Jan Freed - My Fair Gentleman

“For what?”

“For the party. That’s where Father will meet you.”

“What about your mother?”

Some indefinable emotion flickered in her eyes. “Mother…died when I was very young.” She leaned forward, her manner brisk and professional once more. “You’ll be introduced as a fictional member of a prominent East Coast family. If neither my father nor any of the guests discover your deception by midnight, Carl will concede victory to us.”

Too weird. “How many drinks did you two have before cooking up this bet?”

“One glass of brandy,” she said, taking him literally. “But I assure you we’re both very sober.”

No kidding. They’d turned a lovers’ spat into cold contract negotiations for spouse job descriptions. And maybe that was smart. He sure as hell knew impulse marriages were dumb.

Joe lifted his size-twelve sneaker and pointed the toe this way and that. “Midnight, huh? Think a glass slipper’ll fit?”

Her straight dark brows drew together.

Lowering his foot to the floor, he sighed. “Never mind. If someone finds me out, won’t you and Carl be embarrassed? Won’t your parents be—”

“Cinderella! I get it.” A delighted smile softened and lit her face.

He smothered a wave of uneasiness. She’s a shrink, he reminded himself. She’ll probably never crack another smile the whole four weeks.

Reaching for his beer, Joe realized it was empty and recrossed his arms. “As I was saying, what happens if I’m recognized at this party? Granted, I spent a lot of time in the dugout, but it’s possible a real sports fan would remember me.”

“If you were a polo player maybe. Or even a tennis pro. But this crowd will be too highbrow to follow a sport like baseball.”

He made himself count to five before answering. “Yeah, those Columbia Star Suites in the Astrodome draw a pretty raunchy crowd. CEOs of major corporations, senators, polo players …” Noting her startled expression, he snorted. “We’re not talking mud wrestling, here, Catherine. Baseball is a sport for all fans. Young and old, rich and poor—snobs and just plain folk. Lord have mercy if that ever changes.”

She’d grown paler as he’d talked. “You’re absolutely right. I sounded just like Father. Please accept my apology.”

Joe nodded uncomfortably. He hadn’t meant to get on his soapbox. But she’d insulted baseball, dammit.

“Of course it’s possible someone could recognize you at the party,” she admitted. “Or that you could—that I won’t have done my job properly… Well, you know.”

“I’ll keep my pants on, if that’s what you mean,” he said dryly.

“I don’t anticipate a problem, but if you’re discovered, Carl and I will explain everything to the guests. You won’t be held responsible.”

“How comforting.” Unfolding his arms, Joe examined the fading callus on his glove hand. “Okay, Catherine, I think I have the general picture now. And I figure a month of my time to help you win this bet should be worth…oh, at least five grand.” He looked up. “Not including expenses.”

Her nostrils flared. “ Five grand? You must be joking!”

“’Fraid not, doll.”

He thought of the rent due next week, Allie’s softball camp fees, the humiliating thong-bikini-endorsement contract waiting to be signed. His agent had mailed out a slew of his sports-broadcasting demo tapes with no response. Yet a woman reporter in Chicago had salvaged his tape from the reject pile and forwarded it to a swimsuit manufacturer with immediate results.

Catherine twisted toward the bar. Joe followed her gaze, his hackles rising at the sight of Pretty Boy’s smug little smirk. When she turned back around, he steeled himself to hang tough.

“Let’s negotiate,” she said, her features taut.

Billiard balls clacked. A throaty love ballad wound down; a lively two-step started up. Yet Catherine’s gaze never wavered.

Joe was the first to look away. He glared at her nearly full beer, glad he hadn’t paid for it. “I have obligations. You have money. What’s the problem?”

“I told you, I don’t have money. If I did, I would have started my own practice years ago, instead of struggling to pay off student loans. Do you have any idea what research assistants earn?”

He glanced up, moved in spite of himself by the hint of desperation in her eyes. She was either a damn good actress, or honestly couldn’t afford his price.

“If you can’t offer money, Catherine, just how in hell did you expect to sucker someone into going along with your crazy scheme?”

Her gaze faltered, dropping to her tightly clasped hands. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. This whole thing sort of snowballed out of control.” She peeked up through surprisingly long lashes. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m usually very disciplined, very careful to consider all the facts before making a decision.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

Her lashes swept up, exposing her shy pleasure. “You do?”

She’d taken it as a compliment, and suddenly he was glad. All the fun had gone out of playing a goon.

“Sure I do. Everybody breaks loose and acts crazy sometimes. Guess this was your night.” He scooted back his chair and stood. “Now if you’re ready, we’ll chalk this up to a full moon and go about our separate—”

“Wait! We haven’t finished negotiating.”

There was that hint of desperation again. He frowned at her upturned face. “Let it go, Catherine. It’s just a stupid bet.”

“It’s not a stupid bet. Well, it is, but the principle it represents isn’t. Oh, I can’t think with you looming over me like that. Sit down. Please.”

He sat, cursing himself for a fool.

“Look, what you said earlier about Carl coming here specifically to find someone who would ‘flunk’ the bet…well, you were right. He simply can’t imagine anyone without a background and family tree similar to his being able to move comfortably among elite society.” Her expression gentled. “Frankly, Joe, right now you couldn’t.”

He grabbed the neck of her beer bottle, draining half the contents and suppressing his rising belch. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

She choked on a laugh. “I don’t blame you. Elite society is filled with boring people. But there’s no doubt in my mind that with four weeks of tutoring, you can be just as boring.”

“You mean just as good, don’t you?”

The teasing glint in her eyes faded. “No, I don’t. You would simply be proving a point. And you might find that having a little savoir faire—learning a bit about the arts and sophisticated pursuits—will open doors that would otherwise be closed. That could be of real benefit to someone in the job market.”

“I’d benefit from some money, dammit.” Spending four weeks just to get hoity-toity was nuts. It was time to cut his losses and go home. “I sure as hell don’t need savoir faire to work for the refinery.”

“You’re going to work for the refinery?”

“I’ve got a standing job offer.” He’d wear a thong bikini before accepting any position not related to sports, but Catherine didn’t have to know that.

She studied him shrewdly. “I can see that you’d hate working there, but at the same time you’re skeptical about the return on a four-week investment in my plan.”

A chill prickled his arms. Earl was right. She was a damn witch.

“I promise after we win the bet you’ll have employers standing in line to make you an offer—in the field of your choice.”

A damn good witch, Joe amended.

“Did you know that savoir faire means literally ‘to know how’? As Father says—” her expression turned snooty “—it separates those who are cosmopolitan from those who read Cosmopolitan. ”