My Fair Gentleman (18 page)

Smiling nearly cracked her face, but it cued her audience to laugh along with her “little joke.” She risked a glance at her father and met his shocked stare.

He suddenly looked every one of his sixty-seven years, and her reflexive desire to make him happy, to please him at any expense to her own pride, both shamed and angered her.

“Carl, dear?” Dawn said, the odd edge in her voice capturing Catherine’s attention. “Who is that arriving just now?”

As one, they all turned and looked toward the front door. Despite the fact that there were three men and two women crowding the foyer, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who Dawn meant.

He stood alone and apart, a sophisticated pirate preparing to conquer and claim.

His charcoal gray Valentino suit would have made an ordinary body seem athletic. On Joe’s powerful physique, the double-breasted jacket and full legged trousers made him a feast for feminine eyes, an irritation to those of his own sex. A snowy white shirt and peach silk tie were the perfect foil for his bold dark eyes and hard-planed face.

She wanted to rush over and let every woman know he was
her
sophisticated pirate. He
could
have been hers if only she hadn’t been so damn noble. And, oh, it hurt. It hurt so much!.

Catherine dragged her gaze away and noted Carl’s bristling hostility. Definitely not a part of their deal. She pulled herself together and smiled.

“Isn’t that Sebastian Doherty?” she asked Carl pointedly. “You introduced me at the country club last week. He’s visiting Houston on business, and you invited him to our party.
Remember,
darling?” She grasped his arm and sneaked a hard pinch.

“Ah! So it is, Catherine.”

“Any relation to the Philadelphia Dohertys?” her father asked.

Carl continued staring at the foyer as if ready to unsheath his sword. Her elbow found his ribs.

“Urn! I believe he is, Dr. Hamilton. Rumor has it he’s looked at several large pieces of commercial real estate. Very hush-hush about his intentions of course, but relocating Doherty Enterprises does seem a logical assumption.”

If he’d been a dog, her father’s ears would have been standing straight up. From the others’ expressions, Joe’s fictional prestige would spread faster than the common cold among the gossiping crowd.

“Excuse us, please, while we make Mr. Doherty feel welcome,” Catherine said, drawing Carl with her totheentryway.

Charlotte looked up with a relieved expression as they drew near. Her Grace Kelly poise and blond beauty held a hint of censure. “Ah, here they are now, Mr. Doherty. Carl, shame on you for not letting me know you’d invited a special guest.”

Catherine added warningly, “Yes, shame on you for forgetting something so important. Sebastian must have felt extremely awkward.” She turned and extended her hand to Joe. “We’re so glad you could squeeze us into your busy calendar, Sebastian. Thank you for coming.”

His ebony gaze swept over her and glittered with appreciation. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

Their hands met, and everything female in her merged with his heat and strength. The connection pulsed with life. She looked into his eyes and almost hated him for making her heart hammer, her mind sharpen, her senses vibrate as no other man ever had or, she suspected sickly, ever would again.

She jerked back her hand. “Do let us introduce you to our friends, won’t you?” Had he noticed her slight breathiness?

The satisfied curve of his mouth said he had. “I’d be delighted.”

Delighted, she thought, marveling that a word so foreign to Joe could sound so natural from “Sebastian.” With the two men in tow, she set out to introduce her prize student to the Wilsons’ friends and protect his true identity from discovery.

Tight clusters of guests flowered open at their approach, offering obligatory congratulations to Carl and Catherine before focusing swiftly on Joe. His role gave him free rein to use his extensive vocabulary, to practice his dry wit on an audience that appreciated rather than ridiculed such things. He collected admiration like pollen, moving on to each new group a bit more dusted with confidence.

In a circle including the Prewitts, talk of a successful dove hunt animated the men. Joe steered the conversation to bird dogs, segued into show dogs and walked away with Laura’s heart and an invitation from Brad to flush up some south Texas quail in the fall.

A protective unit consisting of the Andersons and their two bodyguards loosened up as Joe discussed physical-fitness regimens. Interested eavesdroppers drifted into the group and asked questions pressconference style. Years of training camps and injury rehabilitation lent credence to Joe’s advice. Catherine had to cut the questions short and physically drag him away in order to move on into the dining room.

They joined a slow-moving line leading to the buffet table where Charlotte, true to form, stood ready to reprimand the caterer should trays not be replenished immediately.

The woman’s perfectionism rivaled her father’s, Catherine realized. She would have spent her entire marriage to Carl trying to measure up to Charlotte’s standards—and failing. At least loving Joe had saved her from that.

Riding a crest of gratitude, she hugged Carl’s arm. “Isn’t Sebastian amazing? The way he fits into this
crowd, you’d never know he was from Philadelphia, would you?”

As Joe would say, Carl looked as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. “Maybe not. But then, I’m not as perceptive as your father, and I don’t believe Sebastian’s had a chance to visit with him yet…have you, old chap?” He turned to the taller man with feigned innocence.

Joe appeared distracted by someone at the buffet table. “Hmm? Oh, I haven’t had the pleasure, no. Will you excuse me please?”

He left the line and approached a pinched-faced elderly woman who was walking with a distinct hobble, trying with obvious difficulty to balance her plate. Speaking in her ear, Joe took the plate from her hands and began piling it with this and that, consulting with Charlotte and following his companion’s gnarled pointing finger until there wasn’t a smidgen of china showing.

Catherine and Carl weren’t the only ones to gape. Martha Kendall’s wealth was equaled only by her abrasive personality. Carl had once admitted she terrified even his mother.

Joe held out his arm, escorted Martha toward a row of occupied chairs lining one wall and stopped in front of a portly man stuffing shrimp into his mouth at a rate faster than he chewed. Whatever Joe said brought the man clambering up from his chair, his round face flushed. Joe proceeded to seat Martha as if she were the most important woman in his life.

She accepted the plate he’d filled, looked up with a coy smile and said something that made Joe throw back his head and laugh. The deep uninhibited whoops had people smiling throughout the room.

“You really love him, don’t you?” Carl said for Catherine’s ears alone.

Realizing he’d caught her staring unguarded at Joe, she didn’t attempt to hedge. “Yes, I really do.” She prodded him forward in the line, keenly aware of him studying her face.

“Good lord, you haven’t told him. But why—”

“I have my reasons. If you care for me at all, you’ll respect them and keep quiet.” She held his puzzled gray gaze. “Will you do that?”

He reached up and stroked the pad of his thumb down her cheek. “He’s a lucky man, Catherine.”

Just then Joe walked back to join them in line near the buffet table, cutting off her chance to respond. Charlotte moved forward and patted Joe’s arm.

“How fortunate for us, Mr. Doherty, that you decided to accept Carl’s invitation. Martha can be…difficult to please sometimes. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her look quite so happy at one of my parties, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“Don’t mention it. I’d do the same for you if your bunion were acting up,” Joe assured her. Then he grinned. Not Sebastian’s suave showing of white teeth, but Joe’s patented, slow, sex-on-the-hoof grin.

Charlotte stared and seemed to have trouble breathing. Her beringed fingers fluttered to her diamond choker.

“Mother!” Carl exclaimed.

She jerked and blushed profusely. “I’ll just see what’s holding up that tray of shrimp,” she murmured, bustling off toward the kitchen.

Watching, Catherine suffered a pang of sympathy for the older woman and an aching loss for herself. Never again to see that grin on a daily basis, never
again to know firsthand the ecstasy it promised. How would she bear the emptiness? “Oh, Carl, Catherine,
here
you are.” Catherine’s gaze snapped to the dining-room entrance.

Jeffrey Wilson stood there eyeing his son urgently. “John Chandler and his date arrived a few minutes ago, and they’re asking to see you both.”

J
OE GLANCED
at the dining-room entrance, patted the feminine hand curled around his forearm and gently pulled away. The red-taloned fingers held tight. Damn! Catherine needed him, but he had to remember that Sebastian Doherty was never rude to a woman.

“I’m sorry, Mariel—”

“Marian,”
the blond-haired divorcee corrected. She’d stated her marital status right after the name he hadn’t heard.

“Marian. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to sample the caviar without me. I need to make an important phone call.”

Without loosening her grip on his arm, she slipped her opposite hand into a long narrow shoulder bag and pulled out a portable phone. “No need to run off. I keep this handy for safety’s sake. A single woman can’t be too careful, you know.”

Yeah, right. She’d probably have a mugger on his back in seconds flat—and follow him down.

He tried for a sheepish smile. “Okay, you caught me. I wanted to save us both the embarrassment, but the truth is I need to visit the men’s room.” He tugged, she gripped. “It’s something I prefer to do alone if you don’t mind.”

Her smile was brittle. “Of course, go right ahead.”

The instant she released him he headed for the door, catching Martha Kendall’s gaze as he passed by. The old girl rolled her eyes in sympathy and he winked.

“I’ll make you a plate,” Marian called to his back.

He entered the living room and scanned the eibow-to-elbow crowd looking for a knockout lady in red. The party was in full swing now. Inebriated voices overpowered the la-di-da music he’d noticed when he’d first arrived. Hell, add a little smoke, change the wineglasses to long-neck beers, take away enough jewelry to buy a baseball franchise—and it wasn’t much different from a blowout at The Pig’s Gut. Hadn’t Catherine said as much during each of his lessons?

She wasn’t in the living room. A flash of red caught his eye…there! In the foyer. Huddled in fourtbdown-inches-to-go intensity with her mother, John Chandler and Carl. Joe didn’t know what they were up to, but he figured it had something to do with Catherine’s father. And he intended to be there when she confronted him.

Returning his gaze to the crowd, he located Lawrence’s dramatic white hair. The imposing man stood at the pass-through bar window. Reaching for a glass of wine, he made a production out of the swirl, sniff and sip routine.

Joe shouldered his way to the bar and heard the pretentious ass pronounce the wine fit to drink. “Mind if I join you, Dr. Hamilton?” he asked.

Lawrence turned and smiled with a semblance of real warmth. “Not at all. But how do you know my name?”

“Oh, I know quite a lot about you actually.” Joe noted that the older man seemed to know who
he
was. Catherine’s groundwork had paid off.

Lawrence tapped a manicured fingernail against his wineglass. “You probably saw me on Leno a few month’s ago.”

“No.”

“Letterman?”

Jeez. “My days start before dawn. I’m usually asleep by ten.”

“It must have been Oprah, then. She devoted a whole show to my book,
The Five-Minute Intelligence Test.
Her score caused quite a sensation in the media, you know, although I still say she studied the answers before going on air…”

As he droned on and on, Joe stifled a yawn. Lawrence Hamilton’s ego could fill the Astrodome. There was no room left in his swelled head for anyone else, much less a needy daughter. Why he’d bothered fighting for custody of Catherine was beyond Joe.

“So bow do you like Houston now that you’ve seen some of the city?”

Joe blinked and instant-replayed the question in his mind. “There’s an energy in the business community I find invigorating. And the opera and ballet companies are world-class. I haven’t visited the art museums yet, but I did go to a showing at Laurette Stimson’s Gallery. Most impressive.”

“Ah, I know the gallery owner well. Who was the artist?”

“Doreen Walden. Most of the paintings were from her ‘motherhood’ period.”

Joe proceeded to describe several paintings and expound in elaborate mumbo jumbo, which he
watched Lawrence pretend to understand. When Joe finally wound down, the older man gave him a companionable slap on the shoulder.

“Would you care to try a little of my favorite wine, Sebastian?”

“I’d be honored, Lawrence,”

Lawrence smiled expansively and turned to the bartender as if he paid the guy’s salary. “A glass of the special-order cabernet sauvignon for my friend, if you please. Ah, very good. Here you are. Tell me what you think.”

Joe took the outstretched glass and raised the rim to his nose. “Mmm, nice blackberry bouquet with a touch of…mint, is it? Yes, mint.” He sipped and closed his eyes. “Rich velvety flavors. Nutty young oak. Blackberry, of course, and underlying vanilla. All in all, a superbly balanced and finely resolved vintage.” He opened his eyes.

“Well-done!” Lawrence declared, looking appropriately impressed.

It was a beautiful moment, made more so by the approach of Lawrence’s “dead” ex-wife and her rich and socially prominent boyfriend. Catherine and Carl followed close on their heels.

“Drink up, Lawrence,” Joe advised soberly. “I think you’re going to need it.”

L
AWRENCE SAW
the entourage and grew pasty-faced. The surface of his wine trembled. For an instant Joe almost felt sorry for the jerk. He took the older man’s glass and handed it, along with his own, to the bartender.

“Why don’t we all go into the library,” Carl suggested tactfully, leading the way into a nearby hallway and through an open door.

Joe filed in last and took a coach position on the sidelines, far enough away so as not to distract Catherine, yet close enough to see everyone’s face and intervene if she needed support.

The library lived up to its grandiose name: floor-toceiling shelves jammed with books—not a paperback in sight; dark wood paneling, tufted leather chairs and lots of brass doodads; thick Oriental rugs on a parquet floor. Hell, they could’ve introduced “Masterpiece Theater” in here.

And Mary Lou Denton, truck-stop manager, looked right at home in an emerald green, off-the-shoulder number that flattered her trim figure and magnolia-blossom skin. In truth, she outshone their hostess and rightful lady of the manor.

Backed up against the bookshelves like a cornered animal, Lawrence couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from the wife he’d rejected and passed off as dead.

“Where…how…?”

Catherine took one step forward and drew his gaze. “I hired a detective three years ago to find her, Father.”

“Three years ago? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I only recently met Mother and learned what really happened when she left.”

Lawrence darted a glance at Carl.

“He knows everything,” Catherine said, studying her father’s haunted eyes. Joe could see her attitude softening, along with her expression. “I think you realize that denying the truth is pointless.”

“Whatever I did, Catherine, I did for you, for the Hamilton family name. I raised you to be a lady, and you are. At least…” His stunned gaze moved from daughter to mother and back. He lifted a shaking hand to his temple. “My God, when did you change so much? You look just like
her
now.”

“Thank you, Father.”

He lowered his hand, his green-gold eyes venomous. “It wasn’t a compliment. Your mother attracted men like a bitch in heat.”

John started forward.

“No!” Mary Lou said, stepping into his path and pressing her hand on his chest. She stared calmly into his murderous gaze. “He can’t hurt me anymore. I’d still have to care about him for it to hurt.”

“How very profound, my dear.” Lawrence’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “And to think I bothered earning a Ph.D. when I had a veritable fount of wisdom at my disposal. Why, we might have world peace today if I hadn’t been so blind to your abilities.”

Joe’s hands curled into fists. Carl murmured a protest. John tried to set Mary Lou aside. Only
Catherine paid no attention to her father. She exchanged a long loving look with her mother.

Mary Lou lifted her chin and slowly turned around. “Yes, you were blind. And bigoted and impossibly insecure. I never looked at another man, much less betrayed our marriage vows. I loved you, Lawrence, though God knows why. Back then I would have learned whatever you were willing to teach, become whatever you wanted me to be—if only you’d been man enough to trust me.”

Lawrence drew himself up in chilly outrage. “Become whatever I wanted you to be? Really, Mary Lou, you forget I know your roots. Climbing the ladder to truck-stop manager is one thing, but passing yourself off as a woman of good breeding is quite another.”

John growled low in his chest. “Look, you bastard-”

“Sebastian,” Carl’s voice rang out, swiveling every head in the room toward Joe. Lawrence’s eyes widened in surprise. “You come from a family of distinction. What do you think of Dr. Hamilton’s theory?”

Joe checked his watch in frustration. Thirty minutes to go in the damn bet, and he couldn’t say a word. “I think it’s too early in the conversation to give my opinion.”

“On the contrary. As the intelligent sophisticate
you’ve proved
yourself to be, you owe it to Catherine’s family to answer.”

Lord have mercy, Joe thought, meeting the blond man’s piercing stare. Pretty Boy was conceding the bet and giving him permission to reveal his identity.

Seeing his respect for Carl mirrored in the other man’s gaze, Joe turned and focused on Catherine’s father.

Lawrence looked embarrassed for the first time since they’d entered the library. “This is a private family matter. I must appeal to your gentleman’s honor and ask you to leave.”

Joe grinned in feral pleasure. “But I’m no gentleman. I’m not even Sebastian Doherty. I’m an ex-jock born and raised in Littleton, Texas. A month ago I didn’t know a blackberry bouquet from a fistful of daisies.”

“I…don’t understand.”

“Didn’t score so hot on
The Five-Minute Intelligence Test,
huh, Lawrence? What I’m saying is, my background is more blue-collar than blue-blooded, but you believed I was a Doherty strictly on the basis of my hoity-toity B.S. What I’m saying is, you could ‘ve taught Mary Lou the same crap Catherine taught me, and high society would’ve accepted her just fine. What I’m saying is, these ladies have more true class in their pinky fingernails than you do in your whole pretentious ass.” He walked forward to stand beside Catherine. “Now, just what part of that don’t you understand?”

“This is outrageous!” Lawrence blustered. “Catherine, why would you do such a thing? Were you trying to humiliate me?”

“No, Father. You did that all by yourself.”

“You planned it all? This impostor, your mother…” He shook his head as if trying to make sense of it all. “I can’t believe you’ve been so manipulative.”

“Why not? I learned from a master. But I won’t be victimized by you any longer, Father. I’m hereby resigning
as your research assistant. When you get back from England, I’ll be living somewhere else. I don’t want to talk to you or see you for a very long timemaybe never again.”

Lawrence looked stricken. Catherine looked almost as devastated.

“You can’t resign,” her father said.

She stiffened, then choked out a laugh. “Thank you for putting things in perspective for me. It’s nice to know your
work
will suffer in my absence. Because I
am
resigning, Father. And if you try to contact me or interfere in my life in any way, I’ll tell the academic community what you did to Mother. So help me God, I will.”

“You’d do that? After everything I’ve taught you, everything I’ve done for you?”

“You taught me to doubt my self-worth, you deprived me of a mother who loved me, you advanced your career at the expense of mine. What you’ve done for me is despicable, Father. I need time and distance to think things through before I can consider forgiving you.”

His gaze searched each face in the room, found only hostility and returned to his daughter reptilian cold. He tugged his French cuffs and sniffed. “Very well, Catherine, take all the time and distance you need. Because from this day forward, you’re no daughter of mine. Do you understand me? I
no longer have a daughter.
”

Joe felt her tiny shudder as if it were his own. He nudged her palm with his knuckles, and she readily grasped his hand.

Then, tall and straight, beautiful and courageous, she lifted her regal nose. “To be a daughter, one must
have a father. And you, Dr. Hamilton, don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“W
AKE UP
, C
ATHERINE
, you’re home,” Carl said, squeezing her shoulder gently.

Catherine opened her eyes and straightened up from the bucket seat’s contoured hug. She hadn’t been asleep so much as existing in an emotional vacuum. With blessed privacy only steps away, her numbness was fading fast.

She turned to the man who’d been surprisingly supportive after the nasty scene in his library. He’d calmed her father and stayed with him until a cab arrived, then had smoothed his abrupt departure with explanations of an early-morning flight.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Carl. If you hadn’t stood by me that last hour, I would have fallen apart.”

“Somehow I doubt that. It’s taken me too damn long, but I’m finally beginning to realize what a special woman you are.” The garage spotlight filtered through the windshield and reflected in his thoughtful gray eyes. “You know, we don’t have to call off the marriage, Catherine. We could have a good life together. I’d finance your counseling practice and we’d hire a nanny for the children—”

Catherine’s swift kiss cut him off short. She pulled back and smiled gently. “Thank you again, Carl, but no. You’re a good man. We’d have lovely children and an amiable relationship, but…I want more.”

“You want Joe.”

Yes, yes,
yes,
she thought. Spontaneous, outrageous, charismatic Joe. She bit her trembling lower
lip and wished with all her heart she’d never set foot inside The Pig’s Gut.

“Like I said before, he’s a lucky man.” Carl switched off the ignition and turned to get out.

“Wait,” she managed. “Don’t bother walking me to the door. I’m going to check on the cats. They’re probably starving.” She met his eyes and cursed herself for not reciprocating his unspoken feelings. “I’ll be in touch. We’ll decide how and when to announce our breakup, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Good night, Catherine.”

“Good night, Carl.” She slipped quickly out of the car as the engine roared to life.

The powerful headlights beamed on her back while she walked up the driveway and climbed the garage-apartment steps. At the top landing, she unlocked the door, turned and waved.

Last chance, Catherine. It’s not too late to stop him.

The car backed slowly out of her driveway—and out of her life.

The exclusive private practice he’d offered had lost its appeal a long time ago. She’d conceived the idea with her father and Carl’s approval in mind. There were clinics begging for qualified counselors willing to work with the “unclean masses,” as her father would have said. Digging in and getting her hands dirty would be a blessed distraction in the days ahead. And she could do so much good. Or at least she could try.

She pushed her way into the apartment, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.of finality.

The cats came running and used her for a rubbing post, their purrs a soothing balm. She’d left the lamp
on for them, silly as that was. They could see fine without it, and darkness didn’t make them feel lonely. They had each other.

She had only them.

“Hi, babies, did you miss me?” she crooned, a confirmed spinster reduced to treating her pets like children. She bent over and stroked what bits and pieces of fur their constant weaving allowed. “Move now so I can walk.”

They didn’t of course. She played soccer with their bodies all the way to the kitchen, where purring escalated into meows at first sight of the dry cat food. She filled each of their bowls, freshened their water and wandered into the main room. The sudden pall of silence grew heavy.

Everywhere she looked, Joe and Allie were theretier impish grin brighter than the lamp, his big body transforming the small apartment into a (tollhouse. Listless and dissatisfied, Catherine moved into the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet, the bathtub ledge. She walked into the closet and eyed the wire hangers, the empty shoe shelves. And finally, wadded behind the roll-away bed in one corner, she found a piece of evidence that they hadn’t been a dream.

She lifted the garment with two hands and spread it wide…wider…envisioning Joe’s broad shoulders filling the Astros jersey. Her fists drew together and she buried her face in the crumpled material, knowing she was torturing herself, inhaling his lingering scent just the same. Her eyes closed. A wordless sound of longing escaped her throat.
Damn you, Joe Tucker, for making me love you.

Lifting her head, she threw the jersey toward the sofa, snatched up her evening bag and marched to the front door, intent on filling her lungs and mind with something besides
him.
Once on the landing, she locked the door and drew in deep gulps of air.

Ah, yes, roses. New-mown grass. And the faintest whiff of an earlier barbecue in the neighborhood. Crickets and frogs serenaded from the dark edges of the backyard. At this height, she was level with the branches of the huge pecan tree. Its canopy of leaves screened her view of the bench where she’d poured out her “sordid” story, the tree trunk where she’d first tasted real passion. A bleakness more complete than any she had known crept into her heart. Setting her purse on the cedar rail, she propped her elbows beside it, rested her chin in both palms…and sensed she wasn’t alone.

“‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East and Juliet is the sun!’”

The voice came from somewhere below, its deep timbre producing a swell of wonder that took her breath away.

“‘Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou her maid art far more fair than she.’”

Delivered in a velvet murmur, the words flowed naturally, melodically, stirring her modern heart as deeply as they’d affected women centuries ago.

“‘Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, and none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.’”

“Joe?” she whispered, knowing full well who it was. A shadowy shape moved directly into her line of vision.

“‘It is my lady. O, it is my love! O that she knew she were!’”

The garage spotlight kindled dark intense eyes raised in an unsmiling study of her face. It illuminated his broad forehead, his square jaw, the serious set of his mouth. He’d discarded his coat and tie and unbuttoned his shirt at the neck. Against the starched white collar, his throat arched strong and virile.

She drank in the details of his appearance because she didn’t dare dwell on his last words. They’d been scripted, she reminded herself. And he was a talented actor.

“I’m impressed,” she said thickly. “First Sebastian, now Romeo. Shakespeare is a difficult role.”

“It depends on who’s playing Juliet.”

Somehow she dredged up flippancy. “Don’t be modest—you’re a natural. A lover not a fighter, remember?”