My Fair Gentleman

by Jan Freed

  “Go ahead, Catherine, get it out of your system. I wouldn’t want you to bust a vein on my account.”

  Her face grew alarmingly red. “I take back everything I said earlier. You are a dumb jock. An exceptionally stupid dumb jock, in fact, compared with you, dumb jocks are regular nuclear physicists!”

  A bark of laughter escaped him. “You might wanna work on your couch-side manner, doll. Either that, or resign yourself to throwing Tupperware parties the rest of your life.”

  The sound of her agitated breathing filled the enclosed space. He glanced over, distracted by the rapid rise and fall of her white shirt pocket. There wasn’t much under there, but what there was had a damn nice shape.

  “You know what I think?” she asked, her voice shrill enough to shatter glass. “I’ll tell you what I think. I thinkyou’re the one who resigned yourself to throwing Tupperware parties.”

  He snapped to wary attention.

  “Figuratively speaking,” she added. “You resigned yourself to giving up college and playing baseball for a father you loved and respected. A father who, by himself, had neither the athletic talent nor the opportunity to escape Littleton—”

  “You don’t know what—”

  “A father who discovered,” she interrupted loudly, “that by living vicariously through his son, he could achieve his own personal dream. Even if that dream wasn’t shared.”

  Joe’s heart had started racing at the first hint of her conclusion. He drove now on automatic pilot, turning left into the entrance of a large apartment complex called Timber Trails. Crawling over concrete bumps he normally hit at teeth-jarring speed, he followed the winding driveway to building D and swung into a parking space.

  How had Catherine guessed he’d wanted to go to college? No one but Mrs. Henkel had known about his hesitant desire, born during his senior year, to keep learning something besides baseball strategy, to maybe even help other kids learn, too. Mrs. Henke had thought he’d make a wonderful teacher and had gone to his house as a personal favor to crusade for acceptance of a scholarship.

  Big Joe had laughed in her face. And God help him, Joe had avoided that wonderful old lady’s disappointed gaze and agreed with his dad.

  “When did he die, Joe?”

  He blinked twice and scrubbed his face in both palms.

  “Your father, I mean.”

  Lowering his hands, he stared at the dashboard and laughed bitterly. “Two months before the Astros called me up from their farm in Tucson, Mom found him underneath Ed Parker’s Buick with a wrench still clutched in his hand. Massive coronary, the doctors said.”

  “Oh, Joe.” Her voice wrapped him in a hug.

  “Two friggin’ months, Catherine. Seeing me play major-league baseball was all he ever wanted, all either of us ever worked for. Fat lotta difference it made. We’re all just pawns in the end.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “The hell I don’t! This minute, this very second we’re living right now, is the only truth there is. The commercial was right. You’ve gotta grab all the gusto from life you can—when you can—because the best planning in the world won’t change fate.”

  “So you don’t plan for the future,” she said, her expression thoughtful. “I guess that means you won’t ever buy a house, won’t get married again, won’t save for Allie’s college—”

  “Leave my daughter out of this.”

  “Okay. Let’s talk about your aversion to marriage.”

  “Let’s not.”

  “Allie needs a mother.”

  “Allie has a father, dammit! A broken-down has-been who’s doing his sorry best to start a new career and take decent care of her. I sure as hell don’t want or need the burden of a wife on top of that.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Why build a happy family when fate could turn on you and ruin everything?” Her neutral mask dissolved into disgust. “That’s a coward’s way of thinking. It puts the burden of responsibility for your actions on some nebulous scapegoat.”

  “Wrong, Sigmund. That’s a realist’s way of thinking. But you go on scheduling every trip to the John if it makes you feel more in control. I won’t burst your bubble.”

  He didn’t know what he’d expected. Anger probably. For damn sure not the gentle compassion softening her features.

  “I got sidetracked from the real issue here. We were talking about your father.”

  Joe sighed. When she latched on to a subject, it would take the Jaws of Life to pry her loose. “What about him?”

  “You blame fate that he died disappointed, mere months before getting to see you play in the major leagues. But did you ever think that his choice of dream—not fate—was the real culprit? That if he’d chosen a goal that hadn’t relied on your skills, but on his own, Big Joe would have died content?”

  “Catherine. I’m a dumb jock. Speak English.”

  A smile tugged at her mouth. “In plain English, I mean that working toward a goal—and developing our personal strengths along the way—is very rewarding. Often more rewarding than attaining the goal itself.”

  Choices. He’d made so many bad ones. He supposed Big Joe could have, too. “So if Dad had wanted, say, to be the best mechanic in Littleton, you think he might’ve died happy?”

  “I think…that it’s something to think about.”

  Was it ever. The possibility that Joe might not’ve been responsible for his father dying unfulfilled shifted the ground beneath him. From the look of Catherine’s widening eyes, she must feel the same. No, she was watching something. He followed her gaze to his apartment living-room window.

  The drapes were drawing open in jerky fitful increments, revealing his agent, Norman, as bald and pink as a newborn baby.

  And just as naked.

  CATHERINE SAT on the edge of a worn corduroy recliner and cocked her ear toward the hallway. Fortunately the walls were thin.

  “Dammit, Norman,” Joe bellowed from the bedroom. “This is a family apartment complex. Next time you open the drapes, at least have the decency to wear a trench coat!”

  “Mumble, mumble, Doris mumble.”

  “I don’t care if she made you wear a friggin’ tuxedo in the bathtub, that doesn’t give you the right to parade around here buck naked. From now on, take your shower sooner. Like before dawn.”

  “Mumble, mumble.”

  “Then why aren’t you—Aw jeez, Norman, you’ve been like that since seven? Allie and I have to sit on this furniture when you leave!”

  “Doris mumble, mumble, Doris mumble, mumble, mumble.”

  “So call her up. Tell her you’re a miserable naked slob without her. But first come out and apologize to Catherine—No, no, not like that. Have some dignity, man.” A door opened. “When you leave this bedroom there’d better not be any skin showing except on that thick skull of yours,” Joe warned, his voice louder without the muffling effect of walls.

  Slam!

  Flinching, Catherine grabbed a magazine from the rack by her chair and whipped it open onto her lap. Seconds later Joe stalked into the den.

  “God,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

  “Hear what?”

  His expression said, Gimme a break.

  “No, really, I was so interested in this article I didn’t hear a thing.”

  He moved closer and peered down. “I see what you mean. Can I read that when you’re finished?”

  She followed his gaze and felt her facial muscles freeze. The only print visible on the lurid photo spread listed Miss Candy Cane’s Top Ten Turn-ons.

  Catherine slapped the magazine shut and crammed it back into the rack, her face heating at the sound of Joe’s rich baritone laugh. She glared at his pointing finger and he laughed harder—wonderful full-bodied whoops—then plopped down on the arm of her chair as if his legs wouldn’t support him.

  “Your mouth,” he managed finally, gripping the recliner headrest with one hand and nudging her arm with the other. “It’s all shriveled
up. Like you just sucked on a lemon.” A fresh burst of laughter trailed over her head.

  Unaccountably hurt, she went on the offensive. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Joe Tucker, leaving that smut lying around where Allie can find it.”

  Sobering, he wiped the last trace of moisture and twinkle from his eyes. “Excuse me, Miss Holier-than-Thou, but that must be Norman’s magazine, ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t mine. And as for Allie finding ‘that smut,’ I’d a whole lot rather she look at pictures of a normal naked woman than at one of Doreen’s sicko paintings you call art.”

  He had an excellent point, damn him. She sniffed and folded her hands in her lap. “Your idea of a normal naked woman is exactly why unnecessary elective surgery and eating disorders are so prevalent today.”

  “Oh, bite me, Catherine.” He sounded more weary than angry.

  “I would, but my mouth is too shriveled to do enough damage.”

  His surprised chuckle rumbled near her ear. “If only I’d had a camera.”

  Staring at her clasped hands, she felt a smile tug at her lips. “I’m surprised you noticed my mouth at all with Miss Candy Cane staring up at you.”

  “Who, the model in the magazine?”

  “Do you know a lot of women named Candy Cane?”

  “Let’s just say I know the type. Great bodies, little-girl pouts, graduates of How to Be Sexy 101. Trust me, your face is much more interesting.”

  “I’d rather be sexy.”

  It took a moment for Catherine to realize she’d spoken the thought out loud. Horrified, she scrambled to stand up. A heavy male hand pushed down firmly on her shoulder.

  “You are sexy.”

  Her gaze snapped up. If he was making fun of her, she couldn’t tell from his serious brown eyes. She smiled a perfunctory thank-you, patted his hand once and started to rise for the second time.

  He pushed her back down again. “You are sexy,” he repeated. “Hasn’t Carl told you that?”

  She stared at her sensible navy shoes peeking from beneath her sensible navy slacks—embarrassed for herself, for Carl, for this basically kind man who had the instincts of a gentleman, if not the polish.

  “Why would he lie?” she asked softly.

  Warm fingers cupped her chin and lifted. His brows formed a bank of dark thunderclouds. “Pretty Boy is a jerk.”

  “Don’t say that. He’s been totally honest with me since we met. I don’t need for him to tell me I’m…sexy.” She willed herself not to blush and failed. “I wouldn’t believe him if he did.”

  The anger died in Joe’s steady gaze. “Then believe me.”

  She yearned to, with a plain woman’s fierce passion. “I can’t, Joe. You said yourself you’re a realist.”

  Instead of releasing her chin and letting them both escape, he grinned. The same slow “I like what I see and I know what to do with it” grin he’d bestowed on that disapproving socialite in the art gallery.

  No wonder the woman had puddled at his feet.

  “Damn right I’m a realist. And the honest fact is there’s not a woman on this planet who isn’t sexy in some way. Could be her smile. Or the curve of her hip. Or maybe just the way she moves her hands. Hell, I had a sixty-year-old English teacher in high school who could’ve worked for a 900 phone service her voice was so hot.”

  His thumb rubbed lazy circles on Catherine’s skin, wreaking havoc with her pulse.

  “I wasn’t lying to you, doll. But I can see I’ll have to convince you better. Now, where should I start?”

  “By letting go of my chin.” Her voice came out husky and weak, not at all like her own.

  “Uh-uh. We’re in the middle of a lesson here, Teach.” He tipped her face this way and that as if studying one of her Mardi Gras masks.

  She felt poised on the brink of discovery. Excited and scared. Trapped in his gentle grip, she was free to examine him openly at close range.

  Her gaze roved over the aggressive square jaw, the bumpy ridge of his nose, the shaggy dark hair, thick brows and hard planes of his cheeks. Not handsome by sophisticated standards, but uncompromisingly masculine. Sexy in a way no Pretty Boy could match.

  Her mind jerked guiltily.

  “You ever been to Colorado in the summer?”

  She struggled to switch gears. Fortunately he didn’t wait for her reply.

  “Once during a three-game series in Denver, I skipped practice and headed for the mountains. Smelling that air, hiking those trails until sunset was worth getting fined when I got back.” His faraway expression cleared.

  Her breath caught and hung suspended. She couldn’t look away from his hypnotic dark gaze.

  “Your eyes, Catherine, remind me of aspen leaves in the sun—all shivery green and full of sass. They look at a man and cut right through the bull. Mysterious, I guess you’d call ‘em.” His tone grew intimate. “And sexy.”

  When his fingers splayed up from her chin onto her cheek, her breath made up for lost time, growing shallow and fast.

  “Your skin reminds me of Snow White’s,” he crooned in that whisper-in-the-dark voice. “I had a crush on her as a little kid. Guess she ruined me for women who fry themselves on beaches and in tanning booths.” He brushed her cheek lightly with the backs of his knuckles, then the pads of his fingers, as if she were fragile and precious. “Your skin is like white satin. Soft. Smooth.” He traced a path down to her neck. “Sexy.”

  Catherine sat spellbound, no more able to resist his entrancing words than a child could resist a fairy tale. At the first touch on her throat, she tilted her head back.

  “Ah, yes,” he said on a masculine sigh, enclosing her throat from ear to ear. “Your neck, Catherine…”

  The sound Joe made in his chest sent spirals of heat to places long dormant in her body. She waited, her pulse a frantic staccato throb beneath his fingertips.

  When he removed his hand from her throat, she trapped a moan of disappointment.

  When his mouth replaced his hand, she released a moan of pleasure.

  He smiled against her skin and nuzzled deep, his raspy beard a welcome irritation. Her eyes closed as his teeth nipped gently, the pressure exquisite and knowing. He soothed his bites with a warm wet tongue, heightening the moist heat between her legs.

  She turned her head slowly as he basted and scorched his way across her neck. Her affectionstarved soul absorbed the sensations thirstily. More alive than ever before in her life, she reached up and threaded her fingers through his thick hair.

  ”Catherine,” he murmured.

  “Joe,” she whispered.

  “Holy Moses!” a voice exclaimed.

  Her eyelids popped open. She pulled back at the same time Joe jerked upright. They both blinked at the bald man with twinkling blue eyes who stood watching them from the hallway. As instructed, Norman had covered most of his pink skin with a longsleeved shirt and trousers.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, sounding anything but sorry. “You kind of caught me by surprise.”

  His timely appearance had been a blessing, Catherine assured, herself, for reasons too complicated to sort out now. Although the image of Carl’s face was pretty darn clear in her confused mind.

  Since Joe still seemed a bit shell-shocked, she smoothed her slacks, rose shakily from the chair and hoped her neck didn’t look as ravaged as it felt.

  “You must be Norman,” she said, walking forward and extending her palm.

  The older man met her halfway and shook her hand. “And you must be the shrink. Sorry, but Joe didn’t mention your name.”

  “Catherine,” she offered dryly, the last remnant of fantasy wearing off. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. How are you enjoying your sabbatical?”

  His round face crumpled like a fallen soufflé. “I miss my wife.”

  She hid her rush of sympathy behind a no-nonsense look. “Then what are you doing here in Houston, instead of Dallas where you can tell her in person?”

  He ran stubby fingers over his shiny dome—a
habit from more bountiful days, she suspected—then dropped his arm in defeat.

  “Doris doesn’t want to see or talk to me. She kicked me out of the house and changed the locks.” His gaze met hers, his blue eyes stark with misery. “She’s filing for divorce as soon as our lawyer gets back from Hawaii, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do you love her, Norman?”

  One hand slowly rose to twist the ring on his left finger. “I never knew how much.”

  “Then the first thing to do is pretend I’m Doris.” She smiled gently, took his arm and led him to the dinette table. “I’ll make us some coffee. We’ll sit. You can tell Doris how you feel and maybe get a handle on what went wrong. We’ll figure out where to go from there. How about it?”

  A spark of hope lit in his eyes, filling her with satisfaction and a strong sense of purpose.

  When the front door opened and closed, neither one of them paid attention.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FIFTY MILES AWAY Mary Lou dressed carefully for the man who’d crept into her heart and refused to leave. Tonight couldn’t get here soon enough. All she had to do was get through this day, she reminded herself. Then all her longings would be over.

  She backed away from her full-length reflection and grimaced. Desperate circumstances called for desperate measures.

  Her grubby sneakers, frayed jeans and long-tailed denim shirt with grease stains trailing down the front were the oldest clothes she owned. Reaching for her battered straw fishing hat, she crammed it low on her head. Perfect. With her thick black braid trailing halfway down her back and virtually no makeup helping her cheat, she looked as different from the woman John had taken to dinner six nights ago as she could manage.

  Shutting her closet door, she headed for the small apartment kitchen and packed an ice chest with Diet Cokes—John’s favorite. He drank too many, he’d admitted once. Today he’d be forced to try the caffeine-free variety.

  Two loud knocks made her heart surge. Just get through this day. She repeated her mantra silently as she walked to the door and pulled it open.

  “Hi there.” John’s gaze traveled from the crown of her ratty hat to the hole in her sneaker toe, obvious delight warming his brown eyes. “You look adorable.”