My Fair Gentleman

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.”