Arlene James - Her Secret Affair

Brodie said. “It wasn’t because you didn’t enjoy it. That much I do know.”

Chey glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you liked it as much as I did. So what’s your problem?”

“I never get involved with clients.”

“Then I’ll have to cancel your contract.”

She immediately launched to her feet. “You can’t do that!”

He rose smoothly and brought his hands to his hips. “The contract that cannot be broken has never been devised.”

“I’ll sue you!”

“Before or after we make love?” he returned smoothly.

Chey folded her arms. “I don’t sleep around.”

“I don’t want you to sleep around,” Brodie retorted. “I want you to sleep with me.”

Dear Reader,

International bestselling author Diana Palmer needs no introduction. Widely known for her sensual and emotional storytelling, and with more than forty million copies of her books in print, she is one of the genre’s most treasured authors. And this month, Special Edition is proud to bring you the exciting conclusion to her SOLDIERS OF FORTUNE series. The Last Mercenary is the thrilling tale of a mercenary hero risking it all for love. Between the covers is the passion and adventure you’ve come to expect from Diana Palmer!

Speaking of passion and adventure, don’t miss To Catch a Thief by Sherryl Woods in which trouble—in the form of attorney Rafe O’Donnell—follows Gina Petrillo home for her high school reunion and sparks fly…. Things are hotter than the Hatfields and McCoys in Laurie Paige’s When I Dream of You—when heat turns to passion between two families that have been feuding for three generations!

Is a heroine’s love strong enough to heal a hero scarred inside and out? Find out in Another Man’s Children by Christine Flynn. And when an interior designer pretends to be a millionaire’s lover, will Her Secret Affair lead to a public proposal? Don’t miss An Abundance of Babies by Marie Ferrarella—in which double the babies and double the love could be just what an estranged couple needs to bring them back together.

This is the last month to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest, so be sure to look inside for details. And as always, enjoy these fantastic stories celebrating life, love and family.

Best,

Karen Taylor Richman

Senior Editor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

grew up in Oklahoma and has lived all over the South. In 1976 she married “the most romantic man in the world.” The author enjoys traveling with her husband, but writing has always been her chief pastime. Arlene is also the author of the Inspirational titles Proud Spirit, A Wish for Always, Partners for Life and No Stranger To Love.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chey peered up through the car windshield at the double doors standing a good ten feet tall beneath the wide overhang of the balcony above, then down at the letter in her hand. She was of two minds. One part of her would have liked to wad up the imperious summons and toss it into the face of the arrogant man who had sent it. The other had waited years to get her hands on the crumbling, century-old mansion known as Fair Havens. Since she salivated at the prospect, she knew that part of her would win. Restoring Fair Havens would be a definite coup for her career and a very lucrative one, not that she particularly needed the funds.

Chez Chey, the elegant little French Quarter antique shop from which she operated her interior design business, was as well known and respected as were her abilities as an architect specializing in renovation and restoration. Five years of hard work had made that so. Only last week her expertise had earned her the spot of honor at a tea sponsored by the influential Heritage Society, which wielded great power in historic New Orleans. It was there that Chey had met Brodie Todd’s grandmother. As a result, the wealthy and much-ballyhooed owner of BMT Travel had summoned her here to his dilapidated mansion.

Chey felt a fresh stab of indignation at his high-handedness. Todd was well known for his eccentricity. The newspapers had speculated heavily about his return to the area, wondering in print if he would also move BMT’s corporate offices from Dallas to New Orleans. Then again, it was said that he all but ran his business from his bedroom—when he wasn’t playing in some jet-set hot spot. He certainly had no respect for anyone else’s schedule. His brief letter had stated flatly when and where he would receive her and had neither left room for negotiation nor made provision for her convenience. It irked her that she felt compelled to respond as dictated. On the other hand, the Fair Havens mansion was the stuff of dreams for her.

Constructed before the Civil War of dark red brick with once-white pilasters and balconies, the house featured deep porches, double doors and windows, and broad, impressive front steps built of brick arranged in an elegant half-circle. Staring around her dreamily, Chey couldn’t help noting that all of the exterior woodwork would need scraping, sealing and painting, and that much of the brickwork would require repointing. Furthermore, the brick had crumbled in places and would require replacing.

Overall, however, she was impressed with the building’s apparent soundness. It sat level and square upon its foundation, and all of its five chimneys stood straight and whole. If it looked a bit woebegone and tired, it was no wonder. Old Mr. Houser, the previous owner, had neglected the stately dear shamefully. Chey hoped that could be rectified with little more than good grooming, and Brodie Todd seemed of the same mind if the activity around her was any indication.

The house sat back a good fifty yards from the street and was screened from general view by an overgrown tangle of greenery, but a small army of gardeners were at work taming the jungle that had been allowed to grow rampant. Already the yard was shaping up nicely, and she could see workers in the distance replacing a section of fencing that had been removed for some reason. She wondered if Brodie Todd was building a pool and hoped intensely that he wasn’t slapping some garishly modern cement job into the backyard of this graceful old antebellum mansion.

She left the car parked to one side of the wide brick drive that arced in front of the house, gazing sadly at a magnificent marble birdbath which had been toppled onto its side in the grassy center of the looping drive. Measuring at least three feet across, the bowl would require several able bodies to lift it back into place. Chey sincerely hoped that Brodie Todd meant to do just that, and promised herself that she would mention it to him at the first opportunity. Leaving everything but her keys behind in the car, she climbed the steps and crossed the front porch.

For this meeting she had chosen from her spring wardrobe a pale pink designer suit trimmed in light gray with a narrow, knee-length skirt and a brief, tailored, asymmetrical jacket. Pale gray stockings and smoke-gray shoes with high, fashionably wide heels completed the ensemble. With her long blond hair coiled into a tight roll against the back of her head and her makeup sparingly but expertly applied, she presented a sleek, neat business persona.

A small brass bell suspended from a wrought-iron arm hung by the door, and Chey gave the clapper a vigorous shake. The resulting peal echoed loudly all over the estate, causing the gardeners to pause at their labors and raise their heads and Chey to grab the bell with both hands in order to quell it. The door emitted a rusty crack and squeaked open. A small, pale woman greeted Chey.

“Miss Simmons? I’m Kate, the housekeeper. Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you.”

Perhaps five feet tall and thin to the point of emaciation, Kate wore her medium-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She seemed both bursting with energy and dangerously frail. Turning, she said, “The family is in the garden room at the back of the house.” Indicating with a glance over one shoulder that Chey should follow, she set off briskly, bouncing up onto her toes with every step, arms swinging at her sides. No wonder she was so thin, Chey mused, the woman could burn more energy just walking than Chey could at a mad dash. She led Chey down the broad central hall, past the elegant, curving staircase and all the way across the big house in mere seconds, only to abandon her after brusquely announcing, “She’s here.”

Chey had the impression of glass and greenery and cobblestoned floor in the heartbeat before a husky, cultured female voice made her head turn to one side. “Hello, again. It’s Chey, isn’t it? Or would you prefer Miss Simmons?”

Chey smiled at the long, patrician face of the woman who approached her, her long, sleek body dressed in lightweight, pale green bouclé knit with a bright scarf looped loosely about a long, swanlike neck. “Mrs. Todd. Nice to see you again, and Chey is perfect.”

“Then you must call me Viola.” Long, slender, slightly gnarled fingers curled around Chey’s hand. “Let me introduce you to my grandson and great-grandson.” She whirled away, and her chin-length, ruthlessly bobbed silver and white hair whirled with her. “They’re over here, on the other side of this jungle, wrestling with a weight bench, whatever that is.”

Chey followed, thankful for the sedate pace as she wound her way through a virtual forest in pots and wooden boxes. She heard a clang and muttering, followed by a screeching little voice that insisted, “Wet me, Daddy! Wet me!”

Just ahead of her, Viola came to a stop and said urgently, “Seth, don’t!”

At the same instant, a deeper, gruffer voice barked, “Son, no! You’ll—” a wail interrupted, followed by more clanks and a gusty sigh, “—smash your finger,” the man finished resignedly. “Here, let me look at it.”

The wails were already subsiding as Chey stepped up beside Viola Todd. The man was on his bare knees, his dark head bent over the small body in his likewise bare arms, a shambles of pipe and padded board beside them.

“It’s not bleeding,” he said, examining the tiny finger. “The nail looks okay. Just a pinch on the end.” He lifted the little fist and lavishly kissed the uplifted finger. “Some strawberry jam ought to fix it. Let Grandmama see to it.” He gave the affectionate title a French pronunciation. Grahn-ma-ma stooped and opened her arms. Chey was shocked at the bright red head that hurtled into those outstretched arms.

“Gramuma, I poke my fingder in the jam jar?”

“If you please,” Viola assented, grunting as she lifted the child off his feet.

“Pwease,” he intoned solemnly, squeezing his grandmother’s face between two chubby palms, the injured finger sticking out.

Viola laughed and carried him away, saying only, “Brodie, get up and speak to this woman.” Over her shoulder, the red-headed imp stared at Chey curiously and waggled his fingers in a hello wave. She smiled in reply before turning her attention back to the man now rising slowly to his feet.

Something about him made her step back in shocked awareness. Perhaps it was his height, for he stood easily six inches taller than she. Or perhaps it was all that bare, bronze skin, as he wore only jogging shorts, a loose muscle shirt and running shoes without socks. Then again, it might have been the contrast between his pale blue eyes and the coarse, ink-black hair mowed flat across the top of his head and precisely groomed into the neat, meticulous mustache and goatee which framed his sculpted mouth and squarish chin. Or perhaps it was the face itself, which, while all sharp angles and flat planes, was unabashedly handsome. Or it might have been the frankly curious, blatantly appreciative manner in which that pale blue gaze leisurely traveled over her and came to rest, finally, on her face.