An Inconvenient Husband. Karen Van Der Zee

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СКАЧАТЬ “What kind of food does he like and what does it say about his character?”

      “He likes everything,” Nicky said casually, which was basically the truth. “Which makes him a conservative, imaginative adventurer with stick-in-the-mud tendencies.”

      Nazirah laughed. “And how does he do in the romance department?” Amusement glimmered in her blue eyes.

      “Romance?”

      “Is he a romantic?”

      Nicky braced herself mentally. “He has his moments,” she stated in a businesslike tone. “Flowers, chocolates, jewelry, that sort of thing.” Sometimes luxury cookbooks, and odd knickknacks from exotic places in the world.

      “Mmm. What about love letters and poetry? What about sexy phone calls?” Nazirah lowered her voice. “I love sexy phone calls.”

      Nicky’s chest tightened and she swallowed at the sudden painful lump in her throat. She looked away. “Nope.”

      “Is he a good lover?”

      Her heart turned over. Good God, she had to change the subject. The last thing she wanted to think about was Blake’s talents in bed. “Listen,” she said impatiently, “there are limits to what you can find out about a man by knowing his food preferences. If you’re so interested in the man, go out with him, sleep with him and find out for yourself.” Good Lord! she thought in a panic. What am I saying?

      Nazirah stared at her. “Why are you mad at me?”

      “I’m not mad at you.” Nicky bit her tongue. Oh, God, she was giving herself away.

      “Sure seems like it. I was just making conversation, having a little fun with this idea of yours.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      Nazirah was silent for a moment. “I’m not trying to make you angry, but if you’re interested in him, I’ll stay clear of him.”

      “I’m not interested in him. You can have him.” Nicky heard the snappish tone of her own voice, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. “Maybe your mother can ask him to dinner. He loves home-cooked meals.” She bit her lip. “He told me,” she added.

      Confusion, hesitation chased each other across Nazirah’s face. “You know this man, don’t you?” she asked softly.

      “No,” Nicky said, feeling herself turn cold. “I only thought I did.”

      

      

      She’d been twenty-one when she’d met Blake at a party given by her parents in Washington, D.C. At the time Blake worked with her father at USAID and her father thought the world of him. One look at Blake and Nicky had thought the world of him, as well. Her heart had nearly stopped and she’d almost forgotten to breathe. The world around her had ceased to exist. The glass of wine she’d had in her hand had slipped and fallen to the floor, the glass not breaking but the wine soaking irreverently into her mother’s priceless Persian prayer rug.

      Blake had found her another glass of wine and had not left her side for the rest of the evening. The days and weeks that followed had blurred into a whirlwind of love, laughter and passion.

      She’d been in love plenty of times, but nothing compared to this. This was the real thing! She loved this man with all her soul. She knew it. Absolutely.

      A month later they were married.

      

      Nazirah stopped asking questions and for a while they drove on silently through the city and Nicky looked outside taking in the sights and the people.

      She was in love with Kuala Lumpur, with its wonderful mixture of architecture illustrating the country’s turbulent colonial history. Contemporary high rises blended in with Moorish mosques, Chinese temples and Victorian buildings left by British colonial rule. Lush tropical greenery shaded the roads and buildings.

      Her stomach growled inelegantly and Nazirah grinned. “Didn’t you have breakfast?”

      “No. I didn’t want to spoil my appetite.” There’d be plenty of food to eat at the market, and Nicky was ready for some. It was only fair that if she was going to write about the food, she should try it first. She had her notebook and pen ready, as well as a good dose of enthusiasm to help her along. Open markets were her most favorite places. She grinned at herself. It was going to be an exciting day. She could feel it already.

      

      Lighted minarets stood silhouetted against the dark night sky like an image from the Arabian Nights as Nicky rode home in a taxi that night. She felt exhausted but exhilarated, and she didn’t think she was going to eat again for a week.

      The large gates stood open and the car drove noiselessly up the drive toward the front door of her father’s house. Nicky got out, paid the turbaned Sikh driver and moved up the veranda steps. The night watchman lay asleep on his mat and didn’t stir as she let herself in. Poor guy. He probably had a day job, as well, to make ends meet.

      The house was silent. Her father had flown to Singapore for business and wouldn’t be back until sometime tomorrow. The house felt empty and lonely. She sighed and turned on the brass table lamps in the living room and dropped her notebook and purse amid the silk embroidered cushions on the sofa. She might as well work on her notes tonight, but first she’d get out of her clothes and shower off the days’ heat and dust.

      Quickly she moved through the hall to her room, opened the door, switched on the light and froze.

      Her heart made a sickening lurch, then started racing when a rush of adrenaline flooded her. Chaos. Drawers had been turned over, clothes strewn everywhere. The French windows stood wide open, the lacy white curtains wafting eerily in the breeze.

      Never had anything like this happened to her before and for an interminable moment her legs would not move and she stood rooted to the floor, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer.

      Burglars, was her first thought. Burglars searching for money, jewelry.

      Jewelry! Her mother’s diamond necklace! Oh, God, no! It was an heirloom, passed on from mother to daughter for several generations. She rushed over to the dresser, found the velvet jewelry bag emptied out on the top—her rings, earrings, her mother’s necklace. It was all there. Nothing had been taken. Relief washed over her, then utter confusion. If the burglars hadn’t wanted her jewelry, then what had they been looking for? The rest of the house had been untouched. Or at least the living room had appeared to be and that’s where the TV was, and the VCR and the CD player.

      What did they want in her room?

      Her legs were trembling as she scanned the room, trying to see, to understand. I’ve got to do something, she thought. I’ve got to call somebody. The police. She reached for the bedside phone, realizing at the same time that 9-1-1 would do her no good outside the United States, that she didn’t know the local emergency number, if there even was one.

      She realized something else, as well. The phone was dead.

      Never before had she known such fear.

      And then it got worse.

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