The Hostage Bride

by Janet Dailey

  When Bick emerged from the bathroom, Tamara was still sleeping. He paused beside the bed, drawn again by the allure of her half-covered body. With a sharp pivot, he walked to his chest of drawers and pulled out clean clothes.

  The aroma of freshly perked coffee and bacon frying drifted into the room as Bick was smoothing his tie under the collar of his shirt. He glanced at his watch. Freyda Grimes, his housekeeper and cook, was right on time. Standing in front of the mirror to knot his tie, his gaze caught a movement reflected in the mirror. Tamara was waking. For a half second he froze as he watched her looking for him. The instant she saw him, he quickly busied himself with the tie.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” she accused softly and slipped out of bed to put on the robe lying at the foot of the bed.

  “There wasn’t any need.” Bick steeled himself not to be swayed by the tenderness in her expression.

  “What kind of wife would I be if I let my husband go to the office without any coffee or breakfast?” She sent him a laughing yet intimate glance.

  “I have a housekeeper who does that so I don’t require your services in that area,” he told her bluntly. His cold gaze flicked briefly to her reflection in the mirror in time to see the shock register in her expression.

  “But I’m your wife.” There was a faint pause. “Aren’t I?”

  “I gave you my name and you share my bed.” He finished knotting the tie and smoothed the ends down his shirt front before buttoning his suit jacket.

  “And that’s all?” It was a quiet challenge. “Aren’t I entitled to anything else?”

  Such as what? His love? His trust? His pride? His self-respect? Bick turned away from the mirror and her still reflection, avoiding contact. “You are entitled to what I give you, as our marriage contract states, and nothing more.” She had the look of a wounded animal, but he would not allow himself to relent. “Excuse me. My breakfast is ready.” Bick left the room before he started listening to his heart.

  Chapter Eight

  Lightning crashed and the ground trembled with the rumbling thunder that followed. The rain was coming down in sheets, whipped by a strong wind. Caught without an umbrella, Tamara was drenched to the skin by the violent July storm that had unleashed its fury shortly after she had left her mother’s house. Her only protection against the downpour was the plastic rain cap she carried in her purse. Her hair was the only part of her that was dry when she entered the front doors of the brick home.

  Freyda, the housekeeper, was in the foyer within seconds after Tamara had entered, down on her hands and knees wiping up the puddles of water Tamara was leaving on the polished floor. Tamara heard the woman muttering in ill temper, as if she had deliberately got caught in the storm so she could track the floor. She made a face at the crouched figure and hurried to the master bedroom to take off the wet clothes.

  Before she started to undress, she turned on the water to fill the sunken tub and added a heaping portion of bubble bath. By the time her wet clothes were hung up and dripping noisily on the tiled floor, the tub was more than half full. Tamara had barely submerged up to her neck in bubbles when the bedroom door was opened and she heard Bick demanding, “Tamara?”

  “I’m in here!” she called, raising her voice so it would carry through the closed door of the bath.

  She glanced up when it burst open. His eyes contained that hard gleam she had come to expect after these first weeks of their marriage. The promise of happiness she had found that first night had never materialized, although every time she was in Bick’s arms she kept seeing glimpses of it again.

  “What are you doing taking a bath now?” he demanded impatiently. “Don’t you know storm warnings have been posted?”

  “I guessed as much,” Tamara admitted and soaped a leg. “This is one of the safest places in the house—solid walls, no windows. And I wanted a warm bath after my drenching coming home from Mother’s.”

  That was where she spent every day. Initially she had attempted to do her part of the housework and cooking, but Freyda had regarded her help as interference and complained to Bick. He had immediately sided with the housekeeper.

  “Get out of there and get dressed,” he ordered, and grabbed a long bath towel from the rack.

  Defiance flared briefly in her blue eyes before she quelled the spark of rebellion to mount the steps leading out of the sunken tub. At the edge, she paused to rinse the bubbles off her legs.

  “Hurry up!” Bick snapped and held out the towel.

  “Why don’t you bring it over here? Or are you afraid of getting your suit wet?” Tamara challenged, and flicked the water from her fingers in his direction.

  She realized that she was being deliberately provocative, trying to entice him into making love to her. At least when he held her, he made her feel good. In his arms, she didn’t hear words that cut. She could see he wasn’t indifferent to her nudity, but he was fighting it.

  With a quick toss, he hurled the towel at her. “Get dried off and get some clothes on.” Turning on his heel, he walked out of the bathroom.

  Tamara clutched the towel, her head dipping down in mute defeat. A few painful seconds passed before she began wiping the moisture from her skin. Her robe was in the bedroom, but Bick’s short, brown silk robe was hanging on the door. She wrapped it around her and tied the sash.

  When she entered their bedroom, she avoided looking at him and walked straight to her vanity table, where a bottle of moisture cream sat. He had changed out of his suit into a pair of slacks and a casual shirt in a striped knit. Sitting in front of the mirror, Tamara began smoothing the cream onto her face and neck.

  “Why are you wearing your hair like that? I told you I didn’t like it,” he said curtly.

  Tamara let her gaze meet his disapproving reflection in the mirror and managed a stiff but calm reply. “I didn’t want to get it wet while I was taking a bath.” She removed the three hairpins that had held it in a loose coil and recapped the bottle of moisturizer.

  “I was informed today that I have abused the privilege of a newlywed long enough and it’s time we began accepting invitations,” Bick stated in a faintly cynical tone. “We have been invited to a dinner party Friday night by Gil Shavert, one of the directors on the board. I accepted.”

  Tamara’s response was instant and instinctive. “I don’t have anything to wear.” In the years when she worked and took care of her mother, there had been no demand for gowns or cocktail dresses. It was certain that the invitation would require such an item.

  “I don’t know why I’m surprised to hear that. I should have expected it, shouldn’t I?” The dryness in his voice was taunting. “I suppose now you want to open an account in your name at some exclusive dress shop where you can charge to your heart’s content.”

  “I suppose you think I’m making it up.” Her lips thinned into a tight line of suppressed anger.

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but walked to her closet. With a jerking movement, she stripped the hangers of dresses from the pole and carried them back into the bedroom. She began showing them to Bick one by one.

  “Perhaps I should wear this one, or this one, or this one.” As each dress was shown, she tossed it on the bed, piling them one on top of the other. The last one happened to be the ivory dress she had been married in. “Or maybe I can wear my wedding dress,” she challenged.

  “You could,” Bick agreed smoothly.

  Tamara caught back the sob before it escaped her throat. “Then that’s what I’ll do.” She gathered the dress to her waist and carried it back to the walk-in closet. For an extra minute she stayed there, opening her eyes wide and staring at the ceiling to hold the tears at bay.

  He was always doubting her, mistrusting her, questioning her motives. She understood that it all went back to the loan and the insurance policy and his continuing doubt that she had told him the truth. He had rescued her, but not because he believed her. It was always a tangible thing between them, except when they made love. That w
as when Bick praised her, told her the way she made him feel, the way she affected him. She told herself that she had to be patient and wait. Eventually he would see that she had told him the truth, because she knew he cared. Knowing that, she could hold on and take these moments.

  Friday afternoon Bick was already home when Tamara returned from the daily visit with her mother. She could hear the shower running in the master bath. A lavender chiffon dress was carefully arranged on the bed, complete with a matching sheer shawl and a pair of silver heels and evening bag. Her fingertips touched the material while her gaze ran hesitantly toward the closed bathroom door. Her expression softened.

  But when Bick came out a few minutes later, Tamara didn’t mention the dress and neither did he. Tamara wasn’t sure if he had bought it for her because he wanted to apologize for his unfair accusation or because he didn’t want to be embarrassed by having her wear a dress that wasn’t proper for the occasion. Since he didn’t volunteer his reason, she wouldn’t ask. She was also entitled to pride.

  The lavender dress was a stunning creation that complemented her fair looks and gave her an immeasurable boost of confidence. But her stomach was churning nervously when Bick parked the car along the circle drive of a large, white house. The guests would be associates of Bick’s and she desperately wanted to make a good impression.

  “Can’t you smile?” he growled under his breath, and helped her out of the car. Tamara realized that apprehension had been tearing at her expression and tried to relax. Bick didn’t appear satisfied by the attempt as he took her arm to walk to the front entrance. “You are my wife with whom I have fallen madly in love. Try to remember that and act the part.” His sarcastic tone made a mockery of the words. “Acting is something you do very well, isn’t it?”

  “You keep telling me I do,” she murmured.

  His attitude made it a chilling beginning, but his attentiveness in the company of their host and his guests soon warmed her. His looks were gentle and loving as Bick rarely left her side. He seemed to find excuses to touch her. Before the evening was over, Tamara couldn’t have cared less what the others thought about her. The evening with Bick had shown her what it could be like between them.

  The circumstances that had led up to that evening prompted Tamara to make a decision. Her personal checking account was down to a few dollars—what remained of her last paycheck. Since Freyda Grimes did all the household shopping, the only money she had needed before was for bus fare back and forth to her mother’s and a few personal items. She was too stubborn to ask Bick for spending money and invite another one of his veiled insults.

  There was an obvious alternative of working to earn her own money. It was a simple matter to contact the variety of clients for whom she had done typing in the past. Her typewriter was still at her mother’s house. Since her mother was resting much of the time, Tamara could spend a few hours typing during her visits. It gave her the little bit of cash she needed, as well as giving her a feeling of independence.

  Tucking the box of addressed envelopes more firmly under her arm, Tamara glanced briefly around the hotel lobby before walking to the desk. A clerk directed her down a hallway to the office of the convention and tour planner.

  “You finished them!” was the delighted exclamation from the girl behind the desk. “You don’t know what a relief that is.”

  “I’m sorry I’m a few minutes later than I said I would be when I talked to you earlier,” Tamara offered in apology as she set the box of envelopes on the girl’s desk. “The bus was running behind schedule.”

  “It’s all right. We appreciate getting these so quickly and that you were able to deliver them.”

  “It wasn’t very far out of my way,” she assured her. “The invoice is inside the box.”

  “Here, let me pay you.” Lifting the box lid, the girl read the invoice and unlocked the petty cash drawer, counting out the exact amount into Tamara’s hand.

  “Thanks.” With a quick glance at her watch, she said, “If you need some more typing done, please call me. I’d better go before I miss my bus home.”

  “Thanks again,” the girl called after her.

  Tamara retraced her route along the corridor to the lobby. Her destination was the bus stop on the street corner outside the hotel.

  Bick listened attentively to the pedantic voice of the German business representative, but his gaze wandered about the lobby. Almost absently he noticed the blond woman entering the lobby from a side corridor, thinking to himself that her hair was almost the same color as Tamara’s. Realization flashed that it was Tamara. His pulse leaped and her name hovered on his lips. Before he could call out to her, jealousy closed his mouth with a bilious taste. She was supposed to be visiting her mother, so what was she doing in the hotel? Where had she been coming from? There were no restaurants or lounges down that corridor—only hotel rooms and meeting rooms. Rage billowed within him, ugly and cold. His temper wasn’t improved by the presence of his German companion. It prevented him from going after Tamara.

  Tamara saw the day’s mail sitting on the living room coffee table, but she didn’t bother to look at it. There wouldn’t be anything for her anyway. Picking up a magazine, she leaned back on the flowered sofa and leafed through it without interest. It had been pointless to return to her mother’s. She would have been able to stay less than forty minutes before catching her bus here. But what was she going to do with herself now?

  The housekeeper, Freyda, wouldn’t welcome her help in the kitchen or anywhere else. The woman seemed averse to company, never wanting to exchange idle chitchat or discuss even the most trivial thing. Tamara sighed, and the sound seemed to echo through the large, empty house.

  When the front door opened, Tamara looked over the back cushion of the sofa. Her smile of welcome was spontaneous and glowing.

  “Hello. You’re home a little early today,” she greeted him.

  The air seemed to crackle around him when he walked into the living room. His features seemed chiseled out of stone, harder than Tamara had ever seen them.

  “A little,” Bick admitted tersely as the fierce green of his eyes was directed at her once and flicked immediately away.

  “The mail is on the coffee table.” She pointed to the stack of letters sitting near her purse. She had never seen him this tense. “You look as if you had a rough day at the office. Would you like a drink?” she suggested, and rose from the couch to pour him one.

  Bick didn’t refuse or agree, so Tamara took his silence as an affirmative, walking to the liquor tray on a side table.

  “How’s your mother today?”

  She almost said fine, but that wasn’t the truth. “She’s slipping.” Removing the stopper from the decanter, she poured a splash of liquor into a crystal glass. “It’s happening so gradually that you don’t notice until you realize that something she could do last week, she can’t do this week.”

  “You’d realize it if you only visited her once a week. How often do you see your mother?”

  “Every day. You know that.” Tamara laughed at the ridiculous question and lifted the lid of the ice bucket.

  “Where did you get this money? From your mother?”

  The question and his savage tone of voice made Tamara look over her shoulder. He was standing by the coffee table, holding her opened purse in one hand and bills in the other.

  She turned sharply to demand in outrage, “What are you doing in my purse? You have no right to go through my things!”

  “I want to know how you came by this money!” His fingers crumpled the money into his fist as he exploded. “And, dammit, don’t lie to me because I saw you in the hotel this afternoon! I wondered what you were doing for money. I couldn’t believe you still had any left out of your last paycheck. This afternoon gave me a pretty damned good idea of where you’re getting it!”

  Tamara stiffened at his snarling rage and ugly insinuation. Anger began trembling through her. “I earned it!” she flared.

  His nos
trils widened to drink in an angry breath as his mouth curled in a sneer. “I’ll just bet you did!”

  As if he couldn’t stand the sight of her, Bick spun away, an arm knocking over the lamp on an end table. It fell with a crash, the porcelain vase cracking open. But he didn’t even glance at it, taking a long stride that carried him to the back of an occasional chair. His hands gripped the top of it, fingers digging into the soft upholstery while he lowered his head to stare at the floor.

  At first, Tamara was speechless at the interpretation he had made from her answer. She stared at him, brutally hurt and incapable of hurting back. She moved toward him like an automaton.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how I earned that money?” she demanded hoarsely. Standing behind him and to one side, Tamara could see the muscles working convulsively along his jaw, but he didn’t answer. “You ask me!” she cried in frustration, and grabbed at his arm to make him look at her.

  Bick shook off the attempt and countered it by gripping her wrist. “I could almost kill you for this,” he warned.

  Tamara was too incensed to be threatened by the ominous gleam in his eyes. “I earned that money typing! Typing for some of the same people who used to hire me before! It gives me spending money and helps pass the time while Mother is resting!” she told him angrily, and jerked her wrist free of his hold. “That’s what I was doing today in that hotel! Delivering some envelopes I had addressed for the hotel’s convention center! But I don’t expect you to take my word for it!” She pivoted away to stalk to the telephone extension in the living room and lifted the receiver to offer it to him. “You call the hotel yourself. Ask them if they know me! Ask them if I do typing for them on occasion!” Tamara challenged.

  At that moment the housekeeper came bustling in the room, clicking her tongue at the broken lamp on the floor. She began picking up the pieces scattered in the thick shag of the carpet. The intrusion was more than Tamara would tolerate.