by Jan Freed
Special Books by Special Writers The Book:
My Fair Gentleman
A contemporary, provocative and just plain funny story about changing your life—and other people’s. This is a book to be read and reread. A book to cherish.
The Characters:
Catherine Eliza Hamilton. A lady (actually, an engaged lady). A dedicated psychologist who’s in danger of being turned into “the perfect hostess.” Faultlessly polite, compulsively neat, she’s also (of all things) a pool hustler And a woman who takes risks…
Joe Tucker. An ex-baseball player who’s looking for a new job—one that doesn’t entail modeling underwear. A single father who’s never quite picked up the knack of parenting. A man’s man—a woman’s sex object. And definitely not housebroken.
The Author:
Jan Freed first burst onto the Superromance scene in May 1995, and readers can’t stop talking about her! Her first novel—Too Many Bosses—is nominated for three Romantic Times awards, and she’s still getting fan letters about her second. The Texas Way.
“Jan Freed…has a truly gifted light touch with characters who still manage to tug at the reader’s heart.”
—Alexandra Thorn
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jan Freed is proud to write in a genre that “presents a hopeful view of life without diminishing its hardships.” A huge fan of musical theater, Jan enjoyed creating her own Americanized and modernized version of My Fair Lady with the roles reversed. “In writing Catherine and Joe’s story, I realized that the strongest romantic partnerships are forged by a willingness to learn from each other, In other words, mutual respect.”
Jan lives in Texas with her husband and two children. She loves to hear from readers and invites you to write her at P.O. Box 5009-572, Sugar Land, Texas, 77487.
My Fair Gentleman
Jan Freed
With love and thanks to my parents,
Alta and Vilbry White
For giving me the confidence to try,
a belief in “happily ever after”
and a normal name
CHAPTER ONE
CATHERINE ELIZA HAMILTON swallowed hard as the duck à I’orange sitting in her stomach threatened to take wing up her throat. If anyone had told her two hours ago she’d wind up in a dive like The Pig’s Gut, she would have choked on her cognac.
Glancing toward the adjacent bar stool, she noted her fiancé’s expression and mentally cringed. Carl was feeling particularly smug tonight. And why not? Driving from the posh Houston restaurant to this small industrial town had been a brilliant tactical move.
She should have set recruiting rules of course. Or at least tried to slant the odds in her favor. Instead, she’d let anger overcome a mind trained in the science of emotional processes. Some psychologist she was. No wonder Carl had seemed amused at dinner by the idea of her establishing a private counseling practice. She’d “counseled” herself into a situation Freud would have sold his id to analyze. Catherine sniffed in self-disgust.
Flat beer, acrid smoke and the smell of male bodies straight from a shift at the oil refinery made her wrinkle her nose. The noise was almost as bad. A country-and-western tune hissed and crackled from an ancient jukebox. Billiard balls clacked. Gruff voices cursed or whooped according to the shot.
Who would have thought Carl Wilson, heir to one of the oldest fortunes in Houston, would have known this hole-in-the-wall existed? Then again, who would have predicted he’d ask her out at all, much less propose marriage after only three months of dating? No one but his parents, that was for sure.
Carl had been disarmingly candid from the beginning. After two failed marriages with beautiful bim-bos, he had to choose a “suitable” wife and provide grandchildren soon, or be cut from his parents’ financial cord once and for all. So this time he’d looked deeper than superficial beauty. This time he’d bypassed lovelier candidates and chosen Catherine for what was in her heart.
Her blue blood.
A fair exchange, all things considered. She was thirty-two years old and both plainer and smarter than most men liked. She’d always longed to have children, and now she had a shot at starting both a family and a new career.
Impatience set her fingertips drumming on the bar. She wished Carl would hurry up and select a guinea pig. One beer-swilling, belly-scratching Cro-Magnon would do as well as another.
“Why not just take the shirt off my back!”
Catherine swiveled her bar stool toward the bellowing voice.
A dark-haired giant of a man whacked down his cue stick, grabbed the hem of his baseball jersey and jerked it over his head. Muscles rippled and stretched. A garish tattoo flashed on one arm.
“How ‘bout my pants, too? They should be worth a few bucks.” He reached for his belt and fumbled with the buckle.
Uh-oh. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe Carl wasn’t watching the spectacle. Maybe he’d spotted himself in the mirror behind the bar.
“I’ve decided,” Carl said in her ear, excitement lending a shrill edge to his voice.
She pressed her eyelids tighter. “Which one?”
Guffaws and whistles broke out in the room. Carl chortled in triumph. “The one mooning his opponent at the second table!”
Wincing, Catherine cracked open one lid and stared through a carcinogenic haze. Bare buttocks glowed red beneath a neon Budweiser sign.
She closed her eye and thought rapidly. No good to panic. On the civilization scale, the man was an amoeba. But the stakes were too high for her to back down now.
Resting his chin on her shoulder from behind, Carl slipped both arms around her midriff and rubbed his dark blond hair against her cheek. “You know, darling, you can still call off this whole thing. Dr. Hamilton would definitely not approve, and he trusted me to take care of you this summer.”
The pleasant tingle his uncharacteristic caress evoked vanished. “Dr. Hamil—Father won’t ever have to know about our little wager, unless you tell him.” Catherine pried away Carl’s forearms and swiveled to face her handsome fiancé. “Are you afraid I’ll win?”
His condescending smile reflected forty years of too much money and too little challenge. “You constantly amaze me, Catherine. By all means, if you insist on conducting this experiment, go ahead.” He waved his hand airily and propped an elbow on the bar. “I can’t wait to watch you try and convince your subject to cooperate.”
You and me, both. Catherine slipped off the stool and nervously smoothed her black linen sheath. How did one sway a man who looked as if “fee, fie, fo, fum” were the extent of his vocabulary?
Carl reached out suddenly and caught her hand, his expression earnest. “If .he gives you any trouble, darling, I’ll be here.”
Although fit and trim, her fiancé only stood nose to nose with her own five feet nine inches. She squeezed his fingers with a rush of affection.
“Thanks, Carl. That’s nice to know.” Turning, she faced at least a dozen death-row-inmate stares.
Her chin came up. Her aristocratic mask came down. Fixing her gaze above billed caps and cowboy hats, she located her quarry. He’d managed to pull up his jeans, thank heavens.
The man stood bare-chested, his arms crossed and boots planted wide. Thick black eyebrows pulled together to form a V. A square dark-shadowed jaw angled aggressively. His bold nose appeared to have been broken at some point in his questionable past.
He needed a haircut, a shave and a strong cup of coffee, from the looks of his bleary expression and swaying stance.
His opponent, a scrawny grizzle-haired man clutching a baseball jersey, shook the fisted material high. “Dammit, Joe! I’m the best man with a cue this town ever seen, and you know it. You had no call to make me play, ‘specially with you bettin’ mon
ey you don’t have. Now go on home and sleep it off.”
“Joe” was muscular without being muscle-bound and at least six foot four. Maybe taller.
As Catherine drew nearer, she began to feel almost petite. It was a new unsettling experience.
“Don’ wan’ your charity.” Joe scowled fiercely. “I can take you, Earl—double or nothin’.”
“You got a dry well for brains, son? I said go home.” Earl flung the jersey on the table. “I ain’t gonna play you.”
Joe’s biceps bulged, his forearms corded, his long fingers curled into fists. He clenched his jaw and shifted slightly. The garish tattoo on one arm sharpened into red-and-blue dancing teddy bears.
Staring, Catherine walked smack into a billiard table and had to brace her palms on the felt top to catch her balance. Catcalls and whistles rang in her ears.
“Another one bites the dust, Joe.”
“This one fell harder’n most.”
“Think what she’d do for an autograph, lover boy.”
Her cheeks burned. Then a hard arm was draping her shoulder, steadying her. She tilted her head back and stared into deep brown eyes warm with concern—and so bloodshot they were painful to view.
“You okay, miss?”
He smelled like a brewery. “I—I’m fine, thank you.” She lifted the oak log of his arm from her shoulders and stepped back. Several voices urged Joe to follow.
His expression darkened. He swept a meaningful look full circle, waited for the clack of ivory and rumble of conversation to resume, then looked back at her.
“I’m not usually so clumsy,” she admitted. “But then, it’s not every day I see a tattoo like yours.”
He glanced down at his arm as if startled. A dull flush stained his neck. “It’s, urn, practice,” he mumbled. “My, um, daughter. You know…for a carnival?”
She blinked.
“You know…face-painting booth? To raise money for her softball team.”
Catherine didn’t know. A fund-raising carnival—or any kind of carnival, for that matter—was beyond her sheltered experience.
His flush deepened. He looked somewhere over her shoulder and shrugged. “Didn’t expect to shuck my shirt.”
Recalling his naked bottom, she felt her lips twitch. “Those bears wouldn’t have been safe anywhere, to-night.”
His dark gaze snapped to hers and lit with devilment. One corner of his mouth lifted in a rakish grin. He was as swarthy as a pirate and certainly as cocky. And suddenly she wished Carl had picked anyone in the bar but this man.
“I’m Catherine Hamilton,” she said, extending her hand.
He reached out simultaneously, his hair-dusted chest filling her vision. “Joe Tucker.”
Her hand disappeared, swallowed to the wrist by his grasp. Against his bronzed skin her forearm looked pale and fragile. Flustered, she withdrew her fingers. No wedding ring on his left hand, though he’d mentioned a daughter. No telltale tan line, either. Divorced? She hoped so. A wife would complicate things.
Cloth whizzed past her face. Joe snatched the bundle from midair with lightning reflexes.
“Mind your manners and put your shirt on, fool,” Earl commanded. “Can’t you see she’s a lady?”
The words had a startling effect. All traces of affability fled as Joe pulled the wrinkled Astros jersey over his head. Propping his knuckles on his hips, he cocked his head. “What’re you doing here, Catherine Hamilton? Looking for excitement on the wrong side of the tracks?”
Yes. But not the way he meant. She drew a calming breath. “I’d like to talk with you in private.”
His lids drooped. He gave her a leisurely head-totoe inspection. “Sorry, doll. You’re not my type.”
So what else is new? “Ditto, beefcake. Now, can we talk—or not?”
“Not.” He turned to the billiard table and began plunking balls into a triangular rack. “So what d’ya say, Earl? Double or nothin’?”
The infernal man was going to ruin everything for her!
“I done said I won’t play you, Joe, so quit askin’.”
“How about me?” Catherine blurted.
Both men’s heads whipped around.
She held Earl’s incredulous gaze. “Eight ball, regulation rules. If I win, Joe’s debts are wiped clean. If I lose, I’ll pay you double his current losses, whatever they are, and leave you both in peace—”
“Wait the hell one minute,” Joe interrupted, his eyes narrowed. “What do you get outta this, lady?”
A long story. Too long to explain now. “Your charming undivided attention for fifteen minutes.” She arched a brow and looked from one man to the other. “Well, boys, what d’ya say? Double or nothing?”
JOE LEANED against the paneled wall and chugged from a long-neck beer. Not that it helped any. His pleasant buzz was history, thanks to a stranger meddling in his business.
He’d driven to The Pig’s Gut knowing the regulars would lynch any sports reporter daring to shove a microphone up his nose. After all, he was a local legend, the first major-league baseball player Littleton had ever produced. If their boy Tucker wanted to get wasted in private, they’d see to it he could.
It was his own fault they’d let Catherine Hamilton get near him. He’d never met a woman he didn’t like. They’d heard him say so over and over, and it was true, except for a certain type of bored socialite—the “ladies” who pursued him behind their husbands’ backs in private, but looked right through him in public.
During eight seasons with the Houston Astros, he’d learned to keep his nose—and other important appendages—out of tight spots that could spell trouble. In the end he’d still screwed up.
His celebrity status had fallen a bit once news was out that his contract hadn’t been renewed. But not as much as he’d deserved. Grimacing, Joe plunked his empty Lone Star bottle on the concrete floor.
He was thirty-four and his career was over, destroyed along with the cartilage of his left knee on a ski slope this past winter. Tomorrow he would assume full responsibility of his daughter for the first time in twelve years. And he was dead broke. A man couldn’t sink much lower.
Don’t look now, Tucker, but you’re letting a woman try to clear your debt.
Resettling against the wall, he glared at Earl. The inveterate pool hustler had won the break and was positioning the cue ball. Catherine stood to one side, her expression disinterested as Earl bridged his cue stick and took aim. The shattering crack of the opening break didn’t even make her blink.
Something wasn’t right. There’d been no sultry glances Joe’s way. No accidental touches. No hair tossed coyly out of her face. He focused on details that had escaped him before.
A tall thin body in a shapeless black dress. Discreet gold jewelry. Straight black hair swept back from her face with a tortoiseshell headband. A longish nose, hollow cheeks and extremely pale skin. Definitely not a beauty. And yet…
She looked up and met his gaze. Challenge, determination and keen intelligence blazed from her light green eyes with laser-beam impact.
“Get out your wallet, miss,” Earl said, cackling. “You’re gonna need it soon.”
She turned again to the table, and Joe released his breath.
“Excuse me if I don’t rush,” she said dryly.
“Suit yourself.” Earl drew back his cue stick and let fly. A solid orange ball dropped into the side pocket. Moving farther down the rail, he lined up a second shot. “Two in the corner,” he called, sending the solid blue ball rocketing home.
Catherine watched poker-faced while Earl shuffled here and hunched there over his cue, slamming or finessing balls into pockets at will. One by one, players from nearby tables abandoned their own game to watch the master at work. Within minutes, only the eight ball and a solid red ball stood between Earl and more money than he made in a month at the refinery.
Scanning Catherine’s seven striped balls, Joe accepted the inevitable with a twinge of disappointment. He’d been curious as to what she
wanted to talk about. Now he would always wonder.
Propping his cue stick against the rail, Earl made a show of chalking the tip. “Sorry t’hafta do this, Miss Hamilton, but you can’t say you wasn’t warned.”
Catherine moved into the light from a bare bulb hanging over the table. “Don’t apologize, Earl.” Her eyes flashed with catlike luminosity. “You’re going to miss the next shot.”
Billy Tremont raised the bill of his Texaco cap and grinned. “Hooee, listen to her, would ya?”
Skeeter Johnson snickered around a wad of chewing tobacco. “He’s shakin’ in his boots, ain’t ya, Earl?”
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.”
