Читать книгу An Inconvenient Husband - Karen Van Der Zee - Страница 7

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS a wonderful party. Nicky sipped her wine, knowing she should be enjoying herself rather than letting the odd sense of foreboding spoil her fun. She surveyed the interesting mix of people. Women flaunted bright sarongs and silk saris, as well as fashionable designer dresses. Men sported well-cut suits or trousers and silk batek shirts. From the large, elegant sitting room with its beautiful Chinese furniture, the festivities spilled out into the jasmine-scented garden bathing in the tropical Malaysian night air.

It was a wonderful party.

And something was very wrong.

Nicky clenched her fingers around the stem of her crystal glass and glanced over at her father, a tall and distinguished man who stood out a head taller than most people at the party. He looked worried and she didn’t like it. She’d arrived in Kuala Lumpur two weeks ago for an extended visit and working vacation, and she’d sensed immediately that not all was well with her father. It had something to do with business, Nicky knew, something involving an unscrupulous Hong Kong investment company causing problems, but he’d told her it wasn’t serious.

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.”

“Who?”

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.

She turned on a couple of lamps as she found her way to her room which lay at the back of the house. Inside, she switched on the light. She dropped her bag onto a chair, noticing the French doors that opened into the garden were standing slightly ajar.

She had closed them before she left. Hadn’t she? She shrugged. Well, maybe not. She bit her lip, feeling uneasy. Something felt...wrong. Some ghostly awareness feathered across her skin, as if something unseen was right here with her—a presence, an energy in the air. She surveyed the room. There was nothing unusual. Everything was just the way she had left it.

She went into the adjoining bathroom, found some aspirin and swallowed it with a glass of water, making a face at herself in the mirror. “You are a nut case,” she said out loud.

There were no ghosts in her room; they were in her mind. She felt haunted by shadows from the past, that’s what it was. She’d been thrown off her equilibrium because she’d seen Blake again.

“You haven’t seen him in four years,” she told her reflection. “You’re divorced. So what’s the big deal?”

She took off her clothes and got ready for bed. She drifted off into a restless sleep, full of images of Blake-Blake sitting by a fire and reading a book. Blake pouring wine, giving her a secret smile. Blake sprawled on the bed, naked, asleep. She wanted to touch him, run her hand over his body, feel his warmth, his strength. She reached out, but her hand did not make contact, no matter how hard she tried, as if some force field protected him from her touch. She awoke, crying.

It took a long time to get back to sleep.

The next morning she was dragged into consciousness by the call to prayer broadcast from the mosque’s minaret. It was almost six, and the faint glimmer of dawn filtered through the thin curtains. She listened to the monotonous chanting, knowing the meaning, but not understanding the Arabic words.

She lay still in bed, until the sun washed the room in the bright light of a new day.

“You just disappeared,” Nazirah accused her an hour later as they were on their way to the Central Market in town. The chauffeur-driven. car was compliments of Nazirah’s father.

“I had a headache.”

“I saw you talking to that guy. Did he tell you who he is?”

“A consultant on a World Bank contract. He’s here only temporarily.” Nicky tried to sound bored. She did not want to discuss Blake. She did not even want to think of him.

“What else did he tell you?”

“He loves curry puffs,” she said with sudden inspiration. “And he’s crazy about satay with peanut sauce.” All of which was true, but it certainly was not newly garnered information.

“Is that what you talked about with an interesting man? Food?” Nazirah’s tone indicated a severe lack of admiration for this particular tactic.

“Food’s a great subject,” Nicky said brightly. “Everybody has to eat it. It’s uncontroversial, but everybody has an opinion.”

Nazirah rolled her eyes.

Nicky laughed. “You can learn a lot about people by finding out what kind of food they like. Whether they’re adventurous, have imagination, are conservative, romantic, boring stick-in-the-muds. I did an article about how to use food in character analysis last month. I think I did my readers a great service.”

“And what did you find out about him?” Nazirah asked doubtfully. “What kind of food does he like and what does it say about his character?”

“He likes everything,” Nicky said casually, which was basically the truth. “Which makes him a conservative, imaginative adventurer with stick-in-the-mud tendencies.”

Nazirah laughed. “And how does he do in the romance department?” Amusement glimmered in her blue eyes.

“Romance?”

“Is he a romantic?”

Nicky braced herself mentally. “He has his moments,” she stated in a businesslike tone. “Flowers, chocolates, jewelry, that sort of thing.” Sometimes luxury cookbooks, and odd knickknacks from exotic places in the world.

“Mmm. What about love letters and poetry? What about sexy phone calls?” Nazirah lowered her voice. “I love sexy phone calls.”

Nicky’s chest tightened and she swallowed at the sudden painful lump in her throat. She looked away. “Nope.”

“Is he a good lover?”

Her heart turned over. Good God, she had to change the subject. The last thing she wanted to think about was Blake’s talents in bed. “Listen,” she said impatiently, “there are limits to what you can find out about a man by knowing his food preferences. If you’re so interested in the man, go out with him, sleep with him and find out for yourself.” Good Lord! she thought in a panic. What am I saying?

Nazirah stared at her. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you.” Nicky bit her tongue. Oh, God, she was giving herself away.

“Sure seems like it. I was just making conversation, having a little fun with this idea of yours.”

“I’m sorry.”

Nazirah was silent for a moment. “I’m not trying to make you angry, but if you’re interested in him, I’ll stay clear of him.”

“I’m not interested in him. You can have him.” Nicky heard the snappish tone of her own voice, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. “Maybe your mother can ask him to dinner. He loves home-cooked meals.” She bit her lip. “He told me,” she added.

Confusion, hesitation chased each other across Nazirah’s face. “You know this man, don’t you?” she asked softly.

“No,” Nicky said, feeling herself turn cold. “I only thought I did.”

She’d been twenty-one when she’d met Blake at a party given by her parents in Washington, D.C. At the time Blake worked with her father at USAID and her father thought the world of him. One look at Blake and Nicky had thought the world of him, as well. Her heart had nearly stopped and she’d almost forgotten to breathe. The world around her had ceased to exist. The glass of wine she’d had in her hand had slipped and fallen to the floor, the glass not breaking but the wine soaking irreverently into her mother’s priceless Persian prayer rug.

Blake had found her another glass of wine and had not left her side for the rest of the evening. The days and weeks that followed had blurred into a whirlwind of love, laughter and passion.

She’d been in love plenty of times, but nothing compared to this. This was the real thing! She loved this man with all her soul. She knew it. Absolutely.

A month later they were married.

Nazirah stopped asking questions and for a while they drove on silently through the city and Nicky looked outside taking in the sights and the people.

She was in love with Kuala Lumpur, with its wonderful mixture of architecture illustrating the country’s turbulent colonial history. Contemporary high rises blended in with Moorish mosques, Chinese temples and Victorian buildings left by British colonial rule. Lush tropical greenery shaded the roads and buildings.

Her stomach growled inelegantly and Nazirah grinned. “Didn’t you have breakfast?”

“No. I didn’t want to spoil my appetite.” There’d be plenty of food to eat at the market, and Nicky was ready for some. It was only fair that if she was going to write about the food, she should try it first. She had her notebook and pen ready, as well as a good dose of enthusiasm to help her along. Open markets were her most favorite places. She grinned at herself. It was going to be an exciting day. She could feel it already.

Lighted minarets stood silhouetted against the dark night sky like an image from the Arabian Nights as Nicky rode home in a taxi that night. She felt exhausted but exhilarated, and she didn’t think she was going to eat again for a week.

The large gates stood open and the car drove noiselessly up the drive toward the front door of her father’s house. Nicky got out, paid the turbaned Sikh driver and moved up the veranda steps. The night watchman lay asleep on his mat and didn’t stir as she let herself in. Poor guy. He probably had a day job, as well, to make ends meet.

The house was silent. Her father had flown to Singapore for business and wouldn’t be back until sometime tomorrow. The house felt empty and lonely. She sighed and turned on the brass table lamps in the living room and dropped her notebook and purse amid the silk embroidered cushions on the sofa. She might as well work on her notes tonight, but first she’d get out of her clothes and shower off the days’ heat and dust.

Quickly she moved through the hall to her room, opened the door, switched on the light and froze.

Her heart made a sickening lurch, then started racing when a rush of adrenaline flooded her. Chaos. Drawers had been turned over, clothes strewn everywhere. The French windows stood wide open, the lacy white curtains wafting eerily in the breeze.

Never had anything like this happened to her before and for an interminable moment her legs would not move and she stood rooted to the floor, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer.

Burglars, was her first thought. Burglars searching for money, jewelry.

Jewelry! Her mother’s diamond necklace! Oh, God, no! It was an heirloom, passed on from mother to daughter for several generations. She rushed over to the dresser, found the velvet jewelry bag emptied out on the top—her rings, earrings, her mother’s necklace. It was all there. Nothing had been taken. Relief washed over her, then utter confusion. If the burglars hadn’t wanted her jewelry, then what had they been looking for? The rest of the house had been untouched. Or at least the living room had appeared to be and that’s where the TV was, and the VCR and the CD player.

What did they want in her room?

Her legs were trembling as she scanned the room, trying to see, to understand. I’ve got to do something, she thought. I’ve got to call somebody. The police. She reached for the bedside phone, realizing at the same time that 9-1-1 would do her no good outside the United States, that she didn’t know the local emergency number, if there even was one.

She realized something else, as well. The phone was dead.

Never before had she known such fear.

And then it got worse.

Movement behind her. As she swung around, a hand clamped over her mouth and she was bodily lifted off the floor and carried out of the bedroom door.