An Inconvenient Husband (20 page)

He leaned over her and
looked at her for an endless moment, silent, just looking. There was a
tenderness in his eyes that made her body tremble. Something soft and fragile
began to glow inside her—something beyond the need of her body.

He lowered his mouth
to hers, kissing her slowly, sensuously, as if he had all the time in the
world, as if he wanted it to last forever. His tongue danced a slow waltz with
hers, retreated, stroking her lips, teasing. He moved lower, trailing kisses,
while his hands feathered along her skin, making her body sing, filling her
head with starlight. She made a small sound in her throat, reaching out to
touch him, too, moving a little to gain better access.

She reveled in the
feel and taste of his body, that wonderful body that was all hers now, and he
took her hands and gently put them away from him. "Just be," he
whispered. "Just let me touch you for now."

It was like floating
in music, tasting color and touching waves of golden light. It was like not
feeling her body, feeling only sensations, wondrous sensations.

"This feels so
good," she murmured, "so good."

She felt his smile
against her breast. "And it's going to feel better yet," he promised.

She wriggled beneath
him, skin sliding across skin. "Are you sure?"

He laughed softly.
"Oh, yes I'm sure."

And he went on to
create his magic, and she went on drifting in sensual sensations that knew no
time and place, that filled her every cell until she was so full, so full of
exquisite pleasure she could no longer keep it for herself.

She lifted her arms
and pulled his face to hers, sliding her lips against his. "I want.. .1
need to touch you," she whispered breathlessly.

And she touched him,
creating new pleasures for herself as well as for him, and they clung together
in breathless need, melding together in a dance of rapture, faster and faster,
up to the edge of passion where they trembled, lost the rhythm, and tumbled
together through a heaven of bliss.

She drifted into
consciousness slowly, lazily, aware of a wonderful sense of well-being. The bed
was comfortable, the morning air wafting through the windows clean and fresh.

An arm touching her.

Stop the floating
upward. There was danger waiting on the surface. She wanted to stay down, to
feel the warmth and dreamlike trance—a space in her mind where there was no
time and place, only sunshine and the joyous sense that all was right and
euphoric.

She snuggled against
the warmth, feeling him stir against her, reaching for her. His hand on her
breasts, his mouth kissing her.

Drifting. Floating
slowly back into paradise.

Afterward she thought
it must all have been a dream and she didn't want to wake up.

"Don't get
up," Blake whispered, kissing her softly. "I'll bring you
coffee."

The words touched the
fringes of her consciousness, lingering. Familiar words. Familiar voice. She
smiled into the pillow, delicious languor pervading her body. She didn't want
to open her eyes.

Later there was bright
sunshine and the sounds of birds singing. The smell of freshly brewed coffee.
She kept her eyes closed and sighed. It was good here in the big bed. She
savored the feeling of drowsy contentment—her body felt so whole, so...sated.
She stretched a little and sighed again lazily.

Laughter, low and
amused. "Wake up, you slothful woman. Here's your breakfast."

She gave a low moan of
protest and opened her eyes. Blake stood by the bed, a
kain
wrapped around his hips, a tray in his hands. It took an effort to move into a
sitting position. She covered her mouth and yawned.

His eyes held
amusement as he deposited the tray on her lap, and leaned forward to kiss her.
His mouth was warm and firm, his tongue teasing her lips. "Are you
awake?"

"Mmm... I think
so. I smell coffee."

He chuckled and
straightened away from her. She glanced down, taking in the cup of strong,
milky coffee, the golden French toast swimming in honey, the sliced papaya.
"Oh, wow," she said. "Nobody has fixed me breakfast in bed in
years and years." Only Blake had ever done that.

Only Blake.

She glazed at the tray
on her lap, remembering again the mornings he'd brought her breakfast,
remembering all the nights of their married life when everything between them
had still been good, when she had felt loved and whole.

Remembering last
night.

Shades of yesteryear,
when love had been real.

She was sitting up in
Blake's bed, naked, a tray on her lap, feeling her heart fill with ashes. With
one hand she tugged at the sheet, pulling it up from under the tray on her lap
and covering her breasts.

For one night reality
had been suspended. One night out of time. One night of magic. It was not
enough to change the truth.

Blake didn't really
need her, he never had. He could do without her. She was just convenient. And
once this was over they would go their separate ways and probably never meet
again. Right now, she was just convenient, as she had been convenient when
they'd been married.

No, she thought
desperately, not again. Not ever again. Her throat closed. Her hands shook and
she clamped them around the edge of the tray. She wished she were alone, to
deal with her thoughts, to harness the sudden panic rising in her. She wished
he would leave.

"Nicky? What's
wrong?"

She swallowed
convulsively. "I'm not hungry."

"Just like
that?"

She nodded, afraid to
look at him, afraid to see his face, to see the memories of love in his eyes. I
can't let this happen to me, she thought desperately. I can't go through it all
again.

She lifted the tray.
"Just put it on the table, I'll eat it later." Her voice sounded thin
and unreal, as if it didn't belong to her at all. He didn't take the tray from
her and she let it rest on her lap again. "I'm not ready to

get up yet," she
added, hoping that he would go and leave her alone.

"I want to know
what's wrong," he said softly.

She shook her head
numbly.

"I'm not leaving
until you tell me, Nicky."

She knew him well
enough to know it made no sense to object or refuse, but she couldn't help
herself. "You have no right to demand I tell you anything," she said,
but it did not sound convincing.

"I have the right
to know why suddenly, after a night like last night, you act as if some
disaster has befallen you. Was it something I said? Or did?"

No, it wasn't.
Everything had been right and perfect and wonderful beyond words.

A fantasy not rooted
in reality.

She stared blindly at
the tray on her lap. "It was a mistake. It was my fault. I shouldn't have
cooked that dinner, it—"

"What are you
talking about?"

"Last
night." She took in a shuddering breath. "It was too much like...
like before."

"Like when we
were married," he said quietly.

She nodded.

"And what was
wrong with that?"

"Because it
wasn't real last night! It was just.. .like acting out an old story."

"I rather liked
the old story," he said evenly. "But I don't believe either one of us
was acting last night. It was very real to me." He took her hand.
"Nicky, look at me. Tell me, what went wrong with the old story?"

She gulped in air.
"You didn't need me. I mean, not really."

There was a silence.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Nicky," he said softly.

"Just what I
said. It was always.. .good when you came home and I was there to make things
special. But

when I wasn't there,
it didn't matter to you. I was convenient, but not essential." Bitterness
spilled over in her voice. She could taste it in her mouth. "You didn't
need me at all. You did just fine without me." She looked down at the
tray, silent. The coffee was getting cold. The French toast was getting cold.
The air shivered with tension.

"I did just fine
without you?" he repeated slowly. "How could you possibly know how I
was doing when you weren't around?"

She felt an upsurge of
uncontrollable emotion. She lifted her gaze to meet his. "You were never
even home when I called you! Not even at three in the night!" She jerked
upright, knocking over the coffee. The tray slid off the bed, crashed onto the
floor. Food went flying everywhere. She was beyond caring, beyond reason. All
she was feeling was the old anguish searing her soul. Her whole body trembled
with it. "Where were you at night? Where did you sleep and with
whom?"

CHAPTER
TEN

Nicky
had never found an
answer to that question. She'd never asked him. She remembered lying in bed in
Sophie's spacious apartment in Rome, calculating the time it was in Washington.
Four o'clock in the night in Rome, ten in the evening at home. Blake should be
home.

She hadn't seen Blake
in months and she couldn't stand it anymore. She was going to tell him she was
coming home, that she missed him too much. She loved him. She wanted to be with
him.

If only he loved her,
too. If only he missed her and wanted to be with her.

She slipped out of bed
and tiptoed into the living room so as not to wake Sophie, who slept so lightly
these days, afraid she wouldn't hear the baby. Using her phone card so her own
number would be charged, Nicky dialed and waited.

The phone rang. Once,
twice. The answering machine picked up on the fourth ring. Saying nothing,
Nicky put the receiver down, her chest tight. Blake wasn't there. Maybe he was
in the shower and hadn't heard the phone ringing. Maybe he was having dinner at
the house of friends and not yet home. She'd wait half an hour and try again.

She watched the
minutes go by on the clock, trying to read a magazine, not even seeing it was
in Italian, which she couldn't read, until several minutes later. After twenty
minutes she couldn't stand it anymore and dialed again.

No one picked up.

Don't be stupid, she
told herself. Go to bed. Go to sleep.

She flitted in and out
of slumber, stirring back into wakefulness when she heard the baby crying. She
lay still, listening to the movement of feet, the sound of hushed voices. The
baby stopped crying.

It was almost six.
That made it almost midnight at home. He'd be sleeping. She'd wake him. I don't
care, she thought, and slipped on her robe. Quietly she moved back to the
living room and picked up the phone once again, her hands shaking as she
punched in the numbers. Again the click of the answering machine at the fourth
ring. She put the receiver down and hugged herself. Huddling in the corner of
the sofa, she tried not to panic. What if he'd been in an accident? What if he
was in the hospital? In pain? Dying?

It was all her fault.
She should have been home, where she belonged.

She made herself wait
to call Blake again until after she'd dressed and had breakfast. It was now
one-thirty in the night in Washington, and again the phone rang and rang. There
was a telephone right next to Blake's side of the bed; there was no way he
could not hear it, no matter how deeply he slept.

She put the receiver
down and took in an unsteady breath, clasping her hands tightly together in her
lap. Sophie, still in her robe, came into the room on her bare feet and sat
down next to her.

She gave a wan smile.
She looked tired. "He's not there?" she asked unnecessarily.

"No," Nicky
said dully.

At noon, when it was
six in the morning in Washington, she called again. No answer. Later again, she
called the World Bank, where a snotty secretary informed her Blake was in a
meeting and could not be disturbed.

Her heart turned over.
Blake was at work. He was not dead or in the hospital. A wave of relief washed
over her, followed by new apprehension. Where had he been all night?

"Just tell him
his wife called from Rome," she told the secretary and hung up.

She was beginning to
feel like a neurotic wife, suspicious and angry.

She
was
suspicious and angry.

Three hours later,
Blake called her.

"Nicky? I had a
message you called."

"Yes." She
swallowed.
I'm coming home,
she wanted to say, but something kept her from
saying the words.
I
miss you.
How often had she said those words? Countless times,
when she called him while he was in hotel rooms far away, gone for weeks on his
business trips.
I love you, I miss you. I can't wait for you to be home again.
Such delicious anticipation, always- counting the days, dreaming, fantasizing.