Call Me Irresistible (13 page)

“Fine shot, Mr. Skipjack. You really nailed that one,” Mark said with an admiring nod.

“Way to play the wind, Mr. Traveler,” Lenny said.

“You spun that like a top,” Skeet Cooper offered up to Ted’s father.

As she listened to the caddies praise the players, she concluded this was all about ego. About having your personal cheering squad. She decided to test her theory. “Wow!” she exclaimed on the next tee after Ted hit. “Cool drive. You really hit that far. Very far. All the way . . . down there.”

The men turned to stare at her. There was a long pause. Finally, Kenny spoke. “I sure wish I could hit a ball like that.” Another long pause. “Far.”

She vowed not to say another word, and she might have been able to stick to that vow if Spencer Skipjack hadn’t liked to talk so much. “Pay attention, Miz Meg. I’m gonna use a little tip I picked up from Phil Mickelson to set this one right next to the pin.”

Ted tensed up just as he’d been doing whenever Skipjack addressed her. He expected her to sabotage him, and she definitely would have if only his happiness and well-being were at stake. But something else hung in the balance.

She was facing an impossible dilemma. The last thing the planet needed was another golf course sucking up its natural resources, but it was obvious even to her how much the town was suffering. Each issue of the local paper reported another small business closing or one more hard-pressed charity unable to keep up with an increased demand for its services. And how could she be judgmental of others when she was living a life that was anything but green, starting with her gas-guzzling car? No matter what she did now, she’d be a hypocrite, so she followed her instincts, abandoned a few more of her principles, and played the good soldier for the town that hated her. “Watching you hit a golf ball is pure pleasure, Mr. Skipjack.”

“Naw. I’m only a hacker compared to these boys.”

“But they get to play golf full-time,” she said. “You have a
real
job.”

She thought she heard Kenny Traveler snort.

Skipjack laughed and told her he wished she was his caddy, even though she didn’t know a damn thing about golf and he’d need more than seven strokes to make up for her mistakes.

When they stopped at the clubhouse between the ninth and tenth holes, the match was even—four holes for Ted and Dallie, four for Kenny and Spencer, one hole tied. She got a short break—not the nap she dreamed of, but enough time to splash cold water on her face and tape up her blisters. Mark pulled her aside and dressed her down for getting too familiar with the members, making too much noise on the course, not sticking close enough to her player, and shooting Ted dirty looks. “Ted Beaudine is the nicest guy in the club. I don’t know what’s wrong with you. He treats everybody on the staff with respect, and he gives big tips.”

Somehow she suspected that might not apply to her.

As Mark walked off to suck up to Kenny, she approached Ted’s big navy bag with loathing. The gold head covers matched the bag’s stitching. Only two head covers. Apparently she’d already lost one. Ted came up behind her, frowned at the missing head cover, then at her. “You’re getting way too cozy with Skipjack. Back off.”

So much for playing the good soldier. She kept her voice low. “I grew up in Hollywood, so I understand ego-driven men like him better than you ever will.”

“That’s what you think.” He jammed the ball cap he was carrying on her head. “Wear a damn cap. We’ve got real sun here, not that watered-down California crap you’re used to.”

On the back nine, she knocked Ted and his father out of another hole because she yanked up a couple of weeds to give Ted a better shot. Yet even with the three holes she’d cost them—and Ted’s occasional errant shot when he tried too hard to conceal how pissed off he was at her—he was still highly competitive. “You’re playin’ a strange game today, son,” Dallie said. “Glimpses of brilliance paired with some mind-bogglin’ lunacy. I haven’t seen you play this good—or this bad—in years.”

“Heartbreak’ll do that to a man.” Kenny putted from the edge of the green. “Makes ’em go a little crazy.” His ball stopped a few inches short of the cup.

“Plus the humiliation of everybody in town still feeling sorry for him behind his back.” Skeet, the only caddy allowed to be on familiar terms with the players, brushed away some debris that had fallen on the green.

Dallie stepped up to his putt. “I tried to show him by example how to hold on to a woman. Kid didn’t pay attention.”

The men seemed to delight in poking fun at one another’s vulnerabilities. Even Ted’s own father. A test of manhood or something. If her girlfriends had gone after one another the way these guys did, somebody would have ended up in tears. But Ted merely delivered his leisurely smile, waited his turn, and sank his putt from ten feet away.

As the men walked off the green, Kenny Traveler, for a reason she couldn’t fathom, decided to tell Spencer Skipjack who her parents were. Skipjack’s eyes lit up. “Jake Koranda’s your father? Now that is really something. Here I thought you were caddying for money.” He shot a look between her and Ted. “You two a couple now?”

“No!” she said.

“Afraid not,” Ted said easily. “As you might guess, I’m still trying to recover from my broken engagement.”

“I don’t think they call it a broken engagement when you get dumped at the altar,” Kenny pointed out. “That’s more commonly known as a catastrophe.”

How could Ted be so worried about her embarrassing him today when his own friends were doing the job so well? But Skipjack seemed to be having the time of his life, and she realized their insider chatter made him feel as if he were one of them. Kenny and Dallie, for all their dumb-ass, good ol’ boy ways, had his number.

After the revelation of her famous parents, Skipjack wouldn’t leave her alone. “So what was it like growing up with Jake Koranda as a father?”

She’d heard that question a thousand times and still found it offensive that people didn’t also acknowledge her mother, who was just as accomplished as her father. She delivered her pat answer. “Both of my parents are just Mom and Dad to me.”

Ted finally realized she might have some value to him. “Meg’s mother is famous, too. She runs a big talent agency, but before that she was a famous model and actress.”

Her mother had appeared in exactly one film,
Sunday Morning Eclipse,
where she’d met Meg’s father.

“Wait a minute!” Spencer exclaimed. “Son of a— I had this poster of your mother on the back of my bedroom door when I was a kid.”

Another statement she’d heard a few zillion times too many. “Imagine that.” Ted slanted her another of his looks.

Skipjack didn’t stop talking about her famous parents until they approached the seventeenth hole. Thanks to some bad putting, Kenny and Skipjack were down one hole, and Skipjack wasn’t happy. He grew even unhappier when Kenny took a phone call from his wife before he teed off and learned that she’d cut her hand while she was gardening and had driven herself to the doctor to get a couple of stitches. It was apparent from Kenny’s end of the conversation that the injury was minor and his wife wouldn’t hear of him dropping out of the match, but from then on he was distracted.

Meg could see how much Skipjack wanted to win, just as she could see that it didn’t occur to either Ted or Dallie to back off, not even for the future of the town. Dallie had played consistently well, and Ted’s erratic play was now a thing of the past. She was getting the weird feeling that he might even be enjoying the challenge of making up the three holes she’d cost them.

Skipjack snapped at Mark for taking too long to hand over a club. He could feel his win slipping away and, along with it, the chance to brag that he and Kenny Traveler had beaten Dallie and Ted Beaudine on their home course. He even stopped pestering Meg.

All Team Beaudine had to do was miss a few putts, and they’d put Spencer Skipjack in a magnanimous mood for future negotiations, but they didn’t seem to get that. She couldn’t understand it. They should be catering to their guest’s enormous ego instead of playing as though only the outcome of the match mattered. Apparently they thought tossing jokes at one another and letting Skipjack feel like an insider was enough. But Skipjack was a sulker. If Ted wanted him to be receptive, he and his father needed to lose this match. Instead, they were pressing even harder to maintain their one-hole advantage.

Fortunately, Kenny came to life on the seventeenth green and sank a twenty-five-foot putt that tied up the teams.

Meg didn’t like the determined glint in Ted’s eye as he teed off on the final hole. He lined up his drive, adjusted his stance, and launched his swing . . . at the exact moment she accidentally on purpose dropped his bag of golf clubs . . .

T
he clubs landed with a crash. All seven men standing on the tee spun around to stare at her. She tried to look abashed. “Oops. Dang. Big mistake.”

Ted had pulled his drive into the far left rough, and Skipjack grinned. “Miz Meg, I sure am glad you’re not caddying for me.”

She stubbed her sneaker into the ground. “I’m really sorry.”
Not.

And what did Ted do in response to her blunder? Did he thank her for reminding him of what was most important today? Conversely, did he stalk over and wrap one of his clubs around her neck as she knew he wanted to? Oh, no. Mr. Perfect was way too cool for any of that. Instead, he gave them his choirboy smile, wandered back to her with his easy lope, and righted the bag himself. “Now don’t you stress, Meg. You’ve just made the match more interesting.”

He was the best bullshit artist she’d ever known, but even if the others couldn’t see it, she knew he was furious.

They all set off down the fairway. Skipjack’s face was flushed, his golf shirt sticking to his barrel chest. She understood the game well enough by now to know what needed to happen. Because of his handicap, Skipjack got an extra stroke on this hole, so if everybody parred it, Skipjack would win the hole for his team. But if either Dallie or Ted birdied the hole, Skipjack would need a birdie himself to win the hole, something that seemed highly unlikely. Otherwise, the match would end in an unsatisfying tie.

Thanks to her interference, Ted was farthest from the pin, so he was up first for his second shot. Since no one was close enough to overhear, she could tell him exactly what she thought. “Let him win, you idiot! Can’t you see how much this means to him?”

Instead of listening to her, he drilled a four-iron down the fairway, putting him in what even she could see was perfect position. “Butthead,” she muttered. “If you birdie, you’ve just about guaranteed your guest can’t win. Do you really think that’s the best way to put him in a good mood for your odious negotiations?”

He tossed his club at her. “I know how the game is played, Meg, and so does Skipjack. He’s not a kid.” He stalked away.

Dallie, Kenny, and a glowering Skipjack put their third shots on the green, but Ted was only lying two. He’d abandoned common sense. Apparently losing a game was a mortal sin for those who worshipped in the holy cathedral of golf.

Meg reached Ted’s ball first. It perched on top of a big tuft of chemically nurtured grass in perfect position to set up an easy birdie shot. She lowered his bag, contemplated her principles once again, then brought her sneaker down as hard as she could on the ball.

As she heard Ted come up behind her, she shook her head sadly. “Too bad. It looks like you landed in a hole.”

“A hole?” He pushed her aside to see his ball mashed deeply into the grass.

As she stepped back, she spotted Skeet Cooper standing on the fringe of the green watching her with his small, sun-wrinkled eyes. Ted gazed down at the ball. “What in the—?”

“Some kind of rodent.” Skeet said it in a way that let her know he’d witnessed exactly what she’d done.

“Rodent? There aren’t any—” Ted spun on her. “Don’t tell me . . .”

“You can thank me later,” she said.

“Problem over there?” Skipjack called from the opposite fringe.

“Ted’s in trouble,” Skeet called back.

Ted used up two strokes getting out of the hole she’d dug him into. He still made par, but par wasn’t good enough. Kenny and Skipjack won the match.

Kenny seemed more concerned about getting home to his wife than relishing the victory, but Spencer chortled all the way into the clubhouse. “Now that was a golf game. Too bad you lost it there at the end, Ted. Bad luck.” As he spoke, he was peeling away at a wad of bills to tip Mark. “Good job today. You can caddy for me anytime.”

“Thank you, sir. It was my pleasure.”

Kenny passed some twenties over to Lenny, shook hands with his partner, and took off for home. Ted dug into his own pocket, pressed a tip into her palm, then closed her fingers around it. “No hard feelings, Meg. You did your best.”

“Thanks.” She’d forgotten she was dealing with a saint.

Spencer Skipjack came up behind her, settled his hand into the small of her back, and rubbed. Way too creepy. “Miz Meg, Ted and his friends are taking me to dinner tonight. I’d be honored if you’d be my date.”

“Gosh, I’d like to, but—”

“She’d love to,” Ted said. “Wouldn’t you, Meg?”