An Inconvenient Husband

“I’m fine,” she lied. “The air is so dusty here, it makes my throat feel scratchy.” This was not a lie, but the fact was irrelevant.

They talked for a while. About his work, about the magazine article she was writing about Moroccan food, about how lucky they were to be missing the bad weather at home in Washington, D.C.

Later that night she lay in bed, her stomach churning with anxiety, praying she would just sink away into oblivion and not dream the dream that kept coming back time after time. A dream that made her cry when she awakened.

Here she was, in her parents’ home in one of the most exotic places on earth, a place of deserts and camels and Berber nomads, a place of veiled women, busy souks and ancient mosques, yet where she really wanted to be was in her own small town house in Washington, D.C., which at this very moment was battling the leftovers of a tropical storm. She wanted to be in her own bed in the arms of the man she loved. She wanted him to tell her he loved her, that he had missed her terribly. That those long absences were harder and harder to bear. That from now on he wanted her with him on his trips.

She knew it wasn’t going to happen.

She knew she was losing him.

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.”.