An Inconvenient Husband (6 page)

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.

He had shaved and
dressed, was no longer wearing the colorful
kain
wrapped around his
hips. Thank God. The last thing she wanted now was to look at that strong,
tanned chest with its light covering of dark hair, imagining all manner of
things. He wore sand-colored cotton Dockers and a deep blue polo shirt—simple,
comfortable clothes without pretense. Of course, with a man like Blake, no
pretense was necessary: his masculinity needed no help from expensive clothes
or practised behavior. It was there naturally, coming from the inside, from a
deep core of strength.

He moved over to the
bed and she closed her eyes. He sat down on the edge beside her. She smelled
the faint, clean scent of soap and after-shave.

"Nicky? Wake
up."

She had no choice but
to open her eyes and see him looking down at her, his face too close for
comfort. She could see the silvery flecks in his gray eyes, the small lines
fanning out at the corners of his eyes.

"I'm awake,"
she said, her voice husky. She felt overwhelmed with his nearness—his sheer
male energy charging the air around her. She felt the tingle of it on her skin,
felt it skittering through her body.

"Here's some
coffee." His voice was even.

She sat up and glanced
at the cup he was offering her.
Cafe au lait.
Strong and
milky, the way she liked it.

She took the cup from
him. "Thank you."

He'd always been the
early riser, she the late one. He'd always brought her coffee in bed, after
he'd been up already, reading the paper, running, working.

It wasn't quite the
same now as it had been. In the past he wouldn't just say her name to wake her.
He'd kiss her awake—fluttery kisses on her closed eyelids, her mouth. Had he
remembered, too? She saw his face, the dark glitter of emotion in his eyes and
for a moment time stood still.

He remembered.

Of course he
remembered. But what did that matter now? She pushed the memory away, and took
a sip of the hot coffee.

"It's good,"
she said, trying to sound cool, breaking the spell.

He stood up from the
bed, a shuttered look in his eyes now, his face unreadable. "Breakfast is
on the table. Croissants and rolls, and some fruit. I assumed that's all you
wanted."

"Yes. I'll get
washed up."

"There's no
hurry. Finish your coffee first, if you like." She watched him move away
from her, taking in the easy movement of his body. He picked up a newspaper and
sat down, feet propped up on the bed again.

She drank the coffee,
listening to the silence, the restless drumming of her heart, the rustle of the
paper. His face was hidden. In a way this was all so comfortable and familiar,
yet at the same time so nerve-racking and strange. She finished the coffee and
slipped out of the bed. He glanced up and waved at a chair.

"Your clothes are
there."

"I can't believe
I slept through all those comings and goings." She frowned. "I didn't
hear a thing."