He's My Husband!

by Lindsay Armstrong

  He didn’t answer, but advanced on her and scooped her up into his arms.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she protested.

  He carried her over the doorstep.

  ‘Brett! Put me down.’ She twisted urgently and struggled, to no avail. ‘Brett, I don’t want—don’t do this.’

  ‘You don’t want to go to bed with me?’ he queried. ‘Forgive me for saying so, Nicola, but you could have fooled me.’

  She stared up into his eyes, and her own were panic-stricken. He watched her for a moment, cynically, then turned into the kitchen and deposited her unceremoniously on the island counter.

  ‘Stay put,’ he ordered. ‘You’ve been naughty enough for one night.’

  Nicola gasped. ‘I…I’m speechless.’

  ‘Good. Try to stay that way.’ And he walked through to the dining room.

  Nicola looked around. As usual, Ellen had left the kitchen spotless. The slate floors gleamed, the white counter-tops and chrome fittings shone and the yellow chrysanthemum in a pot on the island counter beside her looked bright and cheerful.

  Brett came back almost immediately, with two balloon glasses. ‘Brandy,’ he said. ‘You look as if you could do with it.’

  She took the glass, stared at its amber contents, then took a solid sip, which caused her to choke as it went down fierily and made her eyes water, but also put some starch back into her soul. She took a smaller sip, then put the glass down beside her—and realised she’d lost one shoe in her undignified struggle and that one of her bra straps had slipped down.

  She kicked the remaining shoe off, fished for the errant strap and restored it out of sight, then combed her fingers through her hair. ‘Talking of games,’ she said then, that was a particularly nasty one to play, Brett.’

  He raised a wry eyebrow. ‘I never had any intention of taking you to bed, Nicola. You were the one who immediately assumed that was the case.’

  ‘Then…why…?’ She stared at him confusedly.

  ‘All I was ever going to do was this—’ he inclined his head towards the counter ‘—so that we could talk this out rather than have you scuttling off to bed all mortified and—whatever. By the same token, many men—’ a grim little glint beamed her way ‘—would not have been so obliging, Nicola.’

  ‘I know that, but you’re not “many men”,’ she protested, and immediately bit her lip and eyed him warily.

  But he only smiled slightly—a cool twisting of his lips. ‘Then let’s move on. Would you care to explain why you were so determined to have me kiss you, against my better judgement?’

  Nicola flinched, and put a hand to her mouth involuntarily. ‘If that was against your better judgement I’d hate to see what you could do in accord with it—uh…’ She saw the fleeting look of amusement in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant and her shoulders slumped. ‘I-you may not believe me—but tonight I was made to feel…’

  She stopped, then said with more spirit, ‘You were there, Brett! “What a delightful hobby, Nicola!’” she mimicked. ‘And—“I just wish I had time for something like this. ” She…’ She paused, and frowned. ‘I’m not getting through to you, am I?’

  He shrugged. ‘It seems an excessive length to go to because you’d been made to feel somewhat inadequate, and she probably had no idea she was being patronising. But what about this desire to brush up certain skills that you mentioned?’ he said with irony.

  Nicola breathed frustratedly. He was leaning back with his broad shoulders propped against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest, and there was absolutely no evidence that anything momentous had happened to him. She hadn’t even left any lipstick on him, because it had all worn off earlier.

  ‘It was one of those foolish things you say in the heat of the moment.’ She said it quietly, but her gaze was level, even a touch severe.

  He grimaced, but said, ‘So it wasn’t a prelude to getting to know Richard Holloway better?’

  ‘When—if I ever decide to get to know him in that way, it’ll be entirely between him and me, Brett. So don’t say another word about Richard Holloway!’

  ‘Bravo,’ he murmured, but with a trace of unmistakable satire. And he added wryly, at her scorching look, ‘You’re pretty free with your comments on what you perceive my choices in that line might be, but I shall desist.’

  She compressed her lips and slid off the counter abruptly. ‘I am going to bed now, and I should warn you that any attempt to trick me or lecture me on the error of my ways is liable to make me bite and scratch and kick! If you think you’re as pure as the driven snow—’

  She stopped as he detained her with a hand on her wrist, and her blue eyes blazed, but he said, ‘I’m not going to do any of those things—and neither are you.’ He waited, and watched all the expressions chase through her eyes, but did not release her. It was like being up against an iron will she had no answer for.

  She swallowed. ‘So?’

  ‘So? As a matter of fact, I apologise—for not being as pure as the driven snow—but what you don’t seem to realise is that there are times when men…can’t help being men.

  ‘And—’ he overrode her as she opened her mouth ‘—I also apologise for the fact that you were made to feel uncomfortable this evening. Although—’ he looked fleetingly amused ‘—I doubt she’ll make that mistake again.’ He drew her loosely into his arms. ‘What a night, one way or the other,’ he murmured. ‘I thought at one stage that Kim was going to assassinate Rod.’

  Nicola tried to resist it, but she couldn’t. Her lips curved into a reluctant smile, then she was laughing helplessly. ‘You’re right. If looks could kill—’

  ‘We’d have been having to appoint a new District Court Judge.’

  They laughed together, and it was warm, and she felt some of the tension drain out of her as he hugged her gently and kissed the top of her head. Then she felt him stiffen, and realised he’d raised his head. She turned in his arms to see Chris standing in the doorway, staring at them.

  ‘What is it, Chris?’ she said.

  ‘I was having a nightmare about horrible big snakes and I was thirsty.’ He waved a red plastic mug, then rushed on excitedly. ‘So you are a real mum, Nicky, and Sasha was wrong. Oh, boy, wait until I tell her this—she thinks she’s so clever—can I hug, too?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Brett said, and Chris raced over to them and flung his arms around their legs. Brett released Nicola unhurriedly and picked him up. ‘Back to bed, young man. Here, I’ll fill your mug for you.’

  ‘But what if the snakes are under my bed?’ Chris objected.

  ‘I’ll have a look,’ Brett said, and carried him out.

  Nicola unfroze, but was still leaning on the counter with her face in her hands when Brett returned.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked fearfully.

  ‘Quite reassured. He’ll be asleep in no time. Nicola—’

  ‘Brett, what are we going to do?’ she broke in agitatedly. ‘He said—’

  ‘I heard what he said, but this is not the time to try to sort it out. Go to bed, Nicola—goodnight,’ he said quietly, but quite definitely.

  Her bedroom had apple-green walls, a double brass bedstead with a hand appliquéd white quilt, white furniture, a beautiful Chinese rug in pinks and greens and a ruby velvet-covered couch set against the foot of the bed.

  The couch was a favourite spot of Nicola’s when she wanted to think, and it also brought into full view one of her favourite possessions. She had a shower, changed into pink and white polka dot pyjamas and lay down on it, swept her hair over the armrest and stared at the picture on the opposite wall.

  It was a framed poster actually from The Cloisters, the branch of the New York Metropolitan Museum devoted to art of the Middle Ages. In wool tapestry, of Franco-Flemish origin from the early sixteenth century, it depicted a unicorn in captivity. As a child she’d woven magic stories about how it had been captured and how it could be released.

  She knew it off by heart—the sm
all wooden corral, the droplets of blood on the unicorn’s creamy hide as it lay penned, the ornate collar round its neck and the chain to the fence, the dense, flowery meadow surrounding it—and it struck her suddenly that there were some similarities between her position and the unicorn’s.

  Well, she mused, no blood, but bruised and battered in the region of the heart would be a good way to explain how I feel at the moment

  I can’t believe Tara Wells would have acted entirely on her own; he must have shown some interest in her. They did have dinner the other night, for example. And why else would he suddenly discuss Marietta with me this evening, as he’s never done before? Was he afraid I’d make a scene on Marietta’s behalf—not knowing what it would do to me?

  She turned on her side, slipped her hands beneath her cheek and remembered being in his arms, the sheer heaven of it—but now, irrevocably, tainted by the aftermath.

  Tears welled and she dashed at them impatiently. The most lowering thought of all, she discovered, was that by her own hand she’d forced Brett into a ‘men will be men’ situation. She didn’t want to think of him like that, she found, and least of all did she want him to think of her as capable of those kind of games.

  It was the hardest thing she’d ever done, to face Brett over the breakfast table the next morning, but he, at least, appeared entirely unconcerned by the events of the night before.

  It was a sparkling morning again, and the sea, beyond the louvres of the family room where they ate informally, was a pale blue reflection of the sky.

  ‘How did you sleep?’ he asked.

  She buttered some toast for Sasha. ‘Not too badly. How about you?’

  ‘OK. What’s on today?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘No flying lessons?’

  She grimaced, and thought how pleasant it would be to soar above the clouds—not that there were any today—and forget all the complications of her life below them. ‘My instructor is on holiday.’

  ‘I see.’ He poured himself some coffee. ‘I thought we might have a barbecue on the beach this evening.’

  Sasha and Chris snapped to attention and chorused, ‘Yes, please!’

  But Nicola eyed their father suspiciously.

  He said to the children, ‘I’ll drop you off at school this morning, which means you’ve got fifteen minutes precisely to be ready. Off you go.’

  They scampered off.

  ‘As you said to me last night, Nicola—’ he eyed her lazily ‘—what’s that supposed to mean? The way you’re looking at me,’ he added satirically, in case she was tempted to feign misunderstanding.

  She held onto her temper and shrugged. ‘That I’m not a five or six-year-old who can be placated by a barbecue on the beach, probably. Excuse me,’ she added and put her napkin on the table. ‘I’ll help them to get ready.’

  ‘Stay where you are, Nicola,’ he said quietly, but with a wealth of command in his steady hazel gaze. ‘It’s about time they learnt to do a few things for themselves.’

  ‘I—are you criticising—’ She broke off and stared at him angrily.

  He smiled dryly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not criticising your management of them—rather, your desire to scuttle away from me. Because it means you’re still in a state of high dudgeon over what happened last night.’

  She looked around the bright, comfortable family room, with its rattan furniture, and picked up her napkin to clench her fingers round it. ‘Strangely enough, I am. Further reflection, you see, on top of the way you’re acting—like some absolute autocrat—’

  ‘Nicola, let’s not get dramatic. It’s a bit early in the day for it,’ he murmured prosaically. ‘I merely thought, for their sakes, a barbecue on the beach—which is a special treat they love, and you usually love too,’ he said significantly, ‘might restore some tranquillity to the household. For all of us, but them most of all.’

  ‘They don’t know—they…’ She stopped frustratedly.

  ‘They’re geniuses at picking up any kind of vibes flying around, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Nicola eyed him. He was wearing a cream shirt and a lightweight fawn suit, the jacket of which was hung over the back of his chair. His tie was a cinnamon-brown with narrow diagonal cream and red stripes. Both the tie and the shirt had been a Christmas present from her, but it gave her no pleasure at the moment to see him wearing them.

  Nor did it please her much to think that this crisp, shaved man of the world, with his thick brown hair tidy and gleaming, and all that barely concealed sharpness of mind, all that barely subdued aura of power that affected women so dynamically, was about to set forth into the world.

  While I stay at home like a good little wife—is that it? she wondered. Or is it the thought of Tara Wells out there, being all professional and equally intelligent, although at the same time no doubt beautifully presented? She glanced down at herself ruefully. She’d woken late and thrown on a pink T-shirt with denim shorts and hurriedly tied her hair back in a ponytail. She felt, she found, far from sharp of mind and unusually powerless.

  But she straightened her spine. ‘Whatever you say, bwana!’

  ‘Been catching up on your Wilbur Smith, Nicola?’ he asked lazily.

  ‘Now there’s a thought,’ she retaliated. ‘Scrub Tibet—I’ve always wanted to go to Africa.’

  ‘I would scrub Africa too, if I were you at the moment,’ he drawled. ‘Why don’t you stick to one thing at a time? Pottery, for example? Having made such a hit there,’ he added gently, but nonetheless lethally.

  Her smile, which was more a baring of her teeth, caused him to laugh softly, and he stood up and hooked his jacket off the chair. ‘My, my, we are having a rather mindless domestic, aren’t we, Nicola?’

  She watched him shrug into it and was amazed to feel a tremor run through her, because if the attraction of his body had been a torment to her over the last two years, the events of last night had heightened it unbelievably.

  She could feel, suddenly, through her pores, the imprint of his hard strength on her slightness. She remembered, as if she could still feel him through the palms of her hands, the lean lines of his back and the powerful muscles of his shoulders, his taut diaphragm. But most all she could feel in herself how it had all stirred her senses, her own body.

  But the unbelievable part of it was, as she clenched her teeth and her hands, that she could be so angry with him and yet still be so affected by him.

  She could have kissed Sasha and Chris for arriving at the table, breathless and laughing, their clothing somewhat askew, full of assurances that they were ready!

  ‘Here, I’ll just…straighten you up a bit.’ And she went about it without looking at Brett once.

  But she couldn’t evade his gaze when it was done.

  ‘See you tonight, then,’ he said.

  ‘All right,’ she replied, and started to stack plates.

  But he pointedly didn’t move.

  Her hands hovered, then she straightened and said impatiently, ‘What now?’

  Their gazes clashed. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked quietly.

  No, I’m not! What do you expect? But she didn’t say it. She shrugged, and forced herself to smile. ‘Fine. Hold thumbs it doesn’t rain!’

  ‘That almost sounds as if you’re praying for it,’ he said, and walked out.

  It didn’t rain. It was a clear, beautiful afternoon as she packed the picnic basket.

  ‘Can we swim?’ Sasha asked.

  ‘I should think so. They’ve taken the stinger net in. Put your togs on under your clothes, but we’d better take jumpers for later.’

  Brett arrived home at five-thirty and they drove down to Yorkeys Knob beach, a long stretch of sand facing Cape Grafton with a park behind it. They chose a spot and the children and Brett started scouting for firewood before it got dark. Then they all had a swim, Nicola in a one-piece sapphire-blue costume with white flowers on it.

  ‘Brrr…’ She ran up the beach, leaving Brett and the child
ren frolicking, dried herself, threw on a tracksuit top and lit the fire.

  She’d brought a portable grid and long forks, and simple fare. Sausages and bread, some sandwiches to keep the hunger pangs at bay while the sausages cooked, and homemade toffee apples for dessert. She’d also brought a flask of coffee, and juice for the children, but she discovered a chilled bottle of wine in a slide-on thermo-pack, and two glasses that she hadn’t put into the picnic hamper.

  She was staring down at the bottle in her hands when Brett and the children ran up.

  ‘Why not?’ he said lightly as she looked up at him. ‘I even remembered a corkscrew.’ He took the bottle from her.

  She didn’t have to answer. Sasha and Chris were turning blue with cold and shivering exaggeratedly, showering droplets of water everywhere. She jumped up and began to towel them vigorously, then made them change into dry clothes and sit by the fire.

  When they were warm again it was almost dark, and they started racing up and down the beach, playing leapfrog then hopscotch.

  ‘Such energy,’ Brett murmured ruefully as he arranged the sausages on the grid. ‘Here.’ He handed her a glass of wine.

  He’d pulled on an old football jersey over his costume, and with his damp hair hanging in his eyes he couldn’t have looked less like the super-executive of the morning. But nonetheless attractive, she thought with a pang. And why do I get the feeling I’m about to be exposed to that rare charm no one can exert like Brett?

  She was right, she discovered. He went out of his way to make the barbecue a success. He insisted she relax on the tartan rug while he took care of the cooking, and dished up hot sausages on pieces of bread with tomato sauce for the children and a mixture of tomato sauce and mustard for themselves. He managed to calm Sasha and Chris down so they could eat properly by playing ‘I Spy’ with them. Then he produced two torches, so they could wander around and explore after they’d finished eating.

  And he involved Nicola in it all, although he wouldn’t let her move.

  ‘How was that?’ he asked finally, stretched out on the blanket with his head propped on his hand, having built up the fire again and replenished their glasses-Nicola hugged her knees. The woodsmoke was aromatic, drifting against the darkened sky in wreaths of pale grey. The glow of the fire was not only warming but comforting, and the tide was lapping against the beach. There was a pale, prim little new moon rising over the ocean, and the two bobbing circles of torchlight made sure they knew where Sasha and Chris were.