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Authors: Karen van der Zee
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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."
"We were talking
about our honeymoon." He straightened away from the doorjamb and moved
toward her.
"And I'm talking
about getting out of here," she snapped, automatically looking up at him.
"Are the memories
too disturbing?" he asked, meeting her eyes.
"It's all a long
time ago." She tried to sound indifferent, but her voice trembled.
He held her gaze.
"But not too long to forget, is it?" And it was there, in his
voice—pain and yearning mirroring her own.
She clenched her
hands, fighting for calmness, terrified to be overwhelmed by
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."
"We were talking
about our honeymoon." He straightened away from the doorjamb and moved
toward her.
"And I'm talking
about getting out of here," she snapped, automatically looking up at him.
"Are the memories
too disturbing?" he asked, meeting her eyes.
"It's all a long
time ago." She tried to sound indifferent, but her voice trembled.
He held her gaze.
"But not too long to forget, is it?" And it was there, in his
voice—pain and yearning mirroring her own.
She clenched her
hands, fighting for calmness, terrified to be overwhelmed by
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