Dear Reader,
Spending the past year living with proper British headmistress Lady Emma Wells-Finch and Texas golf pro Kenny Traveler has been an adventure. Please believe me when I tell you that—each morning as I sat down to write—I never knew what these two would be up to! All I could do was hang on for the ride. I found Emma and Kenny funny, vulnerable, and completely maddening!
Many of you will notice the reappearance of Dallie Beaudine and Francesca Day Beaudine from my 1989 novel Fancy Pants. Getting reacquainted with these old lovers was a special joy, even though Dallie and Francesca make Kenny and Lady Emma’s lives so much more difficult!
I hope these characters who’ve become so dear to me bring you pleasure. Happy reading!
Acknowledgments
The community of those of us who write women’s fiction and romance is a tightly knit one. We support each other as well as our dynamic industry. As testimony, here are the special writers who helped guide me through this book and to whom I owe my gratitude.
Jill Barnett, always there for me. Stella Cameron, my prime consultant on “Brit speak.” Kristin Hannah, the best “title brainstormer” in the business. Jayne Ann Krentz, simply put—a goddess. Jill Marie Landis, who attended a very special race with me and said, “You have to write about this.” Cathie Linz and Lindsay Longford, my frequent touching stones and stimulating companions on “Dinner Nights Out.” Elizabeth Lowell, who is—I swear—a living encyclopedia. Meryl Sawyer, always generous and supportive to both me and our entire genre. Thank you all!
In addition, I continue to be proud to be part of the great romance tradition at Avon Books. Special thanks to Carrie Feron and everyone else at this wonderful publishing house who get my books on the shelves.
Once again, my husband, Bill, has served as my literary golf consultant and personal golf coach. He succeeds admirably at one of those jobs.
Thanks to Steve Axelrod, and to my readers who write me such lovely letters. My special gratitude to all the booksellers who’ve called my novels to the attention of their customers. Your personal touch is deeply appreciated.
Susan Elizabeth Phillips
c/o Avon Books, Inc.
1350 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10019
Contents
Acknowledgements
1 Kenny Traveler was lazy. That explained why he’d fallen . . .
2 “This isn’t a hotel.” Emma had dozed off, but now she was . . .
3 Emma had bought sex. She still couldn’t believe what she’d done.
4 Emma didn’t remember picking up the magazine, but it was . . .
5 As Emma walked into the hotel lobby toward Kenny, she saw . . .
6 The restaurant had been built in a rambling old house with . . .
7 “Surely your sister exaggerated,” Emma said. “Your mother . . .
8 Emma ate by herself that night. After announcing that Kenny . . .
9 Even though she knew she should put her time to better . . .
10 Kenny was scrupulously polite that evening as he drove to . . .
11 It wasn’t quite nine o’clock, and the lights were still on . . .
12 Emma was fuming by the time she’d finished breakfast.
13 “Kenny . . .” Emma’s blurred senses made it difficult to . . .
14 Emma stood just outside the barrier around the petting zoo . . .
15 Kenny couldn’t breathe as the ghosts of his past crashed . . .
16 Afterward, Emma was glad of the activity, all the . . .
17 As Emma walked next to Kenny along the less populated part . . .
18 Emma froze. “A duke?” Kenny said. “The Duke of . . .
19 Emma’s cheeks flamed. But she locked one arm around . . .
20 It didn’t take Kenny long to collar one of the airline . . .
21 Kenny couldn’t believe he’d fallen asleep, but one minute . . .
22 On the plane, Kenny buried himself in a book he’d . . .
23 The morning sun formed a corona behind him, this man . . .
24 As Kenny saw the stricken expres-sion on her face, he realized . . .
Epilogue
About The Author
About The Publisher
Copyright
To Carrie Feron, my guardian angel
Chapter 1
Kenny Traveler was lazy. That explained why he’d fallen asleep in TWA’s Ambassador Club at Dallas–Fort Worth Airport instead of promptly meeting British Airways Flight 2193 at the gate. Pure laziness, plus the fact that he didn’t want to meet Flight 2193.
Unfortunately, the entrance of a noisy pair of businessmen awakened him. He took his time stretching, then yawned for a while. A nice-looking woman in a short gray suit smiled at him, and he smiled back. He glanced at his watch and saw he was half an hour late. He yawned again. Stretched.
“Excuse me,” the woman said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but . . . you look so familiar. Aren’t you—”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.” He tilted his Stetson and gave her a grin that still had a little yawn clinging to the edges. “And I’m flattered you recognize me outside the rodeo ring. Most people don’t.”
She looked confused. “Rodeo? I’m sorry. I thought you were . . . You look so much like Kenny Traveler, the pro golfer.”
“Golfer? Me? Oh, no, ma’am. I’m way too young to play an old man’s game like golf. I like real sports.”
“But—”
“Rodeo. Now that’s a real sport. Football, too, and basketball.” He slowly unfolded all six feet two inches of himself from the chair. “When it comes to tennis, though, that’s when things start getting iffy. And golf isn’t something a real man wants to get too close to.”
The gray suit hadn’t been born yesterday, and she smiled. “Still, I seem to remember watching you win the AT&T and the Buick Invitational on TV this winter. I swear I thought Tiger was going to break into tears during that last round at Torrey Pines.” Her smile faded. “I still can’t believe that Commissioner Beau—”
“I’d appreciate it, ma’am, if you didn’t speak the name of the Antichrist in front of me.”
“Sorry. How long do you think your suspension’ll last?”
Kenny glanced down at his gold Rolex. “I guess that might depend on how long it takes me to get to British Airways?”
“Pardon?”
“Real nice talkin’ to you, ma’am.” He tipped his Stetson and ambled from the lounge.
One of his unhappy ex-girlfriends had pointed out that Kenny’s amble was really the closest thing he had to a full-out run. But Kenny’d never seen much point in wasting energy anyplace but on the golf course. He liked to take things slow and easy, although lately that had been tough.
He ambled past the newsstand, refusing to look at the newspapers that were carrying the story of his recent suspension by acting PGA Commissioner Dallas Fremont Beaudine, a suspension that was taking place in the middle of the hottest winning streak in the history of professional golf and was going to keep him from playing in the Masters less than two weeks away.
“Hey, Kenny.”
He nodded toward a businessman who had that over-eager expression people frequently wore when they spotted his semi-famous face. He could tell the man was from the north because he said his name all-proper instead of pronouncing it “Kinny” like God’s people did.
He kicked up his amble half a notch just in case the businessman took it in his head to relive Kenny’s triumphant final round at Bay Hill last month. A big-haired, tight-jeaned woman gave him the twice-over, but she didn’t look like a PGA fan, so Kenny figured it was his good looks had attracted her.
A former girlfriend had said that, if Hollywood ever made a movie of Kenny’s life,
the only star pretty enough to play him on the screen was Pierce Brosnan. That had sent Kenny right through the roof. Not because she’d called him pretty, which he could sort of understand, but her casting choice. He’d told her right then that the only way he’d ever let Pierce Brosnan play him was if they rumpled Pierce up first, got rid of that prissy foreign accent, then fed him enough chicken-fried steak so he didn’t look like the first storm out of West Texas would blow him over. But most of all, they’d have to teach old Pierce exactly how God intended for a man to swing a golf club.
All the walking was making him tired.
He stopped to rest at a cart selling nuts and candy, bought himself some Jelly Bellys, flirted just enough with the Mexican cutie working there to convince her to pull out the banana-flavored ones. Although he liked his Jelly Bellys mixed up, he didn’t like the banana, but, since it took too much effort to pull them out himself, he generally tried to talk someone else into doing it. If that didn’t work, he just ate ’em.
The British Airways gate was deserted, so he leaned against one of the support columns, pulled a handful of Jelly Bellys from the bag, and tilted them into his mouth while he thought about things, mainly how much he wanted to wring the neck of a certain Francesca Serritella Day Beaudine, celebrity wife of the Antichrist acting PGA commissioner, and a woman who was supposed to be his friend.
“Just do this one small favor for me, Kenny,” she’d said. “If you’ll take care of Emma for the next two weeks, I guarantee I’ll talk Dallie into cutting the length of your suspension. You’ll miss the Masters, but—”
“Now, how are you gonna do that?” he’d inquired.
“Never question my methods when it comes to dealing with my husband.”
He didn’t. Everybody knew that Francesa didn’t have to do much more than look at Dallie Beaudine to melt him down, even though they’d been married for twelve years.
A high-pitched child’s squeal, followed by a cheerful British voice, distracted him.
“Do let go of your sister’s hair, Reggie, or I shall be quite cross with you. And there’s no need to carry on so, Penny. If you hadn’t licked him, he wouldn’t have hit you.”
He turned around, then grinned as he saw a woman barreling around the corner with two young children in tow. The first thing he noticed was her hat, a perky little straw number with a turned-up brim and a cluster of cherries bobbing at the center. She wore a gauzy green skirt printed with roses and a loose-fitting rose-colored top that matched a pair of trim little flats.
In one hand she clutched a young boy, along with a purse the size of Montana. In the other hand, she held a mean-faced little girl, an umbrella that was printed with more flowers, and a raspberry-red tote bag bulging with newspapers, books, and another colorful umbrella. Her light brown hair curled this way and that from beneath the brim of her hat, and whatever makeup she’d started out the day with had long ago worn off.
Which was probably a good thing, Kenny decided, because even without lipstick, she had about the sexiest mouth he’d ever seen. It was wide, with a plump bottom lip, and a top lip that held a distinct bow at the center. Despite her frivolous clothing, her jaw was firm. But her cheeks were baby doll round, the bones fine. Her nose was a little narrow, but not narrow enough to make him lose interest, because she also had an amazing pair of thick-lashed golden brown eyes.
He mentally redressed her in a tight top, short skirt, and a pair of stiletto heels, then added black fishnet stockings for good measure. He’d never paid for sex in his life, but he decided he’d be more than happy to throw a little extra cash her way if she ever decided she needed to earn something on the side to pay for her kids’ orthodontics work.
To his surprise, she looked over at him. “Mr. Traveler?”
Fantasy was one thing, reality another, and as he gazed from her to the noisy kids, he got a sinking sensation in his stomach. The fact that she seemed to be expecting him indicated this could only be Lady Emma Wells-Finch, the woman Kenny had agreed to baby-sit for the next two weeks. But Francesca hadn’t mentioned anything about kids.
He realized too late that he’d automatically nodded in response to her question instead of heading right out of DFW and straight for his Caddy. Except he couldn’t do that because, more than anything, he needed to get back on the tour.
“Splendid!” She beamed. At the same time, she charged forward, skirts whirling, dragging the children and umbrellas, while her newspapers and magazines waved in the breeze and her butterscotch hair flew.
Just looking at her made him tired.
She let go of the little girl, grabbed Kenny’s hand, and began to pump it. For a small woman, she had a lot of pump. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Traveler.” The cherries bobbed on her perky straw hat. “Emma Wells-Finch.”
The little boy drew back his sneaker and, before Kenny could move, kicked him hard in the shin. “I don’t like you!”
Kenny glared at the kid, thought about smacking him, then considered smacking Francesca instead, right after he gave her his opinion of low-down blackmailers.
Lady Emma turned to the kid, but instead of whalin’ him like he deserved, she frowned. “Reggie, dear, take your finger out of your nose. It’s most unattractive, isn’t it? And apologize to Mr. Traveler.”
The kid wiped his finger on Kenny’s jeans.
Kenny was just getting ready to slam-dunk the little brat when a harried-looking woman came rushing up. “Thank you, Emma dear, for watching them for me. Reggie, Penelope, were you good for Miss Wells-Finch?”
“Perfect angels,” Lady Emma replied, her tone so sincere that Kenny choked on the sour apple Jelly Belly that had been lurking in the corner of his mouth.
Lady Emma ended up pounding him on the back. Unfortunately, she pounded like she pumped hands, and he swore to God he felt a rib crack. When he got his breath back, the Children of the Damned had disappeared, along with their mother.
“Well . . .” Lady Emma smiled at him. “Here we are.”
Kenny felt dizzy. Part of it might have been his busted rib, but most of it was trying to get his mind to make the connection between all that upper crust British cheer and a face that should have a streetlight shining down on it.
While Kenny was recovering, Emma made an assessment of her own. As the headmistress of St. Gertrude’s School for Girls for the past two years, in addition to having been a teacher there, as well as a St. Gert’s student from the time she was six, she had grown accustomed to sizing people up quickly. It only took her a moment to conclude that this All-American cowboy was exactly what she needed—a man with more good looks than character.
Crisp black hair curled from beneath the brim of a biscuit-colored Stetson that looked so at home on his head it might have been permanently attached. His navy T-shirt, printed with a Cadillac logo, displayed a more than respectable chest, and faded jeans molded to narrow hips and legs that were both lean and muscular. She noted the hand-tooled cowboy boots. They were nicely broken in, but she wasn’t surprised to see that they didn’t seem to have come close to a load of manure. He had a thin blade of a nose, strong cheekbones, a well-formed mouth, and straight white teeth. And his eyes. The color of wild hyacinths and marsh violets. Outrageous for a man to have eyes like that.
Her cursory inspection also told her everything she needed to know about his character. She saw indolence in his slouching posture, arrogance in the angle of his head, and the flicker of something unmistakably carnal in those half-lidded marsh violet eyes.
She repressed a small shiver. “Let’s be off, then, Mr. Traveler. You’re a bit late, aren’t you? I do hope no one has taken my luggage.” She extended her carry-all for him to take, but she hit his chest instead. The Times fell out, along with the new biography of Sam Houston she’d been reading, and one of the chocolate bars her hips didn’t need, but which she enjoyed nonetheless.
She bent to pick everything up just as he took a step forward. Her straw brim bumped his knee, and her hat flew off to join
the pile on the floor.
She set it back over her unruly curls. “Sorry.” She wasn’t normally clumsy, but she’d been so distracted by her troubles lately that her best friend, Penelope Briggs, told her she was in imminent danger of turning into one of those “dotty, dear things” so beloved by British mystery writers.
The idea of becoming a “dotty, dear thing” when she was barely thirty depressed her unbearably, so she didn’t let herself think about it. Besides, if everything went according to plan, that worry would disappear.
He didn’t help collect her possessions, nor did he offer to take her carry-all when she was done, but how much initiative could one expect from a man who had been born so physically blessed?
“Let’s be off, then.” She pointed the proper direction with her rolled umbrella.
She had nearly reached the end of the gate area before she realized he wasn’t following her. She turned to see what was wrong.
He was staring at her extended brolly. It was a perfectly ordinary brolly, and she couldn’t imagine why he seemed so mesmerized by it. Maybe he was more slow-witted than she’d originally thought.
“You . . . uh . . . always point the direction like that?” he asked.
She glanced down at her floral brolly and wondered what on earth he was talking about. “We need to go to luggage claim,” she explained patiently, jiggling the handle just a bit for emphasis.
“I know that.”
“Well, then?”
He developed a slightly dazed look. “Never mind.”
Once he began to move, she set off. Her gauzy skirt swirled around her legs, and a lock of hair blew across her cheek. She probably should have taken a few minutes to tidy up a bit before she’d got off the plane, but she’d been so busy entertaining the children who were seated across from her that she hadn’t thought of it.
“Mr. Traveler, it occurs to me . . .” She realized she was talking to herself.
She stopped, looked back, and spotted him gazing into the window of a souvenir shop. She stood patiently tapping her foot while she waited for him to join her.
Lady Be Good Page 1
