An Inconvenient Husband (8 page)

One hand on the steering
wheel, Blake fished his wallet out of his back pocket with the other and tossed
it into her lap. "Take what you want."

It felt odd to have
his wallet in her hands, the leather warm from his body. Yesterday she'd gone
through his toiletry kit, used his toothpaste, brushed her hair with his brush.
Now he told her to take money out of his wallet. Intimacies that should no
longer belong between them, should no longer be appropriate.

She stared at the
credit cards, the bills tucked in behind—dollars, as well as ringgit. There was
plenty of money there. She took some of the bills and handed back the wallet.

He glanced at her.
"You have enough?"

"I took a hundred
ringgit." About thirty dollars.

They found the busy
open market offering a wide variety of goods—food, charcoal, plastic toys,
batek
cloth,
herbal medicines, and a stall full of ladies' and children's lingerie. Lacy
bras, girls' flowered panties, embroidered nightgowns, silky seductive women's
panties as well as sturdy, functional cotton ones made in China.

She selected some
functional, white cotton ones, with Blake looking on, brows quirked
sardonically. It wasn't what she was used to wearing and he knew it. She gave
him a challenging look. "I've always had this fantasy of wearing Chinese
underwear, so how can I pass up this opportunity?"

"I wouldn't want
you to," he said mockingly. "Get a bra to match."

"I'll manage with
the one I have." She could always go without. She couldn't buy a bra
without trying it on to make sure it would fit.

She paid for the panties,
then moved on and bought a comb and brush and a pair of flip-flops. She
hesitated at a stall full of colorful
batek-
cloth sarongs, but
Blake put a hand briefly on her shoulder.

"There are plenty
of
kains
at the house."

She moved on to the
food section. Women sat on mats with their wares in front of them, colorful
piles of fragrant mangoes, ripe tomatoes, guavas, papaws and all sorts of other
exotic fruit. She was admiring a bunch of
rambutan,
small round
fruit with red hairy fibers, clustered on a stalk like hairy grapes.

"I love these
things," she said to Blake. "Don't they look lethal with all those
red fibers sticking out all over?"

"Yes, I
suppose." He pushed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels,
scowling.

"Do you like
them?"

"Yes," he
said impatiently.

"Let's get some
to eat in the car," she suggested.

"Fine." He
turned to the market lady. "
Berapa ini?'
he asked,
fishing some coins out of his pocket. When she answered him, he countered with
another offer and handed her some money. She accepted without further
bargaining. He picked up the stalk of rambutan. "Let's go," he
ordered.

"Why? We haven't
seen it all yet. Are we in a hurry?"

He gave an exasperated
sigh. "You and markets. I should have known."

She stopped walking
and faced him squarely. "I happen to love markets, especially the food
sections, and if I remember correctly, you enjoyed them, too." They'd
spent happy hours wandering through open markets, at home, on the Caribbean
island where they'd spent their honeymoon, and in Venice, Italy, once.

His eyes had an odd
shuttered look in them. "That was then and this is now. I'm not on
vacation. I have no time for lollygagging and admiring ginger root."

She refused to move
and stared back at him. "Are we in a hurry for something? Does fifteen
minutes make a difference? You used to
like
this sort of
thing."

"Well, I don't
now," he said brusquely, and turned around, marching out of the market.

She wondered what she
had done to annoy him. He'd never been a moody man. As a matter of fact, he'd
been one of the more even-tempered people she'd ever known. He'd once told her
that there were very few things in life he considered worthy of getting worked
up about.

He was worked up now.

She stared at his
retreating back, a faint suspicion whispering through her thoughts. Anger was
often used as a cover for other emotions. Maybe he didn't like remembering what
they had used to do together. Maybe the memories hurt him, as they hurt her.
She sighed and followed him back to the car. She was imagining things.

They drove on in
silence and her mind produced a memory of the week they'd spent in Italy, of
the huge marketplace in Venice. He had been on his way to Africa to work, she
to visit her friend Sophie who lived in Rome.

A wonderful market. It
had been fall and there'd been countless stalls full of mushrooms—all kinds,
small ones and big ones as large as a man's hand. She had never seen anything
like it and she'd been enthralled.

She'd noticed Blake
watching her with an amused grin.

"What's so funny?"
she'd asked.

"What I like
about you is your enthusiasm. I've never known a person who got lyrical about
smelly fungi."

She'd got quite
indignant and he had laughed and hugged her, much to the approval of the
Italian mushroom vendors.

"Don't ever
change," he'd said in her ear.

They drove on through
spectacular scenery—green mountains, shaded valleys. The air grew cooler still,
the traffic lighter, the villages smaller. They passed flourishing market
gardens where vegetables and fruit grew lusciously in the cool mountain air. A
resort hotel sprawled on a hilltop.
Paradise Mountain Resort,
the sign read. It catered to tourists and the well-to-do from KL who needed a
vacation and a respite from the humid tropical weather on the coast, Blake told
her. Beautiful private homes lay half hidden in the greenery on the mountain
slopes.

Half an hour later
they passed through one more small
kampung
when the pavement
stopped abruptly and changed into a rough track winding further up the
mountain. All she saw around them now was dense jungle hugging the track, ready
to claim it again. The sky was invisible, as the massive trees formed a dense
canopy closing like a cathedral roof over the narrow road.

"How much
longer?" she asked. Jostling around in this vehicle was no pleasure trip.
She held on to the door.

"About twenty
minutes."

"Good Lord, they
live isolated. Don't they get lonely?"

He shrugged. "No.
They're busy people, and they often have university students living with them,
and conservation people. They are no recluses, believe me."

Nicky studied the
jungle all around them, wondering what kind of place it was these people lived
in. Some sort of primitive research camp? No plumbing. Washing in the river.
Kerosene lamps. Cooking over open fires. She'd seen documentaries on
television. Well, it would be an adventure.

"What kind of
place is that house? I don't suppose there's electricity and water?"

"There's a
generator, and they have their own water well. It's quite civilized. You'll
like the place."

Okay, so no washing in
the river and no kerosene lamps. Although it might seem a romantic vision, she
wasn't too sorry to give it up.

Sky, sunlight, open
space appeared in front of them suddenly, and in the middle of it, a large
wooden house built on stilts Malay-style. It had a thatch roof and a veranda on
the front and sides. The forest had made way for a beautiful garden with shade
trees and blooming bushes and plants—a riot of color to please the spirit.

It was magical—like an
oasis of sun and light in the dark forest. Nicky fell in love with the place
instantly.

A gardener was busy
trimming and clipping, and stopped his activities as Blake drove up to the
front of the house. The man smiled and gave a wave of his hand, then went back
to work.

"His name is
Ali," said Blake, "and he's married to Ramyah, the housekeeper."

A slim Malay woman in
a sarong and blue blouse came out of the door and down the veranda steps as
Nicky clambered out of the vehicle. Blake smiled at her and spoke to her
briefly in Malay. Nicky noticed she looked nervous, almost frightened.

Blake made
introductions. Ramyah gave her a shy, polite smile, then turned and quickly
moved back up the stairs.

"Is something
wrong?" Nicky asked Blake.

He frowned. "I
have no idea, but she sure doesn't act like her normal self."

"Did she know we
were coming?"

"Yes. She knew I
was coming, anyway, and there are people here all the time. That's not
it." He shrugged. "I'll see what I can find out, but let's get you
settled first."

They climbed up the
wooden stairs, Blake carrying his suitcase. The door opened straight into a
cool, spacious living room sporting casual rattan furniture chosen for comfort
and an easy-going decor. There was no ceiling and she could see right up into
the thatch-covered rafters. It was a place to feel comfortable in, to live in.
On the far end of the room, large open doors led out onto another part of the
veranda that encircled the house. It had a dramatic view of the forested
mountains all around.

Blake showed her to a
guest bedroom furnished in the same casual style, with a brightly colored woven
bedspread and some blown-up photographs of jungle creatures on the wall.

"I'll ask Ramyah
to find you some clothes," he said, and left her.

She surveyed her
surroundings, not knowing what to do. All she had was the things she had bought
in the market. She put them on the bed and just as she was about to go back to
the living room, Ramyah appeared in the doorway with an armful of clothes.

"You try,"
she suggested, and put them on the bed.

The owner of the clothes
obviously went for comfort rather than fashion, which was no problem as far as
Nicky was concerned. She would manage fine with the sweat suits, the T-shirts
and cotton slacks and shorts. For a few days, at least.

A few days alone with
Blake. Anxiety churned inside her. She took a ragged breath and closed her
eyes.

When she opened them
again, she found Blake standing in the open door, glancing at the clothes on
the bed. "Did you find something?" he asked.

"This will be
fine. Nice and serviceable stuff."

His mouth twitched.
"Will go nicely with the Chinese lingerie."

"Who cares,"
she said coolly. "I'm not here on my honeymoon." Oh, God, what a
thing to say. What kind of Freudian twist of the mind had made her say that?

He leaned against the
doorjamb, hands in his pockets, all casual male confidence. "You didn't
wear much of anything on the one you went on with me." As if she'd gone on
twenty more honeymoons since.

She looked at him
coolly. "I don't remember." It was a silly thing to say.

His mouth quirked, but
there was no humor in it. "Oh," he said lazily, "I think you
do."

Of course she did.
They'd spent three idyllic weeks on a tiny Caribbean island hideaway with a
private beach. There had been few occasions necessitating anything more than a
bikini. Happy days, happy nights. She'd been so in love with him then, this
strong, quiet man who'd made the most wonderful love to her. This same man who
stood here now—the same voice, the same mouth and hands, the same undeniable
male appeal of his strong, lean body. How could she ever forget his lovemaking?
And last night—no, early this morning, in bed with him—how she had longed for
it then, his love- making, his touch... to feel again the way he'd used to make
her feel, that magic sense of rapture.

Suddenly her knees
felt weak. She stared blindly at the T-shirt in her hands.

How could she manage
the next few days with him alone in this house? How could she talk to him, look
at him, watch him move... Oh, God, what was happening to her? Where was her
sanity, her common sense?

I can't do this, she
thought.
I can't do this!

CHAPTER FOUR

Nicky
was acutely aware of
Blake watching her, reading her thoughts. Probably. Maybe. She focused on the
label in the T-shirt, concentrating on the fiber content, the washing instructions—anything
to divert her thoughts and calm her frazzled nerves. It was impossible. She had
to get out of the place as soon as possible. She could not stay here with him
in the same house, alone, tormented by unwanted memories and yearnings.

She made a show of
folding the T-shirt, her gaze down on her hands. "I want to call my father
and tell him to find a way to send me my clothes and my passport," she
said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I don't want to stay here any
longer than necessary. I don't want to impose."