Lady Be Good Read online

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but he did, although his voice sounded as if some beer might have gone down the wrong pipe. “I practice one hundred percent safe sex.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “Ninety-five percent. It’s like Torie always says: ‘To live is to risk.’ But I’m sure not carrying any fatal diseases, if that’s what you want to know. How about you?”

  “Me?” She lifted her head. “No. Absolutely not.” Once again, she dropped her gaze. Through the bubbles, she glimpsed skin and wondered how much of her he could see. “This is purely commerce? Handled professionally?”

  “I, uh, offer a money back guarantee.”

  “And the—the customer would dictate how the . . . encounter would go?”

  He seemed to be thinking that over. “The customer dictates the parameters. I dictate the particulars. For example, if the lady has any particular fetishes—”

  “Oh, no. None.” Her only fetish was the desire to make love with a man who loved her, and that was something Kenny Traveler couldn’t provide. Just sex.

  “—or if, for example, the customer said something like, ‘Kenny, honey, I want you to handcuff me—’ ”

  Her head shot up.

  “—then I’d go along with that because it’s a parameter, but the order of events after those handcuffs get snapped on is pretty much up to me.”

  “I—I see.” She could feel bright red patches burning in her cheeks. Was she really considering doing this? Letting Kenny Traveler take her virginity would certainly be a lot more effective than getting a tattoo. He was the perfect man for the job—physically irresistible, but so foreign to her concept of a soul mate that she wouldn’t have to deal with any emotional scars afterward. She could get it over with and then forget it.

  “I should tell you that I won’t wear female underwear or use a whip. The ladies do enjoy a little light bondage, of course, so there’s no problem with that. I mean, I’d be pretty much out of business without those handcuffs I was talking about, so I’m more than happy to oblige.”

  “You handcuff women?” She was shocked. Not that it happened, but that the practice was so widespread. “Oh, no.”

  “Now, don’t get too judgmental. I didn’t think I’d like it either until the first time I snapped those suckers around a pair of—Well, I’m not saying any more. If that’s not to your particular tastes, then we’ll just try something else.”

  She drew a deep breath. She didn’t need a flashing neon arrow pointing the way to realize this could be the answer both to her own freedom and to saving St. Gert’s. So why did she feel like crying?

  She mustered her courage. She’d known when she started this trip that her life would never be the same again. Without giving herself any more time to think about it, she nodded. “All right, then. Yes. That sounds satisfactory.”

  He blinked. “It does?”

  “Tonight would be fine.”

  “Tonight?”

  She finally managed to look at him. “Do you have another engagement?”

  “Oh, no. Tonight’s just fine with me.”

  She was relieved. If she had too long to dwell on what was going to happen, she’d go mad. She forced herself to focus on the practical. “Do you take traveler’s checks?”

  His regular customers obviously were more worldly than she because her inquiry made him grin. She regarded him coolly until he pulled in the corners of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am. Plus American Express and Visa. I can even handle Diners Club, although it wouldn’t be my first choice.”

  “I have traveler’s checks.”

  “Then we don’t have a problem, do we?”

  “No. No, we don’t.”

  More than anything, she wanted to get out of the hot tub and hide away in her room upstairs, but she was stark naked and trapped. Her stomach felt queasy and her mouth was dry. She closed her eyes and sank farther down into the water.

  From the other side of the hot tub, Kenny watched Lady Emma’s shoulders disappearing into the bubbles. She licked her lips nervously, and, as the pink tip of her tongue swept along the crease of her mouth, he felt as if he were going to explode. He couldn’t believe this. When he’d started talking about fees, he’d just been messing around, having a little fun. Not for a moment had he thought she’d believe him. But she was one serious woman.

  Here he’d given himself a couple of days to seduce her, and it hadn’t taken much more than twenty minutes. He’d always been good with women, but this was a record.

  As he gazed at the water swirling around the base of her neck, he felt a moment’s hesitation. Then he remembered how bossy and controlling she was, his least favorite kind of woman, and his hesitation disappeared. Lady Emma wasn’t any dewy-eyed virgin, and she knew exactly what she was doing.

  He could just imagine what her lovers were like, probably a bunch of old guys with names like Rupert and Nigel. They let her make all the calls, didn’t give her any trouble, and didn’t give her any thrills, either. But she was on vacation now, where there was no one around to tattle, and she had a hankering to get laid by someone who still had his own teeth. He was happy to oblige.

  Her lids opened and she met his eyes. “I want to keep a light on.”

  He certainly didn’t have a problem with that. “All right.”

  “No cigarettes.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Brandy, I think. Or perhaps some sherry.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And music. Classical would be best. Baroque, I believe.”

  Damn. She was giving him a list, and he had to put a stop to it before she got right down to the color of the sheets. “No music. Keeps me from concentrating on all those nice erogenous zones.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed. “All right, then. No music.” She looked down at the water. “I probably should tell you I’m ticklish.”

  “Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “And I’m a bit claustrophobic, so the position might be important to dis—”

  “Excuse me for interrupting here, but let me point out that I am a trained professional.”

  “Oh . . . yes.” She bit that lip again. “One more thing. After it’s over, Mr. Traveler, we won’t discuss it.”

  With a sigh of satisfaction, he sank back into the water. “Lady Emma, you just turned into every man’s fantasy.”

  Chapter 3

  Emma had bought sex. She still couldn’t believe what she’d done. After a lifetime of propriety, she had turned her back on everything she believed in.

  “You can look now,” he said.

  She felt like a fool. As soon as he’d begun lifting himself out of the tub, she’d dipped her head like a skittish old maid. Why couldn’t she have been blasé and sophisticated about it? He certainly wasn’t self-conscious about his body. And it was only natural for her to want to see it. Quite badly.

  Now she did and her mouth went dry. He’d wrapped a towel around his hips, and the knot fell low, inches below his navel. Trickles of water slithered like tiny fingers down his chest and along the flat plane of his abdomen. He had a beautiful body, and she had hired it for the night.

  “Cold?”

  She looked up. “Pardon?”

  “You shivered.”

  “Oh . . . yes, I am getting a bit chilly. Would you mind fetching me a towel, then?” She narrowed her eyes. “That is, if there’s no extra charge.”

  He gave her the devastating grin he’d undoubtedly been using to demolish women since the cradle. He was absolutely unprincipled. But that made him perfect for what she needed.

  The moment he disappeared through the glass doors, she hurried from the hot tub and pulled on her robe. “Never mind,” she called out to him as soon as she’d fetched her bathing suit and stepped inside.

  She rushed upstairs, gathered her toiletries, and carried them into the bathroom. Tonight she would take a giant step toward her freedom and the safety of St. Gert’s.

  Kenny conned Lad
y Emma into fixing dinner as soon as she came downstairs from her nap. All he needed to do was mention that eating in would save her money, but the truth was, he didn’t want her to be around other people right now. It might bring her to her senses.

  For once she wasn’t giving orders as she pulled out some chicken cutlets from the freezer, then began fixing a salad, while he made a big deal out of scrubbing a couple of potatoes and putting them in the oven.

  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 conser
vative 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.”