An Inconvenient Husband (2 page)

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."

"Why?"

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.