Lady Be Good Part 8

"Sure 'nough, Kenny. Did you know everybody on the staff signed a pet.i.tion to the Antichrist to get you back on tour?"

"Well, now, I appreciate that. You be sure and tell 'em all thanks for me."

He disappeared, and Maryann settled Emma at a window table. "You can watch him from here. And, honey, won't it be a glorious sight to behold? n.o.body hits long irons like Kenny Traveler."

Emma gave her a look that she hoped was friendly but reserved. She had no interest in watching Kenny Traveler hit long irons.

Until she saw him.

Although he still wore his tan shorts, he'd traded in his work boots for a pair of golf shoes, and the University of Texas T-shirt had been replaced by a dark brown golf shirt with another logo, although she was too far away to see which one. His muscles were fluid and graceful as he hit one shot after another. The b.a.l.l.s flew off the tee, soaring so far that she couldn't see them land. She wasn't surprised by his grace, but the display of power coming from a man so fundamentally lazy left her feeling light-headed.

He was a complete mystery to her. She had the feeling that dark waters lurked beneath that lackadaisical exterior, but she had no idea how deep they ran or how far they flowed. She thought of what he'd said in the car earlier when he'd made it evident that he still wanted to go to bed with her. "What difference does it make whether I happen to be a professional gigolo or a professional golfer? I've got all the necessary equipment, and I'm happy to let you use it." "What difference does it make whether I happen to be a professional gigolo or a professional golfer? I've got all the necessary equipment, and I'm happy to let you use it."

But it did make a difference. She could somehow have respected herself if she'd bought his services, but she couldn't respect herself if she became a groupie for a rich, professional athlete to regard with secret contempt.

All day she'd tried to avoid thinking about last night, but as she ate her grilled chicken sandwich and watched him hit one ball after another, his strength made her grow warm and restless. She forced herself to think logically. A tattoo and a change of wardrobe weren't going to be enough to completely discourage Hugh Holroyd, merely give him second thoughts. She'd known all along she'd have to do something more dramatic. Take a lover? The idea had been nibbling away at her for some time. But not Kenny Traveler. After what had happened last night, that would now be immoral. She couldn't exactly explain why; she only knew it was true. She needed to find someone else.

The thought depressed her so much she lost her appet.i.te. Kenny Traveler wasn't honest or trustworthy, but he certainly was s.e.xy, and, despite her aversion to rogues, she wanted it to be with him.

She took a glum poke at her tuna sandwich, then signaled the waitress for a cup of tea she didn't want. Anything to draw her attention away from the tantalizing figure on the driving range.

Kenny dropped her off at the hotel before he went back to his condo to change into what he called his "tattoo parlor clothes." At seven-thirty, she headed down to the lobby to wait for him. When she arrived, she looked around for someone who might be a detective, but all she saw were businessmen and tourists.

Kenny came in through the revolving door. He wore a pair of navy slacks and a white polo shirt with a Dean Witter logo. She wondered if he owned any clothes that didn't have a product endors.e.m.e.nt on them.

As he caught sight of her, he froze. "What in Sam Hill did you do to yourself?"

"Who's the Antichrist?"

"We're not talking about that now; we're talking about the fact that I dropped off Mary Poppins and I came back to find Madonna." His gaze took in her new outfit, purchased at one of the mall's inexpensive teen boutiques. The sleeveless black T-dress was perilously short and closely fitted, with a zip-neck. Unzipped. Or at least unzipped far enough to be noted in a memo to London.

"Really? You think I look like Madonna?"

"You don't look anything like Madonna." He lowered his voice to a growl that only she could hear. "What you look like is a nymphomaniac Mary Poppins. There wasn't a single thing wrong with those clothes you had on today, and I want you to change right back into them."

"Gracious, Kenny, you sound like an outraged father."

His scowl grew more p.r.o.nounced. "You're happy about this, aren't you? You're happy to be walking around without leaving anything to the imagination."

"It's not that bad, is it?" Perhaps she'd gone too far. If a playboy like Kenny Traveler thought she was dressed too obviously, maybe she needed to be more subtle. She tugged the zipper all the way up. "There."

He continued to regard her critically. "You've got makeup on."

"I've had makeup on all day."

"Not as much as you have on now."

"It's tastefully applied, and don't try to tell me it's not."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. "I don't know. All I know is-between what happened last night and your tattoo obsession and now this-I'm getting a real bad feeling. It's one thing to want a little freedom on your summer vacation; it's another to change into a different person. Suppose you tell me exactly what's going on in that head of yours."

"Not a thing."

He drew her off to the side, keeping his voice low. "Look, Emma. Let's speak frankly here. You have an itch you want scratched-perfectly understandable-but you can't let just anybody scratch it. Dressed like that, you're pretty much putting yourself on the auction block."

"Nonsense. You're going to be with me all evening, aren't you? How can anything happen?" She headed for the lobby doors.

"That's not the point," he said, coming up behind her. "Go change your clothes, then I'll take you to a great Mexican restaurant for dinner."

"Are you afraid that being seen with a fast-looking woman is going to ruin your reputation?"

"This is about you, not me."

"I think I've made my point." She smiled to show there were no hard feelings and headed for the parking lot. On her way, she began clipping three tiny sets of fake-pierced hoops behind the silver studs in her ear-lobes.

He came after her. "I'm not taking any responsibility for this. Next time you chat with Francesca, you make it real clear that I did everything I could to talk some sense into you."

She waited until he was backing out of the handicapped spot. "Who's the Antichrist?"

"A person who's name I won't speak." He changed the subject. "How did your visit to the Historical Society go? Did you find out anything new about Lady Sarah?"

"More confirmation that she was an astute observer. Her account of the railroad celebration agrees with all the other sources, but she gives much more detail."

He asked about the methods she used for her research, and she found herself talking all the way to the restaurant. When she saw where they were, she was embarra.s.sed. "Sorry. Sometimes my enthusiasm runs away from me."

"I don't mind," he replied, as they headed toward the front door. "I like history. And I like it when people enjoy their work. Too many poor slobs spend their lives doing things they hate." He held the door open for her. "I'll bet you were a good teacher before the fleshmongers got hold of you and turned you into a Head Mistress."

She smiled. "I love the cla.s.sroom. But being headmistress has its compensations."

"All those furs and diamond bracelets."

"St. Gert's is a wonderful old place, but she needed to be modernized. I've loved the challenge."

"She?"

"It's hard to explain. The school has this wonderful personality, like a cozy old grandmother. St. Gert's is very special."

He regarded her curiously, then the hostess came up to them, greeted him by name, and led them to their table.

Chapter 6

The restaurant had been built in a rambling old house with creaky floors and small rooms painted in earth tones. Accompanied by the delicious scents of spicy food, they made their way to one of the rear rooms. Some of the diners called out greetings to Kenny, while others stood to get a better view. This, combined with what had happened earlier at the mall, made Emma realize exactly how big a celebrity Kenny Traveler was. The knowledge made her uneasy. What terrible thing had he done to make him vulnerable to Francesca's blackmail? with creaky floors and small rooms painted in earth tones. Accompanied by the delicious scents of spicy food, they made their way to one of the rear rooms. Some of the diners called out greetings to Kenny, while others stood to get a better view. This, combined with what had happened earlier at the mall, made Emma realize exactly how big a celebrity Kenny Traveler was. The knowledge made her uneasy. What terrible thing had he done to make him vulnerable to Francesca's blackmail?

The hostess showed them to a back corner table covered in a dark green cloth slashed with awning stripes of orange and red. The walls in this room were rough brown stucco decorated with turn-of-the-century Mexican advertising posters.

A waiter appeared with a basket of chips and salsa. Kenny sent him back for the spicier version, then ordered a Dos Equis for himself and an extra large margarita for her.

"Just a large will do."

"Extra large," Kenny said to the waiter, who nodded and disappeared, obviously eager to please the restaurant's celebrity client.

"Why do you keep changing my orders? I don't want to drink that much."

"You keep forgetting about those needles. In a couple of hours you're going to be getting that tattoo you're so dead set on, and, from what I hear, it's going to hurt like h.e.l.l. I seriously recommend you undertake the process semi-drunk."

Emma definitely didn't like needles, and she decided he had a point. She began to study the menu, then set it aside. What was the use? He'd order for her anyway.

She was right. The waiter arrived with their drinks, and Kenny dictated an order so large and complex, she had no idea what she'd be eating. When the waiter finally disappeared, she repeated the question he kept ducking. "Are you ready to tell me who the Antichrist is?"

"Are we back to that again?"

"Male or female?"

He sighed. "Male."

"You've known him long?"

"Way too long."

"Is he connected with your business life or your personal life?"

"You might say."

She thought about asking if he was bigger than a bread box. "Just tell me!"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Your good friend's husband, that's who."

"Dallie?"

He winced. "Don't say it! I can't stand hearing that name."

"Even I know he's a famous golfer, but-"

"Just about the most famous golfer in the world. He's won all the majors at one time or another and more regular tour events than anybody can count. Next year he turns fifty, and he'll start tearing apart the senior tour."

"But I thought Francesca mentioned that he was the president of some kind of professional golfing organization."

"Only temporarily. He had to have shoulder surgery not long ago, and he agreed to take on the job of acting PGA commissioner while he recovered. The organization wanted to take its time finding the right person to fill the position permanently, and he was one of the few people everybody mistakenly mistakenly trusted to hold the position until then. He didn't much want to do it, but certain people persuaded him." He frowned. trusted to hold the position until then. He didn't much want to do it, but certain people persuaded him." He frowned.

"You being one of them?"

"The stupidest thing I've ever done, considering the fact that the job gives him more ways to abuse power than a South American dictator, and he's used every one of them against me."

"That's hard to believe. Francesca makes Dallie sound like the kindest, most amiable man."

"He's a bloodthirsty, power-loving, manipulative, arrogant son of a b.i.t.c.h, is what he is. Now, can we talk about something else? I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast, but you've just about made me lose my appet.i.te."

"The waitress at the country club today said something about signing a pet.i.tion to get you back on the tour. Does that mean you're not actively playing at the moment?"

"I've been suspended indefinitely," he said tightly. Those violet eyes turned hard as flint.

"By Dal-By Francesca's husband."

He gave a short nod.

"Why?"

"Stuff happens, that's all."

When he made no effort to elaborate, she regarded him more closely. "How do I fit into this?"

The arrival of the appetizers gave him an excuse to ignore her. He busied himself with the stuffed jalapenos while she sipped her frozen margarita. A few grains of salt caught on her bottom lip. She flicked them away with the tip of her tongue. "All I have to do is ask Francesca."

He stared at her bottom lip so long that she was afraid something was wrong. She blotted it with her napkin.

He blinked his eyes. "Francesca has a lot of influence with her husband."

"And?"

"She's going to use it to get me back on the tour."

"I see." Now she did see. "But only if you agreed to help me."

"That's about the size of it."

There was something missing. Why would Francesca care so much about having Kenny escort her? It made no sense. "What could she have been thinking of? She must have known we'd be oil and water."

"All her years on that talk show have done something s.a.d.i.s.tic to her brain. She likes putting unlikely people together, then watching them kill each other so she can feast on the remains."

That didn't sound like Francesca. There were definitely a few missing pieces here, but she was unlikely to find out what they were from Kenny.

He gazed at her with displeasure. "You going to eat or just keep licking your lip like that?"

"Licking my lip?"

"I'm not one to cast stones, since I have my own share of bad habits, but you need to leave that bottom lip of yours alone. You're always nibbling at it or licking it or something. It's distracting."

"You know, Kenny, I'm getting more than a little annoyed with your criticism."