My Fair Gentleman (3 page)

He cocked a brow.

“My father,” she said.

“I see.” His rapidly cooling stare sent a shiver down her spine. “So your boyfriend went slumming for a lowlife sure to flunk and picked me?”

It sounded awful put that way. She peeled at the sodden label on her beer bottle. “Please don’t be offended. Carl is very competitive. He hates to lose. And let’s face it, you
were
mooning the ceiling when he picked you.”

Joe’s hooded gaze never wavered. “Just out of curiosity, what do you get for winning?”

“If I win, Carl has agreed to finance my private practice until I develop a clientele.” She read his unspoken question and shrugged. “The Hamiltons may have impeccable breeding and a history of academic brilliance—but they have no head for managing money.”

Glancing toward the bar, Joe twisted his mouth. “I take it Pretty Boy doesn’t think you can turn a sandlot player into a major-league all-star. What does he get for winning?”

“Stop calling him that.”

“Pretty? Or Boy?”

He wanted sarcasm? Fine. “
Carl
gets a pedigreed hostess for his parties. Someone who’ll dote on him and his children, instead of her career.”

“You mean he’ll get a slave, while you give up your dream.”

“No, he’ll get a
wife,
whether I establish a practice or become a stay-at-home mom. When it comes to
family, Carl and I have the same dream, the same values. Once I win, he’ll see that my personal obligations won’t suffer for my career.”

Joe snorted and shook his head.

“Are you married?” she asked bluntly.

“No.” His expression grew shuttered.

“Sounds like you don’t think too highly of the institution.”

“Since my wife died, I don’t think about it at
all
if I can help it. Can we get back to the point, here?”

Embarrassment held her mute. He obviously still grieved for his wife, and she’d intruded on his privacy.

“Earth to Catherine,” he drawled as if addressing an airhead.

Her sympathy vanished. “The point is, I need your help, and you admitted you’re at loose ends right now. So will you do it?”

He looked off into space for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

“And just what do I get for helping you win your bet?” he asked, his keen gaze sliding back to hers.

Her mind went blank. “Well, let’s see…” She hadn’t prepared beyond his acceptance. “What do you want?”

Joe drained his bottle of beer in two gulps, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and delivered a volcanic burp.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

T
HE BURP WAS
a nice touch, Joe thought, watching Catherine’s opinion of him dip lower than a sinker ball. The disgusted fascination on her face might’ve been funny—if it wasn’t so damned insulting.

That was how shrinks were of course. Arrogant sons of bitches, playing God with people’s lives. He’d wised up to their crap long ago and sworn to handle problems
his
way. Not that he’d done such a hot job.

Catherine drummed her short nails on the table. “Well? What do you want?”

He narrowed his eyes, his guilt converting into a more tolerable emotion. “I’m thinking.”

Wouldn’t he just love telling her exactly where to put her high-and-mighty bet? Except that her proposition might be the break he needed. His chance to secure Allie’s future. To make amends. He’d be a fool not to explore his options.

But he could sure as hell make the woman squirm first.

“Before we take this any farther, doll, I need you to fill in some gaps for me.” Noting her flinch at the word “doll,” he slouched back and scratched his belly for good measure.

She watched his fingers with a distracted frown. “Gaps?”

“Yeah. Like what you mean by ‘tutoring.’ And what the terms are for winning or losing this bet. Minor stuff like that.” He crossed his arms with a deliberate flex of muscles.

“Oh. Well…” Her gaze lit briefly on his biceps and fluttered away. Then drifted back.

His slouch slowly straightened.

“First I would evaluate your social skills to see which ones need polishing…” Her stare grew languid, sliding as softly as a chamois cloth over his throat. His chest. His abdomen.

Lord have mercy.

“Second I would schedule lessons in those areas where you seem to be lacking—” her gaze moved lower, stopped, and rose swiftly to focus somewhere over his shoulder “—n-not that you
are
lacking. Anywhere. Th-that is, I’ll have to look harder—I m-mean longer…” A mottled flush crept up her neck. “What I
mean
is, I’ll have to analyze you further before developing a specific tutorial plan,” she finished primly.

Joe managed a stunned grunt. Vowing to use his little black book soon, he willed the blood back into his brain. “So how long will all this tutoring take?”

Relief flooded her face. “Carl’s parents are hosting an engagement party at the end of June. My father is flying in from London to attend. That gives us a little over four weeks to get you ready.”

“For what?”

“For the party. That’s where Father will meet you.”

“What about your mother?”

Some indefinable emotion flickered in her eyes. “Mother…died when I was very young.” She leaned
forward, her manner brisk and professional once more. “You’ll be introduced as a fictional member of a prominent East Coast family. If neither my father nor any of the guests discover your deception by midnight, Carl will concede victory to us.”

Too weird. “How many drinks did you two have before cooking up this bet?”

“One glass of brandy,” she said, taking him literally. “But I assure you we’re both very sober.”

No kidding. They’d turned a lovers’ spat into cold contract negotiations for spouse job descriptions. And maybe that was smart. He sure as hell knew impulse marriages were dumb.

Joe lifted his size-twelve sneaker and pointed the toe this way and that. “Midnight, huh? Think a glass slipper’ll fit?”

Her straight dark brows drew together.

Lowering his foot to the floor, he sighed. “Never mind. If someone finds me out, won’t you and Carl be embarrassed? Won’t your parents be—”

“Cinderella! I get it.” A delighted smile softened and lit her face.

He smothered a wave of uneasiness.
She’s a shrink,
he reminded himself.
She’ll probably never crack another smile the whole four weeks.

Reaching for his beer, Joe realized it was empty and recrossed his arms. “As I was saying, what happens if I’m recognized at this party? Granted, I spent a lot of time in the dugout, but it’s possible a real sports fan would remember me.”

“If you were a polo player maybe. Or even a tennis pro. But this crowd will be too highbrow to follow a sport like baseball.”

He made himself count to five before answering. “Yeah, those Columbia Star Suites in the Astrodome draw a pretty raunchy crowd. CEOs of major corporations, senators,
polo players
…” Noting her startled expression, he snorted. “We’re not talking mud wrestling, here, Catherine. Baseball is a sport for
all
fans. Young and old, rich and poor—snobs and just plain folk. Lord have mercy if that ever changes.”

She’d grown paler as he’d talked. “You’re absolutely right. I sounded just like Father. Please accept my apology.”

Joe nodded uncomfortably. He hadn’t meant to get on his soapbox. But she’d insulted baseball, dammit.

“Of course it’s possible someone could recognize you at the party,” she admitted. “Or that you could—that I won’t have done my job properly… Well, you know.”

“I’ll keep my pants on, if that’s what you mean,” he said dryly.

“I don’t anticipate a problem, but if you’re discovered, Carl and I will explain everything to the guests. You won’t be held responsible.”

“How comforting.” Unfolding his arms, Joe examined the fading callus on his glove hand. “Okay, Catherine, I think I have the general picture now. And I figure a month of my time to help you win this bet should be worth…oh, at least five grand.” He looked up. “Not including expenses.”

Her nostrils flared. “
Five grand?
You must be joking!”

“’Fraid not, doll.”

He thought of the rent due next week, Allie’s softball camp fees, the humiliating thong-bikini-endorsement
contract waiting to be signed. His agent had mailed out a slew of his sports-broadcasting demo tapes with no response. Yet a woman reporter in Chicago had salvaged his tape from the reject pile and forwarded it to a swimsuit manufacturer with immediate results.

Catherine twisted toward the bar. Joe followed her gaze, his hackles rising at the sight of Pretty Boy’s smug little smirk. When she turned back around, he steeled himself to hang tough.

“Let’s negotiate,” she said, her features taut.

Billiard balls clacked. A throaty love ballad wound down; a lively two-step started up. Yet Catherine’s gaze never wavered.

Joe was the first to look away. He glared at her nearly full beer, glad he hadn’t paid for it. “I have obligations. You have money. What’s the problem?”

“I told you, I
don’t
have money. If I did, I would have started my own practice years ago, instead of struggling to pay off student loans. Do you have any idea what research assistants earn?”

He glanced up, moved in spite of himself by the hint of desperation in her eyes. She was either a damn good actress, or honestly couldn’t afford his price.

“If you can’t offer money, Catherine, just how in hell
did
you expect to sucker someone into going along with your crazy scheme?”

Her gaze faltered, dropping to her tightly clasped hands. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. This whole thing sort of snowballed out of control.” She peeked up through surprisingly long lashes. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m usually very disciplined, very careful to consider all the facts before making a decision.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

Her lashes swept up, exposing her shy pleasure. “You do?”

She’d taken it as a compliment, and suddenly he was glad. All the fun had gone out of playing a goon.

“Sure I do. Everybody breaks loose and acts crazy sometimes. Guess this was your night.” He scooted back his chair and stood. “Now if you’re ready, we’ll chalk this up to a full moon and go about our separate—”

“Wait! We haven’t finished negotiating.”

There was that hint of desperation again. He frowned at her upturned face. “Let it go, Catherine. It’s just a stupid bet.”

“It’s
not
a stupid bet. Well, it is, but the principle it represents isn’t. Oh, I can’t
think
with you looming over me like that. Sit down. Please.”

He sat, cursing himself for a fool.

“Look, what you said earlier about Carl coming here specifically to find someone who would ‘flunk’ the bet…well, you were right. He simply can’t imagine anyone without a background and family tree similar to his being able to move comfortably among elite society.” Her expression gentled. “Frankly, Joe, right now you couldn’t.”

He grabbed the neck of her beer bottle, draining half the contents and suppressing his rising belch. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

She choked on a laugh. “I don’t blame you. Elite society is filled with boring people. But there’s no doubt in my mind that with four weeks of tutoring, you can be just as boring.”

“You mean just as good, don’t you?”

The teasing glint in her eyes faded. “No, I don’t. You would simply be proving a point. And you might find that having a little savoir faire—learning a bit about the arts and sophisticated pursuits—will open doors that would otherwise be closed. That could be of real benefit to someone in the job market.”

“I’d benefit from some
money,
dammit.” Spending four weeks just to get hoity-toity was nuts. It was time to cut his losses and go home. “I sure as hell don’t need savoir faire to work for the refinery.”

“You’re going to work for the refinery?”

“I’ve got a standing job offer.” He’d wear a thong bikini before accepting any position not related to sports, but Catherine didn’t have to know that.

She studied him shrewdly. “I can see that you’d hate working there, but at the same time you’re skeptical about the return on a four-week investment in my plan.”

A chill prickled his arms. Earl was right. She was a damn witch.

“I promise after we win the bet you’ll have employers standing in line to make you an offer—in the field of your choice.”

A damn
good
witch, Joe amended.

“Did you know that savoir faire means literally ‘to know how’? As Father says—” her expression turned snooty “—it separates those who
are
cosmopolitan from those who read
Cosmopolitan.
”

Her father sounded like a prick. “What
do you
say, Catherine?”

“Me?” She looked startled, as if no one asked her opinion much. “I believe we all have the power to change the circumstances of our birth, to become
whatever we choose. Winning this bet will show Father and Carl I’m right.”

Something about her intensity made him think there was more to it than that.

“And it will help you land that job you’re after,” she continued. “Coaching, perhaps? Sports broadcasting?” Her brow arched knowingly. “Ah, sports broadcasting.”

He hastily closed his mouth.

“I was running out of guesses,” she admitted with a chuckle. “Just think. Two candidates. Each knowledgeable about sports. One articulate, polished and experienced on camera. One articulate, polished and an ex-major-league player. Which candidate do you think the station manager knows will attract more viewers?”

She’d made one helluva case, he had to give her that.

A close-the-sale gleam entered her eyes. “I’d say that’s a pretty fair return on four weeks of your time, wouldn’t you?”

Still, a man had to be practical. “It won’t pay my rent next week.”

With a strangled sound of frustration, she yanked the beer bottle from his hand, tipped it to her mouth and threw back her head. Glossy hair slipped away, revealing an arched white throat. Sensual. Feminine. Totally uninhibited.

Joe stared at each rippling gulp and felt his blood head south again. A neck like that rated special attention. Starting at the delicate hollow where her pulse beat, then nibbling up to her smooth jawline—

She clunked the bottle down, snapping Joe out of his fantasy. He scrubbed his face in his palms.

“Did I mention the vacant apartment that comes with my offer?”

His head came up. “It must’ve slipped your mind.”

“It’s a darling little place.”

“I’m all ears.” Hell, he was Dumbo.

“Very cozy. Completely furnished. And it’s free.”

He could fly! “Where’s it located?”

“On the outskirts of Richmond College. Right behind our house, so you could walk up for lessons—”

“
Our
house?” Everything in him bristled.

“Actually it’s my father’s house, although I don’t see what difference…” She let the sentence trail off and followed the direction of his gaze. “Good heavens, no! I mean, Carl and I don’t…That is, I live with Father. It’s convenient for me to conduct my research where he keeps his private notes.” Her tone could’ve corroded batteries.

What was the story with these three?

She brightened. “He’ll lease the apartment to a student in the fall, but right now it’s just collecting dust.”

His thoughts were already rounding third base. His agent needed a place to park and think for a while. If he sublet his apartment to him for a month, he could tear up that thong-bikini-endorsement contract. And a little polish was exactly what several sports directors had said he lacked.

“What about expenses?”

“I’ll take care of lesson-related costs—tickets, gasoline, rentals and the like—but meals are your responsibility.”

He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but meals he could handle. Allie was a whiz at stretching hamburger…Oh, God, Allie. Lately she’d
been so moody he didn’t know what to expect from his little pal anymore.

“How many bedrooms did you say this apartment has?”

A wary glint entered Catherine’s eyes. “One. But it’s very large.”

“Is there a sofa bed by any chance?” He’d slept on worse, and it was only for a month.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Is there a pool?” Allie loved to swim.

“There’s a lap pool nearby…for adults only.” He could see her busy little mind working. “But the tennis courts are open to anyone,” she added hopefully.

Allie loved all sports. She’d be a natural at tennis. “If I did this, my daughter, Allie, would be living with me.”

“How old is she?”

He didn’t like the way she was biting her lip. “Twelve. Is that a problem? I mean, are there restrictions against children at this place?”