Her Secret Affair

by Arlene James

  The moment for conversation arrived. “The house is really coming along. You’ve done well, Chey.”

  She inclined her head. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

  “Besides being very gifted,” he went on easily, “you’re very fortunate, too, You have great resources right within your own family.”

  “Yes. They’ve been very helpful. Of course, if they weren’t the best, I wouldn’t use them.”

  “But they are the best,” he stated flatly. “Each in his own way.” He picked up the water glass that the waiter had just filled and asked casually, “What did they do before you took over?”

  She blinked at that. “What do you mean, ‘took over’?”

  He cocked his head, rather surprised. “Darling, you are effectively the CEO of the Simmons’ family enterprise.”

  “But there is no such enterprise.”

  He could only gape at that. “Not on paper perhaps, but in reality that’s exactly what it is. And you are the organizational genius behind it.”

  She frowned. “Better not let my brothers hear you say that.”

  “Oh, they know,” he assured her. “Believe me, they know it very well. In fact, they count on it.”

  She shook her head. “Now that is pure bunk. As far as my brothers are concerned, I’m just the baby sister who hasn’t found a husband yet.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Chey! They depend on you to run things. How can you not see that? You may forever be the baby sister, but your brothers definitely respect your business sense and your talents. They never question your orders, Chey. They always do exactly what you ask of them. In point of fact, they follow your orders explicitly because they know that you know what you’re doing. I’ve seen it time and again.”

  She studied his face a moment, then said softly, “I wish I could see it.”

  “I think maybe if you’d get that chip off your shoulder you’d be able to,” he told her bluntly.

  “I don’t—” she began heatedly, then quickly subsided. “Okay, maybe I do. I just get so tired of being told that I should get married and make babies! Why do they keep harping on that if they really think I can do other things well?”

  “They just want you to be happy,” he said. “To them, that’s how it’s done.”

  “Which is why I don’t fit in very well,” she mumbled. “They all…think alike, fit together.”

  He sat back and regarded her steadily. “It’s hard to be the different one, isn’t it? The Simmonses are an extraordinary clan. Why don’t you see that while you may be different, you’re also the very top of the heap? They see it, and they’re proud of you. At least your brothers are. I mean, every one of them just bursts his seams when he talks about you.”

  Her eyes had grown round. “Really?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All they ever say to me,” she grumbled, “is that I’m breaking my mother’s heart because I’m not pregnant and hanging on some man’s arm.”

  He chuckled. “Brothers are like that. They think it’s their job to make you do what they think you should. I know it’s irritating, but it just means they love you.”

  She propped her elbows on the edge of the table, bowed her head and shaded her face with her hands, thumbs hooked beneath her chin, fingers cupped like blinkers. After a moment she sighed and looked up again, her eyes narrowing. “How did you get so smart, Mr. Todd?”

  He shrugged. “A little experience. A lot of observation, one of my few talents, by the way.”

  A smile quirked the corner of her mouth. She folded her arms against the table edge. “Oh, right. BMT materialized right out of thin air and dropped into your lap. You didn’t have a thing to do with it.”

  He waved a hand. “Pure play, I assure you. I was merely observant enough to realize that I could actually make a living at it.”

  She put her head back and laughed heartily. When she looked at him again, her eyes sparkled with warmth. “You’re a dangerous man, Brodie Todd,” she told him. “I like you a lot.”

  He leaned close, reached out and clamped a hand around the nape of her neck, pulling her face into a nose-to-nose juxtaposition with his. “It’s a start,” he said softly. “Maybe your feelings will even catch up with mine before long.”

  She lifted a brow at that, and he could see the question—and something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint—in her eyes. Another moment and she would ask him what his feelings were exactly. He realized suddenly that he didn’t really know. They certainly went beyond mere lust, but just how far beyond, he couldn’t have said. So he kissed her. The wine arrived an instant later, interrupting the brief but heady intimacy, and soon after a friend dropped by unexpectedly with his wife. Brodie slid out of the booth and onto his feet, delighting in rescue.

  “Livvie!” Chey exclaimed, before he could even speak. Obviously, Chey knew them, too. She hastened to make introductions. “Allow me to present Mr. Brodie Todd. Brodie, this is—”

  “Marcus and Olivia Childs,” he interrupted smoothly, shaking Marc’s hand and leaning forward to kiss his wife’s cheek. “We’re old friends, actually. Marc has leveraged more than one expansion of my business.”

  “And very profitably,” Marcus confirmed. Decades older and inches shorter than his beauty-queen wife—his third—Marc was by day a shrewd investment banker and by night a mature, upper-crust version of the ubiquitous party animal. A purely social person, he loved nothing more than seeing and being seen. He clapped Brodie on the shoulder and said to Chey, “You are looking particularly ravishing tonight, my dear.” To Brodie he explained, “Chey redid the old house, you know,” meaning the thirty-room mansion in the heart of the Garden District that had been in his family for generations. He smiled at Livvie indulgently. “Wives like to redo.” He would know.

  “Chey is refurbishing my old den, too,” Brodie said blandly.

  “So I heard,” Livvie cooed, batting her big black eyes at Chey. “I’d love to see what you’ve done, sugar.”

  “Well, I’m sure Brodie will invite you over once everything’s done.”

  “Absolutely,” Brodie promised.

  “Speaking of invitations,” Marcus said, tightening his grip on Brodie’s shoulder, “I have one for you. How would you like to join my krewe?”

  Brodie looked to Chey, astonished. She lifted both eyebrows at him. Brodie lifted his at Marcus. An invitation to join one of the city’s unique social clubs was a rare and coveted distinction. The krewes were responsible for the famous parades and balls that marked Mardi Gras and much of the commerce of New Orleans. “I’d be honored.”

  Marcus pounded Brodie on the back. “In that case, mon ami, a toast is in order.” Brodie waved over the waiter, who brought two more glasses. Chey stood as the champagne was poured. Marcus gave the classic New Orleans salute. “Laissez les bon temps rouler!”

  “Let the good times roll!” Brodie echoed heartily. Some polite hugging and kissing ensued before the Childses departed to join a large party waiting at another table.

  “Talk about your social coup,” Chey said as he seated her once more.

  “I really didn’t expect it,” he replied truthfully, “at least not for a long while.” He quickly changed the subject, lest she think him preening. “I wonder what other mutual acquaintances we have.”

  They chatted about that until the first course arrived. The conversation moved on to music, movies and books, until the pianist departed and the band members began gathering on the small elliptical stage. Brodie looked around and noted that the place was filling up. Checking his watch, he was surprised to find that they’d spent nearly two hours over the meal. When the waiter approached to ask if they were ready for dessert, they decided to put it off for a time. Brodie asked for more water, then refilled Chey’s glass with champagne. The band played the first number, a peppy zydeco tune, and segued right into the next. Chey smiled and swayed her head to the jolly beat, her toes tapping beneath the table. The third tune was a swingy, nostalgic number that
purely infected Brodie. He slid out of his seat, walked around the table and held out his hand. Without the slightest hesitation, she placed her own in it, and he pulled her to her feet.

  They took it easy at first. He saw quickly that she wasn’t trained, but she made up for it with a smooth, natural grace and a great deal of faith, so he stepped up the program. Pulling her close with an arm wrapped snugly around her waist, he thrust his knee between hers and twirled her around the edge of the crowded floor. It felt as natural as breathing, the fit of their bodies so perfect they might have been made for one another. He tried a few of his favorite maneuvers. She stumbled through some of the more complicated steps, but they laughed about it and kept going. Brodie peeled off his coat before the next number and got serious. She caught on fast, an eager pupil. People started giving them room. By the end of the third dance, they were applauded.

  Laughing and thirsty, they moved to the table for drinks. “I predict you’ll be taking flings before the night’s out,” he said, handing her down into her seat.

  She looked up at him uncertainly. “What are flings?”

  “Tosses, uh, overhead steps. I fling or toss you up and into maneuvers then catch you again.”

  “In your dreams,” she told him firmly, reaching for her glass.

  He moved around the table and slid into his side of the L-shaped booth. “No, really, you could do it.”

  “Could and would are two different verbs,” she said meaningfully. “Besides, I’m not dressed for something like that.”

  He grinned and confessed, “I wondered if you were wearing anything under that dress.”

  She blushed a fiery red. “Of course I am.”

  Running a fingertip around the rim of his glass, he considered a moment and finally concluded, “A thong. Anything else would show.”

  She leaned forward, shushing him urgently, and laid her hand over his mouth. He smiled against her palm, then nipped it with his teeth. She yanked it away. He caught it and brought it back to his mouth, breathing heat into the heart of her palm then leisurely licking it. Her mouth dropped open, but she didn’t pull away. He carried the hand beneath the table and placed it on his thigh, then refilled her glass with champagne. She tossed back half of it in one gulp before slowly pulling her hand away from his leg.

  “You, um, you aren’t drinking,” she observed, cradling her champagne flute with both hands and studying it. “You’ve only had one glass so far.”

  “I’ll have one more before we go.”

  “Only one?”

  “I’m driving,” he reminded her.

  “I’m not,” she muttered, tilting back her head and draining the glass. He immediately pulled the bottle from the ice bucket and emptied it into her glass, then signaled the waiter for another, not that he wanted her intoxicated, but he did want her to have a good time.

  When the second bottle came, they ordered dessert, choosing the praline pie. She had hers without the thick, warm, brandied cream. He had another glass of the champagne, then pulled her out onto the dance floor once more. No longer caring about the steps, he just wanted to get next to her, and she seemed of the same mind, winding both arms about his neck and pressing herself against him. The floor was crowded, so they didn’t have room for much more than undulating with and against one another. It was enough to drive him wild. When the music ended, he kept her close, making sure she felt just what it was he wanted now. Her movements were restless and infinitely arousing.

  “Ready to go?” he asked pointedly.

  Her answer was a simple, knowing “Yes.”

  He grabbed her hand and hauled her back to the table, where he spent precious seconds throwing down bills and gathering their things. They walked swiftly through the dining room and foyer, so close that their bodies bumped against each other. The valet took off for the car at a run when they emerged onto the banquette. The drizzle had stopped, and the cooling night had caused a fog to rise and swirl around them. Brodie shuffled his feet impatiently, then just gave in, tossing his jacket over his shoulder and reaching for her. She slid her arms around him, the Pashmina cloaking them both softly, and kissed him with the same hunger that was battering him so mercilessly. They broke apart only when the car arrived.

  He put her inside, tossed his coat behind the seat and slid beneath the wheel, asking, “Mind if I put the top down now?” She shook her head, fastening her safety belt. He hit the button. “Good. I need cooling off, frankly.”

  She put her head back against the seat and said, “I think I’m drunk.”

  “You didn’t have that much alcohol.”

  “I didn’t mean the champagne.”

  He gunned the engine. Only the fog kept him from racing through the streets. It swirled around them, enveloping them in a cocoon of defused intimacy as they drove back to her place. Finally they pulled into her courtyard. He put up the top, killed the engine and hopped out, hurrying around to open her door. Releasing her belt, she swung both legs out and stood.

  “You’re staying, aren’t you?” she asked breathlessly.

  It was the invitation he’d been hoping for. “Absolutely.”

  She slid her arm through his, and together they turned toward the stairs. When they reached the top, she opened her tiny pocketbook and plucked out her keys before unlocking the first door they came to and leading him inside.

  She neither turned on the lamp nor closed the door, and the fog muted the light from the balcony. He stood just inside the doorway of the small room, noting with half a mind the sparse elegance of painted wood and neat antique pieces. She tossed the shawl over the back of an armless rocking chair, dropped her purse onto the seat and lifted first one foot and then the other to remove her shoes. Then she glided across the room to a large armoire, opened it and flipped a switch on the stereo. Dreamy music filled the room.

  Brodie closed the door behind him, walked across the floor and slipped his arms around her waist from the back. She laid her head against his shoulder, inviting him to taste the graceful curve of her neck. Lowering his head, he put his mouth to her skin, tasting her. She sighed, and lifted a hand to free her hair, plucking and dropping the pins and clips. He moved his hungry mouth to her ear, nipping and probing. When he lifted his hand to her breast, she moaned and arched her back. With one hand he cupped the firm mound of her breast through the springy elastic. With the other, he reached around and tilted her chin, pushing her head back until he could cover her mouth with his. Need slammed through him. He moved both hands to the top of edge of her dress and folded it down.

  When he cupped her bare breasts, she shuddered and made a sound that filled his mouth and reverberated throughout his body. Absolutely desperate to get her skin next to his, he broke away long enough to reach back behind his own head, grip a handful of shirt and tug it up, over and away. He shook free of it and reached out to turn her to face him. The sight of her took his breath away. Her breasts were round and full and tipped with small, pink nipples that stood erect for his touch. He filled both hands and felt the jolt of connection in his groin. She swayed toward him, lifting both arms around his neck, and he hissed in a breath of supreme satisfaction when her cool, bare skin met his. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and held her against him, swamped with need.

  She moved, and he moved with her, matching his pelvis to hers, swaying gently to the music. Then he picked up his feet, and they were dancing, chest to chest, her warm, moist breath heating his collar bone, her belly rubbing against his fierce arousal. A few minutes later, he hooked his thumbs in the folded-down top of her dress and pushed. Twisting against him, she helped him work it past her hips and thighs, until it dropped to her feet and she stepped out of it, pressing her body and mouth to his in a silent plea.

  Desire pounded in his temples, insistent, stronger than any urge to savor the moment. Obeying it, he dipped slightly, scooped her into his arms and pulled his mouth from hers to gasp, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. No! I don’t… Do you have protection?�
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  He laid his forehead against hers in relief. “Of course. Which way?”

  She pointed toward a door tucked into a corner beside the bookcase. He carried her through it and into a large, airy bedroom where moonlight spilled across the floor from an unshuttered window. A high, delicate spindle bed swathed in bunches of white mosquito netting stood against one corner. He carried her toward it, vaguely taking in cool, blue-gray walls, white woodwork and a ceiling fan that circled lazily overhead.

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, he shifted her onto her feet, standing her between his legs. She braced her hands on his shoulders while he stripped away his shoes and socks, unbuckled his belt and opened his pants. Then he clasped his hands around her waist and brought her closer, finding a luscious nipple with his mouth. Moaning, she leaned into him, her hands cupping the back of his head. Quickly, he found the narrow straps of her thong panties and tugged them over her hips and down her legs before moving his attention to her other breast. She was breathing through her mouth in great huffs by the time he slipped his hand between her legs and found her wet and hot. She cried out, hands fisting in his hair, when he pushed his finger into her. Pressing his face between her breasts, he explored inside her shuddering body.

  In no mood to go slowly, he reluctantly left that sweet place between her legs, stood, pulled the foil packets from his pocket and shoved down his slacks and briefs, kicking them away and reaching for her. She slid a hand down his chest and over his belly to skim the hard length of him, but he grabbed her wrist before she could do more, gasping, “Oh no! I’m hanging by a thread as it is.”

  “Then do it now,” she moaned, undulating against him.

  He was tempted. Oh, was he tempted. But he was dangerously close to explosion, and even more than he wanted to be inside her, he wanted to hear her sweet cries of completion, to make his mark on her heart and soul as well as her body. Sweeping her up into his arms again, he turned back to the bed, yanked the covers away with one hand and lay her down, her head against the pillow. Then he put on the condom, sat on the edge of the bed beside her and began to drive her crazy with his hands and mouth. She was mindless by the time he spread her legs wide and settled between them, his upper body weight braced against his locked arms. Slowly, he put himself where he most wanted to be. His head spun. His lungs seized. His heart stopped completely then began to wham madly against the walls of his chest, driving him convulsively deeper into her liquid, silky core.