Her Secret Affair

by Arlene James

  They both gaped at her. “Sensitive?” Anthony snorted, while Brodie ducked his head and coughed discreetly behind his fist. She glared at him to let him know he wasn’t hiding his laughter from her.

  “Not every woman wants a macho man,” she informed them both haughtily.

  “Most do,” Anthony retorted, but Brodie made a more logical argument.

  “Manly and sensitive are not mutually exclusive,” he said, then stroked his chin and went on thoughtfully, “but perhaps you wouldn’t know that.”

  “She ought to,” Anthony said.

  “Oh, right,” Chey shot back. “Like any of my six brothers even knows the meaning of the word sensitive.”

  “Hey!”

  “I wouldn’t want get into the middle of a family argument,” Brodie said mildly to Chey, “however, you must know plenty of men—other than your brothers—who are both manly and sensitive.”

  “You’re talking to Virgin Mary Chey,” Anthony quipped snidely, and Chey felt her face explode with heat. Anthony immediately realized he’d gone too far and tried to backpedal, saying to Brodie, “Uh, that is, Chey isn’t interested in men.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Brodie drawled. Chey gasped and glared murderously first at Anthony and then at Brodie.

  Anthony, at least, realized he’d jumped from the fat into the fire and muttered weakly, “I mean, she works a lot.”

  “I’ve noticed that, too,” Brodie said quietly, his gaze thoughtful as it rested on her blazing face. Then, clearly taking pity on her, he announced, “I have work to do myself. Nice to meet you, Anthony. Be seeing you around. Chey.” With that he left them, moving off down the hall toward the back of the house.

  Chey glared daggers at her sheepish-looking brother, then turned smartly and led the way toward the library.

  Later that same evening, as Chey sat at the makeshift desk put up for her in the smoking room, she heard a shuffling of feet outside the door and then a light knock. Her heart climbed into her throat, but she told herself that she was being foolish and called out for whoever it was to come in. The door opened slightly, and Brodie leaned in past it.

  “Busy?”

  Immediately her heart plummeted to her stomach. She glanced meaningfully at the laptop computer screen in front of her. “Yes, actually.”

  He came fully into the room and closed the door behind him, saying, “I won’t keep you long.” She looked at the door and said nothing.

  He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and looked down at his toes. “It’s about those marble tiles.”

  Chey swivelled around in her armless, wheeled chair. “What about them?”

  “I owe you an apology. I should have told you right up front what I was thinking instead of simply countermanding you like that. I realized later that it could have been construed as a challenge to your authority, and that wasn’t my intent at all.”

  “It would’ve helped if you’d explained your thinking up front,” she admitted.

  “So we’re clear on this?”

  “If you’re really intending to use them for a pathway beneath the trees, then we’re clear.”

  “What else would I use them for?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The thought did occur that you might be trying to impress me.”

  “By challenging your authority?”

  She felt heat stain her face again as the foolishness of the argument hit home. Quickly turning back to the screen of the laptop computer, she began circling her finger on the mouse pad and said, “Right. Okay. We’re clear.” She used her thumb to click the mouse at a certain point in the list she was making and began typing in a new item, effectively dismissing him. To her annoyance, she felt his hand on the back of her chair.

  “One more thing,” he said, pulling her chair around.

  She glared up at him, wary and uncertain. “What’s that?”

  “Stand up,” he directed imperiously.

  She blinked, puzzled. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I need you to stand up.”

  She studied his expression, but it told her nothing. Then his gaze dropped to the chair, and she decided that must be it. Perhaps something was wrong with it. She rose to her feet. The next instant he reached out with both arms, swept one around her shoulders and the other about her waist and yanked her against him. She made a surprised, gurgling sound just as his mouth covered hers. Too shocked to think intelligently, she obeyed her first impulse and attempted to ask what the devil he thought he was doing, but the instant she opened her mouth, his tongue plunged inside, and a liquid warmth filled her, swirling from her chest up into her head.

  Instinct bade her close her eyes and hang on to him. Her eyelids went down, but when her hands encountered the warm, solid bulk of muscle that lay beneath his shirt, she jerked them away, shocked by the sudden pooling of warmth in the pit of her belly and the ease with which her body succumbed to temptation. She could not seem, however, to stiffen her spine sufficiently to keep him from molding her body to his. One hand moved down to splay between her shoulder blades, pressing her sensitized breasts to the firm wall of his chest, while the other cupped a buttock and brought them pelvis to pelvis.

  A hot, thick haze enveloped them, blocking everything but the energy pulsing between them. Chey lifted up onto tiptoe and twined her arms around his neck, consumed with the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his hard body, particularly the rigid length that branded her belly right through the layers of their clothing.

  She knew, vaguely, that this was a mistake, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember why. Then suddenly she was stumbling slightly, arms aloft, heels on the floor. She opened her eyes and looked straight into pale blue ones rimmed with long, black lashes. Backing up a step, she blinked as if to clear her vision and realized that he was panting even as he smiled.

  “Definitely likes men. Not virginal,” he pronounced succinctly.

  Suddenly she wanted to slap him, crack her palm hard against his cheek. He must have seen it in her eyes, for he flashed her an unrepentant smile.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “It was worth it.”

  She curled her fingers into her palm, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d read her mind. “I didn’t want that!”

  “Not much you didn’t,” he scoffed. “No more than me, I’d guess.”

  She turned away from him and folded her arms defensively. “What is it with you? Why can’t you just take no for an answer?”

  “I’m not sure.” The raw honesty of that made her turn to face him again. He seemed as bemused as she. “I really don’t know what it is about you that feels so right,” he said, almost to himself, “and I don’t understand why you don’t feel it, too.” His blue eyes narrowed. “Or rather, why you don’t just give in to it.”

  Chey gulped surreptitiously and glanced into the corner, saying caustically, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  He didn’t answer for so long that she was forced to slide a look at him. Finally he said thoughtfully, “I don’t think I am,” as if he’d truly considered the possibility. Then suddenly his gaze targeted hers, boring deep. “I think you’re afraid,” he said.

  She was appalled, insulted. Nervous. Lifting her chin, she insisted haughtily, “I am not afraid of you.”

  He studied her a moment longer. “No,” he said absently, “not of me.” He tilted his head to one side, as if listening to some inner voice, and concluded, “Of life perhaps.”

  Her heart ceased to beat. Everything inside her froze. For an instant, she was certain that he could see inside her to the deep, yawning fissure that threatened constantly to crack open and engulf her. Gasping in panic, she turned away. Immediately she sensed movement, but she knew without a doubt that if he touched her then she would shatter. Stepping adroitly aside, she lifted a hand to ward him off. He stopped in his tracks.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Go away!” she demanded sharply. He lift
ed a hand toward her, but she flinched away. “Please,” she added. He hesitated a moment longer, and she fought the urge to cover her ears with her hands, as if he might tell her something she couldn’t bear to hear. Then he stepped back, hands falling to his sides.

  “When you’re ready to face this thing,” he began as she folded her arms and bowed her head, “I’ll be here,” he finished softly. She neither spoke nor moved. An eternity seemed to tick away before she heard the sound of the door opening and gently closing once more.

  Chey shielded her eyes from the blazing Louisiana sun and pointed to a spot some fifteen feet to the left of the second chimney about the level of the top of the second story. “There,” she said, and Frank trained his binoculars.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure enough. Missed that spot. Just needs pointing up, a little mortar in the grooves.”

  “Make sure the color of the new mortar matches the old.”

  “Land sakes alive, girl,” Frank said, lowering the binoculars. “I been doing this since before you were even a gleam in our daddy’s eye. You think you have to tell me my business?”

  “I know, I know,” Chey apologized immediately. “Habit, nothing more. Not everyone is as conscientious as you are, you know, and it’s my job to worry about the details.” Frank hunched a shoulder dismissively.

  “Chey-Chey!” She turned in time to see Seth hurtling around the corner of the house toward her.

  She bent instinctively and caught him up in her arms. He was a little chunk of lead. Before long she wouldn’t be able to lift him at all, which meant he’d be knocking her down since he’d developed this disturbing tendency to throw himself at her. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Swunch tie. Marce say so.”

  The translation took a moment. “Ah. Lunch time.” Marcel insisted on laying out a spread for everyone on the place, day after day. Kate said having workmen crawling all over the place was the best thing that had happened to him since they’d hired on with the Todds.

  “This here must be Brodie’s boy,” Frank said, ruffling the boy’s bright hair. As a grandfather several times over, he was especially fond of children.

  “He is, indeed,” Brodie said from a few feet away.

  Chey immediately put the boy onto his feet and backed up a step. Seth ran to Brodie, who picked him up and carried him over to Frank.

  “Son, this is Frank Simmons. He’s another of Chey’s brothers.” Brodie and Frank had met and had a long chat earlier that morning. Chey had pretended to be unconcerned, busily examining the brick face of the south end of the house. Her ears had burned at times, but she’d dared not get close enough to actually hear what was being said. Proximity to Brodie Todd was dangerous to her peace of mind.

  “Mary Chey is my baby sister,” Frank was explaining to the boy.

  “Chey not a baby!” Seth exclaimed, and the men laughed.

  “She is to me,” Frank said. Then he looked at Brodie. “Hey, you know, my boy Spence has two kids about this age. We ought to get ’em together.”

  “Uh, Frank,” Chey began. “I don’t think—”

  “Sounds great,” Brodie interrupted. “Seth doesn’t really have any friends his own age, yet. We’ve signed up for a neighborhood play date thing, and we’re taking him to a story time at the library, but there seems to be a dearth of three-year-olds around here. Why don’t you have your son call me?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that, sure ’nough,” Frank agreed.

  “Meanwhile,” Brodie said congenially, “join us for lunch. Marcel sets a fine table. Your sister can attest to that.”

  Before his sister could attest to anything, Frank politely refused. “Oh, I thank you much, but my Genevive, she’s expecting me home for lunch, and your Marcel could learn a thing or two ’bout gumbo from her, I reckon.”

  Brodie chuckled. “In that case, I’d say you’re a very lucky man.”

  “Oh, I got a good one,” Frank said with a grin, “but luck ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. A Simmons knows how to marry right.” He waved a hand, warming to his subject. “Even Anthony. He might’ve messed up the first time, but he sure nailed it the second. Shoot, we could give lessons, I reckon, on picking good ones. Except her.” He pointed a finger at Chey, ignoring how she rolled her eyes and lifted her hands heavenward. Shaking his head he said to Brodie, “That child is plumb backward. Won’t even try.”

  “My brother has a hard time imagining why any woman might prefer to remain single,” Chey interjected sharply.

  “Anyone,” Frank corrected, “man or woman. Seems to me the good Lord means us either to marry or enter His service, and you, Mary Chey, are no nun.”

  Chey closed her eyes, mortified beyond words, while Brodie observed gently, “Maybe she just hasn’t found the right person yet.”

  “Well, now, that’s a cold fact,” Frank agreed, “but you know what the Good Book says, ‘You don’t look, you don’t find.’”

  “I believe that’s, ‘Seek and ye shall find,’” Chey corrected him smartly.

  “Same difference,” Frank insisted.

  Chey sighed and shook her head. “Do you really want to keep Genevive waiting just so you can criticize me?”

  “Ain’t criticism, little girl,” he told her sternly. “It’s pure concern, for you and our mama, too. I swear, you are breaking that good woman’s heart.”

  Chey closed her eyes and began to count to ten. Brodie cleared his throat and rescued her, asking Frank, “Are you sure you won’t join us for lunch?”

  “Naw, but I thank you, just the same.”

  “Another time then,” Brodie said, shifting Seth in his arms.

  “Sure enough,” Frank replied. “We’ll be on the job first thing Monday.”

  “I’ll tell my chef Marcel to expect you,” Brodie said.

  “Oh, I don’t know that,” Frank demurred. “I got six guys on my crew.”

  “Not a problem,” Brodie assured him. “Marcel will insist.” He looked at Chey then and said, “Speaking of which, if we don’t show up at the table soon, he’ll come after the three of us with a hook.”

  “Chey-Chey, come on,” Seth urged, whining a little and reaching out to wrap one arm around her neck and pull her close.

  Frank chuckled and moved away, calling, “I’ll see you all next week.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” Brodie answered. “And don’t forget to have your son call.”

  Frank lifted a hand in acknowledgment, his gaze moving speculatively between Brodie and Chey before he moved on. As Chey watched him go she felt strangely disoriented. Her life seemed to be careening out of her control. Brodie had moved himself right in and taken over. As proof, there went her eldest brother, dressed in his usual scruffy jeans and a plain white T-shirt from the local discount store, intent on setting up play dates for the three-year-old of a man with whom he wouldn’t normally have even struck up a conversation.

  The three-year-old in question was another part of the problem and not just because his small hand had latched onto the French braid at the back of her head. He seemed certain that she, like every other adult within his orbit—excluding Brown who spent all of her time with her patient—adored him. Short of being downright mean, Chey hadn’t found any way to discourage the tyke. She’d look up and there he’d be, wanting to know why she was doing whatever she was doing at the moment. She’d learned early on not to try to fob him off with the platitudes that often satisfied her nieces and nephews at his age but to offer him, instead, honest simple answers and hope he’d go away. At the moment, he was urging her to come to the lunch table, proclaiming that he was “hungwy.”

  Knowing from experience that it was useless to argue, Chey allowed herself to be turned and escorted toward the back of the house. Brodie said nothing, but the twinkle in his sky-blue eyes clearly indicated that he was well aware she wouldn’t disappoint or rebuff the boy. It hit her like a bolt of lightning, the realization that he was using the child to coerce her into keeping company with him. The fact that he was suc
ceeding, despite her personal convictions, shocked and frightened her. The physical pull between them was strong, electric, even now with the child between them, and she ought to be running in the opposite direction. Instead, she was doing just what he wanted her to.

  She gathered the child into her own arms just to put some distance between her and his father. Seth wrapped his legs around her waist and laid his head on her shoulder, his hand still clamped around her braid.

  “He means well,” Brodie said softly, walking at her side. At first she thought he meant Seth, but then she realized that he was referring to Frank.

  “They all mean well,” Chey acknowledged wryly. “That doesn’t make it any easier to put up with their interference.”

  “I think they just want you to be happy,” Brodie said.

  She glanced at him sharply. “I’m happy.”

  “Are you?” he asked, reaching out to bring her to a halt, a hand clamped around her forearm. “Are you really happy?”

  Why did everybody keep asking her that? The question was a trap. If she insisted that she was really deliriously happy, he would think she protested too much. If she admitted that there were times when the life she had structured for herself felt empty and hollow, he would surely make more of it than it was. Finally she lifted her chin and said calmly, “No one’s happy all the time.”

  “That’s true,” he said. “Every life has at least one area that could benefit from change. When that area is a small one, easily ignored and endured, we are, generally speaking, happy. When it’s dead center of who and what we are, then we have this aching emptiness inside us that won’t go away. Sometimes it overlaps, and we’re happy with part of our lives, unhappy with other parts. Isn’t there part of your life that you’re unhappy with?”

  She could hear her heart beating in her ears, but it didn’t drown out the small voice that shouted, “Yes!” She made a mental effort to put that rascally little voice right back into its box, however, and answered his question with one of her own, intending to turn the tables on him. “Is there a part of your life with which you are unhappy?”