Lady Be Good (15 page)

“All right,” he said. “You win this round. You can stay at my ranch, but I’m charging you two hundred dollars a day rent.”

That would wipe out her profit. “One hundred dollars.”

“Two
fifty
.”

“All right,” she said hastily. “Two hundred.”

They drove for the next few miles in silence, but even the glorious scenery couldn’t lift her spirits. She didn’t want to dwell on her own troubles, so she made herself think of other things. Before long, her thoughts drifted back to Torie Traveler. “Don’t you find the similarity between my odd situation and your sister’s a bit too coincidental?”

“It’s not coincidental at all. A certain English busybody’s got her nose in where it doesn’t belong. And this time we’re not talking about you.”

“But Francesca knows nothing about my situation with Hugh.”

“Francesca knows everything. That’s how she’s been able to keep her television show on the air for so many years. She’s pretty much like God, except sexy.”

“I’m going to call her tonight and ask.”

He adjusted the sun visor. “You can ask all you want, but if Francesca doesn’t feel like telling, you won’t learn a thing.”

“Do you really think she has some plan behind throwing us together?”

“You bet I do.”

“But what could it be?”

“Sadism. You live with the Antichrist long enough, you turn mean.”

In the luxurious bedroom of a rented home in Palm Beach, Florida, an elegantly beautiful forty-four-year-old Englishwoman with chestnut hair and a heart-shaped face curled deeper into the pale peach sheets and gave a sigh of contentment as she gazed at the indentation in the pillow next to her. Time had only improved her husband’s lovemaking techniques.

The shower went on in the connecting bathroom, and she gave a soft laugh as she wondered how Emma and Kenny were doing. Putting the two of them together had been decidedly wicked, but irresistible—Francesca Serritella Day Beaudine’s own sentimental journey. Although it wasn’t exactly a case of history repeating itself, since Emma bore no resemblance to the spoiled little rich girl Francesca had been when Dallie Beaudine had picked her up on that Louisiana back road twenty-three years ago.

From the moment Francesca had met Emma, she’d felt a kinship with her. Beneath her friend’s deep intelligence and innate goodness, she’d glimpsed her loneliness.

Then there was Kenny Traveler . . . her darling, unhappy Kenny. . . . Francesca’s eyes drifted shut, and she recalled another too-handsome Texas golf pro who’d endangered his game by spending too much time fighting demons he wouldn’t let anyone else glimpse.

Still, Emma and Kenny? What could she have been thinking of? If it hadn’t been for Torie’s situation, she would never have thought to connect them in her mind.

Francesca’s sources were impeccable, and she’d learned about Beddington’s peculiar search for a bride almost as soon as it had begun, but she’d been stunned when she’d learned he’d latched on to Emma. Right away, she’d been struck by the similarities between Emma’s situation and Torie’s. That had made her think about Kenny, and then the most incredible image of Kenny and Emma together had taken shape in her mind. It was ridiculous, of course, to believe two such unlikely people could help each other. Still, stranger things had happened.

The water stopped running in the bathroom. She stretched lazily, even though she had a thousand things to do. First she needed to call her best friend, Holly Grace Beaudine Jaffe, who also happened to be Dallie’s first wife, and was now the mother of four boys—five if Francesca counted Holly Grace’s husband Gerry. Then she needed to get to work. Putting on a monthly television special didn’t happen by accident, and she had a long list of calls to make, beginning with her producer in New York.

The bathroom door opened, and she forgot all about her calls as her husband’s deep drawl drifted across the room.

“Come here, Fancy Pants.”

Kenny’s ranch sat in a valley just south of Wynette. He turned off the main highway onto a narrower road, then headed down a lane marked by a pair of rough limestone pillars topped with a rustic wrought-iron arch.

“My property starts here.” Emma heard the subtle note of pride in Kenny’s voice.

They drove through the entrance, past a peach orchard just beginning to come into bloom, and across a wide wooden bridge that spanned a stretch of shallow, crystal-clear river. “That’s the Pedernales. It floods during big storms and covers the bridge, but I still love having it in my front yard.”

And that’s exactly where it was, Emma realized—in his front yard. Kenny’s ranch house sat at the top of a gently sloping bit of lawn shaded here and there with live oaks. The house itself was a graceful rambling structure built of creamy white limestone with smoky blue shutters and trim. Twin limestone chimneys rose from the expansive tin roof she’d already seen on so many buildings in the area, and a galloping horse weather vane turned lazily in the April breeze. Big wooden rockers sat on the front porch, extending a silent invitation to rest awhile and gaze down at the meandering path of the Pedernales. Off to one side, she glimpsed a windmill, a limestone stable, and a white fence surrounding a picturesque pasture where horses grazed.

“You have horses!” she exclaimed as he pulled up to the side of the house.

“Only two. Shadow and China. They’re quarter-horses.”

She could see his affection for the animals in his smile, and she tried to take it all in. “Gracious, Kenny, you have so much. Horses, that beautiful condo in Dallas, this wonderful ranch. . . .”

“Yeah. Not bad for a kid who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, is it?”

She was startled to hear a faint tinge of bitterness in his voice, and she tilted her head to look at him. “Did that silver spoon make all this magically appear by itself?”

“I guess I worked for it,” he said begrudgingly. “If you call what I do for a living work.” His expression indicated he didn’t quite believe it.

Emma found it curious that he wasn’t more impressed with all that he’d accomplished. “I call it work. I’m sure no one handed you those championships just for your good looks. You also seem to endorse a number of companies.”

“I am pretty good-lookin’.” He shot her a smug smile, then pulled her suitcases out of the car without being asked. Both acts distracted her, which was probably what he intended as he moved ahead of her to the front porch.

Just as he got there, the door shot open and a young man in his late twenties flew out. He had a slight build, curly carrot-colored hair, rather prominent eyes, and a huge smile.

“Kenneth! Let me take that before you throw your back out. Whatever
can
you be thinking of?” He snatched the suitcase away. “You’re too bad not letting me know you were coming. I barely had a chance to get the house ready. If Torie hadn’t called to warn me, I don’t know what I’d have done.”

“Sorry. It was a last-minute decision.” Kenny followed the young man into the cool, quiet foyer, which was painted in wide, muted stripes of vanilla and beige. “Patrick, this is Lady Emma. She’s going to be staying here for a while.
Unfortunately
. Put her as far away from me as you can manage. Emma, this is Patrick. My housekeeper.”

Emma regarded the young man curiously. Really. Kenny knew the most extraordinary people.

“
Lady
Emma?” Patrick exclaimed. “Please, God, tell me you’re the real thing and not another stripper.”

The man was so winning, it was impossible not to smile. “I’m real, but please, just call me Emma.”

Patrick pressed one hand to the front of a neon green silk shirt. “Oh, God. Your accent’s fabulous.”

She couldn’t resist a little probing, and she glanced over at Kenny, who was leafing through a pile of mail he’d taken from a small wooden chest that also held a majolica vase spilling over with spring flowers. “
Another
stripper?”

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “Torie’s the one who brought her here.”

Patrick’s eyes gleamed. “Your stepmother is going to have a public orgasm when she meets Lady Emma.”

“Do you
mind
?” Kenny growled.

“My, my. Someone’s out of sorts, isn’t he? I should think a very nice Clos du Roy 1990 Fronsac will take care of that.” He picked up her suitcase. “Come along, Lady Emma, I’ll show you to your room while Kenneth puts his happy face back on.”

“Just Emma,” she said with a sigh.

Kenny smiled without looking up from the mail.

As she followed Patrick toward the stairs, she gazed off at the living room to the right where the walls were covered in the same faux-painted vanilla and beige stripes as the hallway. Wing chairs, a cozy, overstuffed couch, and well-worn Oriental rugs gave the room a comfortable, lived-in look.

Patrick noticed her interest in the decor. “Do you want to see the rest of the downstairs?”

“I’d quite like that.”

“The kitchen is the best. Kenneth absolutely lives there when he’s home.” He set down her luggage, then led her back along the hallway into an enormous country kitchen that stretched in a spacious L across the rear of the house. She blinked in surprise. “It’s lovely.”

“Thank you. I designed it.”

The walls and ceiling were painted a bright, cheery yellow, while the floor with its large terra-cotta tiles added even more warmth. An informal seating area, positioned in front of the fireplace, held a couch with a floral design in shades of yellow, coral, and emerald, along with several comfortable chairs. Two separate sets of French doors, one of which opened out onto a sun porch, sent light splashing over the array of colorful abstract canvases that graced the walls.

The eating area held a bay window and an elegant Regency dining table, which was surrounded by a comfortable hodgepodge of Chippendale, Louis XVI, and Early American chairs covered with unmatched, but coordinating, fabrics. The polished tabletop reflected another spray of flowers, this one arranged in an earthenware pitcher.

“Everything’s so beautiful.”

“It was risky, but Kenneth needs cozy roots.” Patrick made a small, fluttering gesture.

Emma didn’t mean to stare, but Patrick’s presence had definitely taken her aback.

He brushed his hand over the top of the table. “You’re wondering what someone like me is doing here, aren’t you?”

“Wondering?” She was dying of curiosity, but much too polite to make any inquiries on her own.

“Small Texas towns aren’t terribly kind to a gay man.”

“No, I don’t imagine so.”

A flicker of unhappiness crossed his face, then disappeared. “I’ll show you to your room.”

E
mma ate by herself that night. After announcing that
Kenny had gone off to practice, Patrick served her a delicious pasta salad, along with fresh green beans drizzled with olive oil and garlic, a crusty French roll, and a thick wedge of blueberry tart for dessert. She ate on the sun porch, which was furnished in shiny black rattan covered in a crisp green and white awning stripe. More flowers overflowed from a collection of rustic vases sitting on antique tables. Behind the house, a grove of pecans grew, while a patio and swimming pool sat off to one side, and the white-fenced pasture where the horses grazed stretched in the distance. Earlier she had taken a walk along the river to enjoy the wildflowers.

Despite the peaceful atmosphere and the scented air blowing in through the screen door, she felt restless. Why hadn’t Kenny returned? Even though she’d told him she’d stay out of his way, she wished he didn’t find her presence so unpleasant.

Patrick refused her offer to help with cleanup, so she spread out her research notes and worked for a while as it grew dark. Bugs, attracted by the lights on the porch, slammed into the screen, while crickets sawed away. She heard the quiet hum of the dishwasher, the call of a night bird. The peacefulness reminded her of St. Gert’s after the girls were asleep.

Her spirits dipped lower. At this rate, she would return to England with her reputation more intact than ever. She saw Patrick crossing the lawn toward the small apartment he’d told her he maintained above the garage. Impulsively, she called out, “Do you have Torie’s number posted somewhere?”

“There’s a list on the side of the refrigerator.”

A few moments later, she had Kenny’s sister on the phone.

“No, I don’t have any plans,” Torie said after Emma explained what she wanted. “But I don’t think Wynette’s bars will exactly suit your taste.”

“What’s the fun of going on holiday if I don’t try new things?”

“Well, all right. If you’re sure about this, I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

Emma dressed in the pair of dungarees she’d bought the day before along with a stretchy white bubble-knit just short enough to reveal a thin band of skin at her waist and just tight enough to emphasize her breasts. Although the short sleeves hid most of the Lone Star tattoo, they revealed the banner bearing Kenny’s name. Humiliating, but necessary, she decided, and vowed not to look in the mirror. She only hoped Beddington’s henchman was bright enough to bring along a camera.