Her Secret Affair

by Arlene James

  BMT’s success was built on personal service to exotic locales. Part of the allure had to do with the fact that not just anyone could get in on the deal. Spaces were limited and prices high, satisfaction an absolute guarantee. His customers were upscale and demanding, just like him, and he personally negotiated every service contract with every nation that sponsored a tour package, which often resulted in travel visas not available to the general public. He also had the final say on every package that was designed and put together by his team, and he always took the first tour himself before any customer was allowed to buy space. Otherwise, he spent most of his time with Seth and Viola.

  It was a good life, but he was mature enough to admit that lately it seemed to lack something, something about five-feet-six-inches tall and deliciously curved. He pondered that kiss again. The sizzle was still with him. Every time he looked in the mirror he half expected to find his eyebrows singed off. It had been a long while since a kiss had so affected him. Who was he kidding? No kiss had ever affected him like that one, and he knew darn well that she’d felt the same thing, so why was she avoiding him?

  She could be involved with someone else. He disliked competition, but he could handle it—given the chance. Then again, he firmly believed that a man made his own chances, and so he would see her tomorrow. One way or another.

  The bell rang at precisely ten o’clock in the morning, too late for breakfast and too early for lunch but well within the twenty-four-hour deadline. Brodie got up from his desk and started downstairs, aware that someone else within the household would likely beat him to the door.

  When Brodie arrived on the scene, it was Viola who stood to one side of the closed door, beaming affectionately as Seth regaled “Mish Chey” with the latest episode of his morning television program, complete with extravagant gestures and sound effects. Chey stood, staring down at him politely as he spoke. Her assistant stood next to her, a familiar briefcase tucked beneath one arm as if to justify his presence. Not even bothering to pretend interest in the prattle of a little boy, he craned his neck to see what could be seen of the house. It was he who spotted Brodie and sent a discreet elbow to his employer’s ribs.

  Chey straightened as Brodie strode near, and for an instant he thought he saw a flash of heat in her eyes, but it was followed so quickly by wariness that he couldn’t be certain. He didn’t smile, though the impulse was strong. She looked like a confection ready to be devoured, all ivory and pale blue and yellow hair twisted into an elaborate knot that begged to be unwound.

  He placed a quelling hand on top of Seth’s head; otherwise, the monologue could have gone on indefinitely as Seth tended to get caught up in these recitals and embellish them, imagination blending seamlessly with actuality. Seth looked up, caught Brodie’s wrist with both hands and tried to climb him like a tree, announcing unnecessarily, “Mish Chey an’ some guy come see us, Daddy.”

  Brodie ignored Chey and concentrated on the assistant, sticking out his hand. “I believe the name is George?”

  “It’s Zhorzh,” the man sniffed, emphasizing the pronunciation with a decidedly French accent. Brodie mumbled an ill-natured apology, and only then did Zhorzh grace him with a handshake.

  “This is my son Seth,” Brodie said by way of introduction, “and this is my grandmother, Viola Todd.”

  “How do you do?” Georges said, bowing slightly over Viola’s hand.

  To Brodie’s everlasting amazement, Viola actually blushed and batted her lashes. “A pleasure to meet you, Georges.”

  Brodie barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Georges literally shoved past Chey, saying, “You don’t need me, do you, dear?” Before Chey could answer him, he addressed himself meaningfully to Viola. “I only came to get a look at this beautiful old house.”

  Taking the bait, Viola insisted, “Well, I must show it to you, then. Come along, Seth.”

  Georges handed the briefcase to Chey and followed Viola and Seth down the hall. Chey stared after them with such barely concealed disgust that Brodie had to discipline a smile. He was perfectly aware why Georges was there, and it wasn’t to see the house. He had to wonder just how much buffer she’d thought Georges would be.

  “Let’s do this in my office,” he said, knowing that it would afford the greatest privacy of any room in the house, aside from his bedroom. The business setting apparently appealed to her, for she nodded and started briskly for the stairs. He let her pass him, wondering if she realized how much her hips swayed with her consternation. Grinning to himself, he slid his hands into his pants pockets to quell the urge to put his hands on her.

  He followed her up the stairs, admiring the way her slender skirt pulled neatly across her rounded bottom with each step. By the time they reached the landing, his hands had made fists inside his pockets. Counting prudence the better part of valor, he went ahead of her and opened the door to his office. She stepped inside as if expecting to find a trap. He closed the door behind them and went to remove a crate of files from a chair at the end of the desk for her, then slid around to his own chair. She sat down gingerly, crossed her long lean legs and placed the briefcase on her lap. He took his seat and rolled the chair as close to the corner of the desk, and her, as he could. She was already spreading out the designs. A glance showed him that they were quite detailed this time and many more in number than before. She had been busy, and he gave that industry the respect it was due, studying each design carefully.

  The family rooms were much as they’d discussed before, only the designs were fully realized this time. The guest rooms were the big surprise. She had employed specific themes here, each one designed to show off his personal collection of artifacts and art objects. One room was labeled Oriental, another European and a third Polynesian. The big surprise was the room labeled Western Americana. All of the designs, though specific in theme, showed an underlying period fashion in line with that of the rest of the house. He might have been an antebellum planter who had managed to see the world and even the future and bring back pieces of it to decorate his lovely home.

  He tossed the last of the renderings onto the top of the pile he had made of the others and sat back in his chair, contemplating the woman who had made them. “These are,” he said deliberately, “incredible.”

  She sat a little straighter, her personal guard lowered by the long minutes concentrated on business. “You approve then?”

  “Wholeheartedly.”

  She smiled for the first time and dove back into her briefcase. “You’ll need to look at these lists and schedules then.” Eagerly, she brought them out, lists of contractors, supplies, tasks to be completed, schedules for the same. He looked over everything carefully, nodding his approval.

  “How soon can we get started?”

  “I thought we’d start with the air-conditioning,” she said delightedly. “I can meet the contractor here tomorrow. He ought to have men on the job in the next day or so.”

  He tossed the papers aside. “Do it.”

  She seemed surprised. “Just like that? No quibbling over details?”

  “We’ve been at least a week longer at this than I would have liked,” he drawled meaningfully.

  She immediately bounced up to her feet and began stuffing the papers into the briefcase. “Fine. We’ll be here tomorrow.”

  He recognized a bolt when he saw it and sat forward abruptly, clamping a hand around her wrist. “Sit down.”

  He meant it as an order, and she took it that way, slowly sinking down into her chair, the briefcase balanced on the corner of his desk.

  “I fail to see what else we have to talk about,” she said crisply, her gaze targeted on her lap.

  He almost laughed at that. Instead, he got up and walked around his chair to the end of the desk. He parked himself on the corner and folded his arms, intending to be firm. “You know perfectly well what we have to talk about.”

  She said nothing.

  “I’m not going to let you pretend it didn’t happen,” h
e told her patiently. She lifted her chin, neither answering him nor looking at him. He sighed and leaned forward, spelling it out. “We kissed. We were interrupted. You ran, and now you’re avoiding me. I want to know why.” She looked down but didn’t say a word. He straightened and folded his arms again, insisting, “It wasn’t because you didn’t enjoy it. That much I do know.”

  Finally a response. She glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, you were as heated up as I was.” She looked away again. “You liked it as much as I did,” he insisted doggedly. “So what is your problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem,” she said with a shrug. “I just prefer not to repeat the experience.”

  “Why?”

  “Why should I?”

  He chuckled mirthlessly at that. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I melted your underwear.” She shot him an affronted look. “Mine was smoking, too,” he assured her bluntly, noting the flare of satisfaction in her eyes, “which adds up to plenty of reason to repeat the experience as far as I’m concerned.”

  “It means just the opposite to me,” she said, smoothing her hands down the narrow wood arms of the chair, “because I never get involved with clients.”

  “Until now,” he corrected coaxingly.

  “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she snapped.

  He went down on his haunches beside her chair. “Is it someone else? Are you involved with someone else?”

  She bit her lip, looked down, then admitted, “No.”

  “So it’s strictly a business decision?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I’ll have to cancel your contract.”

  She immediately launched to her feet. “You can’t do that!”

  He rose smoothly and brought his hands to his hips. “The contract that cannot be broken has never been devised.”

  “I’ll sue you!”

  “Before or after we make love?” he returned smoothly.

  She glared at him and folded her arms. “I do not indulge in casual affairs.”

  “Good, because this is a long way from a casual attraction.”

  “I’m certainly not interested in anything serious, either!”

  “Look,” he said bluntly, a little desperate now, “I’m not rushing you to the altar, I’m just trying to get you into bed!”

  She went immediately frosty. “I don’t sleep around.”

  “I don’t want you to sleep around,” he retorted. “I want you to sleep with me!”

  She grabbed up her briefcase and began stuffing renderings into it. “That’s not going to happen.”

  He leaned close and said softly into her ear, “No? You really have no inclination to explore this thing between us, this incredible attraction?”

  “Don’t even go there,” she said dismissively, snapping her briefcase shut.

  “Oh, I’m going there,” he promised, leaning even closer and speaking softly into her ear. “And so are you. Because this thing has a strong grip on both of us, and you know it as well as I do.”

  “That’s some ego you’ve got,” she retorted, sliding away to put the chair between them.

  “Yeah, right, it’s my ego that’s got you heaving and shaking like a creaky bellows, I suppose. Or is it just that you’ve been close to me?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again and lifted her chin. “Forget the job. I don’t need this.” She shoved the briefcase under one arm and headed toward the door.

  He leaned casually on the corner of his desk and asked smoothly, “And what about our contract?”

  She stopped then turned and glared at him. “You said yourself that the contract was never written that couldn’t be broken.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s true. However, I’ll tell you something they probably don’t teach in business school. When it comes to things like this, the one with the most lawyers and the deepest pockets generally determines just what a contract does or doesn’t say and when or if it gets canceled. And my pockets are definitely deepest.”

  She gaped and took her briefcase from beneath her arm by the handle. “So now you’re saying you won’t let me out of the contract?”

  “Do you really want out?” he countered. “This is the kind of job that a career hangs on, and if you’re as serious about your career as you say you are, you won’t walk away from it.”

  The chin went up a notch higher. “You can’t use career considerations to force me to sleep with you.”

  Laughter burst out of him. “You think that’s what this is, coercion?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He tamed his grin and shook his head. “Not at all my style. Seduction’s much more my thing.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen,” she insisted.

  “Then why walk away from a career-maker?”

  He knew he had her when that chin went down. “If I stay it’s strictly business.” Instead of replying to that, he merely bowed his head. Could he help it if she took that for acquiescence? “So long as you know that,” she went on. He just looked up at her and sighed, letting her assign whatever she wanted to it. “Fine, then we understand one another,” she announced crisply and turned again to the door.

  “I’ll expect you tomorrow morning,” he said.

  She paused a moment, then nodded crisply and went out. He shook his head. Did she really think that was it? If so, then she had a thing or two to learn about Brodie Todd. He wasn’t about to ignore the strongest attraction he’d felt for a woman in…well, he just wasn’t going to ignore it. And she wasn’t going to, either. Because he wasn’t about to let her.

  Chey adjusted her clear plastic safety goggles, hitched up the legs of her khaki pants, crouched and braced her hands, carefully lowering herself into the narrow opening of the crawl space. She went onto all fours and looked around. Matt’s flashlight illuminated the pathway ahead, and she crawled after him, ignoring the cobwebs and dust. Matt muttered curse words in Cajun French. Remembering that his little sister was present, he glanced at her sheepishly and explained, “Tore my pants on a nail. Gail’s gonna shriek.”

  “I’ll replace them for you,” Chey told him.

  “That’s not the point, Mary,” he mumbled, shining his light around the narrow, empty space. “These’re still gonna be torn. My Gail’s still gonna bust my eardrums.” He targeted a clump of wires with his light. “Yeah, right there. Looks easy enough to run new wires in here. We’ll closet the main unit in the corner of that room to the right, open it to the hall, run the ducts through here to the other floors.” He shone the light up and down a black shaft, illuminating the brick on the outside wall in spots. “Job’s gonna take minimum ten days with a full crew, that’s every man we got, and putting off all the other work.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Sure enough. Cost a pretty penny, though. I’m sayin’ that up front.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty, maybe thirty thousand,” he said pointedly. “I’ll have to figure it.”

  “Do that,” she told him, backing out the way she’d come. “Then get to work.” He followed, chuckling.

  “That’s our Mary. Get things done.”

  She positioned herself below the opening in the floor, stood, and hauled herself up out of the space. After getting to her feet, she removed the goggles and began to beat the knees of her pants clean.

  Matt climbed up after her and began brushing cobwebs out of his curly light brown hair. He turned her around and dusted off her backside.

  “And who do we have here?” asked a disturbingly familiar voice. Chey sent a censorious glance over one shoulder, achingly aware of Matt’s broad, white smile and the discerning blue eyes of Brodie Todd. Everywhere she went lately, Brodie Todd was there, brushing against her, murmuring into her ear, prodding her to say more and react more than she intended. She could never relax, knowing that he might appear at any moment, sending her nerves into spasms of awareness and loosening her tongue. Deliberately,
she stiffened her spine and made the necessary reply, reminding herself that the man had a right to know who was working on his house.

  “This is my brother.”

  Brodie lifted an eyebrow and stuck out his hand. “Brodie Todd. How do you do?”

  “Matthew Paul Simmons,” Matt said in that funny, formal way of so many native Louisianans. “Everyone, they call me Matt.”

  “Nice to meet you, Matt. I take it you’re on the job?”

  “Yes, sir, and a good job we’re gonna do for you, too, Mr. Todd.”

  “It’s Brodie, please.”

  “All right, Brodie.” Matt beamed his approval at this informality.

  “And what is it that you do, Matt?”

  “Me, I’m the heat and air man. I’m gonna keep these Louisiana summers outside of this big old Fair Havens house and warm up your bones in the winter. That’s my job.”

  “And I’m sure you’re good at it or you wouldn’t be here,” Brodie commented, glancing at Chey.

  “Hoo, now there’s the truth. Our Mary, she don’t stand for nothing but the finest work. Sometime I don’t even like to do for her,” he confided, “’cause she’s so particular.”

  Brodie chuckled. “That’s why she’s the best,” he said, smiling down at her so intimately that she gulped.

  “Yeah, she sure is,” Matt admitted, squeezing her shoulder. “She don’t hardly have time for nothing but work. That’s how come she’s still single, pretty girl like her.”

  “Hardly a girl,” Chey gritted out, her cheeks heating with embarrassment.

  “Sure ’nough, she’s right about an old maid,” Matt teased, “but she’s still my baby sister. You by chance have you a sister, Brodie?”

  Brodie shook his head, his smile faltering. “No. I had a brother.”