An Inconvenient Husband

He gazed at her for a moment, as if her simple request needed digesting. Then he gestured at the dresser. “Second drawer on the right. The blue one is good and long.”

Was he making fun of her? She couldn’t tell. She found the T-shirt, went back into the bathroom and pulled it on. It was a good thing he was big and she was so small. The T-shirt reached almost mid-thigh.

“Charming,” he commented as she came back into the room. There was unexpected humor in his voice. “Do you honestly think that thing is going to keep me from ravishing you if I felt so inclined?”

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped.

He laughed. “Go to sleep, woman, you’re overwrought.”

It was easier said than done. The bed was comfortable, the sheets cool and crisp, but her body was tense. She listened to the soft murmur of the television. It seemed ages before he turned it off. Had he been waiting for her to be asleep before coming to bed? She heard him move around, go into the bathroom, heard the shower running.

She pictured him standing in the falling water, naked, wet, soapy, bubbles clinging to the hair on his chest. It was so easy to visualize. She knew everything about that body, the way it felt pressed intimately against hers. A wave of memories washed over her and her body reacted with treacherous need.

Her heart pounding, she jerked upright in bed.

This was crazy. She was crazy. She could not stay here. She should call someone. Who? She didn’t even have any clothes to put on. Oh, God, this was like a bad movie.

The shower was turned off. She scooted back under the covers, eyes closed, body rigid. He was drying himself off, wiping his face, his chest. He was brushing his teeth.

Stop it! Stop it!

The door opened quietly. Footsteps came softly toward the bed. She felt his weight on the mattress, the movements of his body as he made himself comfortable on the other side, heard the click of the lamp as he turned it off.

Silence, punctuated by the throbbing of her heart. She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. After a while she heard Blake’s slow, regular breathing. He was asleep.

She felt an unreasonable, bitter anger. Here he was, asleep, not bothered at all by her being in his bed.

Well, why should he? They’d been married once, but that was over now. He’d probably had ten women since her.

She didn’t want him if he begged her. The thought almost made her laugh out loud. Blake never begged for anything.

She was floating in crystal blue water and the sky bloomed in soft pastels, greeting the rising sun. So beautiful—she sighed with the wonder of it. Gentle waves lapped sensuously against her skin, taking her back to the beach, back to Blake who was waiting for her to come to him.

Pink sand. So beautiful. So soft. She lay down and stretched out her arms to touch the warmth, to touch Blake, pleasure curling languorously through her body.

He felt warm and solid and she snuggled closer against him, his breath brushing her face. The sun rose higher and higher, the air grew hotter and hotter. She murmured his name, breathing in the familiar scent of him, her body flooding with trembling need, wanting him, wanting him.

Trembling need. Dizzying hunger. And an aching sadness. Her fingers tangled in his thick hair, slipped down his neck to his back. It was smooth and strong under her hands. She shifted a little, searching for his mouth, kissing him, hearing the soft groan coming from deep inside him.

It was so wonderful to kiss him, to feel the sweet, seductive yearning. So why this sadness? The soundless tears? As if she knew she would never have what she so desperately craved. As if all of this was just a fragile illusion.

His heart beat against hers. She could feel it against her breast, hear it. So wonderful. Two hearts beating together. She clung to him, closer still, her arms around him. Comfort and bliss. She fought the sadness, wanting only to feel the magic of their bodies together. “Hold me,” she whispered. “Make love to me.”

“Nicky?” A sound from another world, harsh, tortured.

She felt dragged into consciousness, heart racing, darkness everywhere. She gulped in air, disoriented, feeling the roughness of an unshaven chin, the warm skin of a naked body intimately close against her.

Light flooded the room, and she found herself staring into Blake’s smoke-gray eyes. Oh, God, she thought, freezing over. I don’t believe this.

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.