An Inconvenient Husband

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.”