Lady Be Good (3 page)

She couldn’t quite hide her embarrassment. “I’m afraid there’s been some mistake, Mr. Traveler. I have a limited budget. When I told Francesca I could only afford to pay my driver fifty dollars a day, she indicated that would cover your services. But it can’t possibly be enough for the use of a car like this.”

“Fifty dollars a day?”

She wanted to believe her head was pounding from jet lag, but she’d always been a good traveler, and she suspected her headache came from frustration. Communicating with this gorgeous fool was more difficult than dealing with her slowest students. Not only did he move like a snail, but he didn’t seem to understand any of her instructions. Even after the incident with the key chain, it had taken her forever to get him to baggage claim.

“This is quite embarrassing. I thought Francesca would have discussed all this with you. You’re expecting more than fifty dollars, aren’t you?”

He lifted her two heavy suitcases into the boot with surprisingly little effort, considering that, only moments earlier, he’d acted as if carrying those same bags out to his car posed a major threat to his skeletal system. Once again, her eyes strayed to the well-developed muscles his T-shirt didn’t quite conceal. Wouldn’t a person actually have to expend energy to build muscles like that?

“I guess it depends on what all besides driving that fifty dollars is supposed to cover.” He took her carry-all and tossed it next to her suitcase. Then he regarded her handbag. “I’m surprised the airlines didn’t make you check that thing. Do you want it in the trunk, too?”

“No, thank you.” Her headache had traveled from her temples to the back of her neck. “Perhaps we should return to the terminal where we can sit down and discuss all this.”

“Too far to walk.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the trunk.

As she considered how much to tell him, she gazed at the cheery April sunshine outside the parking garage and thought what a contrast it provided to her dismal thoughts. “I taught history before I became headmistress at St. Gert’s, and—”

“Head Mistress?”

“Yes, and—”

“You really go around calling yourself that? A Head Mistress?”

“It’s what I do.”

He looked vastly amused. “For proper people, you British sure do have some racy job titles.”

If another American had twitted her about this, she would have laughed, but there was something about his manner that made her get as starchy as Helen Pruitt, the chemistry teacher. “Be that as it may . . .” She paused as the stuffy phrase echoed in her ears. She even
sounded
like Helen Pruitt. “I’ve spent the past year working on a paper about Lady Sarah Thornton, an Englishwoman who traveled through Texas during the 1870s. She also happened to be a St. Gert’s girl. The paper’s nearly done, but I need access to several of the libraries here to finish it, and since I have a break between the spring and summer terms, this seemed like a good time for the trip. Francesca recommended you as my guide, and she indicated that fifty dollars a day would pay for your services.”

“Services?”

“As my guide,” she repeated. “My driver.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m glad to hear that’s all you’ve got in mind, ’cause when you said
services,
I thought you might have meant something else, in which case fifty dollars wouldn’t nearly cover it.”

He still looked amused, although she didn’t understand why. “There’ll be quite a bit of driving. In addition to Dallas, I need to visit the library at the University of Texas, and—”

“Driving? That’s all you want.”

It wasn’t nearly all she wanted, but now wasn’t the time to mention that she would also need him to introduce her to the seamier side of Texas life. “It
is
a large state.”

“No. I meant no other services.”

“What other services do you offer?”

He grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll start you out with the basic package, and then we can talk about add-ons later.”

With her limited funds, she wasn’t comfortable with uncertainty. “I always think it’s better to clear up things right from the beginning, don’t you agree?”

“We’re clear enough for now.” He moved toward the passenger side of the car and opened the door for her to slide inside. “You’re paying me fifty dollars a day to drive you around for two weeks.”

“I have a list.”

“I’ll just bet you do. Watch your skirt there.” He slammed the door, then got in on the other side. “You could save money, you know, by buying a couple of road maps and driving yourself.” He shut his door and slid the key in the ignition. The spacious interior of the car smelled like gracious living, and the image of the Duke of Beddington sprang into her mind. She pushed it away. “I don’t drive,” she said.

“Everybody over the age of fourteen drives.” With the barest glance over his shoulder, he backed out of the parking space, then headed toward the exit. “How long have you known Francesca?” He swung out onto the roadway.

She peeled her eyes from the Cadillac’s speedometer, which, from her vantage point, seemed to be climbing at an alarming rate. She forced herself to pretend that it registered kilometers.

“I met her several years ago when her production company chose the grounds at St. Gert’s—they’re quite lovely—to film an interview she was doing for
Francesa Today
with several British actors. We enjoyed each other’s company, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. I’d planned to visit her while I was here, but she and her husband have temporarily moved to Florida.”

Planes flew to Florida, too, Kenny thought. He was beginning to suspect Francesca knew exactly what a pain in the butt Lady Emma could be and that’s why she’d deliberately dumped her on him.

“About your expenses . . .” Lady Emma looked worried as she regarded his Caddy. “This is such a large car. The cost of petrol alone must be prohibitive.”

A small crease formed in her forehead, and she began to chew on her bottom lip. He wished she wouldn’t do that. It was the damnedest thing. She’d annoyed the hell out of him from the moment she’d first opened her mouth, and he swore to God the next time she pointed at something with her umbrella, he was going to break it over his knee. But seeing that moist two-hundred-dollar-an-hour mouth working away made him wonder how he was going to survive these next two weeks.

In bed
.

The idea popped right into his head and stuck there. He smiled. This was exactly the kind of thinking that had made him a champion on three continents. The best way to avoid killing her was to get her naked as soon as possible. Preferably in the next couple of days.

Moving in on her that fast would be a definite challenge, but Kenny didn’t have anything better to do, so he figured he was up to it. He thought of the fifty dollars a day she was supposed to be paying him, then remembered the three million he’d be picking up in commercial endorsements this year and smiled to himself. It was the first time he’d smiled about money since his crooked business manager had landed Kenny in the scandal that had led to his suspension from the pro tour.

His smile turned into a frown as he imagined Francesca’s amused reaction when Lady Emma had offered her fifty-dollar fee, and her even greater amusement when she’d decided not to pass that particular tidbit on to Kenny. It never ceased to amaze him that a stony-hearted, steel-eyed bastard like Dallie Beaudine couldn’t control his wife better. The only woman who’d ever gotten the best of Kenny had been his crazy mother. But having her nearly ruin his life had taught him lessons he’d never forgotten, and he’d made sure no woman held the upper hand since.

He glanced over at Lady Emma with her butterscotch curls, baby-doll cheeks, floppy pink roses, and bouncing cherries. He’d been maneuvering women all his adult life, and he’d never yet let one of them forget her proper place.

Right underneath him.

“T
his isn’t a hotel.” Emma had dozed off, but now
she was wide awake. Through the windows of the Cadillac, she saw they’d driven into a small court in an affluent residential area.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, especially when she’d waited so long to get her first glimpse of Texas, but he’d ignored all her polite hints about his driving, and she’d been forced to close her eyes. Jet lag had taken care of the rest.

At home, she avoided cars as much as possible, walking or riding her bicycle instead, much to the amusement of her students. But she’d been ten when she’d been involved in the terrible automobile accident that had killed her father. Although it had left her with nothing more serious than a broken arm, she hadn’t been comfortable in a car since. She was ashamed of her phobia, not only because of the inconvenience it caused her, but because she didn’t like weakness in herself.

“Since you seem interested in saving money,” he said, “I thought you might want to stay here instead of at the hotel.”

The residential court was enclosed by expensive-looking stucco maisonettes, what the Americans referred to as townhouses, all of them topped with roofs of rounded green tile. Flowers bloomed everywhere, and a gardener was tending a bougainvillea that grew along a small dividing wall. “But this looks like a private residence,” she protested as he turned into a driveway.

“A friend of mine owns the place.” He pressed a button and the garage opened. “He’s out of town right now. You can take the room next to mine.”

“Yours? You’re staying here, too?”

“Didn’t I just say so?”

“But—”

“You don’t want free lodging, fine by me.” He threw the car into reverse. “ ’Course, this could save you a hundred bucks a night, but if that’s what you want, I’ll take you right to the hotel.” He began to back out.

“No! I don’t know. I’m not sure—”

He stopped the car so it hung halfway out of the garage and regarded her patiently.

She wasn’t accustomed to being indecisive, especially when she didn’t know why she was protesting. It made no difference if he was staying here, too. Hadn’t she come on this trip for the precise purpose of losing her good name? Her stomach felt queasy at the thought, but she’d made her decision and she wouldn’t let St. Gert’s down.

“Made up your mind yet?”

“Yes. I’m sure this will be fine.”

He slid back into the garage. “There’s a real nice hot tub on the patio.”

“Hot tub?”

“Don’t they have those in England?”

“Yes, but . . .”

He stopped the car and got out. She followed.

The garage had a few boxes stacked at one end, along with what seemed to be a free-standing wine cellar. Through the glass doors, she saw that it was well-stocked.

He headed toward the door that led into the house. She stopped him. “Mr. Traveler?”

He turned.

“My suitcases?”

He gave a weary, put-upon sigh, then moved to the trunk, unlocked it, and looked inside. “You know, hauling around stuff like this isn’t good for a person with back trouble.”

“Do you have back trouble?”

“Not
now,
I don’t, which is exactly my point.”

She suppressed a smile. He was infuriating, but amusing. To teach him a lesson, she marched toward the trunk and pulled out the heavy suitcases herself. “
I’ll
carry them.”

Instead of being shamed, he seemed pleased. “I’ll get the door.”

With a sigh of exasperation, she lugged the suitcases inside. They stepped into a small kitchen with a limestone floor, granite counters, and cupboards with etched glass fronts. The late afternoon sun coming in through a skylight revealed an assortment of high-tech appliances.

“This is lovely.” She set her suitcases down and moved through the kitchen into a living room decorated in white, blue, and various shades of green. Several leafy plants grew near a pair of glass doors that opened onto a small, secluded patio surrounded by a vine-covered wooden privacy fence. A spacious, octagonal-shaped hot tub sat at one end.

He tossed his Stetson on the back of a chair, dropped his keys on a bronze and glass console, then pushed a button on a sleek answering machine. A woman’s Texas drawl filled the room.

“Kinny, it’s Torie. Call me back right this minute, you sonovabitch, or I swear to God I’ll phone the Antichrist and tell him you been stalkin’ little Catholic schoolgirls. And, in case you forgot, there’s a set of your Pings locked away in the trunk of my Beemer, right along with that Big Bertha you won the Colonial with. I mean it, Kinny, I’m gonna break every one of them if you’re not on this phone by three o’clock this afternoon.”

He yawned. Emma glanced at an elegant clock on the console. It was four o’clock.

“She sounds quite cross.”

“Torie? That’s just the way she talks.”

Emma couldn’t help probing. “She’s your wife, is she?”

“I’ve never been married.”

“Ah.” She waited.

He collapsed on the couch as if he’d just run a marathon.

“Your fiancée, perhaps? Or a girlfriend?”

“Torie’s my sister. Unfortunately.”

Despite herself, she was growing increasingly curious about this gorgeous, lazy Texan. “I didn’t quite understand some of her references. Big Bertha? Pinks?”