Jan Freed - My Fair Gentleman

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.”

THE BURP WAS a nice touch, Joe thought, watching Catherine’s opinion of him dip lower than a sinker ball. The disgusted fascination on her face might’ve been funny—if it wasn’t so damned insulting.

That was how shrinks were of course. Arrogant sons of bitches, playing God with people’s lives. He’d wised up to their crap long ago and sworn to handle problems his way. Not that he’d done such a hot job.

Catherine drummed her short nails on the table. “Well? What do you want?”

He narrowed his eyes, his guilt converting into a more tolerable emotion. “I’m thinking.”

Wouldn’t he just love telling her exactly where to put her high-and-mighty bet? Except that her proposition might be the break he needed. His chance to secure Allie’s future. To make amends. He’d be a fool not to explore his options.

But he could sure as hell make the woman squirm first.

“Before we take this any farther, doll, I need you to fill in some gaps for me.” Noting her flinch at the word “doll,” he slouched back and scratched his belly for good measure.

She watched his fingers with a distracted frown. “Gaps?”

“Yeah. Like what you mean by ‘tutoring.’ And what the terms are for winning or losing this bet. Minor stuff like that.” He crossed his arms with a deliberate flex of muscles.

“Oh. Well…” Her gaze lit briefly on his biceps and fluttered away. Then drifted back.

His slouch slowly straightened.

“First I would evaluate your social skills to see which ones need polishing…” Her stare grew languid, sliding as softly as a chamois cloth over his throat. His chest. His abdomen.

Lord have mercy.

“Second I would schedule lessons in those areas where you seem to be lacking—” her gaze moved lower, stopped, and rose swiftly to focus somewhere over his shoulder “—n-not that you are lacking. Anywhere. Th-that is, I’ll have to look harder—I m-mean longer…” A mottled flush crept up her neck. “What I mean is, I’ll have to analyze you further before developing a specific tutorial plan,” she finished primly.

Joe managed a stunned grunt. Vowing to use his little black book soon, he willed the blood back into his brain. “So how long will all this tutoring take?”

Relief flooded her face. “Carl’s parents are hosting an engagement party at the end of June. My father is flying in from London to attend. That gives us a little over four weeks to get you ready.”