Her Foreign Affair

Book 1: Robinsons

by Shea McMaster

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Twenty-two years ago, she ran out on the love of her life—and took a secret with her. When Randi Jean Ferguson fell for Courtland Robinson while studying abroad in London, she was ready for a life of tea and crumpets. But when she discovered Court was being forced into a shotgun wedding, there was no way she could stay—or tell him she was also pregnant with his child. Now widowed, Randi is just starting to consider finding Court—when he shows up at her door. With his son. Randi’s not ready to reveal everything to Court, but if she doesn’t will both their children end up scarred? The best thing to come out of Court’s unhappy marriage was his son. But he’s spent the last twenty-two years thinking about Randi, his California girl, his first—and only—love. Now a widower, he takes a chance he’s only fantasized about and seeks her out. At last he’ll solve his heart’s greatest mystery—but that won’t be the only surprise in store for him.

Release date: June 9, 2015

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 248

Sample

 

 

Her Foreign Affair was inspired in part by Jennifer Greene’s, Blame It On Paris, published by Harlequin Books. Her story was about the daughter. I kept wondering about the mother. I can only hope my story is as entertaining as hers. I have yet to find a book of hers that doesn’t make me laugh and fall in love all over again.

 

To my friend KM, thank you for the use of your house, both as a place to visit and as a setting in this story. I hope you get the spa installed someday. Any other redesign ideas you like, feel free to run with them. Sorry about the dead tree. I know a tree would never die in your yard, but it served a small purpose here.

 

To the real Randy, thanks for the use of your name, even if I did have to feminize it. We all know there’s nothing feminine about you except your great love for the ladies in your life. I’m sure your wife and daughters consider themselves lucky to have you. I’m just amazed after all that stupid high school stuff we’re still friends *mumble* years later.

 

I relied heavily on the Internet for details on tea, though I do like drinking tea in many flavors. Randi’s preferences might mirror my own somewhat. Then again maybe not. Some secrets are meant to be kept. Google TEA and see what you come up with. Truly a fun way to spend a rainy afternoon while sipping the perfect brew. In my mind, I have a wonderful teaware collection. Sadly, my husband looks at my overstuffed shelves and suggests collecting teapots would require a massive thinning of the books. We’re at an impasse at the moment. Maybe he’ll get a big blue teapot for Father’s Day…

 

As always to the critique partners who threatened to kick my rear if I didn’t finish at least one WIP, preferably this one first. You all got me moving when I was stuck and your continued devotion kept me going to the end. You all are my inspiration and my guiding stars.

 

Last but not least, my UK connections: Jane from New Zealand, Maya Blake from London, and Liz from Minnesota (your life-long Beatles obsession is paying big dividends all over the place). You all made the language better, as I freely admit, I was not able to travel there and do the research myself. My experience with London is limited to three days the summer I was fourteen. Any mistakes not caught by them are all my own and no disrespect to the country of England is intended. After all, a few of my very own ancestors came from there.

 

As always, thank you, Carlee, for your unflagging devotion to the creation of these flights of fancy.


London, England

Mid-late 1980s

 

A soft spring breeze tugged a long curl from Randi Jean Dailey’s carefully styled up-do. She paid the cabbie his quid, stepped from the car with the help of the hotel doorman, and gave him a smile. The cabbie let out a satisfactory wolf-whistle before zipping back into London traffic.

Jean’s heart pounded with excitement. Instead of climbing on the plane to go home after her semester abroad, she’d primped and polished and put on her perfect little black dress accented with proper pearls and sexy stilettos. The ones Court had bought for her two weeks prior. The ones that made her short legs look a mile long, he said. The black shoes she’d worn to seduce him last night. The ones that had driven him so mad with lust he’d made love to her all night long.

With a long bittersweet kiss, they’d parted at noon. His promise to follow her to California as soon as he possibly could were the last words spoken between them.

She adjusted the lace shawl around her shoulders and headed into the hotel where the Lynford International Importers new hire reception was being held. As an only-just-hired summer intern, she’d received her job acceptance and invitation to the reception shortly after Court had left her studio flat. The afternoon had been spent madly running around making arrangements to stay in England another three months. To start.

But that wasn’t all the good news she had for Court. Instead of only the summer, she’d be extending her stay indefinitely. Forever. The thought made her dizzy with delight.

Upon reaching the doors to the reception hall, Jean stopped and rested a hand over her abdomen. She had one more surprise for Court. One she prayed would thrill him to his bones. One that would give him the leverage to work around his father’s manipulations. Like the song from a few years before, their future was so bright, they’d both have to wear shades. A silly grin crossed her face as she started through the wide open doors.

Soft string ensemble music drifted across the room. The event was exactly as Court had predicted. Proper Englishmen and their ladies talking quietly, mingling, as much to see as to be seen. For a week, he’d bemoaned the fact that instead of seeing her off at the airport, he had to attend this stuffy reception put on by his father’s company. Not interested in the décor, she searched the sea of bodies in semi-formal wear, looking for one particular blond head. The men wore sharp suits of worsted wool with silk ties, the women cocktail gowns in various levels of fashion and expense. The student interns and freshly graduated new hires were easy to pick out, by not only their youth, but by the less expensive clothing and the nervous smiles on their faces. Because Court’s family owned the company, she looked beyond the students and concentrated on the older attendees. The people Court had known since the day he’d been born.

One bright head stood out. Danielle Richards, the hiring contact. If not for Danielle’s call hours before, Jean would have been boarding a plane just then. Jean headed for Danielle, who certainly knew Court and could help Jean find him. She merely had to work her way through to the other side of the large ballroom.

Descending the steps into the crowd, she plowed ahead, exchanging nervous smiles with the three or four people she recognized from classes.

Among the glittering bodies, various scents perfumed the air and queasiness assaulted Jean for a moment. Something that had never bothered her before the past week. She and Court figured she had a mild touch of flu, or possibly food poisoning like she’d had right after arriving in January. The call from the student clinic this afternoon had negated that theory.

A glint of Danielle’s bright copper hair through the crowd assured Jean she was still on the right path. A few more steps and her gaze briefly met Danielle’s. Someone stepped in and cut off the line of sight before Jean could take a second look at what appeared to be mild alarm on the other woman’s face. Jean glanced behind her to see what might be happening that would cause the hiring director’s reaction. No, nothing unusual there. Jean pressed forward once again.

Like the sun prying back a thick layer of dark clouds, she saw his golden blond hair through a parting of bodies. His back to her, he stood near Danielle, part of a circle of immaculately groomed men and women, a mix of older and younger.

Finally, she eased past a knot of distinguished men and stood directly behind Court. On a deep breath, she assessed the situation. The group he stood with contained two older couples, important looking men and their society wives, all perfectly dressed and bejeweled. A younger woman with a sleek blond bob stood at Court’s left. Too close, but he came from people who knew people and had friends he’d been raised with. This could be one such. Across the small circle, Danielle was the only other person Jean recognized. A person who’d been friendly. Although the expression on Danielle’s face wasn’t exactly comforting.

Court began to speak, and Jean was able to hear him clearly, see clearly as his left arm came up to encircle the waist of the blond woman at his side, the action surprising her. If his shoulders looked a bit stiff, the movement a tad forced, she seemed to be the only one who noticed.

“Danielle, I’d like you to be among the first to know, Bea and I will be married next weekend. There isn’t time for formal invitations,”—his chuckle was forced—“we’re expecting, however, we’d love you to attend.”

The timbre was Court’s, but the tone and the words couldn’t be his. Dizziness surged in Jean’s head. She took a step back and clamped both hands over her now roiling stomach. The air had evaporated from the room and darkness framed the edges of her vision.

“Court…” Danielle said, doing her best to keep her face clear of emotion. Jean could see it, could hear the strain, as the other woman’s electric blue gaze locked on her.

Jean swallowed against rising nausea and took another step back, bumping into someone’s chilled glass of something. The shock of cold liquid dribbling down her back froze her in place.

In an almost dreamlike parody of slow motion, Court’s arm dropped from the woman, and he slowly turned. Jean’s gaze flew to his face as it came into view. His skin took on an ashen cast, as his eyes widened above his slackening jaw. For a long moment, it was all she could see.

“Courtland?” The sharply spoken word from the blond woman broke the spell. “What is it, darling?”

Jean’s breath rushed back into her starved lungs, and her heart jolted into triple time, rushing adrenalin into her system. It was the spark she needed to turn on her heel and push through the crowd.

“Jean!”

She heard him call after her. Heard Danielle call after her, but didn’t stop. Escape was the one thought in her head. Later she’d think about Court’s announcement. But now there was room for only one instinct pounding through her veins. Run.

Snippets of his history came to her as she forced her way past people now expressing their shock at her rudeness. The girl he’d practically been engaged to since they’d been in nappies. The horrible break up days before Jean had tripped him in the library. The stories of his family and how he was expected to take over the business one day, like generations of Lynfords and Robinsons before.

Above all, the vision she couldn’t reconcile with the words he’d just said, Court’s face smiling down at her. His voice saying, “I love you. I’ll come for you. We’ll have a wonderful life.”

As she broke through the edge of the crowd and rushed into the lobby, she thought she heard Court call out her name one more time, but from a distance. She didn’t look back. Couldn’t look back. Adrenalin pounding through her veins powered her forward. A doorman opened the heavy outer door.

“Miss?”

His enquiry went unacknowledged as she rushed by, headed for the cab parked at the curb.

“Taxi!” she called out.

Surprised, the doorman who’d recently helped her from a cab, leaped to open the door for her.

“Miss? Everything all right?”

She shook her head and climbed into the cab.

“Where to, miss?”

“Home.” It was all she could think of. She could be at Heathrow in a few hours where she’d wait until a seat opened on a plane headed for New York. From New York she’d get a plane to San Francisco. There, she’d figure it all out.

“Where’s home, miss?”

“Away from here.” Tears blurring her vision, she met the cabbie’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Just drive.” No one had followed her out the door. Especially not Court. His words echoing in her head tore her heart to shreds. The cabbie turned around and slowly eased into traffic.

Unable to stand it, she gave into temptation and looked back through the tears welling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. The sidewalk remained empty of anyone she recognized. Only the doorman looked after her.

The image of Court’s face rose in her mind. Merry blue eyes, laughing at her driven need to experience everything Anglo, jokes about her attempts to learn the Brit accent, the little presents of Earl Grey tea, crumpets and flowers he brought her. The rose petals he’d scattered on her bed last night where they made love pretending to be in an English garden. The flower pressed between the pages of her favorite novel, a sweetly scented bookmark and reminder of his promise they’d be together.

From the dark and dreary February day when she’d accidentally tripped him in the library, her world had been filled with sunshine and laughter. He took her places, both physical and emotional, she’d never have discovered without him. Small shops, hidden parks, intimate pubs, classic tea houses, historical sites, and the places known only to locals. To heaven, where he wrapped her in soft clouds of love, like the weekend in the country where they hiked green fields and pretended to be Robin Hood and Maid Marian. A better friend, guide, and lover she couldn’t have asked for.

“I need an address, miss. Or an intersection at the very least.”

Of course the man needed a direction. Jean wiped tears from her cheeks and wrapped her arms around her middle. “Houghton Street,” she said. She needed a direction, too, knew where she was headed in the next twenty-four hours, but had to take baby steps to get there. “Houghton Street and then Heathrow.” One step at a time.

 

 

Twenty-two years later

East Bay Area, Northern California

 

Bent over the open oven, Randi figured only serendipity could have timed her daughter’s arrival for Thanksgiving dinner quite so well.

Already up for six hours, most of that time spent in the kitchen, Randi was ready for her first glass of wine. A real glass, not a sip from the bottle she’d poured over the bird. So much for her resolve to become a new woman in her fabulous forties. A couple years in and she still harbored doubts about how fabulous the forties were. However, a person should always seek to improve herself, right? All well and good, nevertheless, this new woman clung to a few old habits she didn’t want to give up, such as nipping from the bottle of wine intended for basting the turkey.

“Mom!” Birdie’s voice rang through the house like a bell.

“In the kitchen,” she called back. Steam from the oven frizzed her hair and bathed her face as she basted the bird. There went the efforts of an hour spent plucking eyebrows and applying her makeup just so. Well, instead of a fashion plate, the picture of a sophisticated California hostess, she’d be Wyatt’s picture of the perfect woman—glowing from the heat of the kitchen and probably smelling of turkey as well. Too bad he wasn’t here to celebrate. Death had a way of ruining family gatherings.

Instead, Randi expected her father and Birdie, both bringing visitors from out of town with no place else to go. Strays had always been Randi’s specialty, especially for holiday dinners.

“Smells great, we’re starving!” Birdie moved into Randi’s peripheral vision. As bright as a sunny day with her long, honey blond hair, Birdie lit up any room, especially with her smile, cheerful disposition, and her clothing. Occasionally, Randi considered her child’s bubbly nature positively nauseating. But not today. The semester had dragged on and contact with her daughter remained too infrequent. Stanford may have been a mere hour across the Bay, but it might as well have been across the country for all the time Birdie had to spare.

Randi shoved the heavy bird back into the lower of the stacked double ovens and straightened with a hand on the small of her back as she lifted the door shut. Yeah, cool sophisticate she so was not. Had she wanted to present such an image, she would have ordered the complete meal, cooked and ready to serve, delivered from the upscale grocery store down the hill. “Bird should be done on schedule this year. This time I bought a fresh one, not frozen.”

“Your dinners are always perfect, and thirty minutes late doesn’t count. Mom, come meet our guests.”

Ah yes. The mysterious Drew, a grad student from overseas Birdie had met the previous week after tripping over his big feet in a coffee shop. Not only Drew, but his father, as well, visiting the states on business, timed for Drew’s first big American holiday. The widowed father. A match to her widowed mother status.

Great. It was bad enough her father also asked to bring a guest, a single man of a certain age. In other words, old enough for Randi. But now her daughter had joined the game? Lately, it seemed as if an invisible milestone had passed, one declaring her mourning period complete, and, apparently, someone had declared open season on finding dates for her. Funny, her heart hadn’t reached the same conclusion yet.

Well, let these possible future dates get a good look at the new woman. The one thinking about thinking of dating again.

Since Birdie generally preferred jeans, Randi raised an eyebrow at the dress her daughter wore. Navy flats were more in keeping with her personality, though Birdie showed off a pair of still nicely tanned legs. Randi was about to comment, but Birdie beat her to it.

“Wow.” Birdie stopped and stared for moment. “Great look,” she whispered, then took Randi’s arm and dragged her into the foyer where two tall men stood. So the extra hour of shaving, shining, plucking, and painting had been worth it? Despite the steamy glow she certainly sported at the moment, and no time to powder it away.

Not wanting to acknowledge the matchmaking attempt of her daughter—the man was a foreigner for crying out loud and wouldn’t be around long enough to get to know—she wiped her hands on her apron, then extended one to the younger of the two. Dark blond, he had deep blue eyes and a smile every bit as cheery as Birdie’s. As Randi gripped his hand, hers warmed with dreaded perspiration. She made her shake firm and brief, dropping his hand almost immediately.

“Mom, this is Drew. Drew, my mother Rand—”

“Jean?”

“—ee Ferguson,” Birdie stumbled to a stop.

Drew hadn’t interrupted. No, it was the man behind him. The boy’s father. The one Randi didn’t want to look at. The resonance of his voice, the rich British accent that made the plain name she’d used for one semester sound exotic, it was an illusion, an echo from the past, a hallucination induced from too little sleep.

Reluctantly, Randi let her gaze slide past Drew’s startled eyes and collide with those of the older man one step back, looking more stunned than startled. More amazed than surprised.

“Not Jean Dailey?” he asked, head tilted a fraction as his gaze bore into her.

There was only one thought in her mind as her heart thudded to a momentary stop, and her blood froze into crystals. It can’t be.

This must be a delusion leftover from last night’s dreams. The ones brought on by the romance novel she’d found in a box last week. The one sitting on her bedside table still exuding the soft scent of the rose pressed between the pages of the love scene. He’d been invading her thoughts too much lately. He couldn’t really be here, in her foyer. This scene was purely a figment of a mind set to wandering by plain old loneliness.

Randi grasped Birdie’s arm, holding her as much to stay standing as to keep Birdie from moving to the side of the younger man. There was no way God would play this cruel a joke on her after so many years. Yet, as she stared into those blue, blue eyes, the years peeled away.

“Jean is my mother’s middle name,” Birdie supplied helpfully, despite her apparent confusion, breaking the silence that had held for nearly a full minute. Words abandoned Randi, leaving her throat too tight, too dry for speech. “Her full name is Randi Jean Dailey Ferguson.”

Hell, no point in trying to hide her true identity now, as if that had ever been a remote possibility. Not only did Birdie give it all away, she babbled to fill in the extremely awkward silence.

The gaze of the apparition who resembled, well, him, sharpened, and his lips quirked in satisfaction. The heat of his regard wouldn’t allow Randi to deny the exceedingly male presence in her house. All the air evaporated from the foyer, and her heart kick started so hard it threatened to leap from her chest. Her mind might be screaming denials, but her body knew. And despite the first sluicing of ice through her veins, heat rushed in behind.

Those damn blue eyes stared into hers, and a spark of something ancient and irrepressible settled in her heart, causing it to beat triple time.

Yup. God was that cruel.

From her past, the one man she never once imagined she’d ever see again stood in her foyer. Impossible that he should have found her. Dad would have never given her away had anyone knocked on his door looking for her. Google searches on the various combinations of her name turned up little other than notices in school newsletters. All those years ago she’d married, changed her name, given birth, and moved from the parental home to start a new life as a new woman. The girl he’d known as Jean Dailey became Randi Ferguson. All the heartache of betrayal had been left far behind in Merry Old England more than twenty-two years ago. The only reminder? The nearly twenty-two-year-old beauty standing at her side. The child who towered over her, so like her father, if the truth be known.

All those years ago, God had held her feet to the fire to face her future, but this time she faced the past. And why did that past still have to be so damn handsome?

No, not a hallucination. He was real. So very, very real.

It was him, looking barely five years older than he had so long ago. His thick hair still gleamed gold under the soft glow from the skylight, though there were hints of silver at his temples, and his forehead seemed a tad higher. Great, gray looked good on him. He was still lean, his eyes remained as piercingly blue. Light blue that looked right into her soul. His face had filled out a little, developed a few lines at the eyes, and the cheekbones were no longer quite so prominent, the jaw a slightly smoothed granite instead of freshly chiseled stone, but essentially the same.

Yes, he still looked the same while she’d grown rounder and squatter. Thank heavens for the impulse that sent her to the salon a week ago. At least she wasn’t gray. At the moment. And of course, makeup, underwires, and Lycra hid a multitude of other imperfections.

Whereas he… Well, he looked damn fine in his light blue tailored shirt, gold cufflinks, perfect navy slacks, and expensive leather shoes.

Just like his son.

She wanted to push them out of her house right then, send them both back to England, far, far away from Birdie.

Oh, no, no, no. This did not fit with Randi’s plans. She needed to regain control of the situation. Time. She needed time. Yes, she’d planned to tell Birdie all about this part of her past, but after Christmas. Before the New Year. After getting some more information from an investigative resource. Not like this, not now. Lord, not now! When Birdie was already looking at her as if she’d lost her mind.

Control. Right. Shut the rest away and pretend there was nothing going on. Randi eased up on her daughter’s arm when she murmured a protest.

Oh God. Birdie’s attracted to… She couldn’t complete the thought too horrible to think.

A first date she’d said, right? Did that mean they hadn’t progressed beyond coffee? No hand holding? No kissing? God forbid… How would she break this up without Birdie knowing she’d brought home not only her brother—half brother—but father, for dinner? Her very gorgeous, missing from her entire life, father.

As she watched his face, drinking in every detail, his eyes warmed, then hardened. He didn’t seem nearly as surprised as she felt. Had he been looking for her? Had he used his son to find her through her daughter?

Birdie pinched her arm, bringing Randi back to the moment with a small jolt. Oh Lord, she was standing there like an idiot, everyone looking at her with expressions of curiosity and puzzlement. Hoping to find her cool hostess voice and not a strangled, choked voice, she gulped.

“Hello, Court.”

 

 

 

Many things filled Courtland Bailey Robinson’s head as he stared at the woman clutching her daughter’s arm as if she were sinking. Not the least of which was satisfaction. Finally, a conclusion to the investigation he’d begun ten years before. A bittersweet triumph because, apparently, she’d been keeping things from him, including her real name.

“Jean,” he repeated, then shook his head and corrected himself. “Randi. Sorry, but I know you as Jean.”

All the years of searching aside, he had to drink her in with his eyes. God, she was beautiful. She’d fulfilled the promise of her youth. And then some.

Where she’d once been pretty, bright, fresh, and young, twenty-two years later, she’d become the most wonderful of creatures, a mature woman. Confidence radiated from her as she lifted her chin ever so slightly, her jade eyes challenging him for having the nerve to enter her domain. Her petite body, once slender, now showed soft curves behind the faded green apron stained with the efforts of her labors to produce a feast. He took in the surface details, as too many emotions to name whirled through his mind. He’d been thinking of her so much lately, for a moment he wondered if he were dreaming.

“You know each other?” Birdie, the beautiful young woman who he’d thought vaguely reminded him of someone, looked from her mother to him and back again, her little brow wrinkled in confusion. “Mom? Are you okay?” Birdie protectively covered her mother’s hand on her arm.

After her initial cool greeting, Jean’s—Randi’s—face had paled under her smooth makeup, making the colors all wrong on her face. A second later, the pasty shade heated into the rosy glow he’d loved, though usually produced for a completely different reason. Her body had flushed that way, in the same perfect shade of dewy pink while…

“Dad?”

His son’s query caused her gaze to dart in the lad’s direction and forced Court to blink himself back into the present, his lips curving in a smile greatly at odds with the emotions swirling deep inside. Hadn’t she trusted him enough to gift him with her real name? Then again, what he’d done, been forced to do, probably had proved him untrustworthy in her eyes. Still, the mystery of where she’d ended up was solved, and the relief it brought nearly knocked him to his knees.

“I don’t usually bring roses to strange women, but Birdie said they were your favorite, and I’m delighted to say you aren’t a stranger after all. Well, except for the name thing. Why didn’t you ever tell me your whole name?”

Randi’s wide, shocked gaze darted back to him, bounced over to Drew, and zoomed to him again as if searching for signs of something. Most people gushed over the similarities between him and Drew, so she was clearly noticing for herself. It didn’t take much to ignore the reaction as usual. He held out the bouquet of soft pink roses, so pale they were nearly white. As he recalled, they were exactly her favorites.

“Oh. Thank you. Funny you should find these…”

She ignored the question about her name and reached for the flowers. For an instant, her hand tightened around the tissue and plastic wrapped stems until the knuckles turned white. It seemed as if she were almost tempted to beat him about the head and . . .