by Jan Freed
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.”
CATHERINE 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.”
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.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE 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.”
