Her Foreign Affair

by Shea Mcmaster

  Randi, glancing toward the dining room again, snorted her disbelief. “I was there. I heard the announcement. I saw you put your arm around her.” The green gaze came back, spearing him with hurt and accusation.

  He’d never told her, but Jean had saved his life. After his experience with Beatrice, he’d been reluctant to seduce or be seduced by the innocent American. He’d had a few experimental partners, all before sleeping with Beatrice, none of whom had ever screamed in orgasmic bliss. Not like when he’d fingered Jean to her first orgasm. From there, well, of course they’d had to conduct further experiments.

  He ran a hand through his hair. Hell, Jean had been the one to convince him he was a sexual master. Before her, he’d had serious doubts. Bloody hell, he had doubts even now. No one had ever stirred him to the level of excitement she had. His body remembered even though he tried to remind himself jet lag was still a bit of a problem. Much like his body, she didn’t want to hear about it now, although for a different reason.

  She still hadn’t been forced to leave. There’d been other reasons to stay. Why hadn’t she? “I heard later that your application for the summer internship had come through and you’d accepted. Why did you leave?”

  Once more, she looked up at him, her green eyes wide. “Why did I leave? I left because it was clear you were over and done with me. I stood there, waiting for you to turn around and notice me, and then you put your arm around that…her, and told Ms. Richards about your upcoming wedding, rushed because you two were expecting. How could I stay?” Her voice broke. Tears rose in her eyes. Tears she blinked back before they fell. “The only reason I wanted to stay was to be with you.”

  Inwardly wincing, he thought carefully about his response, wanting her to understand, to realize he hadn’t had a choice, or not much of one. How differently would things have worked out if he’d fought harder? A question he’d asked himself plenty of times over the years. “I didn’t know you were there. I thought you were gone.” Lame excuse, but definitely the truth. Had he known Jean was there, or anywhere still within the country, he bloody well would have walked away from Beatrice, his family, and job—everything—just to be with Jean.

  “Mom, which silver do you want us to use?” Birdie asked from the next room.

  “Your choice,” Randi returned without missing a beat, her mom voice back in control. “Don’t forget the candlesticks on the sideboard. I polished them yesterday.”

  “Already saw them,” Birdie chirped right back.

  “I know that,” Randi returned to their conversation as if she hadn’t taken a side trip. “But then, I didn’t usually do things quite the way you wanted me to, did I?” Another ball of dough suffered a beating before she threw it into the pan. “I never was, and never would be, the well-behaved little English woman you so obviously were raised to marry.”

  Court closed his eyes, remembering Danielle’s expression as she’d looked over his shoulder. Half expecting to see the south wall caving in, judging by the horror on the woman’s face, he’d turned and found himself looking into Jean’s stricken eyes and pale face, her skin as white as chalk against the elegant black cocktail dress she wore. With her hair up and a string of pearls around her neck, she’d never looked more beautiful, more shocked, or more wounded. He’d reached for her thinking she was about to faint, but she’d backed away, a hand resting over her stomach as if to hold back the bile she’d been dealing with the previous week. She’d thought it had been a touch of the flu, but he hadn’t caught it…

  Before he could process the thought, the front door opened, and a man’s gruff voice called out. “Hey, baby!”

  Randi flinched.

  Birdie shrieked with happiness. “Grandpa!”

  Court looked to the right in time to see a colorful flash of Birdie hurrying toward the front door. Drew set down the handful of utensils he’d been putting out and sauntered after her. A glance to the woman on his left showed her fists pressed on the counter, knuckles white, head bowed. As if girding herself to face the lions of the coliseum, she inhaled deeply and lifted her head, back straightening.

  “My father and a guest,” she said through tight lips. “Behave yourself and don’t go into details. I never told him your name, though I’m sure the kids will tell him we knew each other back when. Don’t elaborate. Please. I don’t want to go into it today. We’ll talk later.”

  It was about all he could hope for just then. “As m’lady requests.”

  The look she gave him would have sent him to the bottom of the sea if such things were possible.

  Chapter 3

  Still trembling with far too many emotions to process, Randi rounded the corner to greet her father and guest in the foyer. The younger of the two men carried a case sized box of wine. For forty-nine—Jordan, never married, liked to run marathons for fun, all facts imparted by Dad—he wasn’t too bad. A little taller than Court, he had the lean build of a runner. Brown hair, neatly styled in a short cut, had strands of gray throughout, rather than just at the temples. Brown eyes assessed her from head to toe, then smiled.

  “A full case, Dad?” Randi inquired as she gave her father a brief hug and kissed his cheek.

  “You said you wanted extra, and you know the price break for a case. There’re even a few bottles of Mumm in there.” At sixty-five, RJ Dailey retained his vitality along with a head of thinning gray hair he kept slicked back. Today, in keeping with the relaxed attitude of the holiday, he wore a navy polo shirt and khaki pants. Jordan wore pretty much the same, in direct contrast to Court and Drew with their pressed, button-down shirts and wool slacks.

  “Thanks. Um, Jordan? Nice to meet you. Why don’t you follow me into the kitchen with that?” Once more Randi led a man into her domain, only to find Court blocking the way. She leveled her coldest glare at him. “Excuse me, Mr. Robinson.”

  “Pardon me.” He stepped back barely far enough to clear the wine cooler under the counter to the left of the fridge. Those blue eyes of his sparkled with amusement, ignoring her irritation.

  “Jordan, here.” She moved aside a platter to make room for the box, which he easily set down.

  “There, now we can do a proper introduction,” the newcomer said. “Jordan Doyle.” He held out a hand, and Randi quickly dusted one off on her apron.

  “Randi Ferguson. Pardon the flour. I’m nearly done with the rolls. Jordan, this is Court. His son, Drew, is helping my daughter set the table.” She could hear Birdie introducing Drew to her grandfather in the hallway.

  Jordan smiled down at her as his large, warm hand engulfed hers. He stood tall enough that she felt shorter and rounder than normal.

  Okay, so at five-two, it didn’t take much to make her feel like a midget. Wyatt had been six-one, Birdie topped out at five-six, Dad six feet even, and Court, well, he was also six feet even. Drew, she’d place about six-one. Good thing she’d put on heels. Two extra inches didn’t add much, but every little bit helped. She’d worn three inch heels a few times with Court, for example, that disastrous night. She’d discovered then that running on stilettos wasn’t a talent she had. Somewhere along the way in her run from the reception to her flat, she’d twisted her ankle, which had left her limping for a week.

  “Where would you like the wine?” Court asked from behind her. So much like old times, for a heartbeat she fought the temptation to lean back into his arms. Her body agreed, her neck tingling in anticipation of his kiss, right there, in that spot, the ticklish one right behind her ear. All this while holding Jordan’s hand. Which reminded her of another reason why she remained annoyed with Court, she turned into a brainless idiot around him.

  “Oh.” She snatched back her hand from Jordan’s grasp. “Why don’t you see if there’s enough room in the wine cooler? Dad? There’s coffee and Irish cream, or the straight stuff over there.” She pointed at the counter where she’d left the coffee service. “Why don’t you two have a seat and help yourself to the trays? I’ll throw some wrapped brie
and prosciutto in the oven.”

  “Why don’t you introduce me first?” Dad said, his eyes locked on Court.

  “Oh, sorry. Court, this is my dad, RJ. Dad, Court.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir.” Court reached across the kitchen island and shook his hand.

  “Didn’t catch your last name…?” Dad raised his eyebrow in that most annoying expression he used when Randi tried to cut corners on information. Nailed her every single time when it was least convenient.

  “Robinson, sir. Courtland Bailey Robinson.”

  Randi caught the wry twist of Court’s lips. If only he knew. Was he imagining what meeting Dad would have been like so long ago?

  And Dad certainly twigged to Court’s full name, his lifted brow directed straight at her along with a glare of recognition. “Quite the interesting name there, sounds like—”

  “Sounds like time for the football game to me,” Randi interrupted, directing her own narrow-eyed glare of warning at her father. He knew the look well enough to back off for now, but he wouldn’t be satisfied for long. Court was in his sights, and Randi’s dread increased tenfold. Would she make it through this day with her secrets still buried? Desperate to hold off the unveiling of secrets as long as possible, she started toward the family room, subtly, or not, ushering her father and Jordan from the kitchen. “Who’s playing this year, and what’s the bet?”

  Nobody fell for it, but at least Dad took the hint. She wasn’t entirely off the hook; no doubt he’d call her to the carpet later. The man had a mind like a bloodhound mixed with a pit bull, which meant he could sniff out a lie and then kept worrying at it until she caved. The look he gave her now confirmed she’d only gained a few hours before the interrogation began.

  From the moment she’d mentioned going abroad for a semester, he’d hated the five months she’d spent in England. Once she’d returned, and until she’d married Wyatt, he’d raved endlessly how he’d known all along she’d come home knocked-up. It was one of the few times in her life she’d been browbeaten into doing exactly as he wanted. When he’d presented Wyatt Ferguson, a rising sales manager, as an acceptable husband, and one willing to take on her shame, she’d looked into Wyatt’s kind hazel eyes and agreed. It had been plain from the first moment that Wyatt was far more forgiving than her dad, and he’d lived up to the promise of being easier to live with.

  With a grumble, Dad answered. “LSU is playing the Gators. The bet is for travel expenses. If LSU wins, Jordan pays his own tab. If they lose, I pay his expense report without complaining.”

  Predictable, but she was getting in on this action. The Gators were favored to win. “Hmm, throw me in for a long weekend in Napa at the B&B of my choice and I’ll take your bet.”

  “You’ll hire a tree service to take out the damn spruce so I don’t have to hear about it anymore?” Dad’s eyes bored into her from the family room to clear across the kitchen. The stupid dead tree she’d been trying to get him to take down for over a year. The one blight on her carefully landscaped backyard.

  Randi blew a hank of bangs out of her eyes. “Fine. If LSU wins, I’ll deal with the tree myself.”

  Dad rolled his eyes, then nodded at her hands. “I’d shake on it, but you’d probably squish that blob of dough into my hand.”

  Randi looked down at the poor mangled globule. The rolls would turn out interesting this year. If it wasn’t the turkey, it would be something else. Were there backups in the extra freezer? Did she have enough potatoes to mash if she didn’t have more rolls? “Pour some Irish Cream in your coffee and consider us shaken.”

  “How you make it in the business world with that attitude, I’ll never know.” Dad shook his head and turned away to pour the coffee for himself and Jordan. “Let’s go find the game, guys, and leave the women to the prep.”

  “Grandpa!” Birdie yelled from the dining room. “I heard that, and you know that doesn’t fly in this house.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll carve the bird. Just make sure the right one is on the platter when it’s time.”

  Birdie moved into the hall and glared at her grandfather, hands on hips. A moment later, the two of them broke into laughter and went their separate ways.

  “Carve the bird?” Court murmured in her ear. Damn, she’d almost forgotten he was there.

  “Turkey, bird, Birdie…” She looked over her shoulder and found him within kissing distance. Certainly smelling distance. And he smelled good. Some expensive cologne she didn’t recognize.

  “Ah. Birdie. A most interesting name. How did you come up with that?”

  With a casual shrug, she said, “Nickname. Because she’s so damn chipper, like a little bird.” Randi put the last of the rolls in the buttered pan, covered them with a damp towel, and set them on top of the fridge to rise. Hopefully, they’d do it properly.

  “Ah, so, what, exactly, is her name?”

  Oh, so not going there. Not if she could help it. That would give the surprise away completely, and she didn’t have a clue on how to approach that bit of news. She felt nervous enough watching Birdie lightly flirting with Drew as she directed him toward the cabinet with the china dishes. Banter seemed to cover most of it. At least they weren’t putting their hands all over each other. Touches were limited to the bumping of shoulders. Heaven forbid Drew attempt to put his arms around Birdie. Randi would have to do something then. Would a pitcher of cold water be too drastic? She’d be seen as certifiable for sure, but would it keep the kids apart? Might be worth it.

  Trying not to give herself away, she firmly turned away from the situation in the dining room and changed the subject on Court. “I hear you’re a widower. When?” She moved to the far side of the kitchen, putting her back to him while she washed her hands and wrung out a sponge.

  “Beatrice died in a car accident about six years ago. Drew and I have been baching it since.”

  “I’m sorry.” Truly, she was. Death of a spouse pretty much spelled difficult.

  “As much as I hate to say it, lest I come across as cold-hearted”—she turned in time to see him shrug as he spoke—“it more or less worked out for the best.”

  In order to wipe down the counter, she had to sidle up to where he loaded bottles of wine into the racks of the cooler one at a time. “Keep a couple bottles of the champagne up front, please.”

  “Have an ice bucket? There may not be room for all of this.”

  “Cabinet on the left. Top shelf.” Randi began wiping the flour from the countertop. A swift wipe with a dishtowel and the counter sparkled, ready for the next task. If only she could deal with the half sibling issue as cleanly.

  “Next to or behind the extensive tea service collection?”

  Not ready to discuss what appeared to be an obsession with tea time, Randi ignored his probing question and directed hers back to his previous comment on his marriage. “Why was it for the best?”

  “Tell me Birdie’s real name, and I’ll answer your question.” He set the wine bucket down at her elbow and leaned toward her, interfering with the movement of her right arm. “A personal question for a personal question.”

  So he wasn’t ready to go there, either. Fair enough. “What decided Drew on international law? I thought business was the family, well, business.” Some sort of import company, if she remembered. Products from Spain? Or Italy? Or both by now?

  “An extension of the family business. We’ve expanded globally. I need people with more expertise in international laws. He’s fluent in French, Italian, and Spanish, and studying Chinese. After he finishes the year here, he’ll move into an immersion program.”

  “He’s here for a year?” Randi moved away from the tempting heat of him. He still smelled of expensive leather and a touch of bay rum, that was the scent she’d found so elusive. And creamy coffee.

  It was easier to keep things light while she moved about the kitchen with her tasks. The rest of the appetizers she’d made and put in the fridge earlier came out now.
Thank God for double ovens. Once more Wyatt had been ahead of her when renovating the kitchen. Double ovens and a huge Sub-Zero refrigerator. The man had liked to entertain, and he’d loved his food. All the more reason for her to start thinking heart-healthy in terms of her own diet. More than once, she’d asked herself if she’d indulged Wyatt’s preferences, hoping he’d have a heart attack. No, she honestly believed she hadn’t tried to sabotage his health. He’d been set in certain ways, and no amount of cajoling had moved him an inch.

  Randi sighed. This endless conjecture had to end sometime. Wyatt was gone. That’s all there was to it, and she had a serious situation on her hands. A potential disaster in need of delicate handling. What chance did she have of getting away with subtly breaking up Birdie and Drew and leaving it all there?

  A glance into the dining room showed the two putting the final touches on the table setting. How was she supposed to think through this situation with Court standing far too close? He occupied too many of her thoughts, which were scattered at best and completely destroyed at worst. She couldn’t seem to string two thoughts together today. The top priorities, she reminded herself, were to get dinner to the table on time, keep Court and Jordan at a distance, keep Dad occupied enough that he didn’t start wearing at her with questions she didn’t want to answer, and, oh, keep her daughter and Court’s son as far away from each other as possible. No worries. Easy. Could do it all in her sleep. If she’d managed to get any.

  Consumed by a need to put more distance between them, hoping her mind would return, she arranged the remaining deviled eggs and relish plate on a tray. She nabbed a stack of napkins and carried everything out to the family room where the game announcers were beginning their warm up. With no coffee table, she set the tray on the leather sofa between the men.