Arlene James - Her Secret Affair

“Don’t thank me,” he told her snippily. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it to spare that old dear’s feelings. She’s concerned about you.”

“Well, she has no reason to be,” Chey protested. “Why can’t she understand that I’m perfectly happy just as I am?”

“Perhaps because your lifestyle is completely foreign to her,” he suggested, “and just possibly because you aren’t as happy as you want everyone to think.”

“I am so!” Chey refuted hotly.

“Sugar, this is Georges you’re talking to. I know you better than you know yourself—and so does your mother, I suspect.”

“You wish,” Chey retorted sourly. “Just because you’ve been married countless times doesn’t mean that everyone has to trip down the aisle after you.”

“Four,” he corrected primly. “You have more fingers than that on each dainty hand, and don’t change the subject. Honestly, Chey, if you weren’t married to this business, you’d have a personal life like your mama wants. You’d have a man, a husband.”

“Maybe I should just marry you,” she retorted. “That would be good for business and get my family off my back, too.”

He made a face. “Not my style, darling. It’d be like marrying my sister.”

“Georges! Do you have a sister?” she teased, knowing perfectly well that he was one of three brothers.

“Don’t be cute. And if you want your family off your back, then find a man and fall in love!”

“You should know better than anyone that it’s not that easy,” she insisted.

“At least I try,” Georges said huffily, putting his round chin into the air.

“And you’ll keep on trying,” Chey said drolly.

“We’re not talking about me,” he said, pursing his cherry-red mouth.

“No, we’re talking about your boss,” Chey pointed out dryly, “the person who signs your paycheck.”

“The person who would be lost without me,” Georges added confidently.

He was right, darn him. She’d be lost without him as her assistant and friend, but he was wrong about the other. She had no intention of ever marrying. It would be unfair. Her career was much too important to her and left no room for the depth of dedication necessary for marriage and especially parenthood. Her family and friends didn’t understand that, however.

Chey sighed and slumped back in her chair. The position gave her a new perspective on the picture on her screen, and she immediately leaned forward again to tweak the placement of a certain element in the room design. For days now she had done little else but work on the Fair Havens project, and this was the final preliminary design.

“What do you think of this layout for the master suite?” she asked Georges, who walked around to lean over and study the computer screen.

“From a decorator’s perspective,” he finally said, “I love the claw-foot tub. From a man’s perspective, give me a real shower stall.”

“But the whole room is effectively a shower stall,” she explained. “It uses special waterproofing so curtains and stalls aren’t necessary.”

“He’s still standing in a bathtub to take a shower,” Georges pointed out. “I wouldn’t like it. Okay, so the shower stall is not a period piece, but we can make it look period.”

Chey sighed and reached for the mouse. “You’re right. Let’s try this.” She deleted the claw-foot tub and quickly inserted a partially sunken, built-in tub-and-shower combination of faux marble.

“Oh, that’s good,” Georges commented. “The faux marble keeps it lightweight for a second-story installation, and this particular design eliminates the need for curtains and doors. And it has the right look.”

A chime sounded, alerting them that someone had opened the front door. “I’ll go,” Georges said, turning away from the desk.

Chey nodded absently, muttering, “Thanks. I want to get this faxed over to Fair Havens.”

She manipulated the computer mouse and clicked. The expensive, photo-quality printer spooled up and began to spit out a black-and-white, computer-generated sketch. The ink wasn’t even dry before Chey spun her chair and loaded the first sketch into the fax machine. She had added Brodie Todd’s fax number to her computerized telephone book days earlier, and she called it up now. The fax machine was dialing even as the printer was spitting out the second sketch. Unfortunately, before the printer finished disgorging sketches, the fax machine reported that no connection could be negotiated with the dial-up number.

Drat. She would just have to take the drawings over herself then. After quickly making copies, she stuffed them into a folder, grabbed her briefcase and swept from the room. Georges was showing a unique brass-and-wrought-iron chandelier to an off-the-street customer, probably a tourist.

“I have to go to Fair Havens,” she announced, moving swiftly to the door. “Won’t be long. I’m just going to drop off the preliminary designs.”

Georges nodded and focused again on the customer. Chey walked out onto the banquette, or sidewalk, and turned left, then left again into the narrow, tunnel-like passage that led to her courtyard and tiny garage. It was only a few hundred square feet walled off from the rest of the old city block, but it was her own personal haven away from the world. She often sat here in the evenings, nursing a glass of wine, the scent of honeysuckle so thick that the sounds of the old city seemed to float on it. But she hadn’t done so lately and, she admitted, probably would not anytime soon. She tended to immerse herself in every project, and the bigger the project, the deeper that immersion. With Fair Havens, she couldn’t even see sky.

She opened the garage door and let herself into the driver’s seat of the car. Moments later she eased the car through the passage and paused level with the banquette until a break in traffic allowed her to pull out onto the narrow street. A quarter-hour later, she turned the small coupe onto the Fair Havens drive, marveling at the newly restored view from the street. Gone were the scrubby undergrowth and wild vines that had hidden a six-foot-tall, black wrought-iron fence, not to mention the house, from the view of passersby. The grounds were immaculately groomed, and the massive birdbath in the circle in front of the house had been restored to a balanced, upright position. A stone bench and three marble garden angels of different sizes and styles had been added. Even with the exterior of the house still in a sorry state, the effect was simply stunning.

Suddenly, she was uncertain that her designs were up to the challenge. Perhaps she should return to the office and take another look at what she’d done, think it all through a little better. Yet, even as she considered the notion, she knew that her designs were not the root of her sudden reluctance to march up those steps and ring that loud brass bell. Her heart was racing for another, entirely different reason. Brodie Todd.

He unnerved her, intrigued her, disturbed her in ways she just hadn’t expected. It was humbling to be so intensely physically aware of someone. She’d been telling herself for days now that the man could not be as wildly attractive as she remembered, and even if he were, the man was not for her. He was a client, and she never got involved with clients. It was unprofessional. Besides, the man had divorced his comatose wife! And he was a father.

Closing her eyes, she told herself sternly that it wasn’t Todd as much as the job. She hadn’t had a challenge like this in far too long, but it was a challenge to which she could, would, rise. She put the car in Park, shut off the engine and got out, grabbing her briefcase from the passenger seat. She couldn’t deny an alarming quiver in the pit of her belly as she climbed those steps, however, and when the door opened, her self-lies died abruptly and ignominiously.