“Thanks, sweet pea. Now don’t block the screen.”
“Thanks, Dad. It’s a sixty inch screen. If you can’t see around me, then I guess we don’t need to be eating dinner today.”
“Now, darlin’, don’t get yourself in a lather. I didn’t mean that at all. If anything, you could stand to add a few pounds,” Dad said. The suck up.
“Anything I can do to help?” Jordan asked. Just to be polite, she was sure, since his eyes seemed to be glued to her cleavage, such as it was hidden behind her apron, or not, as she stood bent over giving him pretty much a full view.
With a sigh, she straightened. “Thanks, but I’ve got more help than I need right now. Holler if this runs out. There’s more coming.”
Jordan’s eyes cut from her cleavage to the kitchen where Court rattled ice into the stainless steel bucket. With a smooth movement, Jordan levered himself off the plush leather sofa and rose to tower over her. “I could do with a coffee refill.”
She reached for the mug, but Jordan lifted it out of her reach. There were times tall people were truly irritating. Like when they weren’t being useful as human ladders.
“I can get it for you,” she offered.
“No need for you to wait on me all day. I can get my own refills.” The smile he gave her was soft and warm, but it didn’t do a blessed thing to stir up the pitter patter in her heart. Damn Court.
“Suit yourself. I think there’s enough for one more cup, and then I’ll put on a fresh pot.”
“How’s your coffee?” Jordan followed her into the kitchen. “Don’t you get first dibs on refills?”
Now, that made her laugh. Her cup was ice cold by now. “I’m fine. One more round of coffee, and then we’ll break out some wine.” She waved toward Court and the champagne. “We have the first bottle on ice.”
“And a back-up in the freezer,” Court said. “Don’t worry, I’ll remember to pull it out.” The way his eyes twinkled brought back the memory of the first time she’d stuck a couple beers in her tiny freezer against his advice. They’d been too busy to remember they were there, and the next morning, she’d opened the fridge looking for orange juice, only to find frozen beer sprayed all over the inside.
With a glare in Court’s direction, hoping the flush rushing to her cheeks could be attributed to the ovens, she picked up the coffee pot and put a hand to it. “It’s cold. Let me make fresh, and then I’ll bring your cup out,” she told Jordan. Two men hovering in her kitchen strained her ability to deal with life at the moment. One had to leave, and Court had found a task to keep him busy.
“No worries, I’ll sit here, halfway between the kitchen and the game.” Jordan gave her a wide smile and settled down at the breakfast bar where Court had sat earlier. He could put his back to the wall and keep an eye on the game and the kitchen at the same time through the arched opening.
She wanted nothing more than to scream at them all to go watch the game. Instead, she bit her lip and concentrated on rinsing out the coffee pot and going through the motions of setting up a fresh one.
Damn if Court didn’t sidle up to her again.
“Got hot pads handy? The hors d’oeuvres look nearly done.”
“Hanging on the front of the oven door,” she muttered.
Court’s body brushed up against her side as he turned just far enough to look over his shoulder. “What do you know? So they are. Cheeky little buggers, hiding out in plain sight.”
“Imagine that. American ingenuity triumphs again.”
Court chuckled and discreetly ran a hand down her back, settling at the base a mere second, long enough for her body to remember, to long for, to melt under the memory of his touch from so long ago, and yet, it felt as if it had been only yesterday.
No touching. Had to stop him from touching.
“Mom?” Birdie clattered into the kitchen. Court’s hand dropped away. “Want us to fill the water glasses now?”
“You have the crystal on the table already?” How had she missed that?
“Everything’s set, Mom, except for the water, wine, food, and people.”
Randi peeked through the doorway to the dining room. Birdie had even placed the flowers in the center of the table and serving utensils on the sideboard. Everything sparkled. “Good job. Looks beautiful. No, no need to worry about the water right now. Go watch the game with Grandpa and give him a live person to argue with instead of the announcers who can’t hear him,” she raised her voice for the last part of the sentence.
“I can hear you!” he shouted back. “Got more eggs?”
“No more eggs. You get vegetables.” She nodded at Birdie to get the refills.
“You’re no fun, Randi. How did I raise such a dull daughter?”
“Like father like daughter,” she shot back.
“That’s not the way I remember it.” Court’s quiet comment sent a shiver down her spine.
The man may have been standing back to back with her, sliding hot packets of brie wrapped with prosciutto and phyllo dough onto a serving plate, but she could sense every inch of him along every inch of her back. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Hell. Today was going to be the longest of her life.
Chapter 4
Firmly forcing his mind back to where it’d been before Randi’s dad had arrived, Court transferred the baked bundles wrapped to look like mini presents onto a plate. Drew traipsed into the kitchen on Birdie’s heels. Court stopped him and handed over the plate. Happy as usual, Drew took it, followed Birdie, and plopped down on the sofa next to her. For a moment, Court wanted to leap between them. They looked wrong together somehow, or was it too right? Like peas in a pod, they had the same coloring and apparently similar temperaments. Both unnaturally cheerful. A trait attributed to him, once upon a time. Right up until that spring so long ago.
Damn, he’d lost the thought. He needed to go through it from the beginning. Court ran a hand through his hair as if the stimulation could dredge up the memories.
Jean—Randi had applied for the summer internship because she loved London. She’d told him she needed to stay as long as possible to soak up all the real Earl Grey and crumpets she could. He’d gained a new appreciation for the everyday items by hanging with her. Hanging. Just one Americanism he’d picked up from her. So many cultural exchanges they’d made. The very thought brought a smile to his face. International Relations had been his favorite subject that spring. Too bad it wasn’t eligible for addition to his transcripts.
And yet, she’d given up the opportunity because of one snippet of conversation she’d overheard. Okay, one incredibly damning snippet. Because she thought he’d thrown her, and what they’d had together, away. Because she thought he’d been toying with her, as if he were a modern day Lothario, with women falling at his feet, giving him a choice of lovers each night. Something he’d never been accused of. He’d been faithful to Beatrice until her death, and afterward, his affairs had been discreet with carefully selected companions.
He turned to watch her wash her hands, back stiff, movements jerky. Only once during their time together had he seen body language like this. Definitely upset. That time, so long ago, had been after a phone call from home. She’d once admitted discussions with her father could be difficult, but they seemed to get along fine now. What had changed?
Too many years had passed, or had they? A few minutes alone, that’s all he needed. Time was precious and their audience too large. He needed to talk with her and there seemed to be a lull in the action.
“Pardon me,” he muttered near her ear. “Where might I find the loo?”
Without softening a bit, she snapped out, “Off the foyer. There are two doors, one leads to the mudroom, the other is the powder room.”
“Could you show me?” Possibly he could sidetrack her, get her to tell him about the photos lining the wall. “I wouldn’t want to take a wrong turn and, say, end up in your bedroom.”
The look she shot him embodied pure e
xasperation. He loved that look on her face. It meant he’d begun to get under her skin despite all her attempts to remain aloof. Not that she’d ever been able to cultivate aloofness. The quintessential California Girl back then, she’d never have cut it in London society. Beatrice and her coven would have sliced her to shreds in seconds. Thankfully, he’d avoided exclusive relationships since Beatrice, however, he couldn’t help but wonder if Randi could slide into his society now, or would she find resistance?
Randi took one last glance at the other four people, though he could have assured her they were engrossed in the football game. Drew had become downright enamored with the sport in the three months he’d been stateside. While she grabbed a towel, Court untied the apron strings at her back. The exasperated look shot his way again, but she pulled the thing off over her head and laid it down beside the towel after her hands were dry. Without the camouflage, he could properly see the contours of her breasts where the thin knit ivory fabric molded to her body. His mouth went dry from wanting to touch her, so he shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from following through.
“This way,” she muttered, and they made a clean escape into the hall, bordered on one side by a half height wall spanning the width of the house. On the other side, the full wall displayed an abundance of framed portraits. Beyond the half wall was a formal sitting room on the left. On the right, the dining room with another half wall and what looked like the back side of a chimney. Beyond, a cozy reading nook with windows looking into the backyard complete with swimming pool, deck, and a swath of green lawn.
“The bathroom is right over there.” She pointed to an alcove off the foyer. “The door on the right, in case you can’t tell it apart from the mud room, which has the laundry machines and a door to the garage.” Sarcasm touched her soft voice. The vaulted ceiling with skylights certainly would have carried sound back to the others had she not kept her voice low.
“How about a tour of the gallery first?” He kept going straight instead of making the turn to where she pointed. The first portrait stopped him. “This must be your husband.” Court pointed to a posed, formal photo.
“Must be.” She stood with folded arms, toes in sandals tapping with impatience.
“What was his name?” The man looked like Paul Bunyan with his shaggy brown hair and close trimmed beard despite the entirely civilized suit and tie. Certainly a robust fellow with a barrel chest. Probably the kind of man with hair all over.
“Wyatt Ferguson.” She all but snapped at him. “The powder room?”
Ignoring her almost desperate redirection, he commented on the man. “A good Scots name if ever I heard one.” Must be onto something here, something she didn’t want him to see?
“He was a good man,” she said sharply.
Defensive? Interesting. “And a good father? Birdie doesn’t look anything like him.”
“He was a very good dad to her. He loved her above all else.”
Court turned his head to look at her face. What was that tone? “Loved her above you?”
“Yes—no, I didn’t mean that.” Flustered, she blushed and waved a hand impatiently. “He adored his girls. No one ever doubted it. What you want is this direction.”
Once more, he ignored her attempt to draw him away and turned his attention to the photos leading away from her. “Is Birdie your only child?” All the photos showed only Birdie growing up.
“Yes. I…we couldn’t…have others.”
Ah, a sore spot, must be getting closer to something here. He stepped down the hall, Birdie aging in reverse as they moved toward the single closed door at the end of the hall. At that point, Randi grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his flesh beneath his shirt, and tried to pull him back toward the foyer.
“Come on, what you want is this way.” She tugged harder.
But one framed photo caught his eye. There it was. The answer to the question he’d asked earlier.
“Courtney Robin Ferguson, born February fourth, Nineteen eighty...” The words he read from the brass plaque on the elaborate frame strangled in his throat. One year… not even one full year after they’d met. It didn’t take a brilliant mind to do the math, and the psychologists had assured his parents he had a particularly brilliant mind when it came to numbers.
Voice pitched an octave higher, Randi sounded as if she were choking. “Yes, well, the powder room is this way.” Randi tugged all the harder on his arm, practically leaning away from him. Had he moved, she would have fallen on her face.
Too bad he was stronger. But neither could he have moved if he’d tried. Rooted to the floor, he stared at the photo of the smiling infant, arms wide as if reaching for him. God, except for the dress and pink bow in her hair, she looked exactly like…Drew. And only four months younger. Either Birdie had been born premature, or…
Still resisting Randi’s efforts to drag him away, he tried to clear the lump from his throat. “Nice name you chose for her.” Ice ran through his veins, stinging and burning at the same time as his stomach tightened, churning the coffee in his gut. Good God.
“I didn’t name her,” Randi growled, yet he could hear a hint of panic underneath. As well she should be panicked. This news she never should have kept to herself. She tugged harder on his arm, her nails digging in. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have cooking to do. If you need directions, now’s your chance.”
A sudden inrush of oxygen filled his head like helium. “Fine. Loo. Where?”
“This way.”
Unable to see clearly, he grabbed her hand, following where she led. The jolt of heat that zapped up his arm jump-started his stuttering heart.
When they reached the bathroom off the foyer, Randi tried to disengage and step back. Oh no, she wasn’t getting away so easily. Heart hardened, shock fizzled out, and anger began to burn. He crowded her inside and shut the door. The click of the lock he set sounded loud in the small room.
“Court,” she turned on him with a furious whisper, “what are you doing?” Her eyes widened at the expression on his face; her blustering wilted a bit.
“We need to talk, and this is about as private as we’re likely to get, unless you want to take me to your bedroom?” The lifted brow silenced her. “No? I didn’t think so. Too bad.”
Not in a charitable frame of mind and wanting the answers she owed him, he backed her against a small section of wall between a pedestal sink and a chest next to the toilet. He kept going until one knee slipped between her legs, their chests pressed together, and his arms braced against the wall on either side of her head.
“Court,” she whispered again. “Get off me.” Small fists pushed against his chest, but he hardly felt them.
Only one thought occupied his head. Nothing else mattered right then, and he’d have the answer or stir up the scene she obviously didn’t want.
“She’s mine, isn’t she?” In his fury, he wanted to wrap a hand around Jean’s throat. Not normally inclined to violence or manhandling women, he wondered in that instant if he could resort to such measures to get the answer. Plenty of his competitors had left the negotiating table wondering the same.
“She isn’t.” Randi’s fist punctuated her lie, but he hardly felt it, his mind too busy keeping his hands back from choking the truth out of her.
But this was Jean no matter what name she used these days. Sweet, loving Jean. Lying Jean. Instead of choking her, he pressed her against the wall, fitting his body to hers as if they’d never been parted, leaving not one whisper of space between them.
“Then why is she named after me?” Swirling emotions churned faster inside him. Anger at not being told. Anguish for missing a lifetime of a daughter he should have been given the chance to cherish. Fury at Beatrice for holding him by the bollocks for sixteen wasted years, when he could have been with Jean and his daughter. Rage barely kept in check, the urge to throttle Jean stronger than he’d ever felt before because of the truth, the daughter and other secrets, she’d kept fr
om him.
Agony ripped through him, nearly strong enough to drop him to his knees. No, he wouldn’t have given up the years with Drew, but damn. Why did life have to be screwed up? He should have known. Should have had the choice, no matter how difficult, the chance to decide. She’d lied by omission, and he wanted to damn her for her silence. For her avoidance of his attempts at contact. For going so far as to marry another man to hide the truth.
“Tell me how Courtney Robin isn’t named after me? How could anyone else choose that combination? It isn’t an accident, Jean. Stop lying to me.” Furiously spoken, he kept his voice low, though how he had the presence of mind to do it, he didn’t know. Too many years of low volume arguments with old Bea?
“Randi, dammit, my name is Randi.” One little fist pounded ineffectively against his shoulder again, but still he held her. She didn’t have room to work up the momentum to do damage, and despite the heavy emotions battering both of them, he wanted this, craved this closeness, needed to feel her against him. The need for her had been growing steadily the past several years—face it, the need for her had never entirely disappeared. He might have dreamed of finding his Jean again, but he’d never dreamed of discovering a daughter. A daughter sitting in the other room. A daughter he’d met without recognizing. A daughter whose mother didn’t want her secret exposed.
“The lies stop here. Tell me the truth.”
“Oh, like you really care. What’d you do, set Drew on my trail?” She threw the accusation at him. “Was their meeting an accident at all? What are you doing here, Court? Why now?”
His control hanging by an unraveling silken thread, he spoke more harshly than he could remember doing since Beatrice’s death, pressing her for the truth. “Tell me, Randi Jean. I know she’s mine. She has to be. Tell me the bloody truth!”
Her Foreign Affair Page 5
