My Fair Gentleman (2 page)

Joe pushed off the wall and shouldered his way through the crowding circle of men.

“You’re very good, Earl,” Catherine admitted. “But putting left English on the ball requires a steady touch. Now that I look closely, you seem a little shaky to me.” Her glittering green eyes locked with the old man’s baby blues for a long moment.

Skeeter moved forward and jabbed the undisputed Pig’s Gut pool champ between his narrow shoulder blades. “C’mon, Earl, get this over with. I’ve got a run goin’ at table five.”

Frowning, Earl slid grimy-nailed fingers up and down his standing cue stick before hoisting it up into shooting position. Was it Joe’s imagination, or did
the old buzzard take longer than usual lining up the shot?

“Three in the side,” Earl finally announced, drawing back his elbow.

Ivory clacked.

Patsy Cline crooned.

“You miscued,” Billy said on a groan, sending his idol a stunned look. “You
never
miscue.”

Curses and disbelieving grumbles broke out. Earl stared at the undisturbed red ball as if it had just sprouted horns. Lifting a trembling hand, he rubbed the back of his neck.

Joe moved close and spoke low in his friend’s ear. “Don’t worry, buddy. She’ll screw up her first shot, and then you can finish her off.”

Earl glanced up with a shaken expression. “I think she’s a damn witch. Did you see them eyes?”

Joe’d seen them. “She psyched you out, all right. But remember, we’ve got the home-stadium advantage.”

He searched the room and found Catherine removing several cue sticks from the back-wall storage rack. After rolling each one on a nearby table, she settled on the twenty-one-ounce cue with an Astros sticker on the handle. Coincidence, or had she picked his cue on purpose? It was much too long for her, but comparatively new and unwarped.

Ignoring the suggestions for what to do with a “man-size shaft,” she headed for the table, balancing the cue on one shoulder with all the nonchalance of Huck Finn carrying a cane pole.

The lady had guts, Joe admitted. He almost hated to see her razzed by the guys. But she’d invaded their turf, not vice versa, which made her fair game.

She laid her cue on the table rail and studied the scattered balls intently. A red-haired man Joe didn’t recognize thrust a blue chalk cube under her nose.

“Here you go, babe,” the stranger said, checking to make sure he had his audience’s full attention. “Rub the tip real good now. You look like you could use some friction.”

Ribald laughter erupted all around. Pinkening cheeks were the only sign that Catherine heard. She took the cube and calmly rotated the end of her cue stick in the chalk.

“Ooh, that’s it, babe, don’t stop,” the man continued, urged on by hoots and whistles. “With hands like that, who cares if you ain’t much to look at?”

The laughter trailed off nervously.

Joe saw the flash of hurt in her clear green eyes. Anger and shame clenched his fists. He headed around the table, aiming to plug the jackass’s mouth with his knuckles.

Catherine set the chalk cube on the rail. Turning to the leering redhead, she pressed the tip of her cue on his crotch seam and met his astonished eyes. “What’s your name?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “G-Gary.”

“Well, Gary. I can explode a rack of billiard balls into all four rails with a single stroke. What do you think I could do to these itty bitty things?” she asked, her voice coldly speculating. Sweeping the circle of men with a contemptuous look, she lifted her chin. “One more word out
of any
of you, and I just might have to satisfy my curiosity. Do we understand each other?”

Heads nodded, none more vigorously than Gary’s.

She smiled and lifted her cue stick from chalkmarked denim. “Excellent. Now, everyone please step back three paces from the table so I can breathe.”

Joe obeyed along with the rest, intrigued by a woman who could be Olive Oyl one instant and Popeye the next. He suddenly found himself rooting for
her,
the money be damned.

For the second time that night, she examined the table end to end. When she finally moved into action, Joe had the feeling every shot had been planned.

She was an ace pool player of course. Sometime during the past half hour he’d decided she would be. Her strokes were strong, her aim damn near scary, her movements graceful and efficient. When she stretched over the table for a double-bank shot, her dress tightened and his eyebrows rose. She might be thin, but she sure as hell wasn’t shapeless.

As striped balls spun, whammed or lipped over into pockets, he started to believe she would run the table.

Earl did, too, from the grim look on his leathery face. The reigning champion turned slightly green watching her last ball ricochet toward a side pocket. It hit hard, almost jawed out, then dropped out of sight.

Once she nailed the eight ball, history would be made at The Pig’s Gut. Earl studied the table…and slowly grinned. Murmurs broke out in the crowd. Joe followed their gazes and silently groaned.

The eight ball guarded a corner pocket. Blocking it from a clean shot sat doom—the solid red ball that had defeated Earl. There was no way around it, unless…

He watched Catherine assess the situation from several angles and knew the exact moment she made her decision. When she stepped up to the table and positioned her cue, his muscles tensed in empathy. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, winning run on third. Been there, done that.

She struck the cue ball hard, low and at precisely the right angle to lift it up and over the red ball. It landed with a thud and nicked black ivory, sending the eight ball rolling with agonizing slowness toward the pocket. Was it enough? Would it fall?

Yess!

Joe’s whoop rang out in the stunned silence. Catherine straightened and sent him a grateful smile, her flush of triumph giving him a glimpse of the woman she might be, given a little happiness or makeup.

She looked toward the bar as if seeking someone’s congratulations. Her smile dimmed.

Joe’s head snapped around.

A man watched her from a bar stool. Blond hair, medium build, disapproving expression. Obviously her companion for the evening. Joe didn’t like him.

The man’s gaze moved to him, and Joe stiffened. Pretty Boy’s appraisal was cold, amused and very thorough. Joe’s dislike verged on something stronger.

“I’ve been hustled,” Earl protested, breaking the hostile moment.

Joe turned and grinned at the old man’s sour expression. “No, you were beat fair and square. My debt’s canceled and you owe the lady a handshake.”

Earl glanced at Catherine with grudging respect. “Maybe she could show me how she did that jump shot. I never been able to do it worth a damn.” He
shuffled over to the table, where Catherine stood racking balls with awkward jerky movements.

Where had her gracefulness gone? Joe eyed the blond-haired man at the bar thoughtfully, then looked back at the disgruntled customers returning to their own interrupted games. Manhood had suffered a blow tonight. They were not happy campers. An irresistible idea hit him.

He went with the moment and cupped his hand to his mouth. “Listen up, guys. There’s a free beer for anyone who’s interested.”

Heads turned and faces lit. Skeeter took three steps forward then stopped, his expression suspicious. “Hey, you couldn’t even pay off Earl. How’re you gonna buy us all a beer?”

Joe couldn’t contain his slow grin. “I’m not buyin’.” His thumb jerked toward Pretty Boy at the bar. “
He
is.”

C
ATHERINE GLARED
across the small round table at Joe’s casual sprawl and straightened her spine. He’d insisted on waiting for their beers to arrive before listening to her proposal. The delay gave her too much time to think. Too much time to analyze.

She, Catherine Eliza Hamilton, who could trace her paternal ancestry back to English royalty, had threatened a man’s family jewels with her cue stick. She’d used her Ph.D. in psychology to rattle Earl’s composure and win a game of billiards. And as if that wasn’t enough, she’d enjoyed herself tremendously during both activities.

Thank heavens her father was away, lecturing at Oxford University. She wouldn’t have to hear him rant about her appalling lack of decorum—the product
of her mother’s working-class genes of course. He’d blamed Mary Lou Hamilton for his daughter’s every fall from grace since Catherine was three years old.

Mary Lou had been a waitress before marrying Lawrence Hamilton, of the impoverished but socially prominent Connecticut Hamiltons. He’d divulged that tidbit the year Catherine had turned sixteen and begged to work at a movie theater with her friends. Instead of serving popcorn, she’d spent the summer serving up research for his latest
Psychology Journal
article.

Although she now cowrote those articles, her father had never gotten around to adding her name to the byline.

Sighing, she watched a miniskirted blonde approach their table carrying a tray. Joe’s teeth flashed white against his dark stubble as he drew in his long legs. The woman’s faux-leather hips swayed harder. Her breasts jiggled in the aftershock. Disgusting. Why, she looked old enough to be his…older sister. And that smile was positively incestuous.

Bending low, the buxom waitress set two frosty bottles on the turquoise Formica. “Here they are, Joe, nice’n cold.”

He wiggled his brows at the plump cleavage six inches from his nose. “Want me to warm ‘em up for ya, Tammy?”

She bopped him on the head with her plastic tray, ignoring his indignant yelp. “Behave yourself, Joe Tucker, or I’ll tell Allie you dropped your pants for the whole bar.” Splaying hot-pink fingernails on one hip, she turned toward Catherine. “You watch yourself, hon. Allie’s the only one who can control her
dad. Always clownin’ around, he is. Either that, or breakin’ hearts. He’s a real smooth talker.”

An unintelligible grunt sounded from behind her back.

“See what I mean?” Tammy’s blue eyes twinkled as she turned. “That’ll be three bucks for your beer, Joe.” She winked to take the sting out of her demand.

Frowning, he fumbled in his back pocket. “What about the lady?”

“Are you kiddin’? Any woman who can shut Gary up and kick Earl’s butt in the same night deserves a reward. Her beer’s on me.”

Meeting Tammy’s admiring gaze, Catherine took back her snide thought about silicone implants.

Joe flipped open his worn wallet and extracted a five-dollar bill. Catherine couldn’t help seeing it was the last of his cash. She glanced toward the bar where Carl sat brooding over his American Express receipt. Before tonight, she’d never seen her fiancé forced to do
anything
he hadn’t planned.

“Wait,” she said, halting Tammy’s outstretched hand. “Put them both on Mr. Wilson’s tab, please. And be sure to give yourself a big tip.”

Tammy glanced over her shoulder at Carl and looked back grinning. “Anything you say, hon. The customer’s always right.” Tucking the tray under her. arm, she swished off toward the bar.

Joe twisted the cap off one beer, wiped the glass lip with his sleeve and offered it to Catherine. No quaint mug in sight. Repressing a shudder, she accepted the bottle and told herself his jersey was cleaner than it looked.

He opened the second bottle for himself and cocked his head. “Okay, Catherine, I’m all ears. What’s so all-fired important you wanted to talk to me about?”

At last. “My future counseling practice.”

“Your future…Are you a shrink?” He spat the word out as if it were castor oil.

“I’m a psychologist,” she corrected. “Up until now I’ve acted as research assistant to my father. I’m sure you’ve seen him interviewed on TV—Dr. Lawrence Hamilton? He heads up the Department of Counseling and Educational Psychology at Richmond College?”

Joe looked remarkably unimpressed.

“He wrote
The Five-Minute Intelligence Test.
All the major talk shows booked him as a guest,” she added helpfully.

Shrugging, Joe spread his hands. “Sorry. Never heard of him.”

Catherine felt a shocking surge of satisfaction. “Where have you
been
the past year?”

Eyeing her closely through slitted lids, he tilted his head back and took a deep swallow of beer. When he rested the bottle on his muscular thigh, over a third of its contents had vanished. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

She drew her brows together. “Should I?”

He chuckled ruefully. “Guess not. On paper I played for the Astros, but my knees were on ice half the time.”

“You’re a hockey player?” This was terrible.

“I said Astros, not Aeros. As in the baseball team,” he explained, his male disgust palpable.

Baseball, hockey—they both meant road trips, lots of publicity…“Wait a minute. Did you
say played?
”

“Yeah.” His bleak tone matched his eyes. “Right now I’m kinda at loose ends.”

She broke into a joyful smile, then smothered it at his startled look. “I’m changing jobs, too. That is, I’d like to establish my own family counseling practice. But my fiancé—the man buying the drinks tonightwants a more…traditional relationship.”

Joe knuckled his eye sockets, blew out a breath and held her gaze. “Catherine…work with me here. What the hell do I have to do with any of this?”

Oh, God. She took a tiny sip of beer and grimaced. What she wouldn’t give right now for a snifter of Remy Martin to bolster her courage. “I need you to win a bet I made with Carl.”

“A bet.”

“That’s right. Over dinner, we were discussing Father’s theory that intelligent sophisticates are born, not made. Carl agrees with the theory. I don’t.” She cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I became a tad… vehement.”

Her fiancé had stepped into her father’s shoes for the summer and triggered years of suppressed rebellion. She’d actually raised her voice in a chic restaurant defending environmental versus genetic influence on behavior. Every paternal slur regarding her own “tainted” gene pool had fueled her heated challenge.

“You might wanna speed things up, doll. This place closes soon.” Joe’s dark eyes gleamed with amusement.

She rubbed damp palms down her dress, then folded them on the table. “I wagered I could tutor
anyone of Carl’s choosing and pass that person off as a member of high society to the world’s biggest snob.”