Her Foreign Affair (4 page)

While Randi Jean continued to interrogate Drew, Court sat back and watched, as he’d loved watching her play domestic during their short time together. Drew could hold his own in conversation, hence the law degree. It allowed Court to let his mind wander back and let him sort his own feelings. Something he’d tried to do often over the last few years as thoughts of this woman returned to him more and more.

What a time that had been. He’d been in the final push of his post graduate degree, and Jean had been there at exactly the time when he’d needed her. Badly. He’d tripped over her, literally, in the library where she’d been seated cross-legged on the floor between the shelves of the history section. He’d been passing through, his arms piled high with books, on his way to a quiet table at the back.

As she’d crawled about, helping him gather books, he’d fallen in love with her backside. Those had been the days when girls wore tight leggings and long tunics with ankle boots. Or very short skirts. She had been dressed in black leggings that day, and at one point, her long sweater had lifted enough her pretty bottom had been in his face as they scrambled for scattered papers.

One inhale and he’d breathed in her scent like a dog sniffing out a female in heat. Hardly classy, but had she backed up instead of crawling forward, he’d have tasted her and probably taken her right there on the library floor, like the dirty dog he was. She’d been adorable as she helped him carry everything to his usual table in a secluded corner, and he’d let her pile her own books beside his. He should have told her to leave, but he’d let her stay, unable to put her on the other side of the wall he’d erected against all women. The one she’d quite easily crawled right over with her trim little bum.

“Birdie, why don’t you get out the deviled eggs and the relish tray?” Randi Jean paused long enough to get coffee mugs and carry the pot over to the counter where he and Drew sat. “Bring the sugar and cream while you’re at it.” Brusque as a pub landlady, she poured and handed the mugs over the sink. “I’ll have some hot
hors d’oeuvres
in a bit. My father and another guest will join us soon.”

Only her father? That jolted him out of his musings. “Your mother…?” Court probed gently and met her gaze steadily when she looked him in the eye for a moment before turning away.

“Seven years ago. Cancer.”

“I am sorry.” She’d been close to her mother. Without her mother’s input, her father never would have allowed her to go overseas alone. The semester away had been a test to see if she could get out in the world on her own, and her mother had endorsed it. Stories she’d told had painted the picture of an overly protective father who never missed a weekly phone call and had hated the fact she was on the far side of the world where he couldn’t monitor her dates or activities.

What had her homecoming been like?

Randi shrugged, as if easily dismissing her mother’s death, and moved to a cabinet over another counter to the right. In the blink of an eye, she had a dark brown bottle out. Ah, not so nonchalant as she tried to portray if she was seeking a touch of liquid courage.

“Irish cream in your coffee, anyone?” she offered while pouring a generous amount into her own mug.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Court answered. Hell, it was pushing nine at night in England, and he needed a tot. Besides, if she wanted to get drunk, then by God, he’d join her. However, judging by Birdie’s glance and tiny frown as she settled the final flower in the vase, this wasn’t standard behavior for her mother.

Just how upset was Randi Jean that he was here? She’d been devastated, much as he’d been, at their last, oh-so-very-brief meeting. The shock on her face, and the way she’d run from him, had made it all too evident. The letters he’d written returned unopened. The phone calls refused. Old frustration rose up inside him.

How upset was she? To hell with that, how upset was he? He had fought against getting his hopes up. Had run a thousand scenes through his head after getting a long awaited e-mail from the private investigator he’d hired years ago. As the man had explained yesterday, Californians could file for private marriage licenses, making his job that much more difficult. The fact she’d never told him her first name had further complicated the search. And yet, every other Jean Dailey lead had been eliminated. So what remained must be the truth, right?

And so it was. Although, he wasn’t entirely prepared for this meeting, didn’t know what to say. He’d had no time to assess the situation, plan his approach, decide the angle of his opening. Or even whether or not he actually wanted to see her. Much less deal with the whole new identity thing. Sure, he’d expected the married name, but the first name too? The investigator had provided all the information he could without placing himself on her radar by contacting her directly or her neighbors, all the information Court used to make these decisions, and yet, here he was. In the presence of the object of his two decade long obsession.

The fact that Drew had unknowingly met and befriended the woman’s daughter was a coincidence too bizarre to ignore. Sure, Court had suggested Stanford when Drew had first started thinking internationally. Perhaps he’d hoped for this connection. Hadn’t believed in the long shot.

It wasn’t often a man got blindsided or stumbled into the thing he’d wanted, and feared, the most. So far, he was whole. No missing limbs or punctured eyes. Not one bruise purpling his stomach, jaw, or cheek. After all the times he’d imagined meeting up with her again, this seemed almost a letdown. Why had he ever dreamed of her rushing into his arms with breathless anticipation? The woman couldn’t even bring herself to look at him much less seem to want to embrace, or kiss, him.

“Drew,” Randi addressed his son. Without missing a beat, she leaned over the sink and poured the alcoholic cream into Court’s coffee, turning it a creamy shade of mocha. “How handy are you? It’s Birdie’s job to set the table, and it goes faster with an extra pair of hands.”

“I learn fast.” Drew grinned. “As long as I can tote my coffee along.”

Court watched Randi’s tense smile soften ever so slightly for the boy. Couldn’t she manage the same for him? “Don’t spill on the tablecloth just yet. We try to save that for dessert.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do my best.” Drew grabbed one of the egg halves and popped it into his mouth. Court recognized the groan of appreciation rumbling from the lad’s throat as he reached for another. Happily munching, Drew followed Birdie and the vase of flowers to the dining room beyond a half-height wall topped with more of the green granite, leaving Court alone with Jean. Or Randi.

Despite the different name, he knew her and wanted very much to be alone with her, but there was only so much aloneness they could accomplish just then. They were as alone as they could be with the kids on the other side of the open doorway. Certainly not alone enough he could back her up against the wall and kiss her silly. At least without instigating more questions than he wanted to answer at the moment. In fact, he wanted to get answers before giving them. Not that she seemed to notice with her gaze following the kids as she positioned herself where she had a clear view of the dining room.

Unable to resist the rumbling of his stomach any longer, Court picked up an egg half and bit into it. The fluffy yolks had been mixed with some sort of mustard and piped back into the white. “Mmm,” he echoed Drew’s appraisal and popped the rest into his mouth, already reaching for a second.

“I meant to make them for you once. Never got the chance,” Randi muttered, and resumed beating her dough after shooting a dark glare in his direction.

Court swallowed. “There’re a lot of things neither of us got the chance to do for the other,” he retorted, lifted his coffee mug, and left his seat. He was on the wrong side of the kitchen, too far away. In a recreation of the old days, he stood leaning his lower back against the counter, crowding her slightly while she worked, blocking her view of the kids on purpose. Whatever bee was up her bonnet didn’t need to cross over to them.

“You’re in my way,” she said without meeting his gaze and took a healthy swallow of her coffee, almost as if she were desperate to induce numbness. “The kitchen is large enough you don’t have to stand so close.” Leaning back to glance beyond him, she called out to Birdie, “Use the white linens on the left side of the buffet.” She eyed the kids for a moment, then turned her attention back to her labors.

Ah, but she didn’t push him aside. “You used to like me in your way, Jean. Randi.” He was near enough to smell the soft scents of her cosmetics adding up to a sexy, powdery, flowery smell mixed with a deep and sexy perfume, including the warm yeast of the dough she handled and the creamy coffee she sipped. No woman had ever smelled as complex or interesting as her.

Beatrice had always smelled of Chanel No. 5. Not even original and less than flattering on her. Poison would have suited her better, and not the perfume going for damn near four hundred pounds per ounce.

Still not looking at him, Randi began to rip off sections of dough, using her hands like claws. A desperate fantasy of ripping him to shreds? “I used to like a lot of things about you. Doesn’t mean I still do.”

Direct hit. Ouch.

Lips pinched and hands moving with practiced ease despite a slight tremor, she rolled the lumps of dough into balls and arranged them in a baking pan. Up close like this, the fine lines at the corner of her eyes were a little more pronounced.

“Jean,” he said. Couldn’t quite go with the Randi name. “I wrote to you… tried to explain…as best I could,” he said quietly. Back then, in the days before Internet and a personal computer in every home, he’d been limited, and her parents had refused to accept his calls, well, the odds had been against him. That and having a new job and a new, breeding bride to focus on. One had blossomed under his attention. The other had unsheathed spiky thorns.

She threw a hapless ball of dough into the pan with such force he winced for the poor thing. “My name is Randi. Try to remember it, would you? Besides, what was there to explain? After all, a pregnant fiancé certainly took precedence over an American fling who was supposed to already be on an airplane out of the country.”

“You were never a fling. Though now I have to wonder at the feelings you once professed. If you’d loved me as you said, why didn’t I know about this other name?” Conscious of the children in the other room, where Birdie directed Drew in the best way to shake out and center a tablecloth, he spoke quietly but harshly, every ounce of his own pain from so long ago lancing the wound that had never properly healed.

She stared up at him, eyes round, mouth slightly open at his accusation. Before she could speak, he waved a hand to cut off her protest before it began. “I already had a ticket in hand. I planned to be on a plane twelve hours behind you. I wanted to show up here, in California, and surprise you. When other plans took precedence, I wrote to the address you gave me, but the letters came back.”

A flush crept up her neck as she directed her gaze back to the task before her. Ah, she’d known about the letters being returned.

“There was nothing to explain. I heard it all. She was already pregnant. You told Danielle Richards the date of your wedding for heaven’s sake. Only a week away. Bet you were sweating it that last week getting me out of your hair.”

Angry green eyes looked up at him, overflowing with accusation. Fury rolled off her in waves. Her breasts heaved, gently bouncing with each tortured breath as she hissed at him, trying to keep their conversation just between them.

As guilty as he felt, as furious and confused as he was, the animated woman beside him fascinated him. Beatrice had never looked beautiful when angry, but Randi Jean couldn’t seem to help it. Which made him feel, well, to tell the truth, randy. Probably why she’d used her middle name whilst in England.

“I was nothing more than a secretary with benefits to you. I typed your thesis, proofed it, and typed it again. And all the while, I kept your bed warm. Yeah, you got your paper typed and then you got a little extra.” She turned her attention back to the counter and smashed the poor lump of dough before her. “Still operate that way, Court? Does your secretary type up your reports only to be rewarded with a game of slap and tickle on your desk?”

“Dammit, Jean.” He ignored her last comment, as it had no bearing on the situation. He’d have to deal with that later. The look she shot him was extremely disgruntled. “Okay, I got it, but it’s hard to make the switch.”

“You can say it, Court. Randi. It’s my name, not my physical state.”

“It doesn’t fit with my memories.”

“As Lewis Carroll so eloquently put it in
Alice in Wonderland
: ‘But it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’ And I am a very different person from the naïve girl I was in London. For instance, I no longer fall prey to beautiful, smooth talking men.”

“I’m not a predator, but fine. Randi. I’ll try,” he promised, but didn’t put much stock in it. “I’d split with her three months earlier. We’d slept together exactly once in an attempt to get back together. It didn’t work.” Court winced at the memory. “You say I was a smooth talking stranger, but I see something else. I don’t know how I bungled the whole thing, but she hated it and threw me out. We called off the engagement, which had been understood our entire lives. That was a month before I met you. I didn’t know about the pregnancy until that day. I swear.” Keeping his voice low was difficult. Fortunately, Birdie was vocal with her table setting lessons, allowing them some modicum of privacy in the kitchen.

Randi, glancing toward the dining room again, snorted her disbelief. “I was there. I heard the announcement. I saw you put your arm around her.” The green gaze came back, spearing him with hurt and accusation.

He’d never told her, but Jean had saved his life. After his experience with Beatrice, he’d been reluctant to seduce or be seduced by the innocent American. He’d had a few experimental partners, all before sleeping with Beatrice, none of whom had ever screamed in orgasmic bliss. Not like when he’d fingered Jean to her first orgasm. From there, well, of course they’d had to conduct further experiments.