Lady Be Good (Wynette, Texas #2)(7)

He heard the phone ring, but he ignored it because he figured it was Torie calling again. As he moved one knee closer to a water jet, he thought about the fact that Lady Emma didn’t know who he was. He supposed that should bruise his ego, but instead he was glad he hadn’t been stuck with someone who wanted to rehash the details of the scandal.

The door leading from the house swung open, and Lady Emma came out. He grinned. She was covered up from here to there with another straw hat, sunglasses, and a filmy pink robe that had white flowers splashed all over it. Lady Emma sure did like her flowers.

He took a sip of beer, then tipped the mouth of the bottle toward her. “You naked underneath that?”

Those golden brown eyes flashed thirteen different kinds of surprise. “Certainly not.”

“Can’t get in the hot tub with your clothes on. My friend has a rule about that.”

Amusement flickered in her eyes. “Your friend doesn’t have to find out, does he?” Then her fingers stalled on the sash at her waist. “Are you naked?”

He took a sip of beer and regarded her innocently. “Now, see, that’s one of those things an American lady would know without asking.”

She hesitated, then unfastened her robe and let it drop.

He about choked. Right there, in the bubbling water, his groin shot to full attention.

It wasn’t her bathing suit that did it. She had on a conservative white one-piece with a couple stems of iris running up the front. No, it was the body inside. This was one lady who sure didn’t believe in running to the bathroom after a good meal and sticking her finger down her throat like some of his former girlfriends. Lady Emma had herself a woman’s body, with nice curvy hips and real curvy breasts. When a man was in bed with her, he wouldn’t have to do a sight check to make sure he was touching the right things.

Her skin was milky white and flawless. Her legs were a little short, but nicely shaped. And smoothly shaven. He was relieved to see that, because, with foreign women, you could never be too sure. He’d had a nasty surprise three years ago with a famous French film actress.

Despite Lady Emma’s curves, he noticed that everything was trim. Although she wasn’t a hardbody, the only parts of her that wiggled were the parts that were supposed to. Must be all that bicycling.

She’d put some lipstick on, but it was a light rosy color instead of hooker red, which was a good thing, because that mouth in red lipstick would have been more than he could handle. Lady Emma was one of life’s great jokes, he decided. Putting that face and body on a woman with the personality of a four-star general had to have given the Almighty a few chuckles.

He picked up the beer he had waiting for her—not that he believed for a moment she’d drink it—and held it out. She marched toward him and his aggravation returned. She looked like she was getting ready to liberate China instead of relax in a hot tub. This woman didn’t know the first thing about taking it easy.

She settled into the water on the farthest side of the tub from him. Pretty soon, only her shoulders and a pair of thin white straps were visible above the bubbles.

“We’re in the shade here,” he pointed out. “You might consider taking off your hat—that is, if you’re not too self-conscious about your . . . you know.”

“What?”

He lowered his voice. “Your bald spot.”

“I don’t have a bald spot!”

He feigned a look of empathy. “Baldness is nothing to be ashamed of, Lady Emma, although, I’ll admit, it’s more acceptable on a man than a woman.”

“I’m not bald! Why would you think such a thing?”

“Every time I see you, there’s a hat glued to your head. It’s a natural assumption.”

“I like hats.”

“I guess they can be quite a friend to people with hair loss.”

“I don’t have—” She rolled her eyes, then tossed her hat aside. “You have a peculiar sense of humor, Mr. Traveler.”

He gazed at a fluffy corona of butterscotch curls. They were so soft and pretty that, for a moment, he forgot what a pain in the butt she was. The moment passed when she spoke.

“We need to discuss our agenda for tomorrow.”

“No, we don’t. You gonna drink that beer or just hold it? And my name’s Kenny. Anything else makes me sound like a schoolteacher—no offense.”

“All right, Kenny. And please, just call me Emma. I never use my title. Technically it’s not a title, but what’s called an honorific.” She tilted the longneck to her lips, took a healthy swig, then set the bottle on the edge of the hot tub without so much as a shudder.

“Now, see, I don’t understand you not using it,” he said. “Having a title has got to be the only good thing about being British.”

She smiled. “It’s not quite so bad as that.”

“How’d you get it?”

“My father was the fifth Earl of Woodbourne.”

He thought that over for a moment. “Seems like an earl’s daughter—and stop me if I’m getting too personal here—but I’m surprised a member of royalty has to worry so much about counting her shillings.”

“I’m not royalty. And a large portion of the British aristocracy lives in genteel poverty. My parents were no exception. Both of them were anthropologists.”