An Inconvenient Husband

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.