Her Foreign Affair (26 page)

Not pleased with the sudden business tone that filled the air, Randi dug into her cup of yogurt, eating silently while Martha opened her leather planner and began flipping through documents as if they sat in a boardroom instead of at the breakfast table.

“The cards you requested arrived this morning,” Martha said, and handed over two plastic credit cards. Court glanced at them, then set them down next to Randi’s plate while his secretary next delivered a sheet of paper. She barely noted their existence as Martha plowed onward. “These are the notes you forwarded regarding the first part of today’s meeting with Larry. He’s particularly interested in items one through five and wants them to start arriving in his stores within the next three weeks. He’s already late for the Christmas rush, but has an intense advertising campaign ready to go the moment the first shipments arrive.”

“And the supplier in South Africa?” Court lifted his tea cup and drank while reading down the list.

“They have an ample supply of the Rooibos in a dozen blends. Shipment by the usual methods will be slow, but as the product is light in weight, we could guarantee delivery by air freight.”

“Upping the cost significantly,” Court said.

“Of course, however…”

“Yes, he waited until the last moment—again—and expects us to pull a miracle out of our hat. Good thing I anticipated him, and we have enough to get a minimal supply to him within a week if he agrees to the terms.”

The business talk continued as Randi ate a few bites of each dish Fiske placed in front of her. Court ate without paying particular attention to the food, neither complimenting nor complaining, until he reached the grapefruit half, which he merely waved away.

If Martha wasn’t handing him papers, Court ate with one hand and rested the other on Randi’s thigh. She understood the significance of preparing for the day’s meetings, but she objected to breakfast as the time to do it, and she was about to speak up when a stack of letters requiring Court’s signature appeared from the leather folder.

Court spared Randi a rueful grin. “After all, I was out of the office for the entire week.”

“Of course.” She hid her grimace by sipping from her tea cup.

Martha briefly met her gaze with a look that voiced disapproval as if she’d shouted it from the roof top, but Court missed it entirely.

“What do you think of the tea?” he asked Randi.

“I’ve always enjoyed this blend. Of course, this particular Emperor’s Puerh is distributed from the Bay Area. Not far from my house, as a matter of fact.”

Court laughed and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “I knew all those teapots meant something more than a casual tea drinker.”

With a slight shrug, she tried to dismiss his curiosity.

“Come now, tell me how deep your knowledge goes.” He rested an arm on the back of her chair and reached for the teapot to refill her cup. “How did the collection get started?”

“It started when Mother gave us the large silver tea service for our wedding. From there it became a tradition.” The collection had grown with each anniversary, some years a small whimsical tea pot had caught Wyatt’s eye, others an elaborate set. Then a friend had noticed and bought her a tea-for-one set for a birthday. From there, the gifts had exploded to the point Randi had wistfully admired the diamonds and gold the husbands of her friends purchased each year. Randi got tea pots and tea sets.

“You should see this assortment, Martha.” Court set down the pot and relaxed, leaving his arm loosely embracing Randi’s shoulders. His body heat comforted her. “Close to a hundred sets if I’m not mistaken. Everything from Royal Doulton to some of the funkiest artist renditions you’ve ever seen. Cast iron, silver, bone china, ceramic, yixing, new, old, antique; I think I even noticed a Tony Carter in one cabinet and something hand carved in wood in another. I don’t think I’ve seen such a collection outside a museum before.”

“Amazing,” the indispensable Martha murmured, clearly not impressed.

“I still can’t get her to own up to her favorite tea after all this time.”

“I don’t have a favorite,” Randi said.

“Used to be Earl Grey. What happened?”

Like she would really tell him the truth about that? “I decided to be eclectic and broaden my horizons.”

“I’m curious to see how your palate has developed. I also want your opinion on a selection of Maté blends. In the meantime, these cards are for you. I know how much women like shopping, so I don’t want you to feel restricted. One is for you and one is for Birdie. I hope she uses her legal name for things like credit cards because I used Courtney on the card.”

“Court—” Outraged, Randi began to protest, but the cards were slipped into her hand as what served as a doorbell chimed, interrupting what surely would have been a scene by the time she finished. Later. She’d lodge her complaint in private and not in front of the audience around them

“There’s Larry. Now, I want you back here for lunch. Larry will pester me to death if you aren’t, and I don’t want to be apart a moment longer than necessary. After that, Fiske assures me you’ll get the entire pampering package.” He paused enough to catch the growing irritation in her expression. Lowering his voice, he leaned close enough to whisper against her lips, “Humor me and buy something nice to wear for dinner out.”

Well that was clear enough. He wanted something sexy enough to peel off her almost the moment she’d put it on. And green. Maybe. Maybe not.

Like a runaway locomotive, the business version of Court steamrollered right over her. She was barely given enough time to greet Larry—who very much noticed the wrinkled handprints over her breasts—shrug into her suit jacket, and shoulder her purse before she found herself on the elevator down to meet the driver who had her car standing ready. Tucked in her handbag were the new credit cards and the names of personal shoppers at Saks, Barneys, Bergdorf-Goodman, and Bloomingdale’s. She also had Fiske’s and Martha’s cell numbers programmed into her phone. Just in case.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So she went shopping.

By noon Thursday, Randi was shopped, spa-ed and museumed out. Wandering the stores alone had quickly ceased to be fun, and there were only so many times she could be buffed, waxed, massaged, and polished. There were plenty more sights to see, but a little went a long way there. Especially alone with a driver standing by. As much as Court said he wanted to spend time with her, the indispensable Martha had kept him snowed under a mountain of paperwork between meetings with Larry. Monday night they’d had dinner out, and Court had presented her with a pair of exquisite emerald earrings. That was the last time they’d made long, leisurely love, deep into the night, with him exploring every newly waxed inch of her body. The mere memory was enough to make Randi shiver with heat.

Tuesday, she’d spent the morning pretending to shop, telling herself she loved it, then the afternoon visiting two museums, arriving back at the suite in time to catch a small scene which might have been innocent, or… No, Court wouldn’t do that, would he? Larry was nowhere in sight, and the impeccably dressed Martha looked just mussed enough, her blouse wrinkled in just a way, the smile on her face satisfied and smug, lipstick slightly smeared. Court seemed a little distracted, a little tired, and the scent of Martha’s perfume had been clinging to him as he greeted Randi with a hug. Then again, the woman’s perfume had nearly permeated the suite and would most likely require a week’s airing to clear out. Thankfully, the scent hadn’t made it to the bedroom. Or had it?

Tired herself from a full day out, she gave Court the benefit of the doubt as he didn’t seem to notice when Martha eventually excused herself. Larry claimed prior plans, so dinner was a quiet affair, eaten in the suite, and they’d both fallen asleep early. She’d managed to plead exhaustion to avoid making love, but that didn’t stop Court from holding her all night long. At least the scent of his skin smelled nothing like another woman’s perfume.

Wednesday started with relaxed morning loving and a shared shower. Court finished dressing first and went down to breakfast several minutes before Randi, who admittedly, was dragging her feet. Another day on her own stretched out ahead. Not even the glitter and anticipation of Christmas filling the air had made shopping for gifts feel like anything more than a chore. She’d do better ordering online. Soft soled flats on her feet, she didn’t make a sound leaving the upstairs bedroom and overheard Court’s exclamation of disgust.

“What is this bloody rubbish? Why is this even here?”

Martha’s hated voice answered. “I thought you should know.”

“When have I ever paid attention to the bleeding gossip rags?”

“This is what they’re reading at home.”

“Must be a slow week,” he grumbled. Randi watched from the balcony as Court slapped down the folded paper beside his place setting. “Get rid of it. It has no bearing here.”

Still silent, Randi swiftly made her way down the stairs and to the table before Court noticed and looked up. The napkin he placed over the paper wasn’t subtle, nor did he hide his irritation well.

“Oh good, I haven’t seen a paper in days.” Randi leaned across him and snatched it from under the napkin.

“Randi, there’s nothing in there worth reading. It’s just one of those tabloids the masses love for their outrageousness.”

“Oh, I disagree. I used to love reading the London tabloids. They’re better entertainment than reality TV.” Scanning the page, she held it away from him. There, at the very bottom, the last inch… with two photos squeezed in side by side…

Spying eyes caught sight of New York socialite Catherine Miller en dishabille leaving the hotel apartment of one of our favorite Brit importers. Seems, despite the connections the Miller textile merchants can provide him, Lynford International Importers’ most eligible bachelor, CEO Courtland Robinson, found new fields to plow in California. It took us a couple days to hit pay dirt, but the beauty on his arm is an heiress with wine connections, and the grapevine tells us last week he spent a quid or two bolstering his cellar with West Coast grape juice and his bedroom with a sun-kissed mature beauty, the recently widowed Randi Ferguson. Rumor has it these two have a past going back decades, and we can only wonder what they’re doing in NYC and what he plans to do about all the hearts he’s broken in Manhattan, and more so, the many London socialites who’ve been fluttering around the widower these past six years.

“It’s rubbish, of course.” Court laughed, albeit a little forced.

“Of course it is,” Randi said lightly. “After all, she had a point; I’m nobody on this side of the US, much less Europe. We strictly do business on the West Coast.” She tossed the paper down and picked up her cup of yogurt. Looking up, she caught sight of what looked like a hard glint of malice in Martha’s eyes. Had Martha been the one to provide the photos and details? What did she have to gain, if she had? Randi returned the direct gaze and did her best to look mildly amused. “So what happens now? Do I need to find a big hat and Jackie O sunglasses?”

Randi wanted to take Court aside to talk about it, but Larry arrived, up to date on the gossip rag and begging details. Fiske quietly assured her if one of the staff was responsible, he or she would be sacked immediately. Too bad Fiske couldn’t sack Martha.

The incident introduced a sour note to her day, and Randi grumbled at herself for letting it bother her. The situation didn’t improve when she returned for lunch and Martha hovered over Court, pushing the paperwork at him all through the meal, leaving Randi open to Larry’s flirting. Court frowned, but he didn’t put down his foot, either, letting work intrude on the midday meal despite Randi’s protest.

They’d planned to eat out before the show, but a few photographers had been waiting when Randi emerged from the hotel for another lonely afternoon, this time at the Museum of Modern Art. Fortunately, a doorman intervened, and her driver whisked her off to the Museum of American Finance on Wall Street. A place she imagined few normal people would seek out. From there, she paid a visit to MarieBelle Cacao Bar and Tea Salon. The driver had suggested, and she’d declined, a visit to the Museum of Sex—it certainly was not a place she wanted to go alone. Perhaps Court would be interested tomorrow or the next day. She returned to the suite by way of the underground parking garage and zipped up a back elevator, straight into Fiske’s capable care.

“Where are we dining tonight?” Randi asked.

Fiske served a light tea, featuring a Rooibos variation.

“What’s wrong?” Though clearly worn by the heavy schedule, which Randi figured wasn’t working out as well as he would have liked, Court nevertheless noticed when she pushed away the steaming cup of brew.

“A little too grassy for my likes. I might as well gather grass clippings from my yard instead of the savannah.”

“Ditch the Rooibos, Fiske.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dinner tonight?” Randi prompted him.

“I booked a table downstairs. Paparazzi aren’t allowed in. Did they give you much trouble while you were out?”

Randi laughed. “They aren’t interested in little old me. As you said, it must be a slow week for the celebrities. No, I discovered some off the beaten path locations.”

When she told him how fascinating she’d found the finance museum, he laughed. “Only you, darling. Where else?”

“I had it on good authority the Museum of Sex would be an interesting stop, but I figured that one would be more fun with company.” She didn’t mean for her lip to wobble, but as miniscule as it was, Court saw it and pulled her onto his lap.

“I think we can swing it day after tomorrow,” he murmured in her ear.

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, she rested her head against his with a small sigh. “I’d like that. A lot.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a dud so far this week. We’ll have a bit of fun tonight. You like ABBA, right?”

“You weren’t a dud this morning.” She trailed a painted fingernail across his lower lip.

“Get me going now, and we’ll miss not only dinner but the show as well.”