The quintessential California Girl back then, she’d never have cut it in London society. Beatrice and her coven would have sliced her to shreds in seconds. Thankfully, he’d avoided exclusive relationships since Beatrice, however, he couldn’t help but wonder if Randi could slide into his society now, or would she find resistance?
Randi took one last glance at the other four people, though he could have assured her they were engrossed in the football game. Drew had become downright enamored with the sport in the three months he’d been stateside. While she grabbed a towel, Court untied the apron strings at her back. The exasperated look shot his way again, but she pulled the thing off over her head and laid it down beside the towel after her hands were dry. Without the camouflage, he could properly see the contours of her breasts where the thin knit ivory fabric molded to her body. His mouth went dry from wanting to touch her, so he shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from following through.
“This way,” she muttered, and they made a clean escape into the hall, bordered on one side by a half height wall spanning the width of the house. On the other side, the full wall displayed an abundance of framed portraits. Beyond the half wall was a formal sitting room on the left. On the right, the dining room with another half wall and what looked like the back side of a chimney. Beyond, a cozy reading nook with windows looking into the backyard complete with swimming pool, deck, and a swath of green lawn.
“The bathroom is right over there.” She pointed to an alcove off the foyer. “The door on the right, in case you can’t tell it apart from the mud room, which has the laundry machines and a door to the garage.” Sarcasm touched her soft voice. The vaulted ceiling with skylights certainly would have carried sound back to the others had she not kept her voice low.
“How about a tour of the gallery first?” He kept going straight instead of making the turn to where she pointed. The first portrait stopped him. “This must be your husband.” Court pointed to a posed, formal photo.
“Must be.” She stood with folded arms, toes in sandals tapping with impatience.
“What was his name?” The man looked like Paul Bunyan with his shaggy brown hair and close trimmed beard despite the entirely civilized suit and tie. Certainly a robust fellow with a barrel chest. Probably the kind of man with hair all over.
“Wyatt Ferguson.” She all but snapped at him. “The powder room?”
Ignoring her almost desperate redirection, he commented on the man. “A good Scots name if ever I heard one.” Must be onto something here, something she didn’t want him to see?
“He was a good man,” she said sharply.
Defensive? Interesting. “And a good father? Birdie doesn’t look anything like him.”
“He was a very good dad to her. He loved her above all else.”
Court turned his head to look at her face. What was that tone? “Loved her above you?”
“Yes—no, I didn’t mean that.” Flustered, she blushed and waved a hand impatiently. “He adored his girls. No one ever doubted it. What you want is this direction.”
Once more, he ignored her attempt to draw him away and turned his attention to the photos leading away from her. “Is Birdie your only child?” All the photos showed only Birdie growing up.
“Yes. I…we couldn’t…have others.”
Ah, a sore spot, must be getting closer to something here. He stepped down the hall, Birdie aging in reverse as they moved toward the single closed door at the end of the hall. At that point, Randi grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his flesh beneath his shirt, and tried to pull him back toward the foyer.
“Come on , what you want is this way.” She tugged harder.
But one framed photo caught his eye. There it was. The answer to the question he’d asked earlier.
“Courtney Robin Ferguson, born February fourth, Nineteen eighty...” The words he read
Randi took one last glance at the other four people, though he could have assured her they were engrossed in the football game. Drew had become downright enamored with the sport in the three months he’d been stateside. While she grabbed a towel, Court untied the apron strings at her back. The exasperated look shot his way again, but she pulled the thing off over her head and laid it down beside the towel after her hands were dry. Without the camouflage, he could properly see the contours of her breasts where the thin knit ivory fabric molded to her body. His mouth went dry from wanting to touch her, so he shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from following through.
“This way,” she muttered, and they made a clean escape into the hall, bordered on one side by a half height wall spanning the width of the house. On the other side, the full wall displayed an abundance of framed portraits. Beyond the half wall was a formal sitting room on the left. On the right, the dining room with another half wall and what looked like the back side of a chimney. Beyond, a cozy reading nook with windows looking into the backyard complete with swimming pool, deck, and a swath of green lawn.
“The bathroom is right over there.” She pointed to an alcove off the foyer. “The door on the right, in case you can’t tell it apart from the mud room, which has the laundry machines and a door to the garage.” Sarcasm touched her soft voice. The vaulted ceiling with skylights certainly would have carried sound back to the others had she not kept her voice low.
“How about a tour of the gallery first?” He kept going straight instead of making the turn to where she pointed. The first portrait stopped him. “This must be your husband.” Court pointed to a posed, formal photo.
“Must be.” She stood with folded arms, toes in sandals tapping with impatience.
“What was his name?” The man looked like Paul Bunyan with his shaggy brown hair and close trimmed beard despite the entirely civilized suit and tie. Certainly a robust fellow with a barrel chest. Probably the kind of man with hair all over.
“Wyatt Ferguson.” She all but snapped at him. “The powder room?”
Ignoring her almost desperate redirection, he commented on the man. “A good Scots name if ever I heard one.” Must be onto something here, something she didn’t want him to see?
“He was a good man,” she said sharply.
Defensive? Interesting. “And a good father? Birdie doesn’t look anything like him.”
“He was a very good dad to her. He loved her above all else.”
Court turned his head to look at her face. What was that tone? “Loved her above you?”
“Yes—no, I didn’t mean that.” Flustered, she blushed and waved a hand impatiently. “He adored his girls. No one ever doubted it. What you want is this direction.”
Once more, he ignored her attempt to draw him away and turned his attention to the photos leading away from her. “Is Birdie your only child?” All the photos showed only Birdie growing up.
“Yes. I…we couldn’t…have others.”
Ah, a sore spot, must be getting closer to something here. He stepped down the hall, Birdie aging in reverse as they moved toward the single closed door at the end of the hall. At that point, Randi grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his flesh beneath his shirt, and tried to pull him back toward the foyer.
“Come on , what you want is this way.” She tugged harder.
But one framed photo caught his eye. There it was. The answer to the question he’d asked earlier.
“Courtney Robin Ferguson, born February fourth, Nineteen eighty...” The words he read
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