Her Foreign Affair

by Shea Mcmaster

  “Court—” Outraged, Randi began to protest, but the cards were slipped into her hand as what served as a doorbell chimed, interrupting what surely would have been a scene by the time she finished. Later. She’d lodge her complaint in private and not in front of the audience around them

  “There’s Larry. Now, I want you back here for lunch. Larry will pester me to death if you aren’t, and I don’t want to be apart a moment longer than necessary. After that, Fiske assures me you’ll get the entire pampering package.” He paused enough to catch the growing irritation in her expression. Lowering his voice, he leaned close enough to whisper against her lips, “Humor me and buy something nice to wear for dinner out.”

  Well that was clear enough. He wanted something sexy enough to peel off her almost the moment she’d put it on. And green. Maybe. Maybe not.

  Like a runaway locomotive, the business version of Court steamrollered right over her. She was barely given enough time to greet Larry—who very much noticed the wrinkled handprints over her breasts—shrug into her suit jacket, and shoulder her purse before she found herself on the elevator down to meet the driver who had her car standing ready. Tucked in her handbag were the new credit cards and the names of personal shoppers at Saks, Barneys, Bergdorf-Goodman, and Bloomingdale’s. She also had Fiske’s and Martha’s cell numbers programmed into her phone. Just in case.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  So she went shopping.

  Chapter 19

  By noon Thursday, Randi was shopped, spa-ed and museumed out. Wandering the stores alone had quickly ceased to be fun, and there were only so many times she could be buffed, waxed, massaged, and polished. There were plenty more sights to see, but a little went a long way there. Especially alone with a driver standing by. As much as Court said he wanted to spend time with her, the indispensable Martha had kept him snowed under a mountain of paperwork between meetings with Larry. Monday night they’d had dinner out, and Court had presented her with a pair of exquisite emerald earrings. That was the last time they’d made long, leisurely love, deep into the night, with him exploring every newly waxed inch of her body. The mere memory was enough to make Randi shiver with heat.

  Tuesday, she’d spent the morning pretending to shop, telling herself she loved it, then the afternoon visiting two museums, arriving back at the suite in time to catch a small scene which might have been innocent, or… No, Court wouldn’t do that, would he? Larry was nowhere in sight, and the impeccably dressed Martha looked just mussed enough, her blouse wrinkled in just a way, the smile on her face satisfied and smug, lipstick slightly smeared. Court seemed a little distracted, a little tired, and the scent of Martha’s perfume had been clinging to him as he greeted Randi with a hug. Then again, the woman’s perfume had nearly permeated the suite and would most likely require a week’s airing to clear out. Thankfully, the scent hadn’t made it to the bedroom. Or had it?

  Tired herself from a full day out, she gave Court the benefit of the doubt as he didn’t seem to notice when Martha eventually excused herself. Larry claimed prior plans, so dinner was a quiet affair, eaten in the suite, and they’d both fallen asleep early. She’d managed to plead exhaustion to avoid making love, but that didn’t stop Court from holding her all night long. At least the scent of his skin smelled nothing like another woman’s perfume.

  Wednesday started with relaxed morning loving and a shared shower. Court finished dressing first and went down to breakfast several minutes before Randi, who admittedly, was dragging her feet. Another day on her own stretched out ahead. Not even the glitter and anticipation of Christmas filling the air had made shopping for gifts feel like anything more than a chore. She’d do better ordering online. Soft soled flats on her feet, she didn’t make a sound leaving the upstairs bedroom and overheard Court’s exclamation of disgust.

  “What is this bloody rubbish? Why is this even here?”

  Martha’s hated voice answered. “I thought you should know.”

  “When have I ever paid attention to the bleeding gossip rags?”

  “This is what they’re reading at home.”

  “Must be a slow week,” he grumbled. Randi watched from the balcony as Court slapped down the folded paper beside his place setting. “Get rid of it. It has no bearing here.”

  Still silent, Randi swiftly made her way down the stairs and to the table before Court noticed and looked up. The napkin he placed over the paper wasn’t subtle, nor did he hide his irritation well.

  “Oh good, I haven’t seen a paper in days.” Randi leaned across him and snatched it from under the napkin.

  “Randi, there’s nothing in there worth reading. It’s just one of those tabloids the masses love for their outrageousness.”

  “Oh, I disagree. I used to love reading the London tabloids. They’re better entertainment than reality TV.” Scanning the page, she held it away from him. There, at the very bottom, the last inch… with two photos squeezed in side by side…

  Spying eyes caught sight of New York socialite Catherine Miller en dishabille leaving the hotel apartment of one of our favorite Brit importers. Seems, despite the connections the Miller textile merchants can provide him, Lynford International Importers’ most eligible bachelor, CEO Courtland Robinson, found new fields to plow in California. It took us a couple days to hit pay dirt, but the beauty on his arm is an heiress with wine connections, and the grapevine tells us last week he spent a quid or two bolstering his cellar with West Coast grape juice and his bedroom with a sun-kissed mature beauty, the recently widowed Randi Ferguson. Rumor has it these two have a past going back decades, and we can only wonder what they’re doing in NYC and what he plans to do about all the hearts he’s broken in Manhattan, and more so, the many London socialites who’ve been fluttering around the widower these past six years.

  “It’s rubbish, of course.” Court laughed, albeit a little forced.

  “Of course it is,” Randi said lightly. “After all, she had a point; I’m nobody on this side of the US, much less Europe. We strictly do business on the West Coast.” She tossed the paper down and picked up her cup of yogurt. Looking up, she caught sight of what looked like a hard glint of malice in Martha’s eyes. Had Martha been the one to provide the photos and details? What did she have to gain, if she had? Randi returned the direct gaze and did her best to look mildly amused. “So what happens now? Do I need to find a big hat and Jackie O sunglasses?”

  Randi wanted to take Court aside to talk about it, but Larry arrived, up to date on the gossip rag and begging details. Fiske quietly assured her if one of the staff was responsible, he or she would be sacked immediately. Too bad Fiske couldn’t sack Martha.

  The incident introduced a sour note to her day, and Randi grumbled at herself for letting it bother her. The situation didn’t improve when she returned for lunch and Martha hovered over Court, pushing the paperwork at him all through the meal, leaving Randi open to Larry’s flirting. Court frowned, but he didn’t put down his foot, either, letting work intrude on the midday meal despite Randi’s protest.

  They’d planned to eat out before the show, but a few photographers had been waiting when Randi emerged from the hotel for another lonely afternoon, this time at the Museum of Modern Art. Fortunately, a doorman intervened, and her driver whisked her off to the Museum of American Finance on Wall Street. A place she imagined few normal people would seek out. From there, she paid a visit to MarieBelle Cacao Bar and Tea Salon. The driver had suggested, and she’d declined, a visit to the Museum of Sex—it certainly was not a place she wanted to go alone. Perhaps Court would be interested tomorrow or the next day. She returned to the suite by way of the underground parking garage and zipped up a back elevator, straight into Fiske’s capable care.

  “Where are we dining tonight?” Randi asked.

  Fiske served a light tea, featuring a Rooibos variation.

  “What’s wrong?” Though clearly worn by the heavy schedule, which Randi figured w
asn’t working out as well as he would have liked, Court nevertheless noticed when she pushed away the steaming cup of brew.

  “A little too grassy for my likes. I might as well gather grass clippings from my yard instead of the savannah.”

  “Ditch the Rooibos, Fiske.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dinner tonight?” Randi prompted him.

  “I booked a table downstairs. Paparazzi aren’t allowed in. Did they give you much trouble while you were out?”

  Randi laughed. “They aren’t interested in little old me. As you said, it must be a slow week for the celebrities. No, I discovered some off the beaten path locations.”

  When she told him how fascinating she’d found the finance museum, he laughed. “Only you, darling. Where else?”

  “I had it on good authority the Museum of Sex would be an interesting stop, but I figured that one would be more fun with company.” She didn’t mean for her lip to wobble, but as miniscule as it was, Court saw it and pulled her onto his lap.

  “I think we can swing it day after tomorrow,” he murmured in her ear.

  Arms wrapped around his shoulders, she rested her head against his with a small sigh. “I’d like that. A lot.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a dud so far this week. We’ll have a bit of fun tonight. You like ABBA, right?”

  “You weren’t a dud this morning.” She trailed a painted fingernail across his lower lip.

  “Get me going now, and we’ll miss not only dinner but the show as well.”

  Tempting. Very tempting, but part of the fun of New York, as Jordan had expounded only last week, was the nightlife. The excitement and glitter of Broadway.

  “Think you’ll be up for it later tonight?”

  “I could be dead as a stinking dodo and still have it up for you, darling. Just knowing you’re in the hotel makes me half hard.”

  At dinner, Court drank a little too much, and mid-way through the first half of the show, his eyes closed. At least he didn’t snore, but he did startle awake when Randi poked him in the shoulder at intermission.

  “I’m sorry, Court, but I’ve got a terrible headache. Do you mind if we skip out on the second half?”

  It took him a moment to gather himself. “Headache you say?”

  “Yes. I think I had a little too much wine, and the mix of perfumes is killing me. But if you mind too terribly…”

  “No, no. If you’re not happy, we’ll go.”

  They returned to the hotel, agreed on a bath in the enormous tub, but Court nodded off there, too.

  “Come on, Mr. Excitement. I think our day is over.”

  Mumbled apologies on his lips, he’d fallen asleep right after gathering her into his arms. Randi stared out the tall windows toward the night sky. What was it she liked about driven, ambitious men? How many nights had Wyatt fallen asleep on her? Morning had always been his best time, and more often than not, she’d gone along with him, faking a quick orgasm so they could get out of bed sooner. Was it like that for most men? Wake up fresh in the morning? She always woke up with her schedule for the day running through her head. Never a sexy thought, although mornings with Court were still fresh and new, and outlining daily tasks didn’t intrude until later.

  Thursday morning they almost made love, but neither of them seemed to have the appetite for it. Court’s apologies didn’t bolster her mood one bit.

  “I’ll make it up to you, darling. I know this isn’t what I promised you. You’ve been so very patient.” His kisses were sweet and edged with a hint of something Randi didn’t recognize. If pressed to identify it, she’d say guilt. The large bouquet of flowers at her place at the breakfast table pretty much nailed the lid on her depressed mood, and the memory of rumpled Martha crossed her mind only to be ruthlessly dismissed. Court felt guilty about falling asleep at the show. That was all. No need to make a big deal out of it.

  “We should be completely finished by noon today,” Court said as he kissed her goodbye at the elevator. “It’s even possible I’ll be free after today. I swear I’ll make up for being a bore.”

  “Court, it’s all right.” She used her most soothing voice. “I understand about business, really, I do.” Smoothing his shirt to avoid looking into his eyes, she patted his chest. This was one more facet of Court the businessman. The gap in their circumstances widened a few more inches. Not entirely different than the occasional instance with Wyatt, but on a far grander scale. With Court, this would be normal on any given day. Business first. He had too many people relying on him to let it take a back seat to his personal wishes.

  “Well, I don’t. You’re an angel, Randi. See you at lunch.”

  At lunch he had more apologies.

  “There’s been a hang-up,” Court said. “Larry and I have to run out to a meeting. I honestly don’t know how long it will take. I’ll call when I know what’s happening.” The kiss he gave her had been quick and poorly aimed at her forehead.

  “Are you going out this afternoon?” Martha asked once they were alone.

  “No, I think I’ll stay in and do some catch up. I’ve neglected e-mail and my family.”

  “Very well. I have some paperwork and arrangements to make.” The younger woman began gathering her folders and laptop.

  “How long have you been with Court, Martha?” Randi hated asking the question, but the two worked so closely, and sometimes the expression on Martha’s face looked a little too…no, Court wouldn’t sleep with his secretary, would he?

  Well, Randi herself had acted as his secretary all those years ago, and he’d been sleeping with her. Had he learned his lesson or learned he liked that sort of working relationship? She was tempted to blame the cold chill suddenly filling her on the iced tea at lunch.

  “I’ve been with him about seven years. Long enough to know how miserable his marriage was. Poor man, absolutely lost when it finally ended.” Pausing in her work, she sighed, a dreamy gaze in her eyes. “The entire situation was such a mess. He’d filed for divorce, and then she died. The speculation in the papers was bloody awful. I’m just glad I was there for him. We grew close over the whole situation.” The change to a direct gaze aimed at Randi left no question of how Martha expected her to interpret that statement.

  “I see.” Randi wasn’t sure she saw what Martha wanted to portray. Working together created its own version of close but didn’t necessarily translate to the sexual realm, and so far, Court hadn’t shown signs of anything beyond a working relationship. Still, the clichés about bosses and secretaries existed for a reason and occurred far too often to discount entirely. She was about to question the other woman further when Martha’s cell phone rang.

  Her phone always handy, Martha answered before the second ring. “Yes, Court?”

  Well, that was on purpose.

  “No, no, I’ll take care of it. No problem. I’ll let her know. Right. Got it.” Martha clicked her phone shut and turned to Randi. “That was Court.”

  Randi nodded. “Obviously.”

  “This deal is falling apart. He asked me to reschedule your flight home. He won’t be back until late tonight and then will have to fly out immediately. He’s very sorry, and he’ll call you when he can.”

  The news was delivered as if discussing what office supplies needed to be ordered, but Martha had a glint in her eyes Randi didn’t trust. It had been obvious from the start she and Martha would never be buddies, but out and out enemies? Surely the woman was smarter than that.

  “Don’t let this distress you,” Martha continued. “This happens all the time and is usually why he sticks to professional women who know when to make a discreet exit.”

  Now that she hadn’t expected and blinked in surprise. “Professional women?”

  “Yes, he has contacts with many escort services around the world. Women who are well paid to be interesting companions for rich businessmen.”

  Randi’s heart stuttered to a near standstill. It felt as h
eavy as a lump of granite, but she did her best to hide her feelings from the cold bitch before her. The last had been a hit meant to weaken Randi’s confidence. No way would she let Martha know how close it came to matching things Randi had wondered about. “I see. Well, I still need to make contact with my family. I’ll take care of my own flight arrangements. I presume you can do whatever arranging you need to from your own room.” At least for now, the suite was hers to command.

  “Of course. Let me know if I may be of any assistance to you.” Martha picked up her datebook and laptop. “You know how to reach me.”

  Randi nodded but didn’t move until the elevator door closed on Martha.

  “Ma’am?” Fiske’s courteous inquiry surprised her enough she flinched. Where had he come from?

  “Mr. Fiske.” Turning slowly, she hoped she portrayed a solid façade of cool, collected calm.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing…” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “If you’ll pardon my butting in?”

  The man had been nothing but kind to her and regarded her now with a look of fatherly concern. He also took a huge risk by offering a personal opinion. While Court had advised her to treat the man like furniture—but politely—she couldn’t do it. He was a human being in a unique place to observe events and had years of practice doing such. “Please. If you have something to say, I’d love to hear it.”

  “I don’t know Mr. Robinson well, but honestly, I’m not sure my image fits with what she just said.”

  Randi sighed and gave him a small smile. “I agree with you but, unfortunately, I’ve had some signs that lend just a tiny”—Randi indicated so by nearly pinching her thumb and forefinger together—“bit of credibility to her statements. I admit I don’t trust her much, but she has been very efficient and mostly professional. Especially when she thinks Court is around.” Hands on her hips, she frowned toward the elevator where Martha had just disappeared. “Would she risk a job she clearly loves by giving me information which could easily be checked out?”