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An Inconvenient Husband
Karen Van Der Zee
Divorce solutionIt wasn't that Nicky hadn't loved her husband - quite the opposite. By leaving, Nicky had hoped to provoke some kind of reaction. Blake Chandler was the strong and silent type. He didn't show much emotion behind those impassive gray eyes.Of course, Nicky's plan had misfired - Blake had been only too happy to sign the divorce papers. Now, four years later, Nicky is abducted by her ex, and this time Blake is far from silent about his feelings.


“You wrote me we didn’t have a marriage at all.” (#ua747dad5-c3cf-54c7-beed-a6f9aa6d4c57)About the Author (#u54b59f96-7981-54ed-a74c-793ffc1c98b0)Title Page (#u0c3ab045-f14f-5e73-92b2-a0f9c3ba69a6)PROLOGUE (#u84f5da42-0148-55e8-96b8-23bf3126a908)CHAPTER ONE (#ua06ff775-266c-5dfd-92eb-89350399dba1)CHAPTER TWO (#uf70f6543-7bae-58d8-9f8d-b177a28b7a14)CHAPTER THREE (#u45f19291-a8fe-5fb9-b239-b5f46aabe8db)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“You wrote me we didn’t have a marriage at all.”
Nicky’s nails were digging into her palms. “I suppose it was more like an...arrangement ”
The silence was deafening. “I see,” Blake said at last, his voice ominously low.
“A convenient arrangement for you,” she heard herself say. “You’d go on your trips, and whenever you came home I was conveniently there for you, to cook your meals and be available in bed.”
“I don’t think,” he said at last, “that this is a fruitful discussion.” Hie voice was cold with barely restrained fury. “I have no desire to have an argument over something that’s been dead and gone for over four years.”
Ever since KAREN VAN DER ZEE was a child growing up in Holland, she wanted to do two things: write books and travel. She’s been very lucky. Her American husband’s work as a development economist has taken them to many exotic locations. They were married in Kenya, had their first daughter in Ghana and their second in the United States. They spent two fascinating years in Indonesia. Since then they’ve added a son to the family. They live in Virginia, but not permanently!
An Inconvenient Husband
Karen Van Der Zee



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PROLOGUE
NICKY’S hand trembled as she reached for the phone on her father’s desk, pushing aside the tiny cup of thick black coffee the servant had brought her a few moments ago. She had all the jitters she needed without the caffeine.
She dialed the number and heard the ringing of the phone on the other side of the world. Her heart was beating so frantically, it was frightening. She stared out the window as the phone kept ringing, at the view of palm trees and the tall minaret of the mosque silhouetted against the cobalt blue Moroccan sky.
Finally the ringing stopped and a female hotel employee answered the phone in English, her voice accented and cheerful. The line was clear, as if the voice came from the house next door rather than from Manilla in the Philippines.
Nicky closed her eyes and braced herself, her chest heavy with anxiety. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Blake Chandler, please. I don’t know the room number.”
“One moment, please.”
The phone rang again. In Blake’s room. Finally, his voice—short, clipped, deep. The voice she loved more than any other in the world. The voice of her husband.
Yet her heart was not racing with love and excitement. It was thundering with trepidation.
“Blake, it’s Nicky,” she said.
“Nicky?” He sounded surprised. “I’m glad you’re calling. I was about to call you. How are you?”
She swallowed. “I’m fine.”
I’m not fine, she corrected silently. I’m scared. Blake, I’m so scared.
“And your mother?”
“She’s doing much better.”
Nicky was in Morocco with her parents because her mother had become ill and she’d wanted to be with her. Her father worked for the U.S. Agency for International Development and he and her mother had lived in Marrakech for the past year.
Nicky tried to relax her hand gripping the receiver. “Why were you going to call me?” she asked. Please tell me you miss me. Please tell me you love me and can’t wait to be home together again.
“There’s a problem with the project,” Blake said instead. “It will take a couple of days to straighten out. I’ll be home two days late, on Saturday, same flight schedule.”
Disappointment tasted bitter in her mouth. He wasn’t telling her what she needed to hear. She swallowed. “It’s all right. As it turns out, I’ve changed my plans, as well.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact. “I’m going to see Sophie in Rome on my way back to the States. She’s having her baby and I... I think it’s nice for me to be there.”
“How long will you stay?” A businesslike question. His voice was expressionless.
She swallowed hard. Go ahead, do it, urged the little voice inside her.
Next week Blake would come home and the plan had been for her to be back in Washington, as well. She closed her eyes, steeling herself. “Three weeks,” she said, feeling her heart grow cold.
A slight pause. “We won’t see each other, then,” came his voice. “You won’t be back home until after I leave again for Guatemala.”
Her hands shook. She clenched her left one hard around the receiver. “Right.” She gulped in air. “Do you mind?”
They had not seen each other in almost three months and if she didn’t go straight home next week they wouldn’t see each other for another month or so until Blake came back from his next consulting trip to Guatemala. And she was asking him if he minded. “You have to be there for your friends,” Blake stated. There was no inflection in his voice. “I’ll manage. I’m a big boy.”
She felt as if she were suffocating. He doesn’t care! came the desperate thought. He didn’t care last time and he doesn’t care now. What was it he had said last time?
If your mother needs you, then of course you have to stay. That had been five weeks ago when she had called him and told him she wouldn’t be home when he came back from his business trip because her mother still wasn’t very well.
Which had been true enough, but the virus she’d caught had not been serious, just took its own sweet time to run its course, making her mother tired and cranky.
Nicky could have gone home to Washington and spent time with her husband while he was back in the country preparing for his next consulting job overseas. She could have been home cooking food for him, sleeping in his arms, making love, planning the future.
Instead she’d decided to stay at her parents’ house in Morocco and Blake had not objected. He had not said he minded, that he would miss her, that the house was lonely without her.
Now, after not having seen her for three months, he still didn’t say any of those things. He told her he could manage without her while she was in Rome to see her friend Sophie.
Of course he would manage. He’d managed without her for years and years. He was an independent, self-sufficient man with a career that took him all over the world. She had known that when she had married him eighteen months ago. It had not bothered her—her father’s job had taken her quite a few places, too, when she was a child. She understood her husband’s life-style, his work.
They’d married and made plans for the future. As soon as she had her journalism degree, she planned to go with him on his trips, write her articles about travel and food, maybe even a book. They’d be together most of the time. So many plans, so much to look forward to.
And now, her degree in her pocket, her dreams were crumbling like stale cake, dry and tasteless. Blake could do without her.
He doesn’t need me, she thought, tears hot behind her eyes. I’m convenient and comfortable, but I’m not essential to him. She saw him in her mind’s eye, the tall, confident man with calm gray eyes and unconapromising, square chin. The man whose strong arms fitted so perfectly around her, whose body made magic with hers. A heavy weight settled on her chest and she sucked in a painful breath. There hadn’t been magic for a long time.
“How’s the food over there?” she asked, and she could hear the odd wobble in her voice.
“I’ve got you some recipes—you’ll find them interesting.” She loved food and cooking, all kinds, simple and exotic. She loved looking at displays of fruit, spices, vegetables, loved the colors and shapes and fragrances. Her husband the world traveler brought her gifts of cookbooks and recipes from faraway places for her collection.
“Thank you” Again the wobble in her voice.
“Nicky? Are you all right? You sound strange.”
“I’m fine,” she lied. “The air is so dusty here, it makes my throat feel scratchy.” This was not a lie, but the fact was irrelevant.
They talked for a while. About his work, about the magazine article she was writing about Moroccan food, about how lucky they were to be missing the bad weather at home in Washington, D.C.
Later that night she lay in bed, her stomach churning with anxiety, praying she would just sink away into oblivion and not dream the dream that kept coming back time after time. A dream that made her cry when she awakened.
Here she was, in her parents’ home in one of the most exotic places on earth, a place of deserts and camels and Berber nomads, a place of veiled women, busy souks and ancient mosques, yet where she really wanted to be was in her own small town house in Washington, D.C., which at this very moment was battling the leftovers of a tropical storm. She wanted to be in her own bed in the arms of the man she loved. She wanted him to tell her he loved her, that he had missed her terribly. That those long absences were harder and harder to bear. That from now on he wanted her with him on his trips.
She knew it wasn’t going to happen.
She knew she was losing him.
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS a wonderful party. Nicky sipped her wine, knowing she should be enjoying herself rather than letting the odd sense of foreboding spoil her fun. She surveyed the interesting mix of people. Women flaunted bright sarongs and silk saris, as well as fashionable designer dresses. Men sported well-cut suits or trousers and silk batek shirts. From the large, elegant sitting room with its beautiful Chinese furniture, the festivities spilled out into the jasmine-scented garden bathing in the tropical Malaysian night air.
It was a wonderful party.
And something was very wrong.
Nicky clenched her fingers around the stem of her crystal glass and glanced over at her father, a tall and distinguished man who stood out a head taller than most people at the party. He looked worried and she didn’t like it. She’d arrived in Kuala Lumpur two weeks ago for an extended visit and working vacation, and she’d sensed immediately that not all was well with her father. It had something to do with business, Nicky knew, something involving an unscrupulous Hong Kong investment company causing problems, but he’d told her it wasn’t serious.
She didn’t believe it for a minute.
Nazirah appeared by her side in a rustle of emerald silk. “Did you see that great-looking guy come in a minute ago?” she whispered.
Nicky shrugged indifferently. “Which one?”
Nazirah rolled her eyes. “Come with me. I’m going to fix my face.”
In the lavishly appointed bathroom, they stood next to each other in front of the mirror. They were the same height, five feet two, equally slim, but that’s where the resemblance stopped. Nazirah was half American, half Malaysian, with very long, sleek, black hair and blue eyes, while Nicky had very short, curly auburn hair and brown eyes.
Nazirah took a tube of lipstick out of her small clutch bag and unscrewed the top. “Are you sure you didn’t see him?” she asked, glancing over at Nicky. “The really tall one with the great shoulders? Dark hair, gray eyes. Calm and composed looking, but you just know there’s all that passion brewing underneath. He—”
“No,” said Nicky curtly, and fished in her bag for lipstick, as well.
“Oh, right, you’re not interested in men.” Nazirah eyed her curiously in the mirror.
And certainly not in tall handsome ones with great shoulders and gray eyes, Nicky added silently. She felt a stab of pain. Four years after the divorce and still she had those sudden moments of anguish set off by a word, a memory, the scent of roses. She put the lipstick back in her bag. “What time do you want to get started tomorrow?” she asked, to change the subject. Nazirah was going to take her to explore the Central Market.
Nazirah’s parents were friends of Nicky’s father, and she’d offered to be Nicky’s guide and translator on her ventures through Kuala Lumpur. Nicky was doing research on a magazine article about street food, which involved roaming the markets and streets sampling snacks from the ubiquitous vendors.
“The earlier, the better,” stated Nazirah. “I’ll pick you up at seven. You know, I just love your dress. Classy, but sexy. Where did you buy it? Washington?”
Nicky nodded. She loved the dress herself. Made of a soft silk crepe in various shades of aquamarine, it was long and slim-fitting and made her appear less short. High heels, of course, and long earrings, helped. “Let’s get a drink. I’m thirsty.”
The bar was set out in the garden where semi-hidden garden lamps discreetly augmented the moonlight, creating a romantic ambience.
“There he is!” whispered Nazirah, squeezing Nicky’s arm. “Isn’t he something?”
Nicky looked up and froze. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart stopped beating for an instant.
The man was something all right.
Tall and lean in an immaculate tropical suit, he looked the perfect male specimen—fit, healthy and confident. Steely gray eyes were bright in the tanned, angular face, the strong chin indicating purpose and command. Here was a man who was comfortable in the world, comfortable with himself, a man in his prime. A man with an undeniable magnetism.
The man who’d once been her husband.
“Hello, Nicky,” said the familiar voice—the voice that made her legs feel weak and her body flush with warmth, even now after all these years.
“Blake?” Nicky whispered. There seemed to be no air to breathe. She was not prepared for this. She felt dizzy with the shock, or the resulting lack of oxygen.
He nodded, his cool gray eyes intent on her face. He extended his hand and automatically she held out hers.
“How are you?” he asked, taking her hand in his. His voice sounded perfectly calm, as if greeting a colleague or acquaintance.
She swallowed at the dryness in her throat. “I’m fine,” she managed. His hand was warm and firm and the contact set off a tingling all through her, causing every cell to spring to life with remembered love.
This is crazy, she thought. Crazy, crazy. Here she was, politely shaking hands with a man with whom she’d once shared a bed, whose body she knew intimately. She suppressed a hysterical little laugh and forced herself to smile politely.
“What a surprise to see you here,” she said. The understatement of the year. No mere surprise could cause such a tumultuous reaction in her mind and body. No, she wasn’t surprised. She was stunned.
He released her hand, but his eyes did not leave her face. “It’s a small world.”
Well, it was, of course. The expatriate communities in foreign countries were comparatively small. She nodded, not knowing what to say.
“It was good to run into your father again,” he said. “Hadn’t seen him for years. He told me he’d left USAID and joined the world of private business—a venture capital firm, no less.”
“Yes,” she said, hearing more the deep timbre of his voice than the words. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, as if she were hypnotized, or in some sort of trance.
He took a drink from his glass. “They’re involved in some interesting investment projects in China, I understand.”
“Yes: All over South East Asia, really. He’s just interested in China now that it’s opening up.” She spoke automatically, not even knowing if she was making sense, not caring. All she saw was the familiar face of the man she had once loved.
Blake looked the same, only a little older. And a little harder, a little rougher around the edges. There were a few strands of gray hair at his temples and his jaw had a steely set. He was thirty-seven now, she realized, ten years older than she. He still emanated the same dynamic vibrations, and he seemed to her more attractive than ever.
“Are you working in Malaysia?” she asked, remembering he’d always loved the Far East, ever since he’d spent two years in Malaysia as a Peace Corps volunteer in his early twenties, before she’d known him. The question came automatically, as if some part of her was going through the motions of making polite conversation while the rest of her was struggling with emotional chaos.
He nodded. “I’m doing research for the World Bank. Tropical fruit.”
“What about tropical fruit?”
“Production, processing, exporting—how to develop the business in Malaysia. I spent the last few weeks looking at farms and factories. There’s a growing demand for exotic fruit all over the western world.”
She nodded. “People want a change from, apples and pears. Here come the guavas and the mangos and the soursops.”
“I knew you’d understand,” he said dryly. He took another swallow from his Scotch. “You’re in Malaysia to visit your father?” His tone was polite. He might have been speaking to a total stranger. Something was different about his voice. It was rougher—the voice of someone who’d seen much and expected nothing.
She moistened her lips. “Yes. It’s a fascinating place and I thought I’d come for a while and do some writing. With my father living here it was a wonderful opportunity.”.
He studied her with what seemed detached interest.
“You haven’t changed.”
“Should I have? Did you expect me to?” Her heart was beating erratically. She wished it would calm down.
He shrugged. “I somehow just thought you would have.”
“Why?”
Something flickered briefly in his eyes. “I never could imagine you to still be the same person I once knew.” He shrugged. “But then, I can’t really judge, can I? I don’t know you now. I’m just looking at the externals.” He gave a polite little smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “And they’re as pleasant as they always were.”
Always the gentleman. “Thank you,” she said, wishing she had a drink. “And as for the rest of me, I imagine I’m pretty much the same person I always was, except older and wiser.”
“We grow and we learn,” he added casually. Nicky wondered if she heard an undertone of mockery. She found the unsmiling gray gaze disconcerting. But then, what could she expect? Surely not warmth or humor.
“You’re still consulting, then?” she commented. When she had met him, years ago, he had worked with her father for the U.S. Agency for International Development, but soon after he’d become an independent consultant working internationally in the field of agricultural economics, often contracting with the World Bank.
He nodded. “That’s what I do. I took a two-year teaching position at Cornell a few years ago, for a change of pace, but then decided to go back to consulting. I enjoy doing better than teaching. And how’s your career been coming along?”
How polite the conversation. It seemed unreal, as if it were happening on another plane. “I’m doing well.” Her articles sold to magazines and newspapers, and she was writing her second book, a hybrid mix of travelogue. and cookbook for the more adventurous readers, generously spiced with humor. She wished she could find some humor in the present situation, but it eluded her.
- He glanced at her left hand. “Not married again?”
Her heart contracted painfully. “No.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, knowing it made her look defensive, not knowing what else to do with her hands.
One dark eyebrow arched slightly. “I thought you would have.”
“Who?”
He lifted his left shoulder fractionally. “You’re rather the marrying type, with all your domestic talents.” His voice gave nothing away. Once he had enjoyed her domestic talents. Her cooking, especially. She pushed away the memories.
“And you? Are you married again?” Somehow she managed to sound casual, but an odd terror tightened her chest, and she realized in a flash of insight that she didn’t want to hear the answer. That she didn’t want to know there was another woman in his life.
He gave a dry laugh. “I think I’ll save myself the effort.”
The terror vanished and she felt an upsurge of hot anger—unexpected, surprising. Effort? What effort had he ever put into their marriage? She clamped down on the feelings. “I wasn’t aware being married to me had been such a trial,” she commented, trying to sound coolly sophisticated, but knowing she wasn’t pulling it off. Her voice shook with emotion.
Because of his career there had been long absences in their short marriage, but when he’d been home between consulting trips, life surely had not been much struggle for him—she’d treated him like a king.
Because she’d loved him. Because she’d thought he was the most wonderful, sexy man she’d ever known. Because she’d been a romantic idiot.
He gave an indifferent shrug. “Let’s not go into this, shall we? It hardly matters now.” He tossed back the last of his drink.
As if a failed marriage were a mere triviality.
“You never did care, did you?” she said bitterly, feeling her body tense further with remembered pain.
His eyes glittered like cold crystal. “You never bothered to ask. How would you possibly know whether I cared or not?”
“As your wife, I had no trouble telling. I’m glad I got out when I did.” She clenched her hands, sorry she’d let the anger escape.
His body stiffened. He shoved his free hand into his pocket and she noticed it was balled into a fist. Anger burned in his eyes.
“You weren’t interested in having a discussion when you ended our marriage,” he said harshly. “Whether I cared or not was apparently irrelevant to you. Is there any point in having this discussion now, four years later?”
“No, there isn’t, you’re right,” she said frigidly. She whirled around and walked off, knowing she couldn’t stand being with him a moment longer, feeling terrified by the sudden onslaught of emotions she’d thought had been buried long ago—anger, bitterness, and a deep, searing anguish.
She had a throbbing headache and her eyes burned treacherously. She’d had enough. All she wanted was to go home and go to bed, fall asleep and forget she’d seen Blake.
Her father’s driver took her back to the house, which wasn’t too far away. The watchman came running to the gates and opened them to let the car through. She said good-night to the driver and he drove off again to go back to the party to wait for her father.
A small light was on in the entryway, but the rest of the house lay in darkness. The servants had gone home and the place seemed empty and deserted. An odd chill shivered down her back. The place was too big; she wasn’t used to all that empty space. Her own apartment in Washington was small and cozy. She’d moved into it after the divorce, not wanting to stay on in the historic Georgetown town house she and Blake had shared during their marriage. She’d wanted a new beginning with nothing to remind her of Blake. Such a silly illusion—as if it were possible to erase Blake from her life. A man like Blake Chandler tended to leave an indelible impression, marking you for life.
The moonlight shining through the palm trees outside threw moving shadows across the furniture and rugs. Beautiful carved teak furniture, exquisite Chinese rugs, silk draperies, ornate brass lamps. The house had been decorated professionally and lacked a personal touch. She knew what her mother would have thought of it: too opulent, too pretentious. Poor Daddy, she thought, you must miss her so. Her mother had died unexpectedly a year ago and her father had been at a loss ever since. He’d taken on a new job, moved to new, exotic surroundings, but it only seemed to accentuate his loneliness.
She turned on a couple of lamps as she found her way to her room which lay at the back of the house. Inside, she switched on the light. She dropped her bag onto a chair, noticing the French doors that opened into the garden were standing slightly ajar.
She had closed them before she left. Hadn’t she? She shrugged. Well, maybe not. She bit her lip, feeling uneasy. Something felt...wrong. Some ghostly awareness feathered across her skin, as if something unseen was right here with her—a presence, an energy in the air. She surveyed the room. There was nothing unusual. Everything was just the way she had left it.
She went into the adjoining bathroom, found some aspirin and swallowed it with a glass of water, making a face at herself in the mirror. “You are a nut case,” she said out loud.
There were no ghosts in her room; they were in her mind. She felt haunted by shadows from the past, that’s what it was. She’d been thrown off her equilibrium because she’d seen Blake again.
“You haven’t seen him in four years,” she told her reflection. “You’re divorced. So what’s the big deal?”
She took off her clothes and got ready for bed. She drifted off into a restless sleep, full of images of Blake-Blake sitting by a fire and reading a book. Blake pouring wine, giving her a secret smile. Blake sprawled on the bed, naked, asleep. She wanted to touch him, run her hand over his body, feel his warmth, his strength. She reached out, but her hand did not make contact, no matter how hard she tried, as if some force field protected him from her touch. She awoke, crying.
It took a long time to get back to sleep.
The next morning she was dragged into consciousness by the call to prayer broadcast from the mosque’s minaret. It was almost six, and the faint glimmer of dawn filtered through the thin curtains. She listened to the monotonous chanting, knowing the meaning, but not understanding the Arabic words.
She lay still in bed, until the sun washed the room in the bright light of a new day.
“You just disappeared,” Nazirah accused her an hour later as they were on their way to the Central Market in town. The chauffeur-driven. car was compliments of Nazirah’s father.
“I had a headache.”
“I saw you talking to that guy. Did he tell you who he is?”
“A consultant on a World Bank contract. He’s here only temporarily.” Nicky tried to sound bored. She did not want to discuss Blake. She did not even want to think of him.
“What else did he tell you?”
“He loves curry puffs,” she said with sudden inspiration. “And he’s crazy about satay with peanut sauce.” All of which was true, but it certainly was not newly garnered information.
“Is that what you talked about with an interesting man? Food?” Nazirah’s tone indicated a severe lack of admiration for this particular tactic.
“Food’s a great subject,” Nicky said brightly. “Everybody has to eat it. It’s uncontroversial, but everybody has an opinion.”
Nazirah rolled her eyes.
Nicky laughed. “You can learn a lot about people by finding out what kind of food they like. Whether they’re adventurous, have imagination, are conservative, romantic, boring stick-in-the-muds. I did an article about how to use food in character analysis last month. I think I did my readers a great service.”
“And what did you find out about him?” Nazirah asked doubtfully. “What kind of food does he like and what does it say about his character?”
“He likes everything,” Nicky said casually, which was basically the truth. “Which makes him a conservative, imaginative adventurer with stick-in-the-mud tendencies.”
Nazirah laughed. “And how does he do in the romance department?” Amusement glimmered in her blue eyes.
“Romance?”
“Is he a romantic?”
Nicky braced herself mentally. “He has his moments,” she stated in a businesslike tone. “Flowers, chocolates, jewelry, that sort of thing.” Sometimes luxury cookbooks, and odd knickknacks from exotic places in the world.
“Mmm. What about love letters and poetry? What about sexy phone calls?” Nazirah lowered her voice. “I love sexy phone calls.”
Nicky’s chest tightened and she swallowed at the sudden painful lump in her throat. She looked away. “Nope.”
“Is he a good lover?”
Her heart turned over. Good God, she had to change the subject. The last thing she wanted to think about was Blake’s talents in bed. “Listen,” she said impatiently, “there are limits to what you can find out about a man by knowing his food preferences. If you’re so interested in the man, go out with him, sleep with him and find out for yourself.” Good Lord! she thought in a panic. What am I saying?
Nazirah stared at her. “Why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.” Nicky bit her tongue. Oh, God, she was giving herself away.
“Sure seems like it. I was just making conversation, having a little fun with this idea of yours.”
“I’m sorry.”
Nazirah was silent for a moment. “I’m not trying to make you angry, but if you’re interested in him, I’ll stay clear of him.”
“I’m not interested in him. You can have him.” Nicky heard the snappish tone of her own voice, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. “Maybe your mother can ask him to dinner. He loves home-cooked meals.” She bit her lip. “He told me,” she added.
Confusion, hesitation chased each other across Nazirah’s face. “You know this man, don’t you?” she asked softly.
“No,” Nicky said, feeling herself turn cold. “I only thought I did.”
She’d been twenty-one when she’d met Blake at a party given by her parents in Washington, D.C. At the time Blake worked with her father at USAID and her father thought the world of him. One look at Blake and Nicky had thought the world of him, as well. Her heart had nearly stopped and she’d almost forgotten to breathe. The world around her had ceased to exist. The glass of wine she’d had in her hand had slipped and fallen to the floor, the glass not breaking but the wine soaking irreverently into her mother’s priceless Persian prayer rug.
Blake had found her another glass of wine and had not left her side for the rest of the evening. The days and weeks that followed had blurred into a whirlwind of love, laughter and passion.
She’d been in love plenty of times, but nothing compared to this. This was the real thing! She loved this man with all her soul. She knew it. Absolutely.
A month later they were married.
Nazirah stopped asking questions and for a while they drove on silently through the city and Nicky looked outside taking in the sights and the people.
She was in love with Kuala Lumpur, with its wonderful mixture of architecture illustrating the country’s turbulent colonial history. Contemporary high rises blended in with Moorish mosques, Chinese temples and Victorian buildings left by British colonial rule. Lush tropical greenery shaded the roads and buildings.
Her stomach growled inelegantly and Nazirah grinned. “Didn’t you have breakfast?”
“No. I didn’t want to spoil my appetite.” There’d be plenty of food to eat at the market, and Nicky was ready for some. It was only fair that if she was going to write about the food, she should try it first. She had her notebook and pen ready, as well as a good dose of enthusiasm to help her along. Open markets were her most favorite places. She grinned at herself. It was going to be an exciting day. She could feel it already.
Lighted minarets stood silhouetted against the dark night sky like an image from the Arabian Nights as Nicky rode home in a taxi that night. She felt exhausted but exhilarated, and she didn’t think she was going to eat again for a week.
The large gates stood open and the car drove noiselessly up the drive toward the front door of her father’s house. Nicky got out, paid the turbaned Sikh driver and moved up the veranda steps. The night watchman lay asleep on his mat and didn’t stir as she let herself in. Poor guy. He probably had a day job, as well, to make ends meet.
The house was silent. Her father had flown to Singapore for business and wouldn’t be back until sometime tomorrow. The house felt empty and lonely. She sighed and turned on the brass table lamps in the living room and dropped her notebook and purse amid the silk embroidered cushions on the sofa. She might as well work on her notes tonight, but first she’d get out of her clothes and shower off the days’ heat and dust.
Quickly she moved through the hall to her room, opened the door, switched on the light and froze.
Her heart made a sickening lurch, then started racing when a rush of adrenaline flooded her. Chaos. Drawers had been turned over, clothes strewn everywhere. The French windows stood wide open, the lacy white curtains wafting eerily in the breeze.
Never had anything like this happened to her before and for an interminable moment her legs would not move and she stood rooted to the floor, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer.
Burglars, was her first thought. Burglars searching for money, jewelry.
Jewelry! Her mother’s diamond necklace! Oh, God, no! It was an heirloom, passed on from mother to daughter for several generations. She rushed over to the dresser, found the velvet jewelry bag emptied out on the top—her rings, earrings, her mother’s necklace. It was all there. Nothing had been taken. Relief washed over her, then utter confusion. If the burglars hadn’t wanted her jewelry, then what had they been looking for? The rest of the house had been untouched. Or at least the living room had appeared to be and that’s where the TV was, and the VCR and the CD player.
What did they want in her room?
Her legs were trembling as she scanned the room, trying to see, to understand. I’ve got to do something, she thought. I’ve got to call somebody. The police. She reached for the bedside phone, realizing at the same time that 9-1-1 would do her no good outside the United States, that she didn’t know the local emergency number, if there even was one.
She realized something else, as well. The phone was dead.
Never before had she known such fear.
And then it got worse.
Movement behind her. As she swung around, a hand clamped over her mouth and she was bodily lifted off the floor and carried out of the bedroom door.
CHAPTER TWO
PARALYZED by fear, Nicky felt herself being carried through the hall and living room and out the front door. She was gasping for breath as the two powerful arms that held her pressed her face forcefully against a hard chest. She started struggling, kicking her legs, but she. was nothing more than a doll in the steely grip.
“Not a sound or we’re both dead!” growled a low voice, the tone deadly and ominous. A voice intimately familiar.
Fear flooded out of her. “Blake?” she asked, but her voice was smothered by his chest, barely audible.
“Quiet!” .
His chest was warm and solid against her face. For a fleeting moment she had an odd sense of déjà vu—as if once before she’d been carried off like this in the dark of night.
She heard the pumping of his heart against her cheek and her senses reeled with the familiar warm male scent of him, overwhelming for one delirious moment all other thought.
He pushed her almost roughly into the back seat ,of a car, slid in beside her, giving an order to the driver and before she could catch her breath they were tearing down the drive.
She was panting, her throat raw. “What the hell is this all about?” She struggled for the words, rubbing at a scratch on her arm where a branch had scraped the skin, her confusion greater than her fear now. They were in a taxi, she realized, and going at great speed.
“Be quiet,” he said on a low note, warning in his voice. “Later.” He glanced out the back window.
“Later what? Where are you taking me?” she demanded. “Are you insane, what is this all about?”
Steely eyes met hers. “I said be quiet.” His voice was ominously low. “You’ll be fine as long as you act normally.”
She suppressed a hysterical little laugh. Sure, no sweat. She was used to being carried off into cars against her will. Of course she would act normally. “Are you out of your mind?” she whispered fiercely.
His silence was eloquent.
She hated his superior manner. She hated him. This, of course, was nothing new. She had entertained about this man every emotion known to mankind, except one: physical fear. And she wasn’t afraid of him now, which, under the present circumstances, was something to be grateful for.
She closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat. Her whole body was trembling with shock and she felt the terrible urge to break down in tears or, alternatively, scream at Blake in fury. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to do either.
Who was Blake to kidnap her out of her father’s house? Why in the world would he want to? It didn’t make sense. She thought of the ransacked room and shivered. Nothing made sense. She thought of her father, seeing again the worry edged in his face and her stomach twisted with anxiety. Something was wrong.
Something indeed was very wrong.
Could this possibly have something to do with that business deal he’d been having trouble with? Unscrupulous, he had called the Hong Kong company. It was not a nice word. In fact, it was a frightening word. She thought of her ravaged room and shivered again, her mind in chaos. But why would Blake be involved? What could Blake possibly have to do with it? It was crazy; it made no sense at all.
Fear and anger fought for dominance in her mind. Why hadn’t her father told her what was going on? Why was he always treating her as if she were a child who should not be bothered by her parents’ problems? Well, she knew why. She was the baby of the family, and the only daughter. Her parents and three older brothers all had treated her like a princess, and although she wouldn’t dare complain about the love and nurture she had received as a child, she wouldn’t mind being respected as a mature adult now that she’d reached the ripe age of twenty-seven.
The car stopped and she opened her eyes. There were lights and people. More cars. People laughing. They were in front of what appeared to be a luxury hotel.
“Come along.” Blake helped her out of the car, putting an arm around her when she almost lost her balance. His face was close to hers. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said under his breath, apparently not wanting the driver to overhear him. “You’re safe as long as you do what I say.”
She stiffened. This was not the man she remembered. He had never ordered her around before, never told her what to do, never made any demands. He’d considered her an independent person who made her own choices and decisions. She wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
She felt dazed and disoriented. With his hand on her shoulder Blake propelled her through the cool, sumptuous hotel lobby. Crystal chandeliers, soft piano music, people in beautiful clothes, mingling, laughing. It all seemed to come from a distance, unreal. Then she found herself in a mirrored elevator.
Her reflection shocked her. She looked like a madwoman, her hair wild, her clothes dirty and sweaty from the day’s exploration of the city’s hot, crowded markets and streets. The elevator zoomed up, stopped. They got off. She moved as if in a trance, down a carpeted corridor, past endless doors. Blake stopped in front of one of the rooms and slid a small plastic card into a slot in the lock. The door open, he nudged her ahead of him into the room. She took in the big bed, the desk, a cozy seating arrangement near the window. Soft carpeting under her feet. Everything clean and comfortable.
She turned to face him, clenching her hands into fists by her side and anchoring her feet to the floor to keep them from trembling. “I want to know what this is all about!” she demanded, hearing an unfamiliar, shrill tone in her voice. Anger heated her blood and she could no longer contain it—anger mixed with a terrible fear, and other feelings she couldn’t even begin to analyze. “What the hell is going on? Why did you bring me here?”
“Don’t yell at me,” he said coolly.
She almost stomped her foot. “I’ll damn well yell if I want to! I’ll scream!” She couldn’t believe her own behavior. What possessed her? It was as if someone else had taken over, some wild creature driven in a corner, terrified and helpless.
“Calm down and we’ll talk.” He turned his back on her and picked up a bottle of Scotch standing on a tray on the dresser.
“Calm down?” she raged. “Are you out of your mind? You expect me to calm down after my room has been turned upside down and I’ve been kidnapped?”
“I did not kidnap you. I rescued you.”
“Rescued me? From what? I want to know what’s going on!”
He poured Scotch in two glasses. “I’ll tell you what I know, but not until you get yourself under control.”
She nearly choked on her words. “How dare you treat me this way!” she said to his back. “How dare you just carry me off! What’s got into you? Are you the one who destroyed my room?” Even as she said it, she knew the idea was preposterous. Under no circumstances could she imagine Blake turning over drawers, going through closets. It didn’t fit his code of ethics.
He turned and gave her a dark look. “No, I did not,” he said sharply. “A couple of hired thugs from Hong Kong did. They were waiting in the bushes for you to come home and kidnap you. I thought I’d better beat them to it.”
Her heart skidded to a stop, rushed on again in a frantic rhythm. Her knees buckled and she sat down on the edge of the big bed. Fear overtook her anger. “This is insane,” she whispered. “Why?”
“After you left the party last night, I had another talk with your father. I gathered he unknowingly inherited a bad situation from his predecessor—an unfortunate business deal with a less than reputable firm in Hong Kong. They’re running a scam and he’s trying to back out of the contract. They’re not very happy about it.”
Her heart lurched. “I knew there was something wrong! He just didn’t want to tell me. He kept saying it wasn’t anything to worry about.”
“Well, it was. More so than he suspected, I imagine. They wanted him to change his mind about breaking the contract. Apparently they thought kidnapping you might give him the right incentive.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
He added ice to the glasses and handed her one. “Drink this. It will calm your nerves.”
“I don’t like whiskey,” she said shakily..
“I know, but it’s all I have.” He gave her a wry smile. “I had not counted on entertaining my ex-wife in my hotel room tonight.”
Certainly no signs of any such plans, she had to admit. No candles or flowers or champagne cooling in a bucket of ice. He hadn’t touched her for his own selfish, carnal reasons—like a hero in a novel. A hero, who, seeing his old love unexpectedly at a party, was overwhelmed by remorse over the past and, gripped by new passion, had kidnapped her. That’s only the way it went in stories. She was deranged even to have that fleeting thought.
He sat down in a chair and stretched out his legs. He was wearing gray slacks and a short-sleeved silk shirt, and did not look to be in the grip of passion. He looked exhausted, which was not surprising. Abduction was a tiring business, no doubt. Still, tired or not, he looked tough and masculine, and very sexy with his hair disheveled and his face full of dark shadows.
She sipped the whiskey, wincing, feeling the stuff burn down her throat.
“What kind of business deal was this?” she asked then.
He raked a weary hand through his hair. “An investment deal for the construction of an electronics plant in China. As I said, your father discovered that the Hong Kong firm was running a scam.”
“So what is your part in all this, then?” It didn’t make sense. Why should Blake be involved? He hadn’t worked with her father for years. It was only coincidence they were in Malaysia at the same time.
His mouth curved down, as if he mocked himself. “I was the unfortunate bystander propelled into a rescue mission,” he said dryly.,
“Unfortunate bystander?” What was that supposed to mean?
He quirked a dark brow. “You don’t think I went through this exercise just for the fun of it, do you?”
“No, of course not. Abducting your ex-wife to entertain her for the evening—what a nightmare of an idea.”
He gave her an impenetrable look, saying nothing.
“So why did you do it?” she asked harshly. “Why not let them take me? Why did you care?” It was a bitchy, bitter question and she was sorry the moment the words were out. She was not a bitchy, bitter person. Oh, God, she sure hoped not.
He stared at her, a sudden, hot flash of anger in his eyes. “Oh,” he answered coldly, “I always rescue maidens in distress. Besides, I found myself with nothing better to do for the evening.”
The flash of anger disturbed her. He was a man of superb control, but her nasty remark had hit him wrong. She took another sip of the whiskey. The only way to drink the stuff was to consider it medicine and she felt in need of some sort of potion to stabilize her wrecked equilibrium.
“How did you know about all of this? I mean, if you’re not involved.”
He grimaced. “By sheer coincidence. I happened to . overhear a conversation. I had trouble believing what I was hearing, but there was only one conclusion to be drawn.” He shrugged and took a long drink from his whiskey.
“What conversation? Who was talking?”
“I was in a restaurant at the Hilton, waiting to meet a friend for dinner. He was late and two men at the next table were talking. I heard your father’s name and consequently gave them my full attention, which was fortunate. They discussed their plans to have you escorted to Hong Kong tonight. Some hired help was going to do the honors. It seemed a good idea for me to abandon friend and dinner and to abort the gentlemen’s plans if I wasn’t too late already.” He tossed back the last of his drink. “Just a cosmic little joke for me to overhear this,” he finished derisively.
Characteristically, he’d told her the story in a few brief sentences. He’d never been a man of many words. He rubbed his neck. “We’d better call your father. He told me he’d be in Singapore tonight. Do you know which hotel he’s staying at?”
“The Mandarin,” she said, feeling numb. It was too much to grasp, this outrageous story. Not so outrageous. You read similar tales in the papers, heard them on TV It just seemed crazy because it was happening to her. There was no reason to think Blake was lying. She finished the whiskey and put down the glass.
Blake had asked information for her father’s hotel number and was dialing. He held out the receiver to her.
“You want to talk to him first?”
She shook her head. “You know what happened. You tell him.” She listened as he told her father what had happened, assuring her father she was safely with him at the hotel. There was silence for a while.
“Yes, of course. No problem,” Blake said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you know” He handed the receiver to Nicky. “He wants to talk to you.”
She took in a deep breath to steady herself.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Thank God you’re all right” His voice sounded rough with emotion. “I’ll get the police on this immediately. I had no idea they’d go to these lengths, but they’ll pay hell for this. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Who are these people doing this? What kind of people are they? Dad, I want you to tell me!”
“It’s complicated, princess. I misjudged the seriousness of it, and if something would have happened to you I would never have forgiven myself.”
Getting a clear answer was too much to hope for.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you, either, Dad!” Again that shrill tone in her voice. “Please be careful!”
“Oh, I’ll be careful. Don’t you worry about me. But do me a favor. You’ve got to get out of town. Do what Blake tells you to do.”
Do what Blake tells you to do. She would have laughed if she hadn’t felt so shaky. Her father would trust Blake, of course. They’d worked together for five years and they’d always liked and respected each other. The divorce had not had her father’s blessing.
“Nicky, promise me!”
“I can take care of myself, Dad!” It was an automatic response, and not a very smart one under the circumstances. She glanced over at Blake who’d poured himself another Scotch and was gazing out over the city, his back turned to her. Strong, straight shoulders, lean torso, long legs firmly planted on the floor. A man to reckon with. She closed her eyes briefly, hearing her father’s voice over the phone.
“Nicky, I don’t want to have to worry about you, do you understand?” His voice held command, but the underlying tension was audible. “I want to know you’re safe!”
She swallowed a nervous little laugh. Safe. How safe was she in the presence of her ex-husband? How safe was she from her own tormented emotions?
“Nicky?” There was a desperate sound in her father’s voice and her heart cringed. She closed her eyes.
“All right, Dad, if that’s what you want.” Her father had enough problems without having to worry about her.
He let out an audible sigh. “Good girl. Now I’d better call the police.”
Good girl. She winced. Well, no matter.
Blake turned as she put the receiver down. “Got answers to your questions?” he asked.
“It wasn’t what you’d call a very satisfactory conversation,” she said irritably.
“This isn’t a very satisfactory situation,” he returned dryly.
He was probably as delighted to be here with her as she was to be here with him. “I’ll have another drink,” she said, and caught a sudden spark of humor in his eyes, gone in an instant. He poured her another measure of whiskey and handed it to her without comment.
“Thank you.” She took a big gulp, wincing.
“Take it easy, Nicky,” he said mildly.
In answer, she glared at him and took another swallow.
He picked up the menu. “This little adventure has left me ravenous,” he commented. “I’ll order us some dinner from room service. What would you like?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve eaten all day. I’ve been sampling street food for an article I’m writing.” And even if she hadn’t eaten all day, she couldn’t imagine wanting anything now. She felt as if she were thrown into a nightmare and couldn’t get out. She raked her hand through her hair. She felt dirty and sticky and she didn’t even have a comb to fix her hair. She didn’t even have her purse. It was sitting on the living room sofa on top of her notebook.
She felt naked without her purse—no identification, no money, no credit cards. The magnitude of her helplessness flooded through her like the heat of the whiskey. Oh, God, what was she going to do?
“What should I be doing now?” she asked, feeling like a helpless child, sitting there on the side of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap like a timid schoolgirl, and he, standing, towering over her. She wasn’t used to asking anybody what to do. She was an independent, mature person and she usually knew what to do.
“Nothing, for the time being,” he said, studying the room service menu. “Relax.”
“Relax? Oh, sure, I’ll relax,” she said, trying to inject mockery into her tone, but it came out shakily, her voice trembling.
He glanced down at her face, and in the silence she glimpsed a softening in his eyes, a brief hesitation. He reached out and touched her cheek in a fleeting caress. “Everything will be all right, Nicky. You’re safe. And your father knows how to take care of himself.”
She dropped her gaze to her hands clenched in her lap. Her throat closed at the sudden gentleness in his voice, the touch of his warm hand on her cheek. She didn’t want to feel this way, this yearning to be held by him, to find comfort from the fear that clutched at her heart.
She swallowed hard. “I have nothing with me,” she said miserably. “No money, no clothes.” She glanced up at him. “Would you mind getting me a room in this place so at least I can shower and sleep? Tomorrow I’ll figure out what to do and pay you back.”
“You’re staying right here tonight,” he said calmly. “We might have been followed here and I’m taking no risks with you in a room by yourself.”
I don’t want to be alone with you, came the automatic reply. But it stayed silent in her head. She fought to be calm and rational and not let her emotions create havoc.
“I’m not your responsibility,” she said huskily. Her hands shook and she put the glass down.
His eyes held hers. “I’m making you my responsibility,” he said with calm authority.
Her father had asked him to take care of her, no doubt. Do what Blake tells you to do, he’d told her. “I suppose my father asked you over the phone. You could have told him to figure out something else, you know.”
He gave her an odd look. “There’s not much I would not do for your father.”
She stared at him. “What do you mean?”
His expression was a mingling of surprise and impatience. “Come on, Nicky, you know why I admire and respect him.” He hesitated for a moment. “He’s been more of a father to me than my own ever was.”
She felt a sudden constriction in her throat. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” she said.
Blake frowned. “How could you not know?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I... you never told me you felt about him that way.”
She’d known they’d liked each other, of course. What she hadn’t known was the extent of Blake’s feelings for her father. Blake’s own father had left him and his mother when Blake had been five. He’d seen him all of three times since.
She drained her glass. She was exhausted and her head felt dizzy with the whiskey. Her capacity for rational thought and decisive action was severely limited, so for the moment she had little choice but to go along with what Blake suggested.
He gestured to the bathroom door. “Have a shower. It will make you feel better. There’s a bathrobe behind the door.” He picked up the phone. “Are you sure you don’t want something? A cup of mint tea with honey, maybe?”
Her heart made an odd little leap. She swallowed. “All right, yes. I’d like that.” Mint tea, after all, was good for the digestion. She came to her feet and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She leaned against the cool tile wall and took in a deep breath. So he remembered she liked mint tea with honey. What did that mean except that he had a good memory? They’d been married for two years. Surely he remembered things about her likes and disk likes. After all, didn’t she remember plenty about him?
She stripped off her clothes, taking in the sumptuous bathroom, the marble floor, the thick fluffy towels and the array of luxury toiletries, compliments of the hotel.
She filled the tub and put in some fragrant bath oil. Why take a shower when she could have a leisurely bath? It would relax her; it always did.
Except this time. Her head was too full of fearful questions and nervous apprehension. Would her father really be all right? What about her being in this room tonight? She felt like a nervous wreck thinking about being alone with Blake.
Blake who was still the same, and yet so different. He was still the same utterly attractive, man she had fallen in love with. He was also harder and colder. And the shine of laughter in his eyes was no longer there.
A knock came on the bathroom door and startled her. “Your tea is here. You want it in there?”
Her pulse leapt. “No, thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.”
She let the tub drain, turned on the shower and shampooed her hair and rinsed off. It was good to feel clean again. The huge towel felt soft and luxurious. She wrapped another towel around her wet hair and pulled on one of the two hotel robes behind the door. Bundling up her clothes, she went back into the bedroom.
“Do you think we can get these washed by tomorrow morning?” she asked.
He glanced up from his newspaper. “Sure.” He reached for the phone. “Anything else you need? A toothbrush?”
She nodded. “Please.” She sat down at the table and poured the tea from a small pot and stirred in some honey while Blake was on the phone. Her body felt tense, her nerves frayed. She sipped the hot tea, surveying the dishes on the table, as yet covered and untouched. He had waited for her before eating. Always the gentleman. She moaned inwardly. Oh, God, she didn’t want to think about the past, about what had been.
He put the phone down and sat across from her at the table and took the covers off the plates, exposing an Oriental noodle dish with huge shrimp and a salad.
“It looks good,” she said for something to say.
“You can have some if you like.”
“No, thanks.” She sipped the fragrant tea. “You remembered I like mint tea,” she heard herself say.
His eyes met hers across the table. “Of course I do, Nicky,” he said, his mouth twisting in an odd little smile. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know, I just...” Her voice faltered. “I just didn’t think it would be something you’d remember.”
“I remember a lot. More than is comfortable.” He picked up fork and glanced down at his food.
Her heart contracted. She remembered, too, and it certainly wasn’t comfortable. She stared into her cup, wondering about the sleeping arrangements, what he had in mind. There was only the one bed, king-size as it might be. They could easily sleep in it together and never know the other one was in it.
Sure, sure. She closed her eyes and swallowed more tea. She could suggest she sleep on the floor, or in one of the chairs. He wouldn’t let her. She knew him well enough. There was something terribly unreal about this situation.
“You look tired,” he said, surveying her face.
“I am. I was on my feet practically all day.”
“Tell me about your article.”
So she did, feeling relieved to have her thoughts distracted. “Have you ever eaten snake?” she asked, remembering seeing the creatures for sale in the market that morning—a lifetime ago.
“Tastes like chicken. Quite good.”
She grimaced. “It’s all in my head, I know, but I’m not ready for that adventure.”
Blake had finished his food and leaned back in his chair, only to come to his feet again when a knock came on the door. A smiling maid stated she had come to pick up the laundry. She had barely left when another one delivered a toothbrush.
As he once more closed and locked the door, Blake tossed Nicky the toothbrush. “If you want to go to sleep, go ahead. Would it bother you if I watched the news on TV for a while? I’ll turn it low.”
“No, of course not.” It was, after all, his room. “Where do you want me to sleep?” she asked.
He raised a dark brow. “In the bed, of course.”
“And you?”
“In the bed, too. Where else? Plenty of space. I’m sure we can manage. We have done this before, remember?”
Her heart lurched. “That was quite a while ago.” She sounded nervous. “And we were married.”
He gave her an impenetrable look. “Don’t stand there like a frightened virgin, for God’s sake. Don’t worry, I won’t force myself on you. I never have and I won’t now.”
Heat washed over her—a rush of anger, of memories, of embarrassment. No, he had never forced himself on her. All he had to do was smile his special smile, touch her softly, kiss her—anything at all and she was instantly aflame. Oh, God, she did not know if she would survive the night with him next to her in bed. She forced herself to be calm.
“Good,” she said tightly. “I’ll dry my hair and brush my teeth.”
“There’s toothpaste in my toiletry kit, and dental floss. Help yourself.” So cool, so calm.
“Thank you.” She swung around and went into the bathroom, feeling her legs trembling. She saw herself in the mirror, flushed, her eyes bright. A nervous virgin. She was pathetic!
She gritted her teeth, dragged the towel from her head and reached for the dryer mounted to the wall. She switched it on full, using her fingers to comb through her hair and lift it to dry it, the noise of the dryer an odd comfort. Her chest felt tight and for a terrible moment she was afraid she might break out in tears for a reason she couldn’t even fathom. Concentrating on the whining noise of the hair-dryer, she managed to control herself and the moment passed.
Her hair was very short and naturally curly and it didn’t take long to dry. She took the toothbrush from its box and looked around to locate Blake’s black leather toiletry kit, the same functional model he’d had years ago, but probably a newer version. A hairbrush lay beside it. Hesitating, she picked it up and used it to give her hair a quick going over now that it was dry.
The toiletry kit stood open and she took out the toothpaste and brushed her teeth, then searched for the small box of floss. It seemed to be an oddly intimate thing to be going through his kit, but he’d told her to do it. There was nothing but the usual stuff inside—a razor, a can of shaving foam, antiperspirant, aspirin, some first aid cream, his toothbrush and the dental floss. She took it out, cut off a piece and tossed the box back into the kit.
Back in the room she found Blake watching CNN, his shoes and socks off, bare feet propped up on the bed. Even his feet still looked familiar. She’d be able to pick them out of a thousand other pairs.
She stood in front of the bed, hesitating. Now, she could casually take off the bathrobe and slide between the sheets, but it was more than she was prepared to do with him having a front row seat for the show. When they’d been married she’d never worn anything to bed, but they were no longer married and if she was going to sleep in the same bed with him she was damn well going to wear something.
“Do you have something I can sleep in?” she asked. “A T-shirt?”
He gazed at her for a moment, as if her simple request needed digesting. Then he gestured at the dresser. “Second drawer on the right. The blue one is good and long.”
Was he making fun of her? She couldn’t tell. She found the T-shirt, went back into the bathroom and pulled it on. It was a good thing he was big and she was so small. The T-shirt reached almost mid-thigh.
“Charming,” he commented as she came back into the room. There was unexpected humor in his voice. “Do you honestly think that thing is going to keep me from ravishing you if I felt so inclined?”
“Oh, shut up,” she snapped.
He laughed. “Go to sleep, woman, you’re overwrought.”
It was easier said than done. The bed was comfortable, the sheets cool and crisp, but her body was tense. She listened to the soft murmur of the television. It seemed ages before he turned it off. Had he been waiting for her to be asleep before coming to bed? She heard him move around, go into the bathroom, heard the shower running.
She pictured him standing in the falling water, naked, wet, soapy, bubbles clinging to the hair on his chest. It was so easy to visualize. She knew everything about that body, the way it felt pressed intimately against hers. A wave of memories washed over her and her body reacted with treacherous need.
Her heart pounding, she jerked upright in bed.
This was crazy. She was crazy. She could not stay here. She should call someone. Who? She didn’t even have any clothes to put on. Oh, God, this was like a bad movie.
The shower was turned off. She scooted back under the covers, eyes closed, body rigid. He was drying himself off, wiping his face, his chest. He was brushing his teeth.
Stop it! Stop it!
The door opened quietly. Footsteps came softly toward the bed. She felt his weight on the mattress, the movements of his body as he made himself comfortable on the other side, heard the click of the lamp as he turned it off.
Silence, punctuated by the throbbing of her heart. She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. After a while she heard Blake’s slow, regular breathing. He was asleep.
She felt an unreasonable, bitter anger. Here he was, asleep, not bothered at all by her being in his bed.
Well, why should he? They’d been married once, but that was over now. He’d probably had ten women since her.
She didn’t want him if he begged her. The thought almost made her laugh out loud. Blake never begged for anything.
She was floating in crystal blue water and the sky bloomed in soft pastels, greeting the rising sun. So beautiful—she sighed with the wonder of it. Gentle waves lapped sensuously against her skin, taking her back to the beach, back to Blake who was waiting for her to come to him.
Pink sand. So beautiful. So soft. She lay down and stretched out her arms to touch the warmth, to touch Blake, pleasure curling languorously through her body.
He felt warm and solid and she snuggled closer against him, his breath brushing her face. The sun rose higher and higher, the air grew hotter and hotter. She murmured his name, breathing in the familiar scent of him, her body flooding with trembling need, wanting him, wanting him.
Trembling need. Dizzying hunger. And an aching sadness. Her fingers tangled in his thick hair, slipped down his neck to his back. It was smooth and strong under her hands. She shifted a little, searching for his mouth, kissing him, hearing the soft groan coming from deep inside him.
It was so wonderful to kiss him, to feel the sweet, seductive yearning. So why this sadness? The soundless tears? As if she knew she would never have what she so desperately craved. As if all of this was just a fragile illusion.
His heart beat against hers. She could feel it against her breast, hear it. So wonderful. Two hearts beating together. She clung to him, closer still, her arms around him. Comfort and bliss. She fought the sadness, wanting only to feel the magic of their bodies together. “Hold me,” she whispered. “Make love to me.”
“Nicky?” A sound from another world, harsh, tortured.
She felt dragged into consciousness, heart racing, darkness everywhere. She gulped in air, disoriented, feeling the roughness of an unshaven chin, the warm skin of a naked body intimately close against her.
Light flooded the room, and she found herself staring into Blake’s smoke-gray eyes. Oh, God, she thought, freezing over. I don’t believe this.
CHAPTER THREE
SHE was over on his side of the bed, intimately nestled against his naked body—an intimacy that left no secrets hidden. She tore herself away. “I... you woke me up,” she muttered inanely.
“Sweetheart, you woke me up,” he said wryly. “Too bad. I was quite enjoying it.”
She’d noticed. “I must have been having a nightmare,” she returned, mortified. “You, in my bed.”
He laughed softly. “Some nightmare. You were kissing me and touching me with quite some passion.”
“I was dreaming of someone else.” She didn’t know where she got the presence of mind to come up with that one.
“I thought you said it was a nightmare. Are you trying to confuse me?”
As if there were even the faintest possibility that she could. She grasped the sheet, her hands clenched into fists. “I don’t remember! I have no idea what I was dreaming or doing. I was sleeping! And then you woke me up!”
He braced his elbow against the mattress and propped his head up on his hand. He observed her with maddening calm. “Right. I apologize. I should have let you finish your...eh, dream.”
“Why didn’t you, if you so enjoyed it?”
His mouth curved. “I am capable of controlling my baser animal instincts.”
“You never did before!”
“I never had to before—with you.” Faint amusement in his voice.
“And why did you now?”
He shrugged. “This was different.”
“So what was different? Why not have a little bonus of free sex?” She didn’t like the way she sounded—the sharp, cynical edge to her voice. It wasn’t her, not really.
One dark eyebrow quirked up. “It was different, for one thing, because you used to be fully conscious, well, most of the time. When you weren’t I could be assured you wouldn’t regret it later, since you, as my loving wife, were willing and wanting any time, anywhere.”
She didn’t know why this should make her feel embarrassed or humiliated, but it did. “You make it sound as if I were some kind of nymphomaniac! You’d be gone for weeks on end! Wasn’t I supposed to want you when you came home?”
He gave a crooked smile. “I’d have been very disappointed if you hadn’t.”
He was making fun of her. She hated him. He was so in control of himself. Always in control. She couldn’t stand it. Always calm and confident. He did not lose his temper. He seldom got angry. He never complained.
“Complaining is a sign of weakness,” he’d once told her. “If you don’t like something, either accept it and go on with your life or do something about it, take action. Don’t waste time moaning about it.”
She’d taken this bit of wisdom to heart and vowed not to be a moaning, complaining wife. Not much good it had done her. It was an unhappy thought. Not that she was complaining, of course.
She moved over further to the very edge of the mattress, feeling the T-shirt twisted up around her waist. She yanked it down as she struggled out of bed. It was four-thirteen, she read on the digital clock next to the bed. In the bathroom she drank a glass of water, wishing she could just walk out of the place, away from Blake, away from the nightmare of being with him again. Her eyes in the mirror looked dark and huge in her pale face.
How could this possibly have happened? How could she still feel like this about him after all these years, knowing it was useless, knowing he could never give her what she really needed ...
She closed her eyes, feeling tears burn behind her lids, seeing his face, the humor in his eyes. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t controlled himself, if they had made love. Then at least she could have had the comfort of not having been the only one losing control.
She groaned inwardly. What was she thinking!
A knock on the door. “Nicky?” Blake’s voice, low but insistent.
“Go away,” she said thickly, remembering she hadn’t locked the door. “Leave me alone.”
He opened the door. He had a kain wrapped around his waist, a sarong with colorful stripes. “Come back to bed.”
She blinked away the tears. “Don’t come barging in here!”
“Just making sure you’re not trying to sleep in the tub,” he said casually. “You can have the bed. I’ll do some work. I’m usually up early anyway.”
She knew that. She knew too damn much for her own comfort. She stared down at her hands gripping the cold edge of the sink, gathering her composure. She raised her head and looked at him. “All right, thank you.” Spoken like a lady. She was proud of herself.
Nothing more was said. She slid back into bed, and he sat at the desk and began to type on his laptop computer. The staccato rhythm was oddly relaxing—a dry click-clack that had nothing to do with emotion and desire.
Bright sunlight awoke her, streaming over her face and body. She struggled against it briefly, turning around and burying her face in the pillow. But consciousness claimed her and with it the knowledge of reality. She lay still and opened her eyes. Blake had pulled back the curtains, and was pouring coffee at the small room-service table that must have been wheeled in while she was still asleep. She’d been dead to the world.

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