My Fair Gentleman

Her hand disappeared, swallowed to the wrist by his grasp. Against his bronzed skin her forearm looked pale and fragile. Flustered, she withdrew her fingers. No wedding ring on his left hand, though he’d mentioned a daughter. No telltale tan line, either. Divorced? She hoped so. A wife would complicate things.

Cloth whizzed past her face. Joe snatched the bundle from midair with lightning reflexes.

“Mind your manners and put your shirt on, fool,” Earl commanded. “Can’t you see she’s a lady?”

The words had a startling effect. All traces of affability fled as Joe pulled the wrinkled Astros jersey over his head. Propping his knuckles on his hips, he cocked his head. “What’re you doing here, Catherine Hamilton? Looking for excitement on the wrong side of the tracks?”

Yes. But not the way he meant. She drew a calming breath. “I’d like to talk with you in private.”

His lids drooped. He gave her a leisurely head-totoe inspection. “Sorry, doll. You’re not my type.”

So what else is new? “Ditto, beefcake. Now, can we talk—or not?”

“Not.” He turned to the billiard table and began plunking balls into a triangular rack. “So what d’ya say, Earl? Double or nothin’?”

The infernal man was going to ruin everything for her!

“I done said I won’t play you, Joe, so quit askin’.”

“How about me?” Catherine blurted.

Both men’s heads whipped around.

She held Earl’s incredulous gaze. “Eight ball, regulation rules. If I win, Joe’s debts are wiped clean. If I lose, I’ll pay you double his current losses, whatever they are, and leave you both in peace—”

“Wait the hell one minute,” Joe interrupted, his eyes narrowed. “What do you get outta this, lady?”

A long story. Too long to explain now. “Your charming undivided attention for fifteen minutes.” She arched a brow and looked from one man to the other. “Well, boys, what d’ya say? Double or nothing?”

JOE LEANED against the paneled wall and chugged from a long-neck beer. Not that it helped any. His pleasant buzz was history, thanks to a stranger meddling in his business.

He’d driven to The Pig’s Gut knowing the regulars would lynch any sports reporter daring to shove a microphone up his nose. After all, he was a local legend, the first major-league baseball player Littleton had ever produced. If their boy Tucker wanted to get wasted in private, they’d see to it he could.

It was his own fault they’d let Catherine Hamilton get near him. He’d never met a woman he didn’t like. They’d heard him say so over and over, and it was true, except for a certain type of bored socialite—the “ladies” who pursued him behind their husbands’ backs in private, but looked right through him in public.

During eight seasons with the Houston Astros, he’d learned to keep his nose—and other important appendages—out of tight spots that could spell trouble. In the end he’d still screwed up.

His celebrity status had fallen a bit once news was out that his contract hadn’t been renewed. But not as much as he’d deserved. Grimacing, Joe plunked his empty Lone Star bottle on the concrete floor.

He was thirty-four and his career was over, destroyed along with the cartilage of his left knee on a ski slope this past winter. Tomorrow he would assume full responsibility of his daughter for the first time in twelve years. And he was dead broke. A man couldn’t sink much lower.

Don’t look now, Tucker, but you’re letting a woman try to clear your debt.

Resettling against the wall, he glared at Earl. The inveterate pool hustler had won the break and was positioning the cue ball. Catherine stood to one side, her expression disinterested as Earl bridged his cue stick and took aim. The shattering crack of the opening break didn’t even make her blink.

Something wasn’t right. There’d been no sultry glances Joe’s way. No accidental touches. No hair tossed coyly out of her face. He focused on details that had escaped him before.

A tall thin body in a shapeless black dress. Discreet gold jewelry. Straight black hair swept back from her face with a tortoiseshell headband. A longish nose, hollow cheeks and extremely pale skin. Definitely not a beauty. And yet…

She looked up and met his gaze. Challenge, determination and keen intelligence blazed from her light green eyes with laser-beam impact.

“Get out your wallet, miss,” Earl said, cackling. “You’re gonna need it soon.”

She turned again to the table, and Joe released his breath.

“Excuse me if I don’t rush,” she said dryly.

“Suit yourself.” Earl drew back his cue stick and let fly. A solid orange ball dropped into the side pocket. Moving farther down the rail, he lined up a second shot. “Two in the corner,” he called, sending the solid blue ball rocketing home.

Catherine watched poker-faced while Earl shuffled here and hunched there over his cue, slamming or finessing balls into pockets at will. One by one, players from nearby tables abandoned their own game to watch the master at work. Within minutes, only the eight ball and a solid red ball stood between Earl and more money than he made in a month at the refinery.

Scanning Catherine’s seven striped balls, Joe accepted the inevitable with a twinge of disappointment. He’d been curious as to what she wanted to talk about. Now he would always wonder.

Propping his cue stick against the rail, Earl made a show of chalking the tip. “Sorry t’hafta do this, Miss Hamilton, but you can’t say you wasn’t warned.”

Catherine moved into the light from a bare bulb hanging over the table. “Don’t apologize, Earl.” Her eyes flashed with catlike luminosity. “You’re going to miss the next shot.”

Billy Tremont raised the bill of his Texaco cap and grinned. “Hooee, listen to her, would ya?”

Skeeter Johnson snickered around a wad of chewing tobacco. “He’s shakin’ in his boots, ain’t ya, Earl?”

Joe pushed off the wall and shouldered his way through the crowding circle of men.

“You’re very good, Earl,” Catherine admitted. “But putting left English on the ball requires a steady touch. Now that I look closely, you seem a little shaky to me.” Her glittering green eyes locked with the old man’s baby blues for a long moment.

Skeeter moved forward and jabbed the undisputed Pig’s Gut pool champ between his narrow shoulder blades. “C’mon, Earl, get this over with. I’ve got a run goin’ at table five.”

Frowning, Earl slid grimy-nailed fingers up and down his standing cue stick before hoisting it up into shooting position. Was it Joe’s imagination, or did the old buzzard take longer than usual lining up the shot?

“Three in the side,” Earl finally announced, drawing back his elbow.

Ivory clacked.

Patsy Cline crooned.

“You miscued,” Billy said on a groan, sending his idol a stunned look. “You never miscue.”

Curses and disbelieving grumbles broke out. Earl stared at the undisturbed red ball as if it had just sprouted horns. Lifting a trembling hand, he rubbed the back of his neck.

Joe moved close and spoke low in his friend’s ear. “Don’t worry, buddy. She’ll screw up her first shot, and then you can finish her off.”

Earl glanced up with a shaken expression. “I think she’s a damn witch. Did you see them eyes?”

Joe’d seen them. “She psyched you out, all right. But remember, we’ve got the home-stadium advantage.”

He searched the room and found Catherine removing several cue sticks from the back-wall storage rack. After rolling each one on a nearby table, she settled on the twenty-one-ounce cue with an Astros sticker on the handle. Coincidence, or had she picked his cue on purpose? It was much too long for her, but comparatively new and unwarped.

Ignoring the suggestions for what to do with a “man-size shaft,” she headed for the table, balancing the cue on one shoulder with all the nonchalance of Huck Finn carrying a cane pole.