An Inconvenient Husband (23 page)

Nicky felt anger creep
through her. "The nature of my relationship with Blake is none of your
business and I have no intention of discussing it with you." Who did Ghita
think she was, for heaven's sake?

"Perhaps not, but
let me just tell you that if you harbor any hopes for permanency with Blake,
you'd do yourself a big favor by abandoning them."

"I remember you
telling me that before, yes. And why is that?"

"Because he's not
getting married again."

"And how do you
know that?"

Ghita laughed dryly.
"Believe me, I know. He won't even marry me, and I've loved him for years
and years." She looked away, and Nicky saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes.
"I can't believe this," Ghita went on in a tight, low voice. "I
can't believe what this woman did to him!"

Nicky stiffened. This
woman. His wife. Her.

"What did she do
to him?" What possessed her to ask the question?

Anger leapt into
Ghita's dark eyes. "She destroyed him! He was here, shortly after she told
him she wanted a divorce, and I hardly recognized him. I thought he had died
but was still walking. I... I..." Her voice trailed away and she looked
helplessly down at her hands clasped in her lap.

"Excuse me,"
said Nicky, and came to her feet. She almost ran back into the house, only to
practically collide with the subject of their discussion. Her heart leapt in
her throat. She wanted to cry. She wanted to die. She wanted to wake up out of
this nightmare from the past.

He steadied her with a
hand on her shoulder, looking at her with narrowed eyes. "What's
wrong?"

She was trembling. She
gulped in air. "Nothing," she said thickly, praying for composure.
She took in another deep breath. "You're back," she stated
unnecessarily. "How's Ali?"

He studied her face,
frowning. "He'll be all right, but they wanted to keep him for
observation."

Mrs. Patel, who'd
escorted him into the sitting room, offered drinks and invited them to stay for
dinner, which Blake declined, saying he was dirty and tired and not fit for
company.

A short time later
they were back in the car on the way back home. The sun was setting, bathing
the scenery in a pale golden glow. The world seemed calm and peaceful, which
was not a feeling Nicky was experiencing sitting next to the quiet Blake.

"Where's
Ramyah?" she asked.

"She's with Ali.
She'll stay the night at the house of relatives in Ipoh." A few more details
followed. Then silence reigned again. It was not a comfortable silence. The
confrontation in Blake's bedroom earlier that afternoon was still alive between
them.

Unfinished business,
she thought. He's going to want to talk some more. She pressed her eyes shut
and leaned back in the car seat, her chest heavy with apprehension.

It was completely dark
when they arrived at the house. Inside Blake turned on the living room lights
and asked if she wanted a drink.

"I'll wait,"
she said, rubbing her bare arms. "I want to have a shower first, and put
on something warmer."

The evening chill had
set in and she felt cold in her thin cotton dress.

The shower felt good,
and she tried to let the warm water sooth the tension out of her, but wasn't
successful. Her frazzled nerves were beyond soothing. She wished she could just
go to bed and avoid seeing Blake for the rest of the evening. But it was still
early and they hadn't had anything to eat yet. She pulled on one of Lisette's
roomy sweat suits against the cool night and went back to the living room.
Blake was sitting in a chair, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was not
reading or doing anything, just sitting there with the almost-empty glass in
his hand.

He glanced at her as
she came into the room. "Did you ever get that thorn out of your
hand?" he asked.

"Actually, no.
It's still in there."

"Let me
see."

She showed him her
hand. "It's nothing."

He held her hand and
examined it. "I'll get the tweezers. It doesn't look happy."

It was not worth
arguing over, so she said nothing while he tried to extract the little
splinter, which was being terribly stubborn. He was very close and she studied
his face as he concentrated on her hand—the planes and angles, the lines
fanning out at the corners of his eyes, the beginning of a beard stubble. She
loved that face.

I
thought he had died but was still walking.
Ghita's voice came back to her. She
bit her lip and tears sprang up in her eyes. Oh, God, she thought, what did I
do to him?

Blake glanced up at
her. "Am I hurting you?"

"Yes, no."
She bit her lip. "Don't worry about it. Just get it out." Please just
get it out. She felt like she was going to shatter into a million pieces. Not
because of the thorn, although it didn't feel exactly wonderful to have him
digging into her hand.

He was so close. She
could reach out and put her hands on his hair. If she leaned a little closer
she could touch his face with her own.

He straightened away
from her. "Got it. Stubborn little sucker."

"Thank you."
Her voice sounded thick.

"I'm sorry I hurt
you."

She shook her head.
"It's nothing." She came to her feet. "I'll find us something to
eat." There was a hollow feeling inside her—painful. Maybe it was just
hunger. Maybe not.

He tossed back the
last of his drink. "You want some help?"

She shook her head.
"I'll do something simple. Are you very hungry?"

"No. Something
simple will be fine."

So polite. So calm on
the surface. Underneath the words she felt a storm of emotions brewing. She was
relieved to be alone in the kitchen and she took her time washing lettuce and
cutting up cold chicken and cheese and slicing mushrooms and onions and
tomatoes.

She was just about
finished when he came into the kitchen, bringing with him a fresh scent of
soap. His hair was damp and he wore a clean pair of jeans and a pale gray
sweatshirt. He looked so good. She closed her eyes. Why did he have to look
so—so overwhelmingly... male?

He poured them a glass
of wine and they ate the salad, but she hardly tasted anything and she had
trouble swallowing. She drank the wine and had another glass.

When they were
finished eating, he came to his feet, cleared the table and rinsed the dishes,
leaving them in the sink.

"I think we have
a conversation to finish," he stated, turning to face her.

Her heart leapt in her
throat. She'd known it was coming, yet she didn't feel prepared. She never
would be. She followed him into the sitting room.

She sat down on the
sofa and he lowered himself next to her. "We never did much talking about
what went on in our marriage, did we?" he asked.

"No. We weren't
home enough, I suppose."

"But when we were
home, we didn't, either. I was never aware we had any problems when we were
home together." He paused. "When we were home together, we were
happy. That's all I ever remember. Being happy."

Her throat closed and
she couldn't say a word. It was true. Whenever they'd been together, she'd been
happy.

"I want to
know," he went on, the words coming out with difficulty, ' 'whenever we
were home together, were you ever unhappy? Was there something I didn't see?"

She shook her head,
and still her throat would make no sound.

"When then did
things go wrong? When did you start being unhappy?"

She swallowed at the
constriction in her voice. "When we weren't together anymore."

He stared at her.
"And a divorce was a solution for that?"

"No." She
closed her eyes briefly. "I thought you didn't care that we never saw each
other anymore. I asked for a divorce to shake you up, to wake you up." She
gulped in air, feeling overwhelmed by the memories— the old pain and anger.
"And you didn't even fight it!" she went on, her voice rising.
"I wanted you to refuse, to fight it. I..." She could not go on. She
felt a sob struggle in her throat as she looked at him.

She saw the color
leave his face. "Nicky," he said hoarsely, "what are you saying?
Are you telling me you didn't
want
a divorce?"

CHAPTER TWELVE

The
moment of truth.
Blake's question hovered between them, alive and quivering.

"Yes! No! I
mean—" Her lungs dragged in air. "No, I didn't want a divorce."
The admission struggled painfully out of her.

"Why in God's
name did you tell me you wanted one?"

"I wanted to
shake you up!" Desperation in her voice.

"Shake
me up!
His voice was low with shock. "Oh, Nicky, I was plenty shaken up!"

Her whole body went
rigid. "I didn't know! You didn't tell me! I wanted you to tell me what
you felt, what you wanted! I wanted you to
care!'

"Oh, my
God," he whispered. "Oh, my God, Nicky, this is insane! What made you
think I didn't care?"

Her mouth felt dry.
She swallowed with difficulty. "For one thing, you signed the papers. You
didn't even come home. If you cared, why didn't you fight the divorce?"

He gave a harsh little
laugh. "I wasn't going to keep you against your will! If you didn't want
to be with me, if you wanted out, what choice did I have but let you go?"

"Just
like that?"

He shoved his hands
into his pockets and his face worked. "No, not just like that, Nicky. You
hadn't been home with me for God knows how long. Do you think I want a woman
who doesn't want me?"

I
did want you
!
she cried out silently, but the words stayed frozen in her mind. The terrible
truth was slowly sinking in. Her own fear and insecurity had made her play a
dangerous game in the hope Blake would do what she wanted him to do. She'd
tried to force a response from him. She'd been testing him.

Testing him.

Was that what she'd
been doing?

Of course that's what
she'd been doing. Testing him to see what he would do if she wasn't there for
him, to see if he really wanted her. If he would call and tell her to come
home...

But he had not known
the rules; he had not known what was in her mind and thoughts. And eventually
the game had taken on a life of its own and swept her along on a tidal wave of
emotion.

And in the end it had
been fatal.

The silence was
suffocating her. She struggled for air. "You thought I didn't want
you?" she whispered finally. It had never occurred to her that he might
think that, that he would not know how much she loved him. She'd told him
countless times, written it in cards and notes, said it over the phone. Until
pain and anger had taken over and she had stopped.

A muscle jerked in his
cheek. "What else was I supposed to think, Nicky? You were clearly
avoiding being home when I was. Always, there was another reason, another
excuse for you to be away. The first couple of times it was because of your
mother. I understood that, of course. Then it was Sophie." He shrugged.
"I had more trouble with that, knowing that she has a slew of relatives to
give her aid and comfort. But I had no intention to interfere, if this is what
you wanted." His jaw hardened. "After that...it was that special
two-week cooking course in New York you so very suddenly had to attend for the
exact two weeks that I would be home after my trip to Guatemala." His eyes
were dark with stormy emotion.

She said nothing,
feeling a heavy weight of shame and regret. Such a terrible, destructive game
she had played— only she hadn't seen it then. She remembered making bargains
with God as she was getting ready to go to New York. Please, let him tell me he
misses me and can't wait to see me again. If he says anything of the kind, I
won't go. I'll stay right here and make everything special for us, like it used
to be.

When he had called
she'd been out, and the message on the answering machine had been short and
businesslike, giving her his flight number and saying he'd take a taxi home
from the airport if she'd be unable to pick him up. There'd been nothing about
looking forward to seeing her, nothing about having missed her. And that after
months of separation.

He doesn't care, she'd
thought, and she'd felt something freeze inside her. She'd gone into the
bedroom and packed her suitcase to go to New York. How could she be with him at
home when she didn't think he loved her anymore?

Blake rubbed his
forehead. "Nicky, why did you do that? Why did you go to New York? And
don't tell me that course was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

Her heart cringed. The
course had been real enough, but it hadn't been important. In New York she'd
managed to be even more miserable than she'd been in Rome. She'd hoped Blake
would have come to see her for the weekend, if not to ask her to come home. He
had not. Again she had called him at all hours of the night, and again he had
not been home.