Oh, hell. He’d promised to spend the entire day with his daughter. And Sunday was the carnival fundraiser for Allie’s fall softball league. So much for showing Pretty Boy the difference between amateur and pro athletes.

“Bring her along,” Carl suggested. “There’s a lake for swimming and canoeing, an Olympic-size pool, a rec room in the clubhouse—plenty to keep her entertained. You come, too, Catherine. We’ll all have a late lunch and make an afternoon of it.”

Joe smiled genuinely for the first time that night. He hadn’t known how he would occupy Allie all day. This was a perfect solution.

“Sounds great, Carl. Thanks for the invitation.” He turned to Catherine. “So? What d’ya say?”

She looked from one man to the other and shook her head. “I will never, as long as I live, understand the way men think.”

C
ATHERINE FLIPPED UP
the collar of her ankle-length beach robe and tugged down the brim of her floppy straw hat. Even protected by sunglasses, sunscreen and the branches of a huge oak tree, she glanced with loathing at the high noon sun.

Only gunslingers and fools braved the most lethal rays of the afternoon. Carl and Joe were dueling it out on a broiling court somewhere behind Seven Lakes Country Club. And unless they had Colt .45s tucked in their tennis shorts, that pretty much pegged them in her book.

Earlier she’d taken Allie to the clubhouse rec room, filled with laughing young people. The girl had peeked inside, her expression both wistful and scared, then quickly withdrawn and asked to see the lake. Although Catherine had never really liked lakes and oceans—she much preferred the unlimited visibility in a swimming pool—she’d understood and obliged Allie’s unease.

She herself had stood on the outskirts of charmed circles all her life. Schoolmates whispering with heads together. Families swinging clasped hands. Lovers cuddling close and stealing kisses. Always the odd person out, always alone. It didn’t take a Ph.D. to figure out why creating a strong family unit of her own was so important to her.

Studying Allie now from under her hat brim, Catherine suppressed a smile. If she’d looked like
that
at age twelve, she wouldn’t have stayed alone for long.

Wearing a sunflower-print bikini, Allie lay sprawled on a towel with her head propped on one hand in an unconsciously sensual pose. Her shorts, T-shirt and sandals were stacked neatly by her feet.

“I like your suit,” Catherine said. “Is it new?”

The girl blushed, her body stiffening. “Gram bought it for me right before she left. This is the first time I’ve worn it.”

Catherine couldn’t wait to see Joe’s face when he saw his little girl now. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit by the pool, honey?”

“Yeah. The lake’s real pretty.”

Following Allie’s gaze to the rippling blue surface, Catherine acknowledged its beauty. But Lord only knew what vile creatures swam underneath out of sight.

Three empty canoes sat on the shore half in, half out of the lapping water. The long pier was deserted. The floating dock, about fifty yards from the pier, was not. Three teenage boys horsed around on the rocking plank boards, making a lot of noise and casting frequent glances toward the tree. Catherine had no illusions about who they were looking at.

“When do you think they’ll be through with their match?” Allie asked, referring to Carl and her father.

“Not before one of them wins or collapses from heat stroke. No, I take that back. Your father would play on his knees if he had to.”

Allie giggled and sat up, then slanted a look of shy admiration at Catherine. “How come you’re not gaga over Joe? I mean, he can’t sweet-talk you into doing what he wants like he does with other women.”

Remembering her melting response to his claim that she was sexy, her secret thrill at his almost jealous interference last night, Catherine was suddenly grateful she wore sunglasses.

“He acts…different with you,” Allie continued. “Like he actually cares if he screws up.”

Catherine chose her next words carefully. “I’ve found that people tend to live up to others’ expectations of them, good or bad. If he acts differently with me, I suppose it’s because I expect him to act responsibly, whereas other people expect him to screw up.” She let that sink in as they both stared at the lake.

“I didn’t always expect him to screw up,” Allie said finally. “But after a while, after so many broken promises, it got to where—” She stopped, her voice thick with emotion. “It got harder and harder to believe him, ya know?”

Catherine leaned forward and stroked the girl’s silky cap of hair. “I know, sweetheart, I know.” And she did. A girl’s hero worship for her father could only withstand so much neglect before it died of malnourishment.

“Maybe if my mother had lived, he’d be different,” Allie continued, hugging her shins and resting her cheek on her kneecaps. “But she died when I was born. From complications—whatever that means. Gram wasn’t very thrilled about getting stuck with me. She’d already raised her family.”

Obviously those were very familiar words. Catherine’s own mother hadn’t wanted her, and even her
psychology training hadn’t prevented feelings of inadequacy and guilt. She battled her irritation at Gram’s insensitivity.

“Did you ever want your dad to remarry? He must have had chances. You said yourself most women are gaga over him.”

“Oh, Joe’ll never get married.”

So confident. So final. “You can’t know that for sure.”

“Well, that’s what he said, anyway. That taking care of me is more than enough responsibility for him. That a wife would only tie him down more.”

Familiar stuff. Catherine’s outrage swelled and died. “Your father would never tell you that. What happened? Did you overhear him talking to someone else? Your Gram maybe?”

Despite Allie’s attempt to shrug, she looked small and forlorn and guilty.

“Ah, sweetheart, I know that must have hurt. But you’ve got to remember that no one is perfect. Not me, not you—no one. We all have reasons for acting as we do, and I’m pretty sure I know why responsibility is so hard for your dad.”

Quietly, gaining conviction as she voiced her theory, she told Allie about Big Joe imposing his dream on a young man with other aspirations. How his death convinced Joe that planning and commitment were futile and led to pain. And that it was up to those who loved him to demonstrate how accepting responsibility leads to self-respect.

She lifted Allie’s chin and stared into thoughtful brown eyes wise beyond their years. “I know this is heavy stuff to be laying on a twelve-year-old. But you’re very mature, Allie, very special. Believe in
your dad just a little while longer, and I know you won’t be sorry. Will you do that?”

Catherine could sense the careful consideration of her request. This girl never made promises lightly.

“All right, Catherine, I guess I can hang in there a little longer.” Her golden skin flushed. “Thanks.”

And suddenly the eyes that had been so wise seconds ago grew vulnerable and hungry for something Catherine had waited a lifetime to give.

She never knew who moved first, only that the hug they shared was long and mutually fierce.

Hoots and whistles from the water broke them apart. Pulling back, Catherine smiled mistily and gestured to the trio of teenage boys. “They’ve been trying to get you to notice them since we got here.”

Allie glanced at the floating dock, then plucked shyly at her towel. “Yeah, right.”

“Yes, right. Let’s face it—you’re wearing a bikini. It’s a scientific fact that bikinis regress the male brain to preschool levels of maturity. Just look at them showing off.”

Allie gazed over at the dock. One boy promptly shoved another into the water, then grappled with the remaining occupant for sole possession of the island and, presumably, Allie’s attention.

She looked intrigued. “You really think that’s all for
me?
”

“Smile and wave to them.”

After a startled glance at Catherine, the girl lifted her arm, smiled and swayed her palm like a beauty queen.

The two wrestlers froze in place. The third boy— who was clambering back onto the raft—saw his opportunity, grabbed their ankles and jerked. His buddies
hit the water hard while he stood up and waved at Allie.

She lowered her arm, met Catherine’s I-told-you-so gaze and broke into a replica of her father’s cocky grin.

“Cool,” she said smugly.

Catherine laughed and shook her head, feeling a bit guilty for launching a weapon like Allie on unsuspecting mankind.

All three boys were back on the floating dock, shouting and shoving and waving. The tallest and most athletic of the bunch began diving off the side. The others tried to compete. Back dives. Front flips. Cannonballs. The square platform rocked violently as they grew rowdier and more reckless.

Allie watched the performance with obvious delight, but Catherine didn’t like the uncontrolled quality of it all. She stood up and gathered her towel.

“I think it’s time we leave and let them settle down. Come on, Allie.”

The girl raised a pleading face. “Just a few more minutes? Please?”

Catherine sighed, hating to spoil the party, then turned to frown at the three teenagers. They stood poised, their backs to the water and toes hugging the edge of the platform as if waiting for a cue. All three suddenly arched up into backflips, sending up a triple geyser of water on landing.

“That was so cool! Did you see it, Catherine?”

She had, and something wasn’t right.

Allie waved at the surfacing heads and whistled loudly, receiving huge answering grins. On two faces.

Catherine searched the water for the third face, the boy whose feet had slipped on take off.
Oh, no.
A
cold dread stole through her limbs, making her as sluggish as a reptile in winter. Her thoughts raced in contrast.

“Catherine, are you okay?”

By this time, the tallest boy was peering anxiously around the platform.

Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no.

“What’s wrong? Answer me.”

But Catherine was too focused on a spot just beyond the platform, the place where a vibrant boy had disappeared. She prayed the water was clear. And please God, not too deep.

J
OE HELD
his racket at the ready and swayed on the balls of his feet. The motions were futile but, hey, a man had his pride. He’d go down fighting.

Across the net, Pretty Boy tossed the ball high, arced back his racket and followed through in a poetry of motion that had dazzled Joe for the first six or so serves. Now he focused grimly on a small section of clay court, knowing the missile was coming. Knowing it would be ugly.

The green blur hit just inside the fault line and spun straight into Joe’s swinging racket. The impact thudded, instead of thwacked, but at this point, screw technique. The ball sailed back over the net, and that was all that counted. It wasn’t another ace.

Pretty Boy’s serve was not just good. It was damn near unconscious.

Now Joe had a shot at winning the point, and he
wanted
it. More than a beautiful woman, more than a pile of money—more than a World Series championship ring, goddammit. And he
went
for it. With
aggressive volleys, solid backhands—gut-wrenching forehand drives, goddammit.

And the little twerp drove everything right back down Joe’s throat.

Heat shimmered up from the clay. Sweat dripped like rain from his nose and chin. His knees hurt like hell and he knew he’d pay later. Backpedaling to the baseline to return a lob, he concentrated on the ball and pretended it was Pretty Boy’s head.

Six feet four inches of royally pissed-off athlete went into his overhead smash. He’d never hit a ball—any kind of ball—so hard in his life, not even for a home run.
Take that!
he thought seconds before something smacked him in the forehead.

Staggering, he watched Carl vault the net and jog forward.

“Are you all right?”

Joe’s focus cleared. He looked up at the cloudless sky. “Did a meteor fall or something?”

“I’m afraid my return caught you off guard. Sorry about that. You want to rest a minute before the next set?”

To give the guy credit, he was trying to look concerned. But he’d just whipped a pro athlete’s butt. Well, ex-pro. Of another sport. Using a borrowed racket. After major surgery. Still, if it’d been Joe, he’d be rubbing his opponent’s face in it.

He probed the knot swelling at his temple and snorted. “What I want is to end this torture before you maim something vital. How about letting me buy you a beer in the locker room?”

Carl look startled, then disproportionately pleased. “Only if you let me get the second one. By the way, that last return of yours was a helluva good smash.”

“Obviously not good enough. Where’d you learn to play like that, anyway?”

“Princeton had an excellent program. I’ve kept at it ever since. The pro here has helped a lot. I could probably set up a private lesson for you if you’re interested.”

“Nah. It’s bad for my knees—and worse for my ego.” He grinned ruefully, giving the victor his due.

“You actually played very well. With a little work on returning serves, I wouldn’t want a repeat match.” Sweaty, rumpled and clearly a decent sport on the tennis court, this Carl was a whole lot easier to stomach than Pretty Boy.

They collected balls, zipped up rackets and packed up nylon bags as they talked, then headed for the clubhouse at an easy stroll. Joe felt a lance of pain in his left knee with every step. He really was an idiot sometimes.

At the crowded outdoor pool, they searched the area for Allie and Catherine, wanting to discuss lunch plans. Bathing beauties galore, but no Snow White and a little pal dwarf. What had they done while he’d been making a fool of himself on the court? Neither one of them had shown much enthusiasm for coming here. He’d clinched their cooperation by offering to give up his match if they
really
didn’t want to lounge in idle luxury for an hour or two.

For the first time, he felt a twinge of guilt at his selfishness.

“Maybe they’re in the rec room,” Carl said after it was obvious the two weren’t at the pool.

“Why don’t you look there while I check out the lake?” Joe couldn’t picture Catherine exerting herself
in a canoe, but Allie was another story. “I’ll meet you in the locker room in ten minutes.”

Nodding, Carl headed off on his mission. Joe got his bearings and followed a mulched path leading to, according to the trail sign, “Lake Paradise. Swim and Canoe at Your Own Risk.” Carl had said the clubhouse sat near the only natural lake in the community. The remaining six were glorified stock tanks placed throughout the golf course as hazards.

Joe glimpsed a bit of lake, broke through a grove of trees and spotted two figures on shore. Catherine was dressed like a good Muslim wife, Allie like a— Good Lord! Was that
Allie?

He stalked forward, the lecture he’d given Norman replaying in his mind. How could Catherine have allowed his daughter to expose herself like that? He frowned at the tall, shrouded woman and stopped in his tracks, his senses on red alert.