He's My Husband!

by Lindsay Armstrong

  “Going to tell me?”

  About the Author

  Books by Lindsay Armstrong

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Copyright

  “Going to tell me?”

  Nicola chewed her lip. “No.”

  “So it’s something else I don’t need to worry about?”

  “No. I mean, no, you don’t have to worry.”

  He raised an amused eyebrow. “I’d still rather know.”

  “Brett, don’t be difficult,” she protested.

  “It… wasn’t anything much.”

  “All the more reason not to want to hide it from me,” he countered mildly.

  She clicked her tongue frustratedly. “You’re impossible. All right, but don’t blame me if you don’t like it. I was wondering-just as a natural impulse, what it would be like if we…made love. That’s all.”

  LINDSAY ARMSTRONG was born in South Africa but now lives in Australia with her New Zealand-born husband and their five children. They have lived in nearly every state of Australia and tried their hand at some unusual-for them—occupations, such as farming and horse training, all grist to the mill for a writer! Lindsay started writing romances when their youngest child began school and she was left feeling at a loose end. She is still doing it and loving it.

  Books by Lindsay Armstrong

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  LINDSAY ARMSTRONG

  He’s My Husband!

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  CHAPTER ONE

  THE marriage counsellor was a man in his middle to late thirties.

  Nicola Harcourt looked doubtful, and sat down reluctantly. She’d begun to regret this impulse almost as soon as she’d stepped over the doorstep, but now more than ever. A comfortable, middle-aged woman was whom she’d envisaged talking to, a mother figure, perhaps, definitely not a man, and a youngish one at that.

  ‘How may I help you?’ the man asked, and smiled ruefully at her obvious wariness. ‘I’m the Reverend Peter Callam.’ He looked at her enquiringly.

  ‘I think I’ll stick to first names, if you don’t mind. I’m Nicola.’

  ‘That’s fine with me, Nicola. Does it help to know that I’m a minister of religion and I’ve had specific training in helping troubled marriages?’

  ‘Oh.’ Nicola’s expression cleared a little. ‘Well, yes,’ she conceded, then shrugged. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure I should be doing this.’

  ‘When one is desperate it’s a very good idea to talk things over with a third party who can take an impartial view—’

  ‘I’m not desperate,’ Nicola broke in to say.

  ‘Then you’re concerned your husband would not appreciate your doing this?’

  Nicola grinned. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t But that doesn’t really bother me.’

  Peter Callam took a moment to study her and to form the impression that this Nicola was unusually attractive. Twenty-one at the most, he guessed, with fair shining hair in a smooth straight fall to below her shoulders, she had deep blue eyes with an exotic fringe of lashes expertly darkened, a straight little nose and a chiselled mouth innocent of any lipstick.

  There was also a patina not only of health in her smooth, glowing skin and bright eyes, but wealth in her beautifully cut clothes: a short grey and white checked A-line dress under a charcoal linen jacket with a grey stripe, black leather platform shoes with high chunky heels that emphasised a pair of long golden legs, a black leather tote bag and a pair of designer sunglasses resting on top of her head.

  Her only jewellery was a narrow gold wedding band on her left hand.

  He frowned slightly and decided to take the direct approach. ‘If you’re not desperate then why are you here?’

  Nicola moved in her chair. ‘I am, in a way. The thing is…’ She paused, shook her head and sighed. ‘I want to leave my husband, who is not the slightest bit in love with me anyway.’

  The marriage counsellor clasped his hands on the desk. ‘You mean he’s fallen out of love with you? He has other women—he abuses you?’

  Nicola blinked, an expression of surprise chasing through her deep blue eyes. ‘He never lays a finger on me. He’s…rather nice—when, that is—’ she paused to chew her lip, a rather endearing trait Peter Callam found himself thinking, despite himself ‘—he’s not being perfectly horrible to me.’

  ‘Ah.’ He sat up. ‘Mental cruelty can be as bad as the physical kind, and certainly grounds for some kind of intervention.’

  Nicola wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s not that kind of mental cruelty,’ she said with a spark of amusement. ‘He…we’re not really married. I mean, we are, but it was a marriage of convenience, so we live separate lives in the same house kind of thing.’ She stopped, then added prosaically, ‘We’ve never slept together.’

  ‘I see. Why did he marry you, then?’

  ‘I’m good with his kids.’

  The marriage counsellor gazed at her bemusedly. ‘And that’s the only reason he married you?’

  Nicola moved again, uncomfortably this time. ‘Oh, well,’ she murmured, ‘I might as well be hanged for a sheep. This is completely confidential, I presume?’ She eyed him with some hauteur.

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Well, he’s also my trustee. He was my father’s partner, and when my father died-my mother died when I was two—he took over the reins, so to speak. And when I—er—got myself into a very awkward situation with a man two years ago he said—he suggested —a marriage of convenience. I inherited rather a lot of money, you see, which made me the target of—well, I won’t go into that, but…’ She gestured.

  ‘And now you want out?’

  ‘Would you care to be married for your child-handling abilities and only to keep you out of trouble?’ Nicola asked with a lift of an eyebrow.

  ‘Probably not, but it seems to me all you need is to get yourself a good lawyer and get your marriage annulled on the grounds of it never being consummated.’

  Nicola eyed him. ‘It’s not that simple. For one thing, my husband is the best lawyer in town. For another, the provisions of my father’s will don’t allow me to touch my inheritance until I’m twenty-three. And, because my husband is also my trustee, he’s not only my husband but my—jailer, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘He holds the purse strings, in other words?’

  ‘Precisely. You’re fairly quick on the uptake, Reverend,’ she said, with that glimmer of humour in her eyes again.

  And I can’t quite imagine the man who wouldn’t want a peach of a girl like you, Nicola, the Reverend Peter Callam thought, and flinched inwardly. He said, ‘I’m at a bit of a loss, however, Nicola. I generally try to patch marriages up, not break them down, but…are you saying he’d cast you out without a cent if you refused to stay married to him until you’re twenty-three?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ Nicola replied darkly, then grimaced. ‘No, of course he wouldn’t, but he just won’t believe that I can take care of myself. He treats
me as if I were one of his kids at times.’

  ‘These children—don’t they have a mother?’

  ‘Yes, they do. She was his first wife. They got divorced a few years ago. They had a very turbulent marriage; she’s a classical pianist and extremely beautiful—but quite mad, if you want my opinion,’ Nicola said candidly. ‘And, because she spends a lot of time overseas on concert tours, the children spend a lot more time with their father—which is where I come in.’

  ‘You know their mother well?’

  ‘I’ve known her all my life. I like her, despite the fact I think she’s as mad as a hatter.’

  ‘How many children are there?’ Peter Callam asked cautiously, feeling a sudden kinship with Alice in Wonderland.

  ‘Two. A girl of six and a boy of five. They’re very naughty and very lovable.’ Nicola’s lips curved into a warm smile.

  ‘So you wouldn’t like to traumatise them—would I be right in assuming that?’ he said slowly, but with a keen little glance at Nicola.

  She sat forward suddenly. ‘What I would really like is to get out of this farce of a marriage as amicably as possible. I’d like to see them all happy—the children, B…my husband, and their mother.’

  ‘The first wife?’ Peter Callam blinked. ‘But surely—?’

  ‘Surely, yes,’ Nicola said, and looked briefly saddened.

  Then she went on. ‘The thing is, they may not be able to live together, but I’m sure he doesn’t want to get seriously involved with anyone else—and that’s why I’m so suitable. I run his house, look after his children, I’m his hostess when he needs one, and any…’ she paused and shrugged ‘…physical needs he has are taken care of by a series of sophisticated mistresses whose eyes,’ she said with great feeling, ‘I’m seriously tempted to scratch out at times!’

  ‘He parades his mistresses in front of you?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t,’ Nicola said impatiently. ‘But I’m not a fool. I’m sure they must exist. He has an awful lot going for him.’

  ‘All the same, why would you want to scratch the eyes out of these possibly mythical mistresses if you’re so determined to leave him?’

  The question fell into a pool of silence, and Nicola paled slightly but didn’t attempt to drop her blue gaze from his. Then she said huskily, ‘The thing is, I fell in love with him—that’s why I agreed to this marriage. I thought, in my youth and immaturity—’ She grimaced. ‘I thought I could make the fairy tale come true and supplant M…his first wife in his heart. But he never did fall in love with me and he never will. Now do you see, Reverend?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry, Nicola,’ he said compassionately. ‘But—’

  ‘No.’ She lifted a hand. ‘If you’re going to offer me platitudes and tell me not to give up hope, don’t bother. I’ll be twenty-one in two short weeks’ time; I’ve been married to him for two years—I know when I’m beaten.’

  Nicola stopped and smiled slightly. ‘I’m not being very fair to you, am I? But, if it’s any help to you, it’s been a bit of a help to me to actually say all this—get it off my chest.’ She looked wry.

  ‘Thank you,’ Peter Callam murmured. ‘But I’m still confused. How long does he plan to keep you in a marriage of convenience? Because I’m wondering whether he deserves your love, this man, if he’s—forgive me—that insensitive apart from anything else, when he knows how you feel, but—‘

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t know,’ Nicola said blithely.

  ‘He doesn’t?’ Peter Callam blinked.

  ‘You don’t think—’ She broke off and laughed. ‘I may have been young and immature, but I wasn’t so immature as to let him see I was madly in love with him.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you have?’

  ‘Hidden my real feelings?’ Peter Callam said slowly. ‘I…’

  She chuckled after a moment. ‘It’s an awkward one, isn’t it, Reverend? But I can assure you that if you have an ounce of pride, when you’re presented with a very definite marriage of convenience, despite all your dreams, you do tend to hide things.’

  ‘I believe you, Nicola. Yet,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘despite this show of spirited rebellion—’ he raised an eyebrow and after a moment she nodded ruefully ‘—all along you were hoping he’d fall in love with you?’

  Her eyes sparkled humorously again. ‘I don’t fight him all the time. Sometimes we get on like a house on fire.’

  ‘Sounds as if he takes good care of you, then.’

  ‘He does. It’s not the kind of care I want taken of me, though.’

  ‘Why is that, do you think?’

  Nicola considered. ‘Not because he’s nurturing a secret passion, unfortunately, Reverend,’ she said at last. ‘It’s because of my father. Not only were they partners, but he had great admiration for my father—he wouldn’t be where he is today without Daddy’s help. I think he looks upon it as a way of repaying a debt to my father.’

  ‘Nicola—’ Peter Callam sat forward intently ‘—this is the last kind of advice I normally give, believe me, but if you do love this man, if you seriously think he’s worthy of your love, there is a time-honoured way of getting a man to reveal himself. Not only to others, but to himself.’

  Nicola blinked. ‘How?’

  ‘If he thought you were interested in someone else, that might just…do the trick.’ I don’t believe I said that, the Reverend Callam thought, no sooner had he said it, but this golden girl touched him; he couldn’t deny it.

  Nicola wrinkled her brow. ‘Make him jealous? That doesn’t sound very Christian, if you don’t mind me saying so, Reverend.’

  Peter Callam flinched again, then he had to laugh. ‘You’re right, but desperate situations require desperate means at times. Not that I would advise you to actually—’

  ‘Commit adultery?’ Nicola suggested with some irony.

  ‘Most certainly not. Um…does anyone know how things stand? His first wife, for example?’

  ‘No one really knows, although some people might suspect. I’m not sure what Marietta thinks. She’s usually amazingly, even embarrassingly forthright, but she just—’ Nicola shrugged ‘—wished me luck and carried on as if it was a fait accompli. I suppose, if you look at it another way, it’s also her children I’m good with,’ she added ruefully.

  ‘But you suspect she may still be in love with him?’

  ‘I think there’s a kind of fatal attraction between them and there always will be.’

  ‘I still feel you shouldn’t walk away from this marriage without one last test,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘You probably don’t think I can take care of myself either,’ Nicola observed.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be preserved from fortune-hunters until you’re twenty-three, Nicola. It’s no great age. And you never know.’

  Nicola stood up and regarded him quizzically, as if to say, I might have known. What she did say was, ‘Look, don’t you worry about it, Reverend. I always knew there wasn’t going to be an easy solution. Not that that will stop me from trying to find one. But thanks for listening. I feel a bit guilty about taking up your time. I’m sure there are much more worthy causes and desperate women you could really help.’

  Peter Callam stood up and handed her a card. ‘My time,’ he said quietly, ‘is always available to those in need, even if it’s only to listen.’

  Nicola stared at him, then smiled at him radiantly. ‘It’s people like you, Reverend, who restore one’s faith. Thanks a million.’ With that, she left.

  Brett Harcourt drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of his sapphire-blue BMW convertible as he waited at a traffic light. The hood was down, although, for Cairns, it was a cooler day than the fierce heat of summer. He was late for an appointment, and every traffic light, this one included, had gone against him at the last minute—and this one took an age to change, he well knew.

  Then he frowned as his gaze rested on someone coming out of the Lifeline offices opposite him—his
wife. But she didn’t cross the road in front of him, although for her the light was green. Instead, she stopped on the pavement and just stood there, obviously lost in thought.

  As usual, although she might be miles away mentally, she was turning a few heads, he observed dryly. Men slowed as they walked past, then looked back. Girls and women looked too, no doubt marvelling at the simple elegance of her clothes, the beautiful, lithe body beneath, the gloss of her skin and hair, maybe wondering if she was a top model or a film star.

  But what the hell has she been doing at Lifeline? Brett Harcourt wondered. Looking for some new and devious way to give me the slip? Unless she’s decided to include good works in her repertoire of unusual activities…

  He was about to hail her when he realised the light had changed and the traffic behind him was getting restive. He swore beneath his breath and moved off fast. But he noticed out of the corner of his eye as he did so that she didn’t even look up.

  As for Nicola, she came out of her reverie and decided to treat herself to lunch in town.

  She left her car where it was parked and walked to the Pier, where she chose Pescis, an Italian waterfront restaurant, overlooking the Marlin Marina. Not that there was a lot left of the marina. A cyclone earlier in the year had washed away the pontoons, leaving only the piles.

  But it would be rebuilt, for it had famous associations, the Marlin Marina, with people like the late Lee Marvin, who had come to Nicola’s home town of Cairns, in far North Queensland, to set out in pursuit of the fabulous black marlin in the tropical waters of the Coral Sea.

  Pescis was always busy, and today was no exception, but she found a table on the veranda and ordered a light lunch—chopped cooked tomato and basil on toasted bread.

  While she waited for it, and sipped mineral water, she fiddled absently with her wedding ring and thought back over her interview with the Reverend Peter Callam—but, more particularly, on the impulse that had made her go in the first place.

  I suppose it was because I can never talk to Brett about it, she mused. Not that I’ve tried for a while, but it always ended up in an argument… I must have been mad…