Lady Be Good

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “Gracious, I know exactly what I want, and it won’t take me nearly that long.” She whipped his keys from the ignition. “Come along, then.”

  He snatched his keys back, but he came with her, although he grumbled the entire way into the mall. “You’d better not take more than half an hour. I mean it, Lady Emma. After half an hour, me and my Caddy are taking off whether you’re with us or not.”

  “Uhm.” She studied the shop windows and, almost immediately, saw what she wanted. She gestured toward a rounded concrete bench. “Wait right here. I won’t be a moment.”

  “You are the damnedest, most order-giving female it’s ever been my misfortune to meet up with! Do you think I can just sit in the middle of a major American shopping mall without starting a near riot?”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “I’m a semi-famous person, that’s what.”

  As if to prove his words, two young women carrying pink Victoria’s Secret shopping bags came charging toward him. “Kinny!”

  He glared at her. “Now see what you’ve done?”

  “I won’t be long. I promise.”

  She wasn’t, but by the time she’d returned, he had a small crowd gathered around him, and he seemed to be holding an impromptu golf clinic.

  “After you get to the top, make sure you start down nice and smooth. You want to build up that speed as you go through. . . .”

  She caught his eye, but, for all his former protesting, he appeared to be enjoying himself and didn’t seem in any hurry to get away. She ducked into an accessory place and added a few pieces of inexpensive costume jewelry to her purchases before he finally broke away from his admirers and led her back to the car.

  “Now the tattoo,” she said when they were once again on the road.

  “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He thought for a few minutes. “All right, if you’re dead set, I’ll help you. But it’s going to take me a little time to find a place where you can be sure they’re using clean needles.”

  “Needles?”

  “How do you think they put those tattoos on?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean . . . I know they use needles. It was just the way you said the word.”

  “It’s going to hurt, Queen Elizabeth. So if you can’t take the pain, maybe you’d better rethink this.”

  “It won’t be that painful.”

  His snort wasn’t encouraging.

  “You’re just trying to unnerve me.”

  “Well, excuse me for being a compassionate and caring human being.”

  “Ha!”

  “All right. You win. I’ll look into the whole thing after I drop you off to do your research.”

  For once he was thinking efficiently. “Excellent idea.”

  They headed for the State Fair Park, where the Dallas Historical Society was located in an impressive, T-shaped pavilion called the Hall of State. She slipped out of his car in the parking lot after agreeing to meet at three o’clock.

  Although she had intended to head immediately for the offices of the Historical Society, she discovered there was too much she wanted to see first, and she took her time studying the giant murals that ran around the four-story interior of the Great Hall of Texas, depicting the state’s history from 1528 into the twentieth century. When she finally arrived at the Historical Society offices, she was greeted warmly, and she spent the next few hours cross-checking the notes she’d taken from Lady Sarah’s journal with other sources from the time period. She was so absorbed in her research that she lost track of time and didn’t arrive at the spot where she was supposed to meet Kenny until three-fifteen.

  The Cadillac was waiting, along with its irate driver. “You’re late. I hate that!”

  “Really, Kenny, you have no right to complain. How was I supposed to know you’d be prompt today after you were so late yesterday?”

  “Yesterday was different.”

  “Because you were the one who was late instead of me.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re impossible. Did you find the tattoo parlor?”

  “Even better. I found a lady who does tattoos in her home.”

  “Really? And you think she’s reliable?”

  “Pillar of the community. You’re not going to get anyone more reliable. Only thing is, she’s got a busy schedule, and she can’t take you till ten o’clock tonight. I had to practically beg for that.”

  She hoped Hugh’s detectives would be around. “That’ll be fine.” Her stomach rumbled. “I could use a bit of lunch.”

  “I know just the place.”

  Twenty minutes later they drove through the stone gates of a country club that screamed exclusivity. The tree-shrouded lane ended in a pillared Greek Revival–style building. After Kenny parked, she got out and headed for the front entrance. Once again, it took her a while before she realized he wasn’t following. She turned.

  He stood watching her, his hands splayed on his hips. “Do you know where you’re going?”

  She glanced around. “Not really.”

  “Then why are you leading?”

  “I don’t know. I always do.”

  “Well, stop. I don’t like it.”

  Neither had Jeremy Fox. But she wasn’t the kind of woman to be a follower. She’d been on her own most of her life, and she’d learned very early that she could either lead the way or get trampled.

  He jerked his thumb toward a smaller building. “We’re going over there.”

  “Sorry.” She felt foolish as she followed him along a walk that led to a door topped with ornately carved gold wooden letters indicating it was the pro shop. The men inside greeted him as if he were visiting royalty.

  “Hey, Kinny! How’s it goin’?”

  “Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

  “Did you hear Charlie made an eagle on seven yesterday? Got so excited his heart kicked up, and he couldn’t finish the round.”

  Kenny returned their greetings, said he hadn’t heard about Charlie, then led Emma toward a glass-walled grill room that connected to one end. “Hope you don’t mind eating alone.” He gestured toward the hostess. “Take care of her, will you, Maryann? I’m gonna hit some balls.”

  “Sure ’nough, Kenny. Did you know everybody on the staff signed a petition 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? Nobody 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 balls 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.”

  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 appetite. Kenny Traveler wasn’t honest or trustworthy, but he certainly was sexy, 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 endorsement 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 pronounced. “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 embarrassed. “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 classroom. 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?

  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 hell. 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 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 bitch, 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 appetite.”

  “The waitress at the country club today said something about signing a petition to get you back on the tour. Does that mean you’re not actively playing at the moment?”