My Fair Gentleman

by Jan Freed

  Glancing over her shoulder at the wall clock, Catherine winced and massaged her tender neck muscles. Curiosity didn’t always kill the cat. Sometimes it just injured.

  Her tenants’ many trips up and down the apartment stairs yesterday had been clearly visible from her office window—if she twisted her head just so. When Joe had spun around unexpectedly and headed for her back kitchen door, she’d nearly sprained her ankle scrambling away from the closed miniblinds.

  Foolish, really. He couldn’t possibly have seen her, despite the knowing glance he’d directed at her window.

  She’d taken her sweet time answering his knock. Then wished she could slam the door on his cocky smirk. Instead, she’d invited him inside to wait while she retrieved the apartment keys he requested from her office.

  Inhaling deeply, Catherine closed her eyes at the heavenly aroma of baking cinnamon rolls. The man couldn’t say her kitchen smelled like a hospital today. When Joe arrived for his lesson, every salivary gland in his mouth would activate. Just the ticket for establishing a cooperative mood. She hoped.

  Humming under her breath, she set the smokedglass breakfast table and centered an arrangement of her father’s look-but-don’t-touch hybrid tea roses. The ones Carl had scolded her for picking just last night. A shrill buzz startled the frown from her face. The cinnamon rolls!

  Five minutes later she fanned all twelve on a china serving platter and drizzled them with icing. Another glance at the clock sent her rushing to the refrigerator for a glass pitcher of orange juice. Setting it on the table, she stepped back and cocked her head. There. The stage was set. Where was the leading man?

  Casting a hopeful look out the window above the sink, she sighed. No Bronco in sight. Perhaps he’d stopped for gas or a newspaper.

  She refolded the linen napkins and angled them this way and that. Pulled an only marginally perfect rose from the vase and tossed it in the trash. Dashed into the bathroom and freshened her lipstick.

  Time passed. Wandering to her office, she opened the miniblinds and settled behind her mahogany desk where she had an unobstructed view of the driveway. What could be keeping him? She forced herself to relax and decided to pay bills. When the last envelope was sealed, she sprang up and returned to the kitchen.

  Could he have been in an accident? Surely he would’ve called her by now if he could, knowing she’d expected him an hour and a half ago.

  At the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway, she stopped pacing and ran to the window. A blue Bronco, thank God. Smoothing her black tunic T-shirt over matching leggings, she took a deep breath and reminded herself she was a professional, trained to listen before jumping to conclusions.

  A large shadow blocked the kitchen door’s frosted window. Three loud knocks rattled the frame. Flinging the door open, she noted the conspicuous absence of blood, bruises or bandages.

  “You’re late,” she said, unable to keep the hard edge from her tone.

  Joe looked startled, then wary. Flipping off his Astros cap, he shoved back his shaggy dark hair, resettled his cap and tugged down the bill. “Good morning to you, too.”

  “Morning? Morning was one and a half hours ago, the time we agreed to start your session.” She eyed his disreputable army green tank top and gym shorts, the bits of damp grass clinging to his calves and sneakers. “Obviously something more important came up.”

  Following her gaze downward, he toed off his shoes and stamped large, startlingly white bare feet. “Allie’s coach asked me to give a few pointers to the kids. Guess I lost track of time.”

  His boyish shrug and crooked smile were undeniably appealing—and far too practiced to her discerning eye. Catherine had no doubt they’d served him well over the years.

  “Are those cinnamon rolls I smell?” He sniffed the air and peered over her shoulder. The grin he flashed this time reflected genuine delight. “Hey, would you look at that table! This is great. I didn’t eat breakfast before I left.” Starting forward, he pulled up short when she moved to block the doorway.

  “I don’t recall inviting you in.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He ducked his head endearingly. “Sorry.”

  Somehow she managed to hold both her ground and his expectant dark gaze without wavering.

  “May I come in?” he asked finally, his voice a bit strained.

  “No.”

  His eyes rounded. “No?”

  “No.”

  He thrust out his unshaven jaw and straightened to his full height. She wondered if he always fell back on intimidation when his attempts to charm failed.

  “We had an appointment,” he reminded her grimly.

  “That’s right, we did. You missed it. Maybe I could’ve rearranged my schedule if you’d called about your delay. But as it is, I’ve got other things to do now.”

  He braced a palm high on the door frame, his biceps swelling. “I didn’t miss the appointment. I was late. What’s the big deal?”

  His body curved loverlike above her—powerful, dominating, smelling of new-mown grass and musky male. Her skin prickled. Only years of self-discipline enabled her to focus on his question.

  “Being late shows you’re not committed to winning the bet, and that affects three lives. Mine, yours—and Allie’s. She’s a very big deal, in my opinion.”

  He stepped back suddenly and turned around, staring toward the rosebushes lining the cedar fence. A mockingbird’s full-throated song rose and fell.

  “I already apologized,” he muttered. “What the hell more do you want?”

  She released her pent-up breath. If it had been just her future at stake she might’ve eased up. But memory of Allie’s pleading face drove Catherine on. “Turn around, Joe.”

  He grew very still.

  “Please.”

  Shaking his head, he turned, a sorely tried man humoring the little woman.

  “You didn’t lose track of time, Joe. For some reason, you wanted to be late.” The emotion in his eyes flickered so fast she almost missed it. “You were afraid,” she stated with a flash of insight.

  He paled beneath his tan. “That’s crazy.”

  “No. It’s a rational, valid feeling.”

  “I’m not—I wasn’t afraid. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Why not?”

  He propped his knuckles on lean hips and snorted, as if to say, Look at me.

  She did. He stood with the easy masculine arrogance of a superb athlete, his size and physical strength undeniably impressive.

  “So what are you saying?” she challenged. “That a big strong guy like you can’t be afraid? Or at least, that you shouldn’t be?” From his expression, that was exactly what he thought. She huffed softly. “Give yourself a break, macho man. Experiencing a feeling of weakness doesn’t make you weak. People are afraid all the time. It’s how we humans react to fear that makes us strong or weak.”

  A light glimmered and faded in his eyes, returning as a cynical gleam. He executed a mocking bow. “Thank you, Dr. Hamilton, for clearing that up for me. I feel so much more in touch now with my feminine self. Or is it my inner child breaking free?”

  “My money’s on the brat,” she said wryly. “And I’m not a practicing counselor. Yet.”

  He bowed again, this time with grudging respect, and studied her a long moment. “You’re really not going to start my lessons today, are you?”

  She already had, but fortunately he was oblivious. “I told you, I have other things to do. Life doesn’t revolve around your whims or convenience, no matter how much you’d like to think so.”

  Supremely indifferent, he squinted up at the sun. “Beautiful day.” He slanted her a casual look. “Think I’ll drive to Galveston and check out the beach action. I can work on my tan and still make it back to the Y before softball camp is over.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. If you don’t lose track of time, that is.” Bending over, she plucked his sneakers from the flagstone patio and dangled them out from two fingertips. “The sand gets pretty
hot. Wouldn’t want you to burn your feet.”

  He stepped forward and snatched the shoes from her hand, his glittering stare promising retribution. She waited until he’d turned and was halfway across the patio before calling, “Oh, Joe?”

  He stopped, his back muscles bunched with tension.

  “We start tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp. No shoes, no proper shirt—no service. A shower wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  His free hand clenched and unclenched once. Without acknowledging her in any other way, he continued on toward the apartment stairs.

  Catherine closed the kitchen door and slowly walked to the table. Lifting the pitcher of orange juice from a puddle of condensation, she poured herself a glass, pinched off a piece of brittle white icing from a cinnamon roll and popped it into her mouth. The sugary confection melted on contact.

  She’d more than likely just robbed herself of a private counseling practice, Catherine realized, staring into a whorl of rose petals. Yet concern for Allie had left her no choice. Her goading remarks had been catalysts for change, necessary risks. Well, most of them, anyway. She probably should’ve resisted that last dig about the shower.

  If Joe accepted the concept that his “self” and his feelings were two separate entities—and Catherine thought she’d seen a breakthrough—they could move on to exploring deeper issues. Like what motivated his fear. And why his daughter expected him to disappoint her. And of course, how a blue-collar jock could transform into a member of the beau monde in twenty-eight days.

  She had no idea if Joe would even show up tomorrow after the tough stand she’d taken. Everything hinged on whether or not the seed she’d planted today would germinate. Or whether he was rooted too deep in never-never land to ever grow up.

  JOE COMBED BACK his wet hair, turned away from the mirror and spread his arms wide. “So what d’ya think? Will she let me in the door this morning?”

  Juliet blinked once from her perch on the toilet tank and let out an approving meow.

  “She speaks.” Grinning, Joe sank to one knee and clasped a hand over his heart. “‘O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a wingèd messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes of mortals…that fell—that fall back to…to…’ et cetera, et cetera.”

  He rose, sucked in a breath and hitched up his jeans. “Yep. Playing Romeo got me more dates in high school than playing ball. Betcha didn’t know I was so talented.”

  Juliet stretched her elegant black paws and yawned, her tongue pink and curled.

  “Everyone’s a critic,” Joe mumbled, turning back to the mirror. He rubbed a speck of dried shaving cream from his chin, smoothed his cowlick, met his own anxious eyes—and snorted.

  Unbelievable. That self-righteous stick of a woman had him worried about passing muster. Him. A guy who hadn’t been rejected since Lindy McGehee decked him for looking up her dress while she skipped rope.

  Shoving his blue cambric shirttail into his jeans, he stalked into the kitchen and jerked open the refrigerator door. Juliet streaked up and wove a sensual figure eight through his legs.

  “The doctor could take a lesson from you,” Joe said, knowing it was a lie.

  He’d admired Catherine’s graceful way of moving from the first. In all honesty, he didn’t think she looked like a stick, either. Her tall slim body had intriguing hints of softness. And there was the rub, or rather, lack of it. Because while he’d been fighting a surprising urge to make her purr, she’d been finding him offensive.

  Her crack about his taking a shower still stung.

  Juliet meowed impatiently.

  “All right, all right. Don’t get snippy. There’s something in here with your name on it.” He wouldn’t even have to sneak it behind Allie’s back, since he’d already driven her to the Y.

  Pulling a plastic container from the refrigerator, he popped open the lid. Juliet instantly collapsed on his cowboy boots. He looked down into rapt green eyes.

  “Does Romeo know you’re this easy?”

  She rolled to her back in a decadent sprawl.

  Munching on a cold fish stick, Joe almost felt sorry for the big tomcat he’d let outside earlier. He dropped a second stick into Juliet’s bowl and watched the cat spring up, all trace of sultriness gone now that she’d gotten what she wanted.

  “Women,” he muttered, closing the refrigerator door and washing his hands.

  He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to nine. His stomach lurched. This was worse than confronting his dad after a three-error little League game. At least Big Joe’s reaction had been predictable. Joe would gladly trade hours of practice without supper for whatever awaited him this morning. Everyone knew facing unpleasantness wasn’t his style. Yet no one had ever accused him of being afraid.

  Until Catherine.

  Her penetrating gaze had seen through both his smile and his bluster right to the core of his fear. Somehow the fact that she recognized him for a coward had calmed the panic he couldn’t explain, the instinct to flee that usually followed. And damned if she hadn’t cinched his cooperation by bringing Allie into the picture.

  Unlatching the front door, he paused at an ungodly eruption of sound from the other side—a cross between grinding gears and a colicky infant. Forewarned, he cautiously opened the door.

  Romeo catapulted past his knees, slowed to an arrogant walk and rounded the corner into the kitchen. Joe could hear Juliet’s purr from where he stood. What the hell did she see in that guy?

  Closing the door, he clomped down the stairs and eyed the two-story plantation-style home Catherine shared with her father. Huge pecan trees shaded much of the backyard except for a rose bed along one fence line. A wrought-iron umbrella table and matching chairs filled a corner of the flagstone patio. The Hamiltons might not have the kind of money they wanted, but they had it. More than he’d ever saved, anyway.

  Ignoring a pang of guilt, he crossed the patio, knocked firmly on the kitchen door and prepared himself for his tutor’s smugness. The door opened immediately. Catherine moved into a filtered sunbeam.

  That had to be why her eyes lit up as if in pleasure.

  “Good morning, Joe, I’m so glad you came!” She studied him from head to toe and met his gaze again, her smile warm with approval. “How nice you look today. Come in, please.” Stepping aside, she opened the door wider.

  And his heart expanded in his chest.

  He crossed the threshold with a bounce in his step and glanced hopefully toward the breakfast table. Clean as a pinch hitter’s uniform. In fact, the whole kitchen smelled like disinfectant again.

  “Have you eaten anything this morning?” she asked.

  He shrugged a shoulder and tried to look gaunt. “A fish stick. Cold. Kinda greasy.” Cinnamon rolls, come to Papa!

  “Good. Then you’ll have a clean palate. Follow me.” She smiled and walked to an open doorway on the right, her loose white knit dress cupping and releasing her bottom in a rhythm he found mesmerizing. Turning, she caught him staring and blushed, the color intensifying the green of her eyes.

  Careful, Tucker. She’s on Pretty Boy’s menu, not yours.

  Recovering her poise, she arched a brow. “Well?”

  “I’m right behind you,” he said, his long stride making up ground fast. He followed her through the door and pulled up short. “What the…?”

  The room’s large oval dining table held an assortment of trays and dishes filled with…stuff. Some of it appeared to be edible, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Catherine smiled and made a ta-da gesture. “Behold, the Wilson-Hamilton engagement-party buffet. Well, not the whole buffet. Just a few things Carl’s mother will be watching like a hawk.”

  Joe stepped up for a closer look and identified what he could. Several tins of slimy caviar, ranging in color from golden brown to deep gray. Triangles of that mushy kind of cheese he hated. A heap of muffins that, swear to God, looked blue. A bowl of pasta shaped like tiny bow ties
and mixed with…hell if he knew. A partially sliced thing resembling a Stuckey’s pecan log, only pecans weren’t black that he knew of.

  Not a cinnamon roll in sight.

  “I give up,” he said. “Animal, vegetable or mineral?”

  She shot him a wry look but hovered over the table obligingly. “Here we have fish roe, not to be confused with that smallest tin of tiny gray sturgeon eggs, which is the only true caviar. Over there is Camembert cheese. Do you like corn bread?” She waited for his nod. “Then you’ll love those blue-corn muffins in the basket. Wonderful with the farfel-and-porcini salad.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pasta and mushrooms,” she clarified before moving on. “Oh, and the caterer’s big on sushi this season. I sliced a bit of this tekka makki already.”

  He was afraid to ask.

  Her eyes twinkled. “Chopped raw tuna rolled in rice and seaweed.”

  “Remind me to stop for a Big Mac on the way to the party,” he said, ridiculously pleased when that got a laugh. She had a nice laugh, he decided. It sort of floated, like the way she moved.

  She assumed a serious-teacher expression. “The sophisticated gourmet goes for quality, not quantity. Charlotte Wilson judges a person’s status by what he selects from her table. Carl and I opted for a self-serve buffet, instead of a formal dinner. Still, there’s plenty that might trip you up.”

  Hiding a prick of irritation, he studied a marbletopped table against one wall that looked like it might be antique. He bet Pretty Boy would know.

  Catherine placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “When you realized I wasn’t familiar with the sport of baseball, what did you think of me?”

  Her question caught Joe by surprise. Shifting gears, he remembered his reaction to her mistaking the Aeros for the Astros. “I thought you were visiting our planet from another solar system.”

  “But did you think less of me?” she persisted “Be honest.”

  “No.” He adopted the grave tone and expression of his wife’s shrink. “I felt extreme sorrow for your misfortune. Pity for your ignorance. But I didn’t think less of you.”