Читать книгу My Fair Gentleman - Jan Freed - Страница 10

CATHERINE MEASURED coffee, poured water and started the automatic brewer in her father’s spotless white kitchen. Her new tenants had moved into the garage apartment the day before. Joe was due at nine o’clock for his “orientation” session. She’d no sooner returned from her morning swim about eight than she’d heard his Bronco back out of the driveway. Round trip, the drive to Allie’s softball camp at the Y shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes.

Father and daughter were very close from what Catherine had observed. Still, something about their relationship had nagged at her in the hours after she’d shown them the apartment. It wasn’t just that Allie called her father by his first name, although that indicated a disturbing equality between the two. No, there’d been something else. An interaction she’d recognized and responded to on a deeply personal level.

Then last night an image had crystallized in Catherine’s mind: Allie’s face, pleading with Joe to stay for the month.

The girl’s expression had been resigned, as if she’d experienced disappointment many times in her young life. She’d obviously expected her father to say no and reverse the plans they’d discussed. Yet she hadn’t been able to mask her trace of hopefulness.

Catherine paused now in the act of sponging stray coffee grounds from the counter. How well she understood the adoration, the sick disappointment, the renewed hope. In her case, she’d never been able to meet her father’s expectations. The adoration/disappointment cycle had continued until hope had finally died. The same would happen to Allie unless Joe’s pattern of behavior changed.

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.