Her Foreign Affair (9 page)

A glance at Court’s face gave her the answer. In a word—yes.

“Nice spot you have here. I like the way it backs to open space,” Jordan said. “Your father tells me you did most of the landscaping.”

Switching from spicy shrimp eaten in bed to eyesores in the landscaping took tremendous effort, but over all, she thought she handled it fine. “Well, I selected most of the plants, but a good landscaper helped me put it all in place.” It was impossible to ignore the spruce in the back corner that hadn’t survived a particularly hot summer. Like a black hole, it seemed to draw the eye without fail. “Even the dead thing can be credited to me.” She nodded toward it.

“Ah, the famous, or should I say infamous, spruce tree?” Court’s eyes twinkled. “What’s the problem with getting it out?”

“Um, it’s prickly? It’s big?” Not so big, it only stood fifteen feet tall in comparison to the sixty feet tall redwoods that marched along the fence between her and the neighbor up the hill, but more than she wanted to deal with herself. “It’s in a hard to reach spot and will be messy to take down. I don’t want to smush the other trees and bushes nearby. Not to mention the solar panels for the pool heating system are back there.”

“Hmm.” Jordan squinted into the sunlight, one hand in his pants pocket while he rocked in his loafers. He had squint lines at the edges of his eyes, and his skin had a sun-roughened quality to it. Not unattractive, but his eyes weren’t quite as handsome as Court’s. Slight folds of skin gave him a heavy lidded look some women might consider sexy. “Could be done with proper planning. Have a chainsaw?”

He then turned those eyes on her, and she didn’t feel one ounce of sexual attraction. Possibly because Court stood close by, his body heat reaching out to her, his scent wrapping around her and making her dizzy.

“No, I don’t. I’ll probably end up calling my landscaper to deal with it. I hate to pay for what should be a straightforward removal. Besides, I don’t think he’ll split it into burnable sized pieces for me.”

Jordan chuckled. “That’s no problem. My granddad had me swinging an axe by the time I turned nine. Wouldn’t take an afternoon to take care of it.”

“Why Mr. Doyle, that sounds like an offer to solve my little ol’ problem.”

Jordan did a double take at the Scarlett imitation and Randi could feel Court stiffening beside her. Especially when Jordan’s smile widened into a grin. She couldn’t recall any law about not flirting with guests. Probably the wine going to her head, but damn, Court needed a reminder other men found her attractive. Maybe it was she who needed the reminder. Oh hell, she’d better get some food in her system soon to counteract all the alcohol she wanted to drink.

“Depends on how the installation goes over the next couple of days, but it might be doable this weekend. I don’t fly home until Tuesday.”

“And where is home?” Court asked.

“New York. I grew up in the mountains up-state, but now live in Manhattan.”

“I’ve heard Manhattan is exciting,” Randi eased into the conversation again. Just to remind the boys she hadn’t left before they started beating their chests. To think, scant hours ago she’d been hoping they’d get along and ignore her. The picture proved so ridiculous she bit back a laugh. “I’ve never been there personally, but friends who’ve been say it’s exhilarating.”

Jordan laughed. “Exhilarating is one word. It does have its moments of flash.”

“Do you go to plays? The ballet? Concerts? Opera?”

“I try to avoid opera, but the rest, yes.”

“Which concerts?” Randi asked. Was he a rock ’n roller or a classical music type?

“I once attended the symphony and a Stones concert in the same week.”

Court chose that moment to rejoin the discussion. “Eclectic.”

Randi shoved her elbow into Court’s ribs for his almost sarcasm. Delivered in his accent, it was hard to tell.

Warming to his subject, Jordan smiled at her, pointedly ignoring Court. “I learned to appreciate the ballet when I dated a ballerina several years ago.”

Oh, bad move. Never mention a woman from the past when trying to connect. Court apparently agreed with her, because he snorted barely loud enough for her to hear. Apparently, Jordan caught something in Court’s face because he swiveled his head and nodded toward the dead tree.

“If things go well and your father frees me up, we could probably take care of that on Sunday.”

“Hmm.” Randi sipped her champagne. “Not to worry about now. I have bigger things on my plate, starting with a twenty pound turkey.” She twisted her wrist to look at her watch and realized she hadn’t put it on today. It was then she noticed the uneaten pastry still in her hand. Court was ahead of her when she turned to ask him the time.

“Sorry, you’ll have to adjust for local time. I’m still on London.” Unabashed, he grinned at her and held out his wrist while she rolled her eyes and did the calculation in a heartbeat. Sadly, she still kept up with such things. How could a simple TAG Heuer watch on a strong wrist make her go all hot and shivery at once?
Focus
. Twelve forty. Time to get the rolls in the oven and toss the salad.

“Ever consider using the second time zone feature?” She ignored his grin and didn’t wait for his answer. Instead, she put the flaky appetizer in his hand. “If you gentlemen will excuse me…” She let the sentence trail off and sauntered toward the house. Knowing they both watched her, she put a tiny extra twitch in her hips.

Lord, dinner was going to be interminable.

How they made it through dinner without blurting out the truth of Birdie’s parentage, Court would never know.

With what he’d learned earlier, and suspecting Randi’s father had figured it out as well, Court did his best to help keep topics neutral, aiding Randi in her maneuvers to steer the dinner conversation. Old RJ had sent many a glare toward their end of the table, the burning glowers divided between him and Randi almost equally. Drew had taken it all in with his attention to details, looking like a prosecutor with a perpetually self-incriminating criminal in front of him. Court was able to redirect some of Drew’s questions—heaven knew
he
was used to the subtle probing—but it proved as difficult as it did amusing. Add in Randi’s father and his veiled questions about Court’s past and things got even stickier.

Especially since Court couldn’t keep his eyes off Birdie when he wasn’t staring at Jean. Randi.

His girls. The thought still floored him, wonder being the only feeling he could handle while keeping on his toes verbally. Although his heart had clenched extra hard each time he looked at his beautiful daughter.

At long last the meal ended, and now he felt as stuffed as the bird had been. To keep from falling asleep on the sofa, he volunteered for kitchen clean up and enlisted Drew to help as a way to keep him busy and away from Birdie. Helping in the kitchen also meant more time in closer physical proximity to Randi, although the plan for Drew to avoid Birdie didn’t pan out as she worked alongside her mother.

Jordan had apparently picked up the message Court had been sending out all afternoon. Back off. Randi had unfinished business with Court and damned if he’d let the other man horn in. RJ and his associate relaxed in the family room, this time with a professional game to occupy them, the old man on simmer for now.

True to his word, RJ had carved the bird. Despite being a sarcastic son of a bitch, he had a sharp mind Court couldn’t help but respect. Randi had redirected any conversation drifting into forbidden territory, such as Randi’s trip to England and how she and Court had met. The woman should be a high level diplomat. She had the ease of a tennis player deflecting direct questions and turning around subtle probing from all sides. It set his mind at ease in one area—Randi could easily transition into his world. His mother would be no problem for her to handle, as expert as she’d proved over dinner. An accomplished hostess, she’d kept the food circulating, the wine flowing, and the conversation had never faltered into uncomfortable silence as she dodged Drew’s cross examination. It was probably because of her social skills he could make the transition to calling her Randi. Jean had never displayed such confidence, but rather a sweet, naïve innocence. Randi could take on the chilliest of socialites. More importantly, he could see her presiding at social functions and holding her own against London society.

However skillfully she maneuvered, Birdie had apparently sensed the undertone and regarded her mother with curiosity. Court had even felt her eyes on him a time or two from beside him at the table, as far away from Drew as Randi could seat her. Considering they were only six for dinner, it wasn’t far. Had old RJ had his way, he would have had both girls beside him with all the strange men down at the other end of the table. Wouldn’t have solved the problem like a dinner party for twenty or thirty would have, though.

Sitting between Randi and his daughter—daughter!—had been an exquisite torture in and of itself. On the one hand, he took every opportunity to touch Randi, whether by passing dishes or nudging her foot under the table. Her version of playing footsie had surely left a few bruises on his shin. Oh how he loved getting under her skin, even if it proved a tad painful. At least she hadn’t ignored him, and he looked forward to making her pay later.

On the other hand, drawing out Birdie had been a delight. Used to women with agendas, these open California women were simply enchanting and more than once he’d caught glimpses of the young Jean in Birdie. A tilt of the head, a light touch on the arm, a smile or phrase which brought back that all too short period of supreme happiness. How he made it through the meal without pulling her into his arms just to hold he’d never know. Heart aching for the lost years, he threw himself into being a charming guest.

As a result of the effort to keep conversation away from their past relationship, he and Randi had grilled Jordan about the cultural smorgasbord of New York. Randi had an open invitation to visit should an event catch her eye. Jordan volunteered himself as the man to get her in the door.

In the door of his apartment came closer to the truth. The one with the view of Central Park. View, mind you. Even Court knew the term didn’t necessarily mean it was across the street from Central Park.

Funny how the invitation had clearly excluded anyone else. RJ found it amusing, and Court caught him smirking into his stuffing. Thought his candidate had a chance with Randi, did he?

Court kept his chuckle to himself. He could beat Jordan’s puny boasts. A country estate with semi-famous parklands she wouldn’t have to share with another soul if she didn’t want to. They could picnic in the nude and skinny dip in the pond without anyone being wiser for it. Take that, New York. Oh, and a flat in London on the banks of the Thames. One-two punch to the Yank.

“The china and crystal can go in the dishwasher,” Randi said behind him. “The catch is you can’t put anything else in there. The silver as well, but there can’t be one spot of stainless steel.”

“I don’t mind washing by hand.” At the surprise on her face, he grinned, dropped his cufflinks in a pocket, and rolled up his sleeves. “Hand the lad a towel so he can dry. You get to put away.”

“You can stack them on the table”—she pointed at the breakfast table—“and I’ll put them away later.”

“Right-o.” Drew selected a towel from the drawer Birdie opened nearby. “I’m ready, old man.”

“I’m not so old I can’t still twat your arse, pup.” Actually, probably not, but Drew kindly refrained from disputing the fact. However, he did hear a feminine gasp from behind.

“It means to swat, Birdie,” Randi said calmly.

“What’s that?” Court looked over his shoulder. “Which word should I not use over here?”

“Twat,” Drew answered, his gaze darting to Birdie and back. “Has only one meaning here. I’ll explain later if need be. Just get to washin’. I’m wanting a nap, myself.”

“Pardon me, ladies. And you, whelp, no words referring to sleep, if you please.” It was a wonder he remained vertical. The rich aroma of brewing coffee set his nose to twitching, and he would have kissed Randi when she set down a cup for him had she stepped close enough.

“This should keep you going long enough to do your chores.”

He wanted to kiss the wrinkle-nosed smirk right off her face.

“I know what we need,” Birdie declared. “Grandpa, you can watch the game without sound.”

The old man turned a frown in her direction. “What?”

Court watched as the girl manipulated buttons on the complicated system of remote controls with the ease of a NASA engineer. Closed captioning came up and music replaced the soundtrack of the game.

“We need something to energize us,” Birdie announced.

Cheeky little brat
. Court grinned as music from the eighties blasted from a speaker system for which Randi had definitely splashed down more than a few quid. Not only the media center, but everything about the house indicated fine living. Understated, but quality in the details. Grudgingly, he had to acknowledge she’d been well-cared for. It meant something. Didn’t ease his guilt or frustration much.

“Damned way to watch a game,” RJ grumbled.

Court grinned wider when Birdie refused to let her grandfather dictate to her. “You got to watch the other game. Just because you lost, it isn’t my fault. Now, unless you want to be part of the cleanup crew, you can chill for a bit.”

“A man has to be getting old when he takes lip from a bit of fluff like you.”

“My grandpa, old? Never!” Birdie leaned over and kissed the old bugger on the cheek, then skipped away from the half-hearted swat aimed her way.

“Glory Days” from The Boss pumped out of the speakers, and Birdie danced back to the kitchen, singing along and doing an air guitar parody.

Damn but the song brought back memories. Didn’t seem all that long ago when he and Randi danced to the music of the day. Everything from punk to big hair bands. Bruce Springsteen was meat and potatoes, she’d said back then. Good, old, basic American rock. No collection was complete without The Boss.

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