An Inconvenient Husband (19 page)

"I only eat good
stuff."

His mouth quirked.
"Right. Mocha mousse with whipped cream, and the like."

"That's for
special occasions only." She felt a hard knot of pain in the pit of her
stomach. Special occasions like homecomings and wedding anniversaries.

He gave a half smile.
"Don't feel you have to wait for a special occasion—if the spirit moves
you, make us some mocha mousse one night."

"Without a
special occasion, the spirit won't move," she said curtly and came to her
feet. "I'm going back to work."

He stood up, as well,
and as she moved past him he reached out and pulled her into his arms. It all
happened so fast, it stunned her for a moment. Then her body registered what
was happening and was instantly aflame.

He kissed her with a
crushing heat—as if he wanted to impress himself on her, brand her with his
need. There was a desperation in that kiss, drawing from her an instinctive
response. She leaned into him, yielding to him.

A timeless moment
later he released her abruptly, and she grabbed dizzily for the counter to
support her.

"Go back to
work," he said gruffly. "Snack time's over."

*  *  *

She stared at the
computer screen, suppressing a hysterical little laugh. Here she was, writing
an article about a love feast, about aphrodisiacs and love potions.

She had to be out of
her mind. The last thing she should be concentrating on was the stirring up of
sexual desires.

All she had to do was
look at Blake and her pulse would speed up. All Blake had to do was kiss her or
touch her and her body reacted automatically, instinctively, as it always had,
from the very moment she had met him. Even now, in spite of all the unhappiness
that separated them, the electric pull, that magical magnetism drawing them
together was still there.

No aphrodisiacs
necessary. No love potions required.

She gathered the
papers and books and dumped them on a shelf to make room on the desk. What she
needed to do was write her article on street food, work out her notes about the
day she had spent in the markets and streets of Kuala Lumpur with Nazirah. No
love involved—no writing about surging passions, sensual desires and erotic
pleasures.

She worked all afternoon,
not emerging from her room until dinner was served.

"Ramyah is off on
Friday." Blake told her as they sat down at the table. "It's the
Muslim holy day. She wants to know if there's anything in particular you'd like
to eat so she can fix it tomorrow and leave it in the fridge for us."

Nicky spread the
napkin on her lap. "She doesn't need to do that. I'll be happy to
cook," she said without thinking. "I need something to do besides
reading and writing." And getting into emotional arguments with you, she
added silently.

He nodded.
"Fine."

To her considerable
relief they managed to eat dinner without tense conversation and toxic
accusations.

After Ramyah had
finished in the kitchen, Nicky went exploring in the freezer, fridge and pantry
to contemplate the possibilities for Friday dinner. There were frozen salmon
steaks, which were tempting, and a frozen duck. Ah, she could do wonders with a
duck! So could the Chinese, she remembered. Endless love recipes, as a matter
of fact. Well, she wasn't concocting any love food—just a nice dinner. She put
the duck in the refrigerator so it would thaw slowly over the next thirty- six
hours or so.

They avoided each
other on Thursday. Blake stayed in the office working most of the day, and she
was in her room writing most of the day. He seemed to have as little appetite
for further emotional skirmishes as she did, which was no surprise. Blake was a
calm, rational person who solved problems in a calm rational manner. The anger
she had witnessed this past week had surprised her.

And his passion.

It was in his eyes, in
his face—a deep, smoldering struggle.

She took a deep breath
and focused on the empty computer screen in front of her. Her problem was that
she was thinking about love too much. She should be working. She called up the
street food article and reread what she had produced earlier that day.

Snakes. That's what
she should be thinking about— a bin full of snakes.

All day Friday she had
the kitchen to herself. It was a joy to do some cooking again and she found
herself humming a cheerful tune as she was chopping lemon zest, stopping in the
middle when she found Blake standing in the door, watching her, his eyes full
of dark shadows.

Her heart made an odd
little leap. "Can I get you something?" she asked, for something to
say.

"No, nothing. I
just need a drink. He moved towards the fridge, took out a bottle of white wine
and poured himself a glass without asking if she wanted any. He then proceeded
to knock the glass over, spilling the wine all over the countertop. Muttering
something unintelligible, he took the dish sponge and mopped up the spill.

"What's
wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing,"
he said tersely. Tossing the sponge in the sink, he turned away abruptly and
marched out of the kitchen without a drink.

She went on mincing
the lemon zest, trying not to let the incident spoil her good mood. She was
enjoying herself. She inhaled the fresh fragrance of lemon. Ah, it was going to
be good.

And it was.

Everything was
perfect. She'd found candles and flowers and a pretty tablecloth. Lisette had
not disappointed her. For all her common sense cotton clothes, she was a
sensualist, too—the food in the pantry, the poetry books on her shelves, and
the wonderful collection of music all attested to that.

Nicky glanced at the
beautifully set table, the flowers, the candles, feeling a sudden trepidation.
What was she doing here?

She'd gone all out,
like she always had.

She closed her eyes.
Why? Why had she done that?

She stood very still,
knowing the answer, admitting the truth to herself, finally.

She loved Blake,
still. She had always loved him, and there was nothing she could do about it. A
painful sense of inevitability took hold of her.

Opening her eyes, she
surveyed the table once more. She could take the candles away, move the flowers
to the coffee table. She struggled with herself, then slowly turned away,
leaving the table as it was.

Blake was on the
veranda, reading. A novel, she noticed. "Dinner is ready," she
announced.

"I'm
coming."

She went back to the
kitchen, took the duck from the oven, sprinkled chopped cilantro over it and
brought it to the table.

"Ah, a royal
repast," Blake said as he sat down. He smiled. "Not that I expected
anything else, of course."

"I had all the
time in the world," she said lightly, "being kidnapped and held
captive in the deep dark forest."

"I did not kidnap
you. I rescued you."

"Right." A
strange feeling gripped her. She remembered his carrying her in his arms,
recalling the odd sense of déjà vu. "I had a recurring dream about you
rescuing me," she said on impulse, "a long time ago."

He poured the wine.
"Rescuing you from what?"

"I have no
idea." She served herself some herbal rice and handed him the bowl.

"When did you
have that dream?"

"When we were
still married." She glanced away. "It was a strange dream."

"And you still
remember it?" He picked up the platter with the pieces of duck resting in
lemon-papaw sauce and held it so she could serve herself.

She nodded, biting her
lip, regretting having mentioned the dream. She didn't want to talk about it.
He must have sensed her reticence because he dropped the subject, asking if
she'd read the book he'd just started this afternoon.

They talked about
books, about music, about the work he had done two months ago in Mozambique. He
was talking, keeping up his end of the conversation, and she wondered if he was
conscious of it, doing it to be courteous, because, after all, she had spent
much effort preparing the food, or if it was just happening naturally.

The meal was delicious
and he ate with appetite, taking a second serving of the duck. "You
haven't lost your touch," he commented, smiling at her. "This is
wonderful."

Her heart gave a
little leap of pleasure. "Thank you."

He was still looking
at her, and she felt a slow heat begin to rise inside her, a quivering
awareness of something more behind his words. She dropped her gaze to her
glass, picked it up and took a drink of the wine.

The tape she'd put on
the stereo clicked off, filling the room with silence. Blake pushed his chair
back. "I'll get it."

He put on another
tape, sat down again and turned his attention back to his food. Melodious
strains of Spanish guitar music drifted through the air. She glanced at his
hands cutting the duck. Such nice hands. She took in a slow breath and searched
for something to say.

"Why were you
angry earlier, when I was cooking in ~ the kitchen?" she asked.

He looked up. "I
wasn't., .angry," he said quietly. "Seeing you there in the kitchen,
enjoying yourself cooking.. .it brought back memories."

Her heart contracted.
Memories, always memories. Everything they said or did brought back memories.

"I remember
coming home after a trip," he said then. "I remember looking forward
to coming home and finding you in the kitchen, cooking, a lacy apron on, your
face flushed. You so enjoyed doing it, and I so enjoyed seeing you this way—not
because I'm an old- fashioned male wanting his woman in the kitchen in a
subservient way, but because you made an art out of it."

"Yes." She
tried to give him an easy smile, but her mouth felt stiff.

"You did it to
please me," he went on. "To make me a home-cooked meal after all the
restaurant fare I'd had for weeks on end." He paused. "I loved seeing
you cooking because you did it because you loved me." Painful, aching longing
in his voice, his face.

She felt a tightness
in her chest. It hurt to hear him say those words, to see the pain of memory in
his face. Or was she just imagining it? Was it only her own emotions she was
transposing?

The music throbbed
softly, sensuously. She put her napkin next to her plate. "I'll get
dessert." Her voice sounded unsteady and she went into the kitchen, taking
in a shuddering breath as she leaned her forehead against the coolness of the
refrigerator. It had been a mistake to cook this meal, to call up the memories.

I
loved seeing you cooking because you did it because you loved me.

She took in a
steadying breath and straightened away from the refrigerator. She was not going
to go to pieces. She was going to get the dessert, go back to the table and
change the subject. Say something funny and frivolous.

She moaned. How was
she going to do that? Well, she'd think of something. Opening the refrigerator
door, she took the two dishes of ginger
bavarois
off the shelf
and nudged the door closed with her elbow. Turning around, she saw Blake coming
into the kitchen.

He took the dishes
from her, looking into her eyes. "Let's have this later," he said
softly.

Her heart lurched.
Another home-coming ritual: dessert in bed, after they'd made love.

Her throat went dry.
Even here she could hear the hypnotizing music floating in the air and she felt
herself begin to tremble. He put the dessert back in the refrigerator, his eyes
not leaving her face. He closed the door and put his arms around her.

"I want
you," he said huskily. "I keep on wanting you all the time. Please
tell me you want me, too."

Soft words, stirring
her blood, quickening her pulse. No air to breathe. Her head felt light and her
knees trembled. Too much wine with dinner. No resistance. Too many memories of
love and passion. So much longing and yearning inside her. Her body aching,
wanting.

It wasn't the wine. It
was a different enchantment, a spell that could never be broken. She closed her
eyes and sighed, sliding her arms around him.

"I want you,
too," she whispered.

She loved him. She
loved him so.

CHAPTER NINE

They
were in his bedroom,
she realized moments later, not knowing how they'd made it there—floating on
air, maybe. He began to take off her clothes, slowly, kissing her skin as he
exposed it little by little—her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, stirring up
inside her a feverish warmth—delicious, agonizing. Her hands shook as she
helped him with his clothes, sliding her hands across his bare skin, touching
soft hair and hard muscles. With a low groan he picked her up and gently
lowered her onto the bed, as if she were fragile and precious, and she felt a
sweetness flow through her like warm honey.