by Jan Freed
“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?”
“No.”
“You don’t sound too sure of that.”
“No,” she said more forcefully. “In fact, the management loves children.”
He searched her face, reassured by the honest conviction he saw there. “I must be crazy,” he muttered to himself.
“You mean you’ll do it?”
“I have to tie up some loose ends in the next couple of days, and I can’t commit before then, but if everything falls into place—”
The impact of her lithe body hitting his chest whooshed the air from his lungs. Slim arms circled his neck and squeezed. He registered soft skin, silky hair, a flowery scent—and then Catherine drew back.
“Thank you, Joe! I promise you won’t regret your decision.”
Watching her smile light up the dingy pool hall, Joe had a sick feeling he already did.
“I WONT GO!” Allie slammed the door hard enough to rattle her row of softball trophies.
Stalking to her dresser, she moved the tallest trophy a fraction to the left and rubbed the brass-plate inscription: Allison Tucker, Most Valuable Player. Instead of feeling her usual burst of pride, she blinked back the horrible sting of tears.
The doorknob rattled. “C’mon Allie, it’s only for a month. It’ll be fun.”
Fun. Joe’s solution to everything from her earliest memory, from the time she’d actually believed in magic. She glared at the door. “You go on, then. I’ll stay here with Norman.”
“You can’t, honey. Norman needs time alone since Doris kicked him out. Besides, I’d miss you too much. You’re my best pal, remember?” His deep voice was sentimental, wheedling.
She closed her eyes against the images crowding her mind. Making ice-cream sundaes for dinner on Gram’s bingo night, playing hooky from school to share popcorn at a movie—saving a place at her team awards banquet for a father who never showed up.
“Allie, please open the door.”
The ache in her chest moved higher, swelling her throat. Her stomach churned worse than before a big game. She wanted to fling the door open and throw herself into Joe’s strong arms. She wanted to fling the door open and scream the bitter words clogging her windpipe.
“Allie?”
She wanted to be a little kid again, too dumb to know anything about anything.
The silence stretched. Joe sighed, then walked away.
Released, Allie dove for the top of her bed and buried her face in a pillow. The tears she’d been holding back burst free. Why had Gram married that snowbird and moved to Minnesota? Didn’t she know her granddaughter needed her? Depended on her, if not for love and approval, at least for adult common sense?
Now Joe wanted to pack up and move to some place Allie’d never heard of, away from her friends, away from Tommy Burton in apartment 34C. And for what? Some stupid plan some stupid lady’d made that might help Joe get some stupid job. He wasn’t a Houston Astros player anymore, he’d told her, and she would bet her MVP trophy Gram didn’t know. If she did, she never would’ve left two days ago. Allie clenched her soaked pillowcase and gave in to a fresh surge of tears. Why couldn’t things stay the same?
Stretching out her arm, she groped blindly, connected with a soft shape and dragged it close. The stuffed monkey was the closest she’d come to having a pet. Joe had won it for her last year at her softball team’s annual carnival.
Yesterday, when she’d practiced face painting on his arm, he’d promised to win her another animal at this year’s fund-raiser. It was one promise she believed. After all, hadn’t he wiped out the tower of bottles on his first throw last year? Her friends had said later what a cool father he was. And they were half-right. He was strong and cute and a super athlete and way cool about blowing off rules and making people laugh.
But he was no father. At least, not like her friends had.
Flipping onto her back, Allie sniffed hard and gritted her teeth. She hated crying. Only wusses cried. But lately she was out of con
trol. A real loser.
Like when Tommy’d smiled at her by the pool twenty-six hours and forty minutes ago, and she’d giggled like a demented hyena. If he hadn’t already thought she wasn’t worth his super-fine smile, he sure did now. Sarah Sokol had whispered something to him behind her hand, and they’d both laughed. Allie wanted to die just thinking about it.
Lifting the hem of her T-shirt, she scrubbed her face and frowned at the Boyz II Men poster on her wall. Joe’d said his teacher lady friend was real classy. That she’d show him how to act like he’d grown up in a mansion, instead of a run-down shack behind Big Joe’s filling station. Anyone who could teach a guy all that fancy stuff probably knew a lot about girl stuff, too.
Allie lay quietly, feeling more like herself by the minute. She would quit being a baby and face facts. Joe was Joe. She was old enough to take care of herself—and him, too. He needed her.
Swinging her legs to the stained beige carpet, she walked to the door and stood finger-combing her snarled hair, instead of brushing it. Gram would’ve thrown a hissy fit, but Joe wouldn’t notice. Pulling her door open, she moved down the hall and stopped short of the den entrance.
Just like every morning, Joe sat reading the sports page in his old recliner, his bare feet sticking out well past the footrest. He’d dragged his favorite cutoffs and tank top out of the dirty clothes hamper. Again. She’d have to sneak them into the wash before the neighbors complained.
From the looks of the teddy bears on his arm, he hadn’t showered after getting home last night. A bowl of soggy cereal sat on one chair arm. The other supported his tightly clutched beer. He looked scruffy, tired and…sad.
She’d hurt him, Allie realized with a start. Both of him. The playmate she adored and the man who’d disappointed her so many times over the years. Her wonderful impossible dad.
He glanced up and noticed her in the doorway. “Hi there.”
“Hi.”
“Feeling a little better?”
She nodded, hating this awkward politeness.
“Good.” His gaze sharpened. “Then who was named most valuable player for the 1974 World Series? There’s a hamburger in it for the winner.”
