Lady Be Good (Wynette, Texas #2)(14)

“You’re going to touch me?”

“The body part of my choice.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s an excellent idea.” He handed her a glass of wine. Their fingers brushed, and she jumped.

“You lose.” Triumph gleamed in his eyes.

“That’s not fair!”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . when you said body part . . . well, naturally I thought—”

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “You thought what, Lady Emma?”

“Just Emma! I thought—Oh, never mind!” She snatched up a cucumber. “You’re right. I am a bit nervous. But that’s only natural. I’ve never . . . never done anything like this.” She gazed down at the cucumber she was squeezing, realized what it was, and dropped it like one of the potatoes baking in the oven.

He chuckled. “You’ve never bought a man for the night?”

“Oh, dear . . . must you say it like that?”

“I was doing my best to put it politely.” He flipped the chicken. “Now, why don’t you finish up that salad so we can eat?”

She forced herself to concentrate, and, after a few more missteps, they were seated at a glass-topped dining room table supported by a pair of sleek black marble pedestals. The place settings seemed to have materialized out of nowhere: white linen mats with matching napkins, china banded in navy and gold, heavy sterling with swirling handles. Her companion certainly knew how to pick his friends. She’d met a few of Kenny’s counterparts in England, and she hadn’t liked them—handsome penniless men who bartered charm for their friends’ hospitality.

The idea of eating made her nauseated, so she took a sip of wine. It was lovely—fragrant and obviously expensive. He began to eat, and she noticed that nervousness hadn’t interfered with his appetite. She took a nibble of baked potato. It stuck in her throat.

He seemed perfectly comfortable with the silence, but she wasn’t. Maybe some conversation would relax her. “Your friend has exquisite taste.”

He gazed around at the luxurious dining room as though he were seeing it for the first time. “I suppose. Some sports posters’d be nice, though. A couple of La-Z-Boys in the living room. And a big-screen TV to watch ESPN while we’re eating.”

His cheerful denseness annoyed her, although he probably wasn’t a bad sort, just too lazy to make anything of himself. Maybe no one had ever taken the time to suggest a better way. “Have you ever had second thoughts about your method of earning a living?” she asked.

“Not really.” He dug into his chicken. “Escort service suits me just fine.”

She succumbed to her natural instinct to help others build character. “But doesn’t it ever present a problem for you when someone asks what you do for a living, and you have to say that you’re an escort?”

“Problem?”

“People must know that’s a—well, forgive me if I’m being too blunt, but a glorified term for a . . . well . . . a gigolo.”

“Gigolo!”

She hadn’t intended to be rude, and she began to frame an apology, only to have him grin. “Gigolo. I like that.”

“It’s a pejorative term,” she felt duty-bound to point out.

“Maybe in that socialist state you live in, but here in the land of the free, home of the brave, people have respect for a man who’s willing to make it his life’s work to service lonely ladies.”

“I am not lonely!”

“Or ones who are sexually frustrated.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, only to shut it again. Let him think what he wanted. Besides, she was sexually frustrated, even if that wasn’t her motivation for using his services. She fumbled for her wine glass.

He slipped his knife into a second piece of chicken, and she noticed he had excellent table manners. Regardless of the task, he performed it with a combination of lazy grace and minimal motion.

Too often in her life she’d set her own wishes aside out of deference to others, but tonight she wasn’t going to do that, and she steeled herself for what needed to be settled. “This evening . . . during our . . . our interaction . . . I want to make certain you understand that I can call a halt to the proceedings at any time.”

“Oh, that’s no problem at all.”

“Good.”

“Because I guarantee you’re not going to want to call a halt to a single proceeding. Unless, of course, you happen to be a lesbian. Although, even then—”

“I’m not a lesbian.”

He had the gall to look disappointed.

She plunged on. “I simply think it would be better if we established certain ground rules.”

He sighed.

“I am, after all, the customer, and as a customer—”

“You gonna eat that baked potato or just poke at it?”

She dug her fork into her potato. “I’m merely pointing out—”

“Upstairs.”

“What?”

“Go on upstairs.” He pushed back from the table and rose. “I can see I’m not going to be able to enjoy my meal until we get our business over with.”

She gazed at his empty plate.