Page 10 of Lady Be Good (Wynette, Texas 2)

“And a guide. An escort. It’s the same thing. Didn’t Francesca explain to you about drivers and escort services?”

“Apparently not,” she managed.

He shook his head. “I’m going to have to talk to her about this. She should have taken into consideration the fact that you don’t understand how things work over here. Now I’ve been put in an awkward position. I don’t like discussing money with my clients. What I mainly like to talk about is pleasure.”

The way he lingered over that last word—his Texas drawl stroking it with slow molasses—sent a shiver up her spine.

Suddenly, without any conscious direction, her mind began to race. Sex for hire? Had she just been given the answer to all her troubles? Her stomach clenched. No. It was unthinkable. Impossible.

But why? She only had two weeks to escape the net the despicable Hugh Holroyd had woven so tightly around both her and St. Gert’s, and this would be far more scandalous than a tattoo.

She considered the possibility that Francesca had chosen Kenny Traveler as her guide for just this reason. Francesca didn’t know about Holroyd’s plans, but she did know something else—how much Emma regretted her limited experience with men.

One afternoon several months ago, they’d shared tea at Emma’s cottage on the grounds at St. Gert’s, and Francesca’s openness regarding her own painful passage into maturity had allowed Emma to reveal something of her own past. Francesa already knew how much Emma loved St. Gert’s, which was the only home she’d ever known. At the same time, being raised in a girl’s school had restricted her contacts with men.

Even when she’d gone to the university, things hadn’t improved much. Her mother’s death had left her virtually penniless, so she’d been forced to work hard. Between her job and her studies, there’d been little time left over for a social life, and most of the men she found attractive were intimidated by her. They seemed to prefer a softer sort of female, one who was milder-mannered and less inclined to take charge.

She knew it would have been more sensible for her to have accepted a teaching position in London after she’d graduated, but St. Gert’s was her home, and the old place drew her back. Unfortunately, the pool of eligible men in the small town of Lower Tilbey was limited, and she seemed to inspire their respect rather than their passion.

She had just begun to resign herself to a single, childless existence when she’d hired Jeremy Fox to fill the vacancy her appointment as headmistress had left in the history department. Within a few months, she’d fallen in love with him. Jeremy was kind, good-humored, and attractive in the scholarly, rumpled fashion that had always appealed to her. Unfortunately, he was also her subordinate, but they had so many interests in common that a friendship had formed anyway.

She’d let herself be satisfied with their comfortable companionship until a drizzly day last November when she’d spent several hours with a homesick six-year-old curled in her lap. The gloomy weather combined with her upcoming thirtieth birthday and the feel of the little girl’s head tucked under her chin had overcome both her common sense and her professionalism. She’d gone to Jeremy’

s rooms that evening and, as subtly as possible, indicated that her feelings for him went beyond friendship.

One look at his appalled expression told her she’d made a terrible mistake. He’d been suffocatingly kind as he let her know that he wasn’t attracted to her in any way other than as a friend. “You’re so strong, Emma. Such a leader.”

She’d known it wasn’t a compliment, and a short time later, she’d been forced to smile through his wedding to a pretty, twenty-one year-old shop girl who didn’t know the Magna Carta from the Maginot Line.

Emma remembered Francesca’s sympathetic expression when she’d told her about Jeremy. “So, you’re still a virgin,” Francesca had said succinctly.

Emma had been embarrassed. “Well, I’ve dated certainly. And there were several times when I . . .” She gave it up. “Yes. Quite right. Embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. You’re just discriminating.”

But despite Francesca’s kind words, Emma felt like a freak. Still, hiring a man for sex would never have occurred to her if it weren’t for Hugh Holroyd, Duke of Beddington. After weeks of agonizing over how to save her school, could the solution be so simple? And so difficult?

She needed to know more. “Your sexual services . . .” She cleared her throat. “What exactly do they involve?”

His beer bottle stalled halfway to his lips, and the smile that had been hanging there faded. He stared at her for a long moment, then opened his mouth to speak. Shut it. Opened it again. Took a swig of beer.

She watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed. He was obviously surprised, and she could almost read his thoughts. He’d believed she was too conservative to hire him for sex, and he regretted having reduced his price so quickly.

He set his beer on the deck. “Uh . . . anything the customer wants.”

Her mind whirled with possibilities, and she had to force her thoughts into line. She couldn’t consider this emotionally; she had to approach it logically, and there were practicalities to consider.

“What about diseases?” Making eye contact with him was impossible, so she pretended to study the bubbles.

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but he did, although his voice sounded as if some beer might have gone down the wrong pipe. “I practice one hundred percent safe sex.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Ninety-five percent. It’s like Torie always says: ‘To live is to risk.’ But I’m sure not carrying any fatal diseases, if that’s what you want to know. How about you?”

“Me?” She lifted her head. “No. Absolutely not.” Once again, she dropped her gaze. Through the bubbles, she glimpsed skin and wondered how much of her he could see. “This is purely commerce? Handled professionally?”

“I, uh, offer a money back guarantee.”

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