Читать книгу My Fair Gentleman - Jan Freed - Страница 7

CATHERINE ELIZA HAMILTON swallowed hard as the duck à I’orange sitting in her stomach threatened to take wing up her throat. If anyone had told her two hours ago she’d wind up in a dive like The Pig’s Gut, she would have choked on her cognac.

Glancing toward the adjacent bar stool, she noted her fiancé’s expression and mentally cringed. Carl was feeling particularly smug tonight. And why not? Driving from the posh Houston restaurant to this small industrial town had been a brilliant tactical move.

She should have set recruiting rules of course. Or at least tried to slant the odds in her favor. Instead, she’d let anger overcome a mind trained in the science of emotional processes. Some psychologist she was. No wonder Carl had seemed amused at dinner by the idea of her establishing a private counseling practice. She’d “counseled” herself into a situation Freud would have sold his id to analyze. Catherine sniffed in self-disgust.

Flat beer, acrid smoke and the smell of male bodies straight from a shift at the oil refinery made her wrinkle her nose. The noise was almost as bad. A country-and-western tune hissed and crackled from an ancient jukebox. Billiard balls clacked. Gruff voices cursed or whooped according to the shot.

Who would have thought Carl Wilson, heir to one of the oldest fortunes in Houston, would have known this hole-in-the-wall existed? Then again, who would have predicted he’d ask her out at all, much less propose marriage after only three months of dating? No one but his parents, that was for sure.

Carl had been disarmingly candid from the beginning. After two failed marriages with beautiful bim-bos, he had to choose a “suitable” wife and provide grandchildren soon, or be cut from his parents’ financial cord once and for all. So this time he’d looked deeper than superficial beauty. This time he’d bypassed lovelier candidates and chosen Catherine for what was in her heart.

Her blue blood.

A fair exchange, all things considered. She was thirty-two years old and both plainer and smarter than most men liked. She’d always longed to have children, and now she had a shot at starting both a family and a new career.

Impatience set her fingertips drumming on the bar. She wished Carl would hurry up and select a guinea pig. One beer-swilling, belly-scratching Cro-Magnon would do as well as another.

“Why not just take the shirt off my back!”

Catherine swiveled her bar stool toward the bellowing voice.

A dark-haired giant of a man whacked down his cue stick, grabbed the hem of his baseball jersey and jerked it over his head. Muscles rippled and stretched. A garish tattoo flashed on one arm.

“How ‘bout my pants, too? They should be worth a few bucks.” He reached for his belt and fumbled with the buckle.

Uh-oh. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe Carl wasn’t watching the spectacle. Maybe he’d spotted himself in the mirror behind the bar.

“I’ve decided,” Carl said in her ear, excitement lending a shrill edge to his voice.

She pressed her eyelids tighter. “Which one?”

Guffaws and whistles broke out in the room. Carl chortled in triumph. “The one mooning his opponent at the second table!”

Wincing, Catherine cracked open one lid and stared through a carcinogenic haze. Bare buttocks glowed red beneath a neon Budweiser sign.

She closed her eye and thought rapidly. No good to panic. On the civilization scale, the man was an amoeba. But the stakes were too high for her to back down now.

Resting his chin on her shoulder from behind, Carl slipped both arms around her midriff and rubbed his dark blond hair against her cheek. “You know, darling, you can still call off this whole thing. Dr. Hamilton would definitely not approve, and he trusted me to take care of you this summer.”

The pleasant tingle his uncharacteristic caress evoked vanished. “Dr. Hamil—Father won’t ever have to know about our little wager, unless you tell him.” Catherine pried away Carl’s forearms and swiveled to face her handsome fiancé. “Are you afraid I’ll win?”

His condescending smile reflected forty years of too much money and too little challenge. “You constantly amaze me, Catherine. By all means, if you insist on conducting this experiment, go ahead.” He waved his hand airily and propped an elbow on the bar. “I can’t wait to watch you try and convince your subject to cooperate.”

You and me, both. Catherine slipped off the stool and nervously smoothed her black linen sheath. How did one sway a man who looked as if “fee, fie, fo, fum” were the extent of his vocabulary?

Carl reached out suddenly and caught her hand, his expression earnest. “If .he gives you any trouble, darling, I’ll be here.”

Although fit and trim, her fiancé only stood nose to nose with her own five feet nine inches. She squeezed his fingers with a rush of affection.

“Thanks, Carl. That’s nice to know.” Turning, she faced at least a dozen death-row-inmate stares.

Her chin came up. Her aristocratic mask came down. Fixing her gaze above billed caps and cowboy hats, she located her quarry. He’d managed to pull up his jeans, thank heavens.

The man stood bare-chested, his arms crossed and boots planted wide. Thick black eyebrows pulled together to form a V. A square dark-shadowed jaw angled aggressively. His bold nose appeared to have been broken at some point in his questionable past.

He needed a haircut, a shave and a strong cup of coffee, from the looks of his bleary expression and swaying stance.

His opponent, a scrawny grizzle-haired man clutching a baseball jersey, shook the fisted material high. “Dammit, Joe! I’m the best man with a cue this town ever seen, and you know it. You had no call to make me play, ‘specially with you bettin’ money you don’t have. Now go on home and sleep it off.”

“Joe” was muscular without being muscle-bound and at least six foot four. Maybe taller.

As Catherine drew nearer, she began to feel almost petite. It was a new unsettling experience.

“Don’ wan’ your charity.” Joe scowled fiercely. “I can take you, Earl—double or nothin’.”

“You got a dry well for brains, son? I said go home.” Earl flung the jersey on the table. “I ain’t gonna play you.”

Joe’s biceps bulged, his forearms corded, his long fingers curled into fists. He clenched his jaw and shifted slightly. The garish tattoo on one arm sharpened into red-and-blue dancing teddy bears.

Staring, Catherine walked smack into a billiard table and had to brace her palms on the felt top to catch her balance. Catcalls and whistles rang in her ears.

“Another one bites the dust, Joe.”

“This one fell harder’n most.”

“Think what she’d do for an autograph, lover boy.”

Her cheeks burned. Then a hard arm was draping her shoulder, steadying her. She tilted her head back and stared into deep brown eyes warm with concern—and so bloodshot they were painful to view.

“You okay, miss?”

He smelled like a brewery. “I—I’m fine, thank you.” She lifted the oak log of his arm from her shoulders and stepped back. Several voices urged Joe to follow.

His expression darkened. He swept a meaningful look full circle, waited for the clack of ivory and rumble of conversation to resume, then looked back at her.

“I’m not usually so clumsy,” she admitted. “But then, it’s not every day I see a tattoo like yours.”

He glanced down at his arm as if startled. A dull flush stained his neck. “It’s, urn, practice,” he mumbled. “My, um, daughter. You know…for a carnival?”

She blinked.

“You know…face-painting booth? To raise money for her softball team.”

Catherine didn’t know. A fund-raising carnival—or any kind of carnival, for that matter—was beyond her sheltered experience.

His flush deepened. He looked somewhere over her shoulder and shrugged. “Didn’t expect to shuck my shirt.”

Recalling his naked bottom, she felt her lips twitch. “Those bears wouldn’t have been safe anywhere, to-night.”

His dark gaze snapped to hers and lit with devilment. One corner of his mouth lifted in a rakish grin. He was as swarthy as a pirate and certainly as cocky. And suddenly she wished Carl had picked anyone in the bar but this man.

“I’m Catherine Hamilton,” she said, extending her hand.

He reached out simultaneously, his hair-dusted chest filling her vision. “Joe Tucker.”

Her hand disappeared, swallowed to the wrist by his grasp. Against his bronzed skin her forearm looked pale and fragile. Flustered, she withdrew her fingers. No wedding ring on his left hand, though he’d mentioned a daughter. No telltale tan line, either. Divorced? She hoped so. A wife would complicate things.

Cloth whizzed past her face. Joe snatched the bundle from midair with lightning reflexes.

“Mind your manners and put your shirt on, fool,” Earl commanded. “Can’t you see she’s a lady?”

The words had a startling effect. All traces of affability fled as Joe pulled the wrinkled Astros jersey over his head. Propping his knuckles on his hips, he cocked his head. “What’re you doing here, Catherine Hamilton? Looking for excitement on the wrong side of the tracks?”

Yes. But not the way he meant. She drew a calming breath. “I’d like to talk with you in private.”

His lids drooped. He gave her a leisurely head-totoe inspection. “Sorry, doll. You’re not my type.”

So what else is new? “Ditto, beefcake. Now, can we talk—or not?”

“Not.” He turned to the billiard table and began plunking balls into a triangular rack. “So what d’ya say, Earl? Double or nothin’?”

The infernal man was going to ruin everything for her!

“I done said I won’t play you, Joe, so quit askin’.”

“How about me?” Catherine blurted.

Both men’s heads whipped around.

She held Earl’s incredulous gaze. “Eight ball, regulation rules. If I win, Joe’s debts are wiped clean. If I lose, I’ll pay you double his current losses, whatever they are, and leave you both in peace—”

“Wait the hell one minute,” Joe interrupted, his eyes narrowed. “What do you get outta this, lady?”

A long story. Too long to explain now. “Your charming undivided attention for fifteen minutes.” She arched a brow and looked from one man to the other. “Well, boys, what d’ya say? Double or nothing?”

JOE LEANED against the paneled wall and chugged from a long-neck beer. Not that it helped any. His pleasant buzz was history, thanks to a stranger meddling in his business.

He’d driven to The Pig’s Gut knowing the regulars would lynch any sports reporter daring to shove a microphone up his nose. After all, he was a local legend, the first major-league baseball player Littleton had ever produced. If their boy Tucker wanted to get wasted in private, they’d see to it he could.

It was his own fault they’d let Catherine Hamilton get near him. He’d never met a woman he didn’t like. They’d heard him say so over and over, and it was true, except for a certain type of bored socialite—the “ladies” who pursued him behind their husbands’ backs in private, but looked right through him in public.

During eight seasons with the Houston Astros, he’d learned to keep his nose—and other important appendages—out of tight spots that could spell trouble. In the end he’d still screwed up.

His celebrity status had fallen a bit once news was out that his contract hadn’t been renewed. But not as much as he’d deserved. Grimacing, Joe plunked his empty Lone Star bottle on the concrete floor.

He was thirty-four and his career was over, destroyed along with the cartilage of his left knee on a ski slope this past winter. Tomorrow he would assume full responsibility of his daughter for the first time in twelve years. And he was dead broke. A man couldn’t sink much lower.

Don’t look now, Tucker, but you’re letting a woman try to clear your debt.

Resettling against the wall, he glared at Earl. The inveterate pool hustler had won the break and was positioning the cue ball. Catherine stood to one side, her expression disinterested as Earl bridged his cue stick and took aim. The shattering crack of the opening break didn’t even make her blink.

Something wasn’t right. There’d been no sultry glances Joe’s way. No accidental touches. No hair tossed coyly out of her face. He focused on details that had escaped him before.

A tall thin body in a shapeless black dress. Discreet gold jewelry. Straight black hair swept back from her face with a tortoiseshell headband. A longish nose, hollow cheeks and extremely pale skin. Definitely not a beauty. And yet…

She looked up and met his gaze. Challenge, determination and keen intelligence blazed from her light green eyes with laser-beam impact.

“Get out your wallet, miss,” Earl said, cackling. “You’re gonna need it soon.”

She turned again to the table, and Joe released his breath.

“Excuse me if I don’t rush,” she said dryly.

“Suit yourself.” Earl drew back his cue stick and let fly. A solid orange ball dropped into the side pocket. Moving farther down the rail, he lined up a second shot. “Two in the corner,” he called, sending the solid blue ball rocketing home.

Catherine watched poker-faced while Earl shuffled here and hunched there over his cue, slamming or finessing balls into pockets at will. One by one, players from nearby tables abandoned their own game to watch the master at work. Within minutes, only the eight ball and a solid red ball stood between Earl and more money than he made in a month at the refinery.

Scanning Catherine’s seven striped balls, Joe accepted the inevitable with a twinge of disappointment. He’d been curious as to what she wanted to talk about. Now he would always wonder.

Propping his cue stick against the rail, Earl made a show of chalking the tip. “Sorry t’hafta do this, Miss Hamilton, but you can’t say you wasn’t warned.”

Catherine moved into the light from a bare bulb hanging over the table. “Don’t apologize, Earl.” Her eyes flashed with catlike luminosity. “You’re going to miss the next shot.”

Billy Tremont raised the bill of his Texaco cap and grinned. “Hooee, listen to her, would ya?”

Skeeter Johnson snickered around a wad of chewing tobacco. “He’s shakin’ in his boots, ain’t ya, Earl?”

Joe pushed off the wall and shouldered his way through the crowding circle of men.

“You’re very good, Earl,” Catherine admitted. “But putting left English on the ball requires a steady touch. Now that I look closely, you seem a little shaky to me.” Her glittering green eyes locked with the old man’s baby blues for a long moment.

Skeeter moved forward and jabbed the undisputed Pig’s Gut pool champ between his narrow shoulder blades. “C’mon, Earl, get this over with. I’ve got a run goin’ at table five.”

Frowning, Earl slid grimy-nailed fingers up and down his standing cue stick before hoisting it up into shooting position. Was it Joe’s imagination, or did the old buzzard take longer than usual lining up the shot?

“Three in the side,” Earl finally announced, drawing back his elbow.

Ivory clacked.

Patsy Cline crooned.

“You miscued,” Billy said on a groan, sending his idol a stunned look. “You never miscue.”

Curses and disbelieving grumbles broke out. Earl stared at the undisturbed red ball as if it had just sprouted horns. Lifting a trembling hand, he rubbed the back of his neck.

Joe moved close and spoke low in his friend’s ear. “Don’t worry, buddy. She’ll screw up her first shot, and then you can finish her off.”

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.”