Her Improper Affair

by Shea Mcmaster

  Birdie rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Go on with you. I can certainly get myself into my seat.”

  Dad took his seat in the next row up, on the aisle. Mom had the window.

  Adjusting her belt, Birdie buckled in and picked up her tablet. For once she was going to read something fluffy and frivolous. Other than accepting a diet soda from the flight attendant, she didn’t look up from her book until a man appeared at her row. Darn. They’d sold Oswald’s seat. Or upgraded someone. She’d been looking forward to having the row to herself.

  “Excuse me, uh, miss?” The man’s voice was rough, as if he’d smoked three packs a day for the last three decades.

  With an internal sigh, she glanced up at him. “Hello. You my seatmate?”

  “Um, yes. I’d like to ask a favor if I could.” Birdie noted the gravely mix of upper crust Brit with a few nuances of something not so posh. “Mind swapping seats with me? All I want to do is sleep. I don’t want people bumping into me, and I don’t want to have to move when you get up to…wander the cabin.”

  She took a closer look at him. He wore pressed jeans, designer label probably, what looked like a silk T-shirt under a worn black leather jacket. On his face he had at least a three-day growth of dark beard liberally sprinkled with gray. His eyes were hidden under Harry Potter style dark glasses. Or maybe he was trying to look more like John Lennon, or the Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy, but with a Forty-Niners ball cap on his head, further shading his eyes. Black, long hair curled from under the cap to the tops of his shoulders lightly streaked with more strands of gray.

  In one hand he held what looked like a very expensive attaché. If she’d met him on the street she’d think he was some sort of aging Hell’s Angel, but lean and lanky rather than sporting a pot belly. Then again, maybe he was one of those aging rocker types. Like from those strange eighties groups her parents still listened to. Neptune Satellites, Tears for Fears, Prince, and Queen came to mind. With his face hidden, it was a little hard to be more specific. For all she knew, he could be Keith Richards. But wouldn’t he fly charter? Maybe. She’d have to ask Mom as she was more the rock groupie type than Birdie would ever be.

  “Okay.” She unbuckled and slid from her seat, tablet in hand. No big deal, she was portable.

  He stepped back enough she could get into the aisle. Then it was her turn to step back and let him get to the window seat. Not that they could bother each other much with the near-wrap around backs. Each seat was like a tiny living room. The seat even flattened out for sleeping, and they each had their own TV-like monitor and gooseneck adjustable reading light.

  Before she sat again, Dad was there. “Everything okay, puddin’?”

  “Sure. My seatmate wanted the window seat. I don’t mind the aisle, so we swapped.” She waved a hand at the man shoving his case under the seat in front of him.

  The man barely spared her dad a glance, but Dad seemed to do a double take as he scrutinized the newcomer. Then he shook his head with a little smile. “Remind me later to tell you about my cousin Paul.”

  Before she gave him the you’re-weird-Dad look, the man in the seat stiffened, but didn’t look up. Dad just grinned and returned to his seat. Shrugging off his comment, Birdie reseated herself and settled down to return to her book. Thankfully it was an ebook. When stealing a little frivolous reading time, she preferred for no one to see the cover. Most of the ones she chose had covers with half naked people. It was no one’s business what she read.

  Since the flight left around four-thirty, it wasn’t so long after take-off when afternoon tea service began.

  The man next to her refused anything other than a double Glenlivet. When the flight attendant tried to offer him something else from the tea menu, he nearly growled.

  “Listen, I really don’t want to be rude, Regina, love.” Birdie glanced at the attendant’s name tag. Yup. Regina. “However, I’m going to say this only once. Unless I press the little button calling for you, I want to be left alone. No dinner, no tea. Just this one drink, and I plan to curl up like a hedgehog and go to sleep for the rest of this ten plus hour flight. That’s all I want. To sleep. Are we clear?”

  Birdie was slightly taken aback by the barely restrained impatience she felt coming off him in waves. Grouchy bear there. But even she could appreciate the sexy Brit accent with the gravelly voice. If Mom could hear him, she probably would have been on her knees looking over her seat back. Still, the man was older than her father. Maybe as old as the man who’d raised her as his own had been. Dear, dear, Daddy Wyatt.

  However, the attendant took it in stride without a blink. “Of course, sir. I’ll see you’re not disturbed unless the plane is going down.”

  “Appreciate it.” He nodded sharply, then leaned back in his seat, his head once more hidden by the wings of the seats.

  “And you, miss?” Birdie now had the attendant’s undivided attention.

  Her row mate might not be hungry, but she was. Surprising, really, after the last week. She looked over the menu card. “I’ll have the cucumber sandwiches, a buttermilk scone, and the English Breakfast tea.”

  “I’ll have it out soon,” the woman promised and moved to the seats behind.

  Tablet in hand, Birdie fell deep into the story. She barely heard the attendant tell her parents dinner service would be in a few hours, and if they wanted to rest, she’d help them arrange the seats into beds.

  Birdie smiled at the woman clearing dishes, even helped by reaching for the empty whisky glass of her seatmate. He didn’t stir an inch at the silent movement. Apparently he hadn’t been kidding when he said he wanted sleep.

  When the attendants vacated the cabin, the man beside her shifted position, then gruffly said, “Thank you,” in barely more than a whisper.

  Birdie leaned forward enough to see his chin. “You’re welcome. Go back to sleep,” she whispered.

  The only response was a grunt as he pulled his coat closer about his body, then settled once more into soft, even, breathing.

  Wanting to stretch her legs a bit, Birdie rose and made a circuit of the first class cabin. Drew and Meilin were dismayed at the lack of intimacy between their seats, since each one was designed to cocoon individual travelers in their own private space. Other than that, they too were settling down for a nap. Grandmother Robinson and Grandpa Dailey were already tucked in and snoozing in their separate, but side by side nests. Same with Meilin’s parents. Birdie only spared a brief thought for a few other members of the wedding party tucked back in business class. Dad was generous to a fault, but a line had to be drawn somewhere. As it was, her family pretty much commandeered half the exclusive cabin. The only person missing was Oswald.

  Once more she wondered what had sent him scurrying for London a day early. Was she really so frightening a creature? Had she done something in her sleep that was inexcusable? Had she said she loved him while dreaming? Farted? What? And why hadn’t he taken her virginity? That’s probably what pissed her off the most. Like she wasn’t good enough for him. Or too young. Too innocent—she snorted out loud at that thought as she was returning to her seat.

  Dad grabbed her wrist. “What’s up? Everything okay back there?” He nodded toward her seat mate.

  “Yeah, everything’s good.” A thought occurred to her, and she narrowed her eyes on her father. “You know that guy?”

  “That bloke? The one who looks like a washed up rocker? Probably a one hit wonder from the eighties and is still trying for a comeback.” With a twinkle in his eye, he spoke loud enough for the man to hear him. By the way he spoke over his shoulder, she guessed it was intentional. Mom looked up from her book with curiosity painted across her face.

  And the arrow hit the target. The man shifted, his foot “accidentally” kicking Dad’s seat. Instead of getting annoyed, her father laughed. “Looks like I’m right.” He looked downright smug. “Time for a nap?”

  At the word nap, Birdie raised a hand to cover her h
uge yawn. “Looks like it. See you later.”

  When she woke a few hours later to the scent of hot food, she discovered someone had tucked a blanket around her. Her seatmate had one too. Sitting up straight, she rolled her neck and pushed the blanket aside. A rough grunt came from her left, and she turned to look at her now even scruffier looking companion.

  “Aren’t you a little old to have Mummy tucking you in?” he muttered. Like he was one to talk with a blanket draped over him as well.

  “You try telling her that,” Birdie challenged him.

  He merely grunted and rolled the other way.

  Ignoring him, she enjoyed her dinner, complete with wine and a decadent dessert. Her book was excellent company while she ate. Once the dishes were cleared away, she decided to stroll again, now that everyone was awake. She was sitting on the arm of her grandfather’s seat on the far side of the cabin when she noticed her seatmate get up and head for the lavatories. What she could see of him, what wasn’t covered by the hat and sunglasses he still wore, was tall and lean. He moved like a panther, all loose and relaxed looking, but one couldn’t miss the aura of power around him. More her mom’s type. Well, when Mom wasn’t drooling over her husband, Birdie snickered inside her head. Honestly, they were cute together.

  She turned her attention back to her grandparents, but kept half an eye on her seat, waiting to see if her new friend stopped to talk to anyone. Well, he didn’t stop because he wanted to, but rather because her father stepped into his path.

  “Excuse me,” she said to her grandparents and headed around the center row of seats to come up behind the stranger.

  “So is this what old rocker gits wear these days? Where are the chains? Found a new seamstress who doesn’t cut up your clothes?” her dad asked.

  “I see you haven’t changed much. Looking a little thick around the waist there, old man. Middle age settling in? Won’t catch yourself a rich widow that way.”

  “No need to catch a rich widow. I married the beautiful mother of my daughter about eighteen months ago now. Not that you ever bothered to respond to the invite.” Dad crossed his arms and leaned against the back of his seat, giving every intention of staying as long as it took. Whatever it was he was looking for.

  The stranger crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. “Didn’t get it.”

  “Suppose you didn’t get the one to Drew’s wedding last week, either, you washed-up has-been. Interesting you’re in San Francisco to catch this flight, but couldn’t break out of the studio for an evening to make merry and wish your cousin well.”

  “The boy got married?” He did a good job of sounding surprised. Or least Birdie believed him, although the look on her father’s face said he didn’t. “Must have missed that invite too. I was in LA until yesterday”—he paused to glance at his watch—“Uh, Thursday morning. Had to stop in SF to meet with Lucas on a project.”

  A bony finger poked Birdie in the shoulder, as her grandmother said, “Out of my way, girl.”

  Birdie turned sideways so the old woman could poke her finger in the stranger’s shoulder next.

  “Rupert Paul Robinson, you very well did receive those invitations,” Gran said. “I had Martin send not only the engraved one weeks early, but I had him e-mailing you once a month six months prior. And take off that ridiculous disguise. It doesn’t work, anyway.”

  “It got me on the plane undetected,” he muttered, as he turned around with a cheery smile on his face. “Aunt Helen!” He took off the hat, leaving the sunglasses on as he enfolded her in a hug, then set her back and kissed her cheek. “Looking lovely and hale as always.” Only then did he remove the glasses and tuck them into an inner pocket of his leather jacket.

  Oh that face. It did look extremely familiar, but from where? He’d called Gran Aunt Helen, so was there a family connection she didn’t know about? She glanced at Mom whose green eyes were as round as Birdie had ever seen them.

  “Stop right there, you cheeky boy.” The older woman poked him in the chest hard enough he rubbed the spot. “I even spoke, personally, with your personal assistant just last week to make sure you’d be there for Drew’s wedding. LA is not that far from San Francisco.”

  “Auntie, dear, San Francisco is a twelve hour drive from LA. On a good day.”

  “And a matter of an hour or two by plane. You could have been there for the wedding and back in LA later that night.”

  “And I sacked my PA last week, so she probably withheld that little tidbit out of spite.” He glanced over his shoulder at Birdie’s dad. “I swear I’m never hiring another woman PA again. Sticking to men from here out. Hetero men.”

  “Hey,” Birdie found herself protesting.

  “I have nothing against gays, or women for that matter, love,”—he turned very familiar blue eyes on her—“but I can no longer afford to risk my assistant being attracted to me. I’ve sacked three for that very reason in the last three years.” He gave a shrug. “So, am I to understand you’re a new part of this crazy family?”

  Birdie accepted his handshake. “I’m Court’s long lost daughter, Drew’s half sister. And this old bat’s uncouth granddaughter.” Birdie grinned as her Gran sniffed and pointed her nose in the air.

  Of course Gran knew her line. “The manners of these Americans, I swear….”

  “I agree,” the new cousin said, with a wicked twinkle in his eye that fooled no one. “They’re just hopeless, but hey, at least the Californians make good wine.” He looked around the cabin. “So, are the newlyweds here too? I should give them my regards.”

  Birdie pointed toward the last row of seats on the far side of the cabin. Drew was just rising from his seat, trying to figure out what the commotion was.

  “Oi! Drew, my man.”

  “Cousin Paul! What’re you doing here?” Drew started across the cabin but had to stop in favor of the attendant already headed toward the knot.

  “Ladies, gentlemen,” the attendant said. “I must insist you return to your seats. We can’t have you all standing around blocking the aisles. Maybe a couple of you can swap seats to catch up?”

  “Of course, love,” Paul said. “How rude of us. Oh, and when breakfast comes around, if you don’t mind adding a full English for me as well? I know I said I didn’t want food, but now I’ve slept a few hours I’m a little peckish.”

  “Of course, Mr. Robinson.” She glanced at Birdie’s dad. “I take it most of you are related in some way?”

  “Forgive me, Regina, love,” Paul said. “Totally unexpected family reunion here.” The smile he gave her was nearly identical to Birdie’s father and brother’s. In addition to the bright blue eyes, his features bore a strong resemblance. Only the hair color was different.

  “How lovely for you all. I hope you have time to catch up over a cuppa in London. For now, if you please…” She indicated their seats.

  “Of course. Now, Court, let me by.”

  “Certainly.” Dad looked at Birdie first, then turned to Mom. “Randi, love, mind if I switch seats with Birdie? I need to catch up with Paul.”

  Mom’s smile was a little strained. “No, of course not. Birdie and I can have some girl talk.”

  Muttering, Gran turned back the way she’d come. Drew met her and took her to her seat.

  Meanwhile, Birdie settled down beside her mother and caught a sideways glance. “What’s that?”

  Mom sniffed. “You may be an orphan by morning. I’ll make sure I transfer enough money for bail into your account. Then again, any judge in the world would let me off, I’m sure.”

  Birdie laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Your father never told me he was related to Khan.”

  “You mean, that’s Khan?” Both of Birdie’s brows headed for her hairline. “Really?”

  Mom nodded emphatically. “Khan, lead singer of Neptune Satellites. I think that’s a punishable offense, don’t you?”

  Birdie laughed. “
Maybe, but surely not by death. I’ve sorta gotten used to him, and I’m pretty sure you love him. So yes, something evil, but not permanent. At least death permanent. You can scar him.”

  “Scarring is good.” Mom nodded. “I can do that.”

  Chapter 7

  Fresh from the airport, door closed and locked behind him, Oswald dropped his luggage in the foyer and headed for the kitchen. His jacket landed on the back of a chair at the island separating the kitchen from the small dining area. Normally he’d take the time to hang it properly in the closet, but after more than fourteen total hours of travel he had a powerful need for water. First the California heat, and then the dry air of the plane had left him as parched as a desert.

  Thankfully the housekeeper had been in that morning and the fridge was full of bottled water and a casserole with that night’s dinner ready to go in the oven. She’d also left fresh bread and fruit, along with the quick and easy foods he liked. Without opening the freezer he knew it would be stocked with a full week’s worth of oven ready meals. He may have liked quick, but he didn’t care for overly processed food. Thank God she agreed because whatever she cooked was ten times better than a frozen boxed meal. Almost as good as eating out, although she couldn’t quite match the pub for fresh fried fish and chips, a treat he only allowed himself once a month.

  He pulled two bottles of water from the fridge and cracked open the first one. It lasted thirty seconds as he gulped it down. The bottle went in the recycling bin as he reached for a tall glass to pour the next bottle into. No point in gorging himself, but the first bottle had needed to be fast. The second wouldn’t last fifteen minutes, but he’d make himself slow down.

  As he was calculating the time until putting the casserole into the oven and how long before he could crawl into bed for a well deserved ten hours of sleep, the bell rang. Nobody but the housekeeper should know he was home. His original schedule had him flying with the Robinsons, but he’d ducked out a day early without telling anyone in London other than his housekeeper and Court’s assistant.