Lady Be Good (6 page)

She sure wasn’t dressed for sex. Not that there was anything wrong with her clothes. She wore a nice pair of beige slacks with a waist-length yellow cotton sweater that had a couple pearl buttons at the neck and a little band of crocheted lace at the bottom. The outfit was fresh and crisp-looking, and it fit her well without being revealing. But he sort of missed the flowers.

He could see Lady Emma was nervous being around him, and he didn’t have the energy to work her out of it more than once this evening, so he decided to give her some breathing room while the potatoes were baking. He excused himself and slipped into his study, where he made a few phone calls, none of them to Torie. Mainly, he nosed around his contacts with the press.

Between his legendary golf swing, an eighteen-month hot streak, and the fact that he gave good interviews, Kenny had won the public’s attention, but he’d never quite been able to capture its adoration. People liked athletes who’d overcome adversity—especially poverty or chronic disease—but with Kenny Traveler, there was a sense that things had come too easily. Still, the sport had treated him well, and Kenny hadn’t been complaining.

Then a visit from the FBI a month ago had turned his world upside down. He’d learned that Howard Slattery, his longtime business manager, had been funneling big chunks of Kenny’s money into an illegal drug operation with ties to Mexico, Colombia, and, eventually, Houston. The revelation had knocked Kenny’s feet right out from under him. Even during his wildest days, he’d never had anything to do with drugs, and the knowledge that his money was contributing to other people’s misery had been just about more than he could handle.

Slattery was arrested trying to flee the country, and all of Kenny’s financial records became public property. Although the investigation wasn’t closed, it was generally recognized by both the federal government and the public that Kenny’d had no knowledge of what was going on. Still, the entire incident had reflected badly on the PGA and made acting commissioner Dallas Beaudine see thirteen different shades of red.

“This is the last straw, Kenny! You’ve been coasting for as long as I’ve known you, phoning in your personal life, ignoring business, not working hard at anything but golf. Well, this time your laziness has cast a big shadow over the PGA, and that’s going to cost you. I’m suspending you from the tour for two weeks.”

“You can’t do that, you son of a bitch! I’ll miss the Masters! And I didn’t do anything wrong! You don’t have any grounds!”

“I’ve got grounds, all right. Gross stupidity! Maybe a little time off the tour will give you a chance to get your head in order and figure out there’s more to life than hitting a golf ball.”

As if Kenny could suddenly get to the bottom of what had eluded him for thirty-three years. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, hearing his mother’s voice this time instead of the commissioner’s.

“How dare you accuse my sweet Kenny of beating up that little brat of yours! You’re just jealous because my Kenny’s so much smarter than the other kids in this god-forsaken town!”

He shook off the old, unwelcome memory from his childhood and turned his thoughts back to his current problem. Two days after Dallie had suspended him, Kenny’d gotten into a public fight with Sturgis Randall, an overpaid, substance-abusing, lecherous asshole of a network golf announcer, who never failed to use phrases like “born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” “playboy champion,” and “charmed life” when he was describing Kenny and his career.

Never apologize, never explain
, was Kenny’s motto. He couldn’t stand it when jocks started whining to the press about how misunderstood they were, so he made it a policy never to defend himself to reporters. Instead, he let his golf clubs do the talking, and he figured people could either take it or leave it. Which didn’t mean that he was averse to throwing a punch at some jerk who forgot his manners. Even so, he wouldn’t have hit Sturgis if the other man hadn’t thrown the first punch.

That was all Kenny had needed. But just as Sturgis was beginning to understand the full extent of his mistake, Jilly Bradford, cable television’s most visible female reporter and Kenny’s former girlfriend, had appeared out of nowhere, and Kenny’s fist had accidentally connected with her shoulder. A network cameraman had caught the entire event on tape, including shots of Jilly crying pathetically afterward and a bloodied Sturgis Randall comforting her.

Even then, Kenny might have escaped the ensuing scandal if Jilly had been fair about it. She knew it was an accident, but ever since their love affair had run its natural course, she’d been publicly vocal about her unhappiness with Kenny. Because of that, everybody thought it was a domestic dispute, and now Kenny not only looked like a man who was too stupid to take care of his money, but also like a slug who got his kicks beating up women.

If he’d thought Dallie had been upset with him before his fight with Randall, that was nothing compared to the way he reacted after Kenny’s second brush with scandal.

“You’re still the same no-good spoiled rich kid who was born with more natural talent than you deserve and a screwed-up set of priorities. Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s long past time you grew up. As of now, your suspension is indefinite. And I’m warning you . . . if you want to be reinstated before you’re too old for the senior tour, you’d better keep that nose of yours squeaky clean.”

Kenny refused to defend himself. He didn’t see the point. Dallie knew Sturgis Randall was an asshole, just as he knew Kenny would never deliberately hit a woman, but that didn’t seem to make any difference, and now Kenny understood what it felt like to be betrayed by the man who meant as much to him as anyone on earth.

Hardly a day had passed since his suspension that he didn’t curse the fact that he’d been born and raised in Wynette, Texas, Dallie Beaudine’s hometown, along with cursing the fact that Dallie had taken an interest in him when he’d been a snot-nosed kid hot-rodding around town in the brand-new red Porsche his mother had given him for his sixteenth birthday. Except, when Kenny was thinking rationally, he knew that Dallie’s intervention had saved his life.

Growing up with a crazy mother who’d suffocated him with her obsessive love, along with a distant father who hadn’t cared enough to intercede, had put Kenny on the path toward the worst kind of trouble. He’d been a bully, hell bent on cutting a wide swath of destruction through the town of Wynette. Only Dallie Beaudine had been standing in the way. That was what hurt most of all. Because Dallie knew him better than anybody on earth, he understood what nobody else did—that golf was the only thing that mattered in Kenny Traveler’s sorry, spoiled life.

As he hung up from an unfruitful call with one of his contacts at
USA Today
, he heard Lady Emma moving around in the kitchen, and a small corner of his depression lifted. It looked like his sex drive hadn’t disappeared after all.

Even before his suspension, he’d started worrying about himself. He’d always had an active sex life, but he hadn’t felt any urge to play the field since he’d gotten rid of Jilly. Instead, he’d been plagued with a general feeling that a man winning so many golf tournaments should be a lot happier with his life. But now Lady Emma had appeared, and, in a matter of hours, his body had come awake.

Despite her umbrella and order-giving, she was exactly the distraction he needed, especially now, when the top pros in the world were heading for the Masters at Augusta while he sat home at the whim of a man who was supposed to be his friend. And he didn’t have to worry about Emma stirring up another public scandal—the last thing his career could stand—when he dumped her. There was no way a conservative soul like her would let on that she’d used her summer vacation to satisfy her hankering to hop in bed with a stranger.

Besides, she amused the hell out of him, which was strange, since he generally couldn’t abide domineering women. But Lady Emma was so absolutely clueless that being around her was pretty much like standing in the exact middle of a perfect private joke.

Then there was that mouth . . . and her energy. . . . He smiled as he thought about having all that enthusiasm squirming naked underneath him.

Now he intended to use her to keep himself from thinking about Augusta, Dallie Beaudine, and a life that seemed increasingly pointless. Yes, sir, Lady Emma was just what he needed.

Emma dropped the potato peeler for the third time. It was a sleekly designed state-of-the-art German instrument. She bit her lip and returned her attention to the carrots. In a few more hours it would be over.

“How are those potatoes doing?”

She dropped the peeler for the fourth time and spun around.

He grinned as he sauntered toward her.

She took in the tan slacks he’d changed into while she’d been trying to nap, along with a black polo shirt bearing an American Express logo. Those neutral colors combined with his dark hair and tanned skin made a breathtaking contrast to his violet eyes.

He opened the oven door, picked up a paring knife, and poked at the potatoes. “These are about done. You got that chicken ready?”

“Chicken?” She’d forgotten about the chicken.

He straightened and nodded toward the carrots she’d just peeled. “If Bugs Bunny happens to drop by for dinner, he’s going to be one happy rabbit.”

She blinked and looked down. Instead of peeling just a few, she’d peeled an entire package. Enough for a dozen salads.

He gave her a knowing grin, then combined a couple of lazy stretches with retrieving a bowl and pan from separate cupboards. Somehow a canister of flour appeared, along with a stick of butter. With a slow flick of his hand, he dredged the chicken and set it sizzling in the pan. “You watch those while I get us some wine.”

She stared at the chicken. Her pulses were jumping, and her stomach felt as if it had dropped to her toes. For a moment the extent of what she was losing overcame her—a decade worth of daydreams about a comfortable, scholarly husband with leather elbow patches on his jacket and ink stains on his fingers. Other women might fantasize about taming some dashing scoundrel with thick black hair, a magnificent body, and violet eyes, but that had never been what she’d wanted.

Kenny returned from the garage with a bottle and lowered the heat on the chicken, which was starting to smoke. “Lady Emma, you got to relax or you’re gonna expire before we get half near the bedroom.”

“I am relaxed! Perfectly relaxed!” She took a deep breath as she realized how foolish that sounded when it was obvious she was as tight as the cork in that wine bottle he was carrying. “Please call me Emma. I never use my title.”

“Uh-huh. If you’re so relaxed, how’s come you jump every time I look at you?”

“I don’t jump!” She swallowed as she watched his hands turn the corkscrew, taking all the time in the world. She thought about those lazy hands taking their time with her, then reminded herself there was no ink stain on his thumb, no pencil callus on even one of those long, lean fingers.

“All right, then. I’m putting you to the test.” He tugged out the cork, pulled several exquisite crystal wine goblets from a cupboard above the stove, and poured. “Here’s what I’m gonna do. Just to make a point, mind you. I’m gonna touch one of your body parts, and while I’m doing it, you’ve got to stay perfectly still. If you jump, then you lose and I win.”

“You’re going to touch me?”

“The body part of my choice.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s an excellent idea.” He handed her a glass of wine. Their fingers brushed, and she jumped.

“You lose.” Triumph gleamed in his eyes.

“That’s not fair!”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . when you said body part . . . well, naturally I thought—”

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “You thought what, Lady Emma?”

“Just Emma! I thought—Oh, never mind!” She snatched up a cucumber. “You’re right. I
am
a bit nervous. But that’s only natural. I’ve never . . . never done anything like this.” She gazed down at the cucumber she was squeezing, realized what it was, and dropped it like one of the potatoes baking in the oven.

He chuckled. “You’ve never bought a man for the night?”

“Oh, dear . . . must you say it like that?”

“I was doing my best to put it politely.” He flipped the chicken. “Now, why don’t you finish up that salad so we can eat?”

She forced herself to concentrate, and, after a few more missteps, they were seated at a glass-topped dining room table supported by a pair of sleek black marble pedestals. The place settings seemed to have materialized out of nowhere: white linen mats with matching napkins, china banded in navy and gold, heavy sterling with swirling handles. Her companion certainly knew how to pick his friends. She’d met a few of Kenny’s counterparts in England, and she hadn’t liked them—handsome penniless men who bartered charm for their friends’ hospitality.

The idea of eating made her nauseated, so she took a sip of wine. It was lovely—fragrant and obviously expensive. He began to eat, and she noticed that nervousness hadn’t interfered with his appetite. She took a nibble of baked potato. It stuck in her throat.

He seemed perfectly comfortable with the silence, but she wasn’t. Maybe some conversation would relax her. “Your friend has exquisite taste.”

He gazed around at the luxurious dining room as though he were seeing it for the first time. “I suppose. Some sports posters’d be nice, though. A couple of La-Z-Boys in the living room. And a big-screen TV to watch ESPN while we’re eating.”

His cheerful denseness annoyed her, although he probably wasn’t a bad sort, just too lazy to make anything of himself. Maybe no one had ever taken the time to suggest a better way. “Have you ever had second thoughts about your method of earning a living?” she asked.

“Not really.” He dug into his chicken. “Escort service suits me just fine.”

She succumbed to her natural instinct to help others build character. “But doesn’t it ever present a problem for you when someone asks what you do for a living, and you have to say that you’re an escort?”