Lady Be Good (Wynette, Texas #2)(6)

“Didn’t I just say so?”

“But—”

“You don’t want free lodging, fine by me.” He threw the car into reverse. “ ’Course, this could save you a hundred bucks a night, but if that’s what you want, I’ll take you right to the hotel.” He began to back out.

“No! I don’t know. I’m not sure—”

He stopped the car so it hung halfway out of the garage and regarded her patiently.

She wasn’t accustomed to being indecisive, especially when she didn’t know why she was protesting. It made no difference if he was staying here, too. Hadn’t she come on this trip for the precise purpose of losing her good name? Her stomach felt queasy at the thought, but she’d made her decision and she wouldn’t let St. Gert’s down.

“Made up your mind yet?”

“Yes. I’m sure this will be fine.”

He slid back into the garage. “There’s a real nice hot tub on the patio.”

“Hot tub?”

“Don’t they have those in England?”

“Yes, but . . .”

He stopped the car and got out. She followed.

The garage had a few boxes stacked at one end, along with what seemed to be a free-standing wine cellar. Through the glass doors, she saw that it was well-stocked.

He headed toward the door that led into the house. She stopped him. “Mr. Traveler?”

He turned.

“My suitcases?”

He gave a weary, put-upon sigh, then moved to the trunk, unlocked it, and looked inside. “You know, hauling around stuff like this isn’t good for a person with back trouble.”

“Do you have back trouble?”

“Not now, I don’t, which is exactly my point.”

She suppressed a smile. He was infuriating, but amusing. To teach him a lesson, she marched toward the trunk and pulled out the heavy suitcases herself. “I’ll carry them.”

Instead of being shamed, he seemed pleased. “I’ll get the door.”

With a sigh of exasperation, she lugged the suitcases inside. They stepped into a small kitchen with a limestone floor, granite counters, and cupboards with etched glass fronts. The late afternoon sun coming in through a skylight revealed an assortment of high-tech appliances.

“This is lovely.” She set her suitcases down and moved through the kitchen into a living room decorated in white, blue, and various shades of green. Several leafy plants grew near a pair of glass doors that opened onto a small, secluded patio surrounded by a vine-covered wooden privacy fence. A spacious, octagonal-shaped hot tub sat at one end.

He tossed his Stetson on the back of a chair, dropped his keys on a bronze and glass console, then pushed a button on a sleek answering machine. A woman’s Texas drawl filled the room.

“Kinny, it’s Torie. Call me back right this minute, you sonovabitch, or I swear to God I’ll phone the Antichrist and tell him you been stalkin’ little Catholic schoolgirls. And, in case you forgot, there’s a set of your Pings locked away in the trunk of my Beemer, right along with that Big Bertha you won the Colonial with. I mean it, Kinny, I’m gonna break every one of them if you’re not on this phone by three o’clock this afternoon.”

He yawned. Emma glanced at an elegant clock on the console. It was four o’clock.

“She sounds quite cross.”

“Torie? That’s just the way she talks.”

Emma couldn’t help probing. “She’s your wife, is she?”

“I’ve never been married.”

“Ah.” She waited.

He collapsed on the couch as if he’d just run a marathon.

“Your fiancée, perhaps? Or a girlfriend?”

“Torie’s my sister. Unfortunately.”

Despite herself, she was growing increasingly curious about this gorgeous, lazy Texan. “I didn’t quite understand some of her references. Big Bertha? Pinks?”

“Pings. Golf clubs.”

“Ah, so you’re a golfer. That explains your connection with Francesca. Several members of my faculty play golf.”

“You don’t say.”

“I bicycle for exercise.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m a great believer in the importance of exercise.”

“I’m a great believer in the importance of beer. You want one?”

“No, thank you. I—” She stopped herself. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’d adore a beer.”

“Good.” He rose from the couch. “You can have the bedroom at the end of the hall upstairs. I’ll meet you in the hot tub with a couple of cold ones as soon as you take your clothes off.”

Before she could reply, he’d disappeared. She frowned. For a man who moved slowly, he seemed to cover a lot of territory in a remarkably short period of time.

Kenny leaned back in the hot tub that sat in the shade of his small, private patio. It was a luxury model, and, contrary to its name, came complete with a customized cooling system that kept the water comfortably chilly during the hot Texas summer. Now, however, with the late afternoon temperature hovering just below seventy degrees, the warmer water felt good.

He’d had the hot tub installed right after he’d bought this place, one of three residences he owned, including a ranch outside Wynette, Texas, and a beach house on Hilton Head, although he’d just put the beach house up for sale to help bail him out of the legal and financial mess his ex-business manager Howard “Slezoid” Slattery had left him in.