Her Foreign Affair

by Shea Mcmaster

  “Those dishes won’t wash themselves,” Randi said and set a stack of scraped but greasy dishes at his elbow.

  “They’ll be clean faster than your washer could do them.”

  “No doubt. Just don’t chip them, and make sure they’re clean. Turkey grease is sneaky.” She reached across the sink and handed him a bottle of washing liquid. “One large spoonful should do it.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  The glare she directed at him could have boiled the water for tea. The same glare said she wanted to smack him, but felt hemmed in by the people around them. Also, she remained mad at him and didn’t want him to know he affected her in any way. But he’d edged under her skin and was getting to her. At least she didn’t hold herself aloof. No, not his Randi. How much of her feelings had she shut out over the years? Flustered and flushed, she tried to hold the glare, but he couldn’t hold back his grin.

  “Go on, you know you want to,” he taunted her.

  Lips pressed into a tight line, she shoved against his shoulder with hers.

  This was too much fun to let it go at that. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “You’re impossible,” she muttered at the countertop.

  Keeping his voice low enough only she could hear him over the running water, he taunted her further. “You can’t wait to get your hands on me, and you know it.” He plunged his hands into a sink full of suds. Now he appeared helpless, or so she’d think. “Come on, admit it. You’re not really so livid at me, are you?”

  With a growl of exasperation, she smacked him across the shoulder.

  Court laughed as he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. “Thank you, mistress, may I have another?”

  Lord but he loved how she tried to hide her blush by scurrying to the other side of the island behind him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman her age blush. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a young woman blush, either. Kids these days could probably teach him more than a thing or two about sex. And wasn’t that just a sad thought?

  But for some reason, the thought of sex didn’t depress him this time. The last twenty-two years had been hell as far as sex went. Beatrice had allowed it on their wedding night and once each month thereafter, but in between? Not a chance. Even though on their wedding night she’d admitted it had been much better than the first time, she’d declared the whole business messy and degrading. For several years they’d found a modicum of stability and had lived peacefully enough together, each busy with their own concerns. Business for him, charities for her. But as Drew hit his teens, things began disintegrating. Not because Drew turned especially difficult, he wasn’t any more so than the average teen boy, but from his puberty on, the marriage had been every dreadful gothic novel come to life.

  Cold bed, colder wife, the tolerable had crumbled into the distasteful far too quickly. It became all too apparent why the men of England, both now and in years past, often kept mistresses and endured their wives due to the advantages of blending certain families. In the end, his marriage had been nothing more than a business proposition. She gave him a son, and didn’t find it her fault if the spare didn’t appear after their limited couplings. After a couple of years, he’d passed on the grudgingly offered invitations to her bed. Had it not been for Drew and the pressure from their parents… water under the bridge now, much like the soap bubbles washing away down the rinse side of the sink.

  Once Bea’d died, he’d ventured back into the physical occasionally by dating widowed or divorced friends, which had fed the gossip rags a story or two over the past six years. Not enough to make front page, just enough to be annoying and far more exaggerated than reality.

  A pang for what life with Randi would have been like all these years hit him deep in the gut, and somehow, he managed to keep that upper lip stiff to hide it. Scenes like this would have been common. Hell, he might have even learned to mow the lawn and change the oil in his car had he followed through with his plans all those years ago. He felt like slashing out at something or someone for the loss. Or weeping like a girl, and that would never do.

  “You’re deep in thought,” Drew commented.

  Startled, Court mentally shook off his anger. “Hmm?”

  “Good memories?”

  Court barked out a short laugh. “A regular jumble of them. This one goes in the plus column, eh?” Out of habit, he turned his thoughts to the positive. Still protecting Drew from his deepest thoughts. Thoughts the lad might, or might not, understand.

  “I think so.” Drew kept pace, staying with him as plate after plate landed in the wire drain rack.

  “Come to think of it, can’t remember the last time I enjoyed washing dishes,” Court confessed.

  “Attractive surroundings sure help the process.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Drew’s gaze move around the kitchen as the women sorted the leftovers, his expression carefully casual. Last night at dinner, the lad had confessed they’d not yet gone beyond meeting for coffee in the morning and accidental touches. Excellent news in light of the discussion still to come. Randi had the right of it, nip the attraction in the bud, or better yet, redirect it.

  On the plus side, the lad seemed to like Randi as well as he liked Birdie, so how would he feel about the relationship? Drew hadn’t ever connected with the few lady friends Court had introduced him to. He’d always put it down to a lawyer’s cynical view of the world in general, but it didn’t seem to be the case here. Abandoning his thoughts, he tuned into the conversation taking place behind him, Randi’s warm voice washing over him, soothing a long ignored turmoil in his soul, in a scene so numbingly domestic it shouldn’t have thrilled him the way it did.

  “Do you want to take some of everything back to school?” Randi asked Birdie.

  “Yes! Food service will be minimal through the weekend, and these are the best leftovers, anyway. I’d rather eat your turkey than their…whatever.”

  “Drew, do you want leftovers?”

  “That would be fabulous, Mrs. Ferguson.”

  “Oh, please, you’re an adult, Randi works.”

  “Ta.”

  RJ called over the music from the family room, “Don’t forget my leftovers!”

  “Have I ever let you go home without a care package?” Randi called back.

  “No, just wanted to make sure you didn’t start this year.”

  What had changed between Randi and her father? Court remembered each phone call from home had left her tense and frustrated, but now they bantered as if they were old friends. The old man didn’t seem any less manipulative than he’d been back then. What had life been like for her upon returning home? How fast had her marriage been arranged?

  Court pulled up a mental picture of Ferguson. He must have been several years older than Randi. That could explain the ability to keep her in style. What about her situation? Did she work? Had he left her life insurance? Stocks, bonds, property? From what he recalled of her background in economics and the financial courses she’d been taking in London, she should have a good grasp on keeping her nest egg healthy.

  “Jordan, leftovers for you?” Randi called out.

  “As much as I’d love some, don’t have a way to keep them in the hotel room.”

  “Well, I’ll give you a piece of pumpkin pie. That will keep for a day or so.”

  “If that long,” he answered with a chuckle. “Thank you.”

  Behind him, first Birdie, then Randi began singing with the songs. Foil crackled and ripped, drawers opened and closed, plastic bags were shook out, and lids snapped in place, all in tune to the music rolling back the years in his head. Platters and pots appeared for rinsing.

  “If you put these through the dishwasher, it will be easier.” Randi at his elbow felt cozy and right.

  “Is that so?”

  “Less scrubbing and clanking around for you. Besides, don’t want to ruin your beautiful manicure wit
h steel wool pads.”

  “You like my manicure?” He lifted a hand and looked at his neatly trimmed nails. “Have a nice little chit who does them at my barber’s. Worth every penny.” It was also accompanied by a nice view down some impressive cleavage. He tipped well, in appreciation for the display. Not to mention, his lady friends appreciated the consideration. Didn’t want a sharp nail interrupting intimate moments. Of which there had been none in far too long. Which might partly explain his almost violent need for Randi.

  “It’s beautiful. And keep your dirty thoughts to yourself,” she hissed in his ear.

  That obvious, was he? “Keep blowing in my ear, and I’d be happy to demonstrate some of my favorite fantasies,” he whispered back. Then again, Randi created the need for Randi. Her sweet scent wafted around him, and he gazed down into her glazed eyes. Wine? Or desire? Perhaps a touch of both, he decided when her nipple grazed his arm. Hard as a diamond, the little berry wanted to play. He pressed against the cabinet to discourage his own reaction and prayed his tight briefs would do their job and help hide the evidence.

  Mind back on his task, he adopted a no-nonsense tone and ordered, “Get me the last of the dishes. Stack them up, don’t keep me in suspense here. The soap is giving out.”

  “It is not.” Randi eyed him through long, luxurious lashes. Those eyes. He’d been a sucker for them from the first. Rich jade green, round and luminous, framed by mink lashes. Heart shaped face, clear ivory skin with a dusting of freckles her light coating of makeup couldn’t completely hide. A soft sheen of perspiration made her skin look dewy and soft. She used the back of her wrist to brush some hair off her forehead. “Finish up and we can go for a stroll or find the swing out back.”

  “As you command, it becomes my greatest desire.”

  “Smart Alec.”

  “Hand them over, tasty wench.”

  That earned him a snort as she set down the last of the dirty dishes in the sink.

  “Dried up old hag, is more like it.” She grimaced and wearily leaned against the counter.

  “We’ll see. You look pretty juicy to me.”

  “Hmm, yeah, we’ll see. NOT.” She spun away.

  Now what was she on about? They’d had a fine time in the loo. All they needed now was some privacy, preferably behind the closed door of her bedroom. Heat they had in plenty, the chemistry mixed properly, all they needed was time and space for combustion to occur. Granted, timing was a bit off, but they had later tonight to look forward to. Thanks be to Birdie for insisting on overnighting.

  Ah Birdie, how would she react to all this? Would she hate them? Hate him? How deeply would the revelation rock her serene and secure world?

  Nerves suddenly hit him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. This secret of Randi’s had the potential to rip huge holes in some innocent lives. Drew would probably take it in stride as he did all things, but what about Birdie? She seemed happy enough and well grounded, but what would it do to her to find out her life started with a secret? Would he and Randi get a chance to talk before the situation came to a head? Drew definitely had his eye on Birdie, hoping to get closer.

  If only they could suspend this moment and draw it out, put off the inevitable, for he had absolutely no doubt that before the night was over, Birdie would know her true heritage. If he had to tell her himself, he would. The secret ended tonight. A thought which excited and scared the hell out of him.

  Last dish washed and handed over to Drew soaking up his third drying towel, Court let the water out and rinsed the soap away. Would Randi be impressed he knew how to wipe out a sink? Just one of the many skills she’d once accused him of not having. A skill he’d learned soon after Beatrice’s departure from this earth. Might have to show off his culinary skills. Breakfast? Did she have the proper ingredients on hand?

  A dry towel landed on his shoulder, and he glanced back to see Randi eyeing him while rubbing lotion into her hands.

  He turned off the water and pulled down the towel. “We done, boss?”

  “For now. Good enough. If you’ll move aside, I’ll start the dishwasher, and then we can all go sit down with coffee, or brandy.”

  “Or both?”

  “Mmm. Good idea. Actually, I have another mixture you might like.”

  “Bring it on.” He stepped aside and bowed, waving his towel with a flourish.

  “Cocoa butter cream if you want some.” She indicated a container on the island.

  He enjoyed the view as she bent to retrieve the washing liquid from under the sink and tended to the dish machine. He loved watching her move about the house. Naked and moving about the house would be even better. Naked and moving on top of him—or under him, he wasn’t picky—would be best yet. Since she’d commented on his manicure, he took the hint and rubbed the lotion into his hands. Didn’t want rough dishpan hands causing the wrong kind of friction later. Then again, rubbing this lotion into strategic parts of her could create the proper heat.

  The music changed and he grinned. Taking Randi’s hand, he dragged her to the foyer where there was more room to dance.

  “No,” she protested, but weakly, as he grasped both of her hands in his.

  “Oh, yes.” He led her into the rhythm. “Remember the Romantics?”

  Randi groaned, but kept dancing to the lyrics about talking in her sleep, a most enchanting habit of hers, once upon a time. Probably still did and if given a chance to test it out, he’d take it. The kids poked their heads into the hall in time to see him spin her into his arms, then spin her out again, their own version of the swing.

  “Look at that, she can dance!” Birdie laughed from the edge of the foyer, Drew peering over her shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah, the old lady can dance.” Randi’s breathless voice thrilled him right down to the bone, and he pulled her close.

  Had she never danced with Ferguson? For some reason that pleased him immensely. He couldn’t stand the thought of her dancing with anyone but him. They’d made magic when dancing. Magic so special it only happened once in a lifetime. “Yeah, she’s still got it.” Court laughed with the kids.

  Randi looked up at him, eyes large enough for him to sink into the sea of green. The memories were there, right at the surface.

  With the use of a favorite move, he pulled her close. “Yeah, darling,” he murmured for her ears only. “Whether you want me or not, you’ve still got me.”

  Chapter 7

  The song came to an end and Randi laughed, using it as an excuse to step away from Court, her heart pumping as much from the exercise as being close to her old love. Dad killed the music, to the groans of Birdie and Drew, but Randi was grateful. She didn’t have the stamina for dancing anymore, and being in Court’s arms came close to stealing all her power to resist him. By the look in his eye, he knew it and heavily counted on her fading resistance. A quick stop in the kitchen to cram the remaining containers into the refrigerator bought her a few minutes while the kids plopped themselves down in front of the TV.

  Winded, Randi paused in the pass-through from the kitchen to the family room and assessed the positions of the occupants. Dad had his corner of the sofa nearest the fireplace with Birdie settling down beside him. Drew sat to her left, close, but not too close in response to a look from Dad. Jordan sat beyond the curve of the sectional. Sit beside him, or in her rocking chair in front of the fireplace on the far side of the room? What she really should do was wiggle in between the kids. Drew didn’t have his arm around Birdie—yet—although it was only a matter of time based on the way they smiled at each other.

  Court stood behind her, most likely waiting for her to decide where she was going to sit. The sound for the game moving out of half time was back on. Football had never looked so unappealing, but to scurry off to her corner in the reading nook would be rude. Not to mention, there was that situation with the kids.

  “What’s the proper Thanksgiving etiquette here?” Court’s breath tickled the side of her neck.


  “Kick the kids off the sofa and we take their spots.”

  His nearly silent laugh teased her ear. “So cruel.”

  “The other option is to stretch out on the floor, or sit on the floor and insinuate ourselves between them by leaning back against the couch.”

  “Sounds hard.” His hand cupped her bottom. “We don’t want to abuse this pretty posterior.”

  If only… Man she’d love to sit on his hand for awhile and let it do more delicious things to her. Quashing a groan before it escaped, she made an attempt to push him back with her shoulder. “I have floor pillows. A nap on the carpet is a time-honored tradition. You can take the rocking chair, and I’ll sit in the open spot by Jordan.”

  “No.” His answer left no room for argument. She hadn’t thought he’d like that suggestion much, so it came as no surprise.

  Sneaky Court moved his hand, stroking her back in a way no one else would see, unless they looked at her face. Of course he didn’t want her sitting next to Jordan. Court’s breath warmed her ear while his finger drew a line down her spine, right past her waist and down between her buttocks. Without a pause, he glided his most wicked finger straight into the space between her legs. Right at the very top of her thighs.

  “Would they miss us if we, say, wandered off to your bedroom?” He echoed her earlier thought as if reading her mind. “We still have lots to talk about. We’ve barely touched the subject of the last twenty-two and a half years.”

  Randi cleared her throat. “Bad form. Rude to guests and all that,” she muttered. “We’ll talk once the extra two leave.”

  “Who’s to be polite for? Jordan? No loss there.” His finger curved upward, stroking her through the layers of her clothing, wearing at her resolve to walk away. It wouldn’t take much more for her already weak defenses to completely crumble. She wanted nothing more than to turn around and pick up where they’d left off in the powder room. But with her father shooting glances her direction, she didn’t dare. The very fragile secret was close to exploding into the open, and she needed to hang on to it, just a little longer. Which meant shutting Court down.