Lady Be Good (Wynette, Texas #2)(35)

“Beddington isn’t stupid. If my behavior is too blatant, he’ll see right through what I’m trying to do and get rid of St. Gert’s just to punish me for defying him. I have to be subtle, make him believe he’s misjudged my character at the same time I pretend to go along with him.”

He scowled and jabbed his keys into the ignition. “Well, I’m not sleeping with you, if that’s what you’ve got on your mind.”

“I don’t want to sleep with you!”

For some maddening reason, that seemed to calm him down. His hands went slack on the key, and his eyes made a lazy journey along the buttons of her blouse. “You sure did want to the other night, Queen Elizabeth.”

She hoped he didn’t notice the gooseflesh that broke out on her skin. To compensate, she sat up straighter in the seat. “That was when I thought you were honorable.”

“Honorable?” His exasperation returned. “I told you I was a gigolo.”

“At least you were open about it.”

“I was lying through my teeth.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t know that at the time.” She sniffed. “And if I make up my mind to sleep with someone in the next two weeks, it won’t be you.”

“You aren’t sleeping with anybody in the next two weeks. As long as Francesca’s looking over my shoulder, you’re going back home in exactly the same pristine condition as the day you arrived. When you lose your virginity, Lady Emma, you’re damn well going to do it on somebody else’s watch.”

She began to respond, only to have the words slip away as his eyes locked on her mouth. Slowly his expression changed. She watched his lips part ever so slightly and his eyes darken. She felt light-headed. After all her talk about not wanting to sleep with him, she was the one lying through her teeth because everything about him stimulated her—his extravagant good looks, lanky body, Texas drawl, even his peculiar sense of humor. She hated herself for it, but some part of her wished she hadn’t discovered that magazine cover until after they’d made love.

He jerked his eyes away from her. “That’s it! You’re staying at a hotel!”

“I am not!” She couldn’t stay at a hotel. It was exactly what Beddington expected from her. “I didn’t want to mention this, but I’m afraid you’re forcing me to remind you that I can call Francesca at any time.”

“You leave Francesca out of this.”

“You keep forgetting that I’m desperate. And I’m certain Francesca will be very upset when she hears how you got me drunk, then dragged me to that horrible tattoo parlor where I was disfigured for life.”

“Can’t you see that I’m doing this for your own good? Don’t you realize that putting the two of us together under one roof is just plain stupid?”

“I know we’ve argued a lot, but if we both try a bit harder to be polite—”

“I’m not talking about us arguing.”

“Then what?”

He gave a deep sigh. “For a smart lady, you sure are dumb.”

She regarded him more closely. Could he possibly be attracted to her? She drew herself up sharply. This was no time to indulge in fantasy. Besides, he was a playboy, and she was very nearly a dotty, dear thing.

“All right,” he said. “You win this round. You can stay at my ranch, but I’m charging you two hundred dollars a day rent.”

That would wipe out her profit. “One hundred dollars.”

“Two fifty.”

“All right,” she said hastily. “Two hundred.”

They drove for the next few miles in silence, but even the glorious scenery couldn’t lift her spirits. She didn’t want to dwell on her own troubles, so she made herself think of other things. Before long, her thoughts drifted back to Torie Traveler. “Don’t you find the similarity between my odd situation and your sister’s a bit too coincidental?”

“It’s not coincidental at all. A certain English busybody’s got her nose in where it doesn’t belong. And this time we’re not talking about you.”

“But Francesca knows nothing about my situation with Hugh.”

“Francesca knows everything. That’s how she’s been able to keep her television show on the air for so many years. She’s pretty much like God, except sexy.”

“I’m going to call her tonight and ask.”

He adjusted the sun visor. “You can ask all you want, but if Francesca doesn’t feel like telling, you won’t learn a thing.”

“Do you really think she has some plan behind throwing us together?”

“You bet I do.”

“But what could it be?”

“Sadism. You live with the Antichrist long enough, you turn mean.”

In the luxurious bedroom of a rented home in Palm Beach, Florida, an elegantly beautiful forty-four-year-old Englishwoman with chestnut hair and a heart-shaped face curled deeper into the pale peach sheets and gave a sigh of contentment as she gazed at the indentation in the pillow next to her. Time had only improved her husband’s lovemaking techniques.

The shower went on in the connecting bathroom, and she gave a soft laugh as she wondered how Emma and Kenny were doing. Putting the two of them together had been decidedly wicked, but irresistible—Francesca Serritella Day Beaudine’s own sentimental journey. Although it wasn’t exactly a case of history repeating itself, since Emma bore no resemblance to the spoiled little rich girl Francesca had been when Dallie Beaudine had picked her up on that Louisiana back road twenty-three years ago.