Читать книгу An Inconvenient Husband - Karen Van Der Zee - Страница 9

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.