He's My Husband!

by Lindsay Armstrong

  ‘It was very nice. Thank you.’

  He sat up. ‘Do I detect a slight reservation in your voice?’

  She picked up her glass and sipped some wine. ‘If you really want to know, I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather be doing—under normal circumstances. But…’ She shrugged. ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  The firelight was bronzing his hair and the skin of his long bare legs, and she was gripped suddenly by a fantasy of her own. That they could be on a deserted beach anywhere in the world, just the two of them. Perhaps—thinking of Africa—even with wild animals prowling around, kept at bay by the fire.

  How marvellous it would be to crawl into a tent with him. To strip her top and her costume off by the light of a lantern and to see his hands on her bare skin, darker and lean and strong as they slid around the ivory skin of her breasts to the pale rose of her nipples…

  ‘Nicola?’

  She swallowed and looked up at last, hoping desperately that the warmth of the fire would account for the colour she felt prickling the surface of her cheeks. She cradled her glass in her hands and wished she could apply the chill to her face. ‘I…perhaps I don’t bounce back from encounters like last night quite as readily as you do, Brett. That’s all.’

  ‘I thought we’d laid it to rest.’

  ‘All the same I felt…I felt a bit cheap,’ she confessed.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘This morning I could have sworn you were fighting mad.’

  She tossed her hair back. ‘I was, but that was because you provoked me.’

  ‘And—just now?’ he queried idly, but with a faint frown in his eyes.

  ‘What do you mean?’ But her heart had started to beat uncomfortably.

  ‘You were deep in thought and then thoroughly embarrassed.’

  Damn you, Brett Harcourt, she thought, and she only just stopped herself from asking him how he could tell. ‘It…’ She paused. ‘Well, if you can concoct fantasies, so can I. Indeed—’ she looked at him with a spark of irony ‘—if you hadn’t done so in the first place, I—well…’ She drained her glass, put it down and jumped up restlessly to start to pack up the picnic basket.

  He stayed where he was. ‘About us? And this beach?’

  She didn’t answer, but started to shake out towels.

  ‘Do you know what would happen tonight if we were properly married?’ He studied her meditatively. ‘I mean—and here’s something for you to think about, Nicola—we’d go to bed together.’ He paused, and his gaze lingered on her bare legs, then lifted to meet her eyes. ‘And because of the romantic elements of a night like tonight, most husbands would not be able to keep their hands off you.’

  ‘Why—should I think about that?’

  ‘I’m not sure if you realise,’ he said slowly, ‘that once you allow a man the freedom of your body, you can’t always call all the shots.’

  She stared down at him wide-eyed as his clever hazel gaze roamed up and down her again, leisurely, almost as if he were imagining having the freedom of her body, and it sent the blood surging through her veins once more.

  ‘Nothing to say to that, Nicola?’ he queried.

  She threw the towel down and put her hands on her hips. ‘Brett, don’t…’ Her shoulders slumped suddenly. ‘This is difficult. Don’t—make anything of it.’

  Their gazes caught and held—his intent, hers reflecting a helplessness she couldn’t hide.

  He stood up at last, and took her hand. She tried to pull it away but he wouldn’t let her. ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to make anything of it, but I never thought you were cheap—and there’s nothing wrong with the odd fantasy.’ He looked wry. ‘So long as you realise that’s what it is.’

  Surprise made her breath catch in her throat.

  ‘And you’re right,’ he added, not quite smiling. ‘A fire and a beach, a new moon—all dangerously fitting for fantasies. But here comes reality.’ He dropped her hand and put his arm around her shoulders—as Sasha and Chris raced up.

  ‘See! What did I tell you?’ Chris asked Sasha. ‘They do hug.’

  And Sasha heaved a sigh that spoke volumes. ‘Now we know you’re not going to leave us, Nicky! We were quite worried about it, weren’t we, Chris? Because we thought you weren’t real,’ she added, by way of explanation. ‘A real mum.’

  Nicola was too confused and too tired to do anything but tumble into bed when they got home. She’d seen Brett watching her once, while she’d put Sasha and Chris to bed, narrowly and probingly, but she’d simply shaken her head.

  His hazel gaze had lingered on the shadows beneath her eyes and the strain evident around her mouth, but he’d gone away to his study after wishing them all goodnight.

  Sleep had come at once, but all night long it had been threaded with dreams of beaches and lions roaring around camp fires and herself, searching for Brett but unable to find him. She woke late the next moming, feeling about as refreshed as if she had been on an all-night safari.

  It wasn’t until after she was dressed that she noticed a message from Brett on her dressing table. All it said was that he had to be in court this morning but he’d see her tonight.

  She screwed the paper up, not sure if she wanted to laugh or scream with frustration, and tossed it into the wastepaper basket with a definite groan of something—causing Ellen, who happened to be passing her open doorway, to stop abruptly.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ she lied. ‘Well, it was quite a night, one way or another.’

  ‘So Brett mentioned. He said to let you sleep in. He dropped Sasha to school and Chris to kindy. Was it them?’

  Nicola blinked. ‘No! No, they were as good as gold. They loved the barbecue; they always do. Heavens, I had no idea it was so late.’

  Ellen eyed her. ‘You don’t look too bright, I must say. Sure you’re not sickening for something?’

  ‘No.’ Nicola laughed and sniffed the air. ‘Just wait and see what a cup of your coffee does for me—oh, by the way—’ she suddenly remembered Richard Holloway, but not with the enthusiasm she feigned for Ellen’s benefit‘—I forgot to tell you, but I’ve got a pottery commission!’

  Richard arrived on the dot of ten o’clock.

  Nicola took him into the den and he spread out his folder of designs on the maple desk. ‘Reef and rainforest is the theme,’ he explained again. ‘Which is why your clam shells would fit in so well. I was really impressed with them. Well, to be honest I was even more impressed with your glazes, but…’ He shrugged.

  ‘Have you ever seen clams in their natural state?’ Nicola said slowly. ‘I mean, alive as opposed to being doorstops and ashtrays?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘They’re quite amazing. They’re embedded in the reef, and all you see is this wavy line, but as they open these dark, fleshy lips appear, striped and spotted in the most fantastic colours—emerald, magenta, gold—and when they’re startled, they shoot up a jet of water.’

  Richard stared at her. ‘A clam fountain—what a brilliant idea. Could you get the glazes right?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. And—this is just a thought; I’ve been dying to try my hand at one—have you ever seen an apple sea cucumber?’

  He shook his head again, and she walked over to the bookcase. ‘There’s a picture here somewhere…’ Her hand hovered, then she pulled a book out and they pored over it. ‘They’re so colourful it’s hard to believe they’re real.’

  ‘And you could do this?’

  ‘I’m sure I could.’

  He started to sketch rapidly on a piece of cartridge paper, and a delightful clam fountain and sea cucumber garden took shape amidst coral and tropical fish.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ Nicola said, genuinely entranced.

  ‘Of course I don’t know anything about plumbing—’

  ‘That’ll be my headache.’ He grimaced. ‘But it’s entirely possible.’

  ‘I can just imagine people—particularl
y kids—watching it for ages, waiting for the clams to spout.’

  ‘Particularly little kids,’ he said significantly, ‘who beg their mums to take them to see it again and again, and, of course, once they’re in the centre—well, that’s half the battle. But if we do this properly, it won’t only be the kids.’

  She laughed. ‘Crass marketing techniques, Richard?’

  He agreed ruefully. ‘But there’ll be a plaque with your name on it, and I’m positive more commissions would flow on from it. Which leads us on to the business angle.’

  They discussed that, then he hesitated and said, ‘Brett—doesn’t object to you doing this, Nicola?’

  ‘No. Well, you heard him on Tuesday night, didn’t you?’

  ‘But before Tuesday night I got the impression he wasn’t that keen. Or at all keen, to be more accurate.’

  Nicola chewed her lip in embarrassment. ‘Uh, perhaps not…I suppose you’re wondering—’ She stopped awkwardly.

  ‘Whether Sasha got it wrong?’ he said gently.

  ‘Richard, I can’t…look, he knows now how much I want to do this, so it’s OK, I promise.’

  He sat back. ‘Then could I just say this, Nicola? I’d very much like to be a friend as well as a business associate.’

  ‘Why not?’ she murmured, but looked away after one swift glance told her there was more than friendship in his nice grey eyes.

  He left not long afterwards, but asked if he could come back the following evening with a proper drawing and specifications.

  Nicola picked Chris up from kindy and they had lunch with Ellen in the kitchen, but she was restless and jumpy. Then she made an abrupt decision.

  ‘Ellen, could you hold the fort this afternoon? I need to go into town.’

  ‘Will do,’ Ellen said obligingly. ‘I might take them to the park after I pick Sasha up from school.’

  ‘Yowee!’ Chris said enthusiastically.

  Nicola decided to change, and chose what to wear with care. But what if Brett is out of the office? she asked herself as she stared at her clothes, and answered herself—I can’t sit around doing nothing; that’s all there is to it.

  She finally settled on an ice-blue crepe trouser suit. The jacket was long-line and double-breasted, with short sleeves, and she slipped on white court shoes with square toes and silver Cuban heels and slung a white quilted leather purse with a silver chain over her shoulder. Dressy enough to be seen in the offices of Hinton, Harcourt & Associates, she decided, and dressy enough for the wife of the senior partner—not to mention dressy enough for Tara Wells.

  She drove her silver hatchback down the Knob and through the village at the prescribed mileage, then speeded up as the houses gave way to cane fields.

  Along the highway there was more evidence that Cairns was a sugar town, as cane trains laden with cut stalks shuttled along.

  But once she’d left the northern beach suburbs behind, and passed the airport, it became obvious that Cairns was also a tourist destination. Many motels lined the main roads and the tourists, lured from all over the world to the wonders of the Great Barrier Reef and the world heritage-listed Daintry Rainforest, were easily detectable in their bright holiday clothing and with their cameras at the ready.

  It wasn’t these things that occupied her mind, though, as she parked her car in Sheridan Street and sat in it for several minutes. It was what she was going to say to Brett that caused her palms to be damp and her brow to be furrowed with indecision. Had the time come for the simple truth? she wondered painfully.

  The reception area of Hinton, Harcourt & Associates was impressive. Mottled marble floors, mirrored walls, exotic potted palms, and behind the reception desk a familiar face.

  ‘Why, Nicola,’ Fiona Grant, who had once been her father’s secretary, said delightedly. ‘This is a lovely surprise. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks, Fiona! How are you?’

  It took all of ten minutes to be told, and to comment interestedly on the state of Fiona’s health, wealth and otherwise, but then that good lady frowned and said, ‘Brett didn’t mention you were coming in, Nicola.’

  ‘He didn’t know. But he’s here, isn’t he?’

  ‘Y-e-s,’ Fiona said cautiously, ‘but he’s in a staff meeting and—’

  ‘Then I’ll just pop up. It’s rather important, Fiona. Don’t worry,’ she added humorously, ‘I’ll take the blame.’ And she trod up the marble staircase.

  There was no one in the outer office, where his secretary should have been, so Nicola shrugged, walked to the door of the inner sanctum, tapped on it and opened it without waiting for a response.

  There were only two people at the alleged staff meeting, she discovered, as Brett looked up from the other side of the vast oak desk that had once been her father’s.

  The desk was littered with files and documents, and there was no doubting her husband was annoyed at this untimely interruption. His expression was distinctly irritated and impatient as he swung the silver pen between his fingers, then threw it down with a clunk.

  The second person at the meeting was on the same side of the desk as he was, leaning over his shoulder to scan a document, and she wore a pewter silk blouse with a jungle-green denim skirt. Her dark hair was luxuriously and wonderfully styled, as if she’d just walked out of a hairdresser’s, and the faintest trace of Chanel No 5 lingered on the air—Tara Wells.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘NICOLA—what are you doing here?’

  It occurred to Brett as soon as he’d spoken that he’d been less than diplomatic as his wife bent her lovely but severe gaze upon him. It also occurred to him that this beautifully groomed and imperious Nicola bore little resemblance to the tousled although no less lovely creature of two nights ago and the night before…

  How the hell I am going to defuse this? he wondered somewhat grimly. I must have been mad.

  Nicola switched her gaze from him to Tara, and said, ‘Sorry to break this up, Tara, but I need to speak to Brett.’

  Tara blinked, then pinned a smile on. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening the other night. I was going to ring you! How did you get on with Richard this morning, by the way? It was this morning he was coming, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Fine,’ Nicola said brightly, but made no attempt to elaborate.

  ‘Well…’ Tara gathered the files together. ‘I’ll leave you two together.’ But when she was halfway to the door she turned and said, ‘Perhaps you and Brett would come and have dinner with me some time? My unit is nearly finished—I had it redecorated; it’s much more me now.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Nicola said formally.

  Tara hesitated, then left with barely concealed reluctance.

  ‘Not spying on me by any chance, Nicola?’ Brett drawled, lying back in his chair.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ she shot back.

  ‘Your unheralded arrival, and your look of deep suspicion when you saw who was here.’

  ‘I only arrived unheralded because I was afraid you’d find some way of fobbing me off, Brett,’ Nicola said evenly. ‘As for how I may have looked, I’m quite sure Tara could have conducted any business with you from this side of the desk. I also wouldn’t have thought that could be classified as a “staff meeting”, but you live and learn.’ She unhooked her purse from her shoulder and put it down on the desk with a rattle of the chain.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous, Nicola.’

  ‘Am I? We’ll see. But that’s not why I came. What are we going to do, Brett?’

  He sat up. ‘Couldn’t this have waited until tonight?’

  ‘No, it could not! I’m going out of my mind worrying about it.’

  He studied her for a moment, then reached for the phone and instructed his secretary to hold all calls and interruptions and to bring in coffee.

  ‘Thank you.’ Nicola sat down.

  He grimaced. ‘Do you have any suggestions?’

  ‘No. I’ve gone over it again and again—’ she rubbed her brow and sighed �
�—but I keep coming back to square one. I thought at one stage that the sooner I went the better, but now it looks as if it’s too late. I can’t seem to think straight,’ she added unhappily.

  ‘How did it go with Richard this morning?’

  She shot him an old-fashioned look.

  ‘Just humour me, Nicola,’ he murmured.

  ‘Fine! I’ve got a commission to make some clams and some apple sea cucumbers and they’re going to build them into a fountain.’

  ‘What about the practical side of things? Deadlines, contracts and so on?’

  She gripped her hands in her lap, then forced herself to relax. ‘I’ve six months. The centre doesn’t open for another nine. I’m to be paid an exorbitant fee.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, it may be the going rate for all I know, there’s going to be a little plaque with my name on it, and I have a contract to sign.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll go over it for you.’

  ‘One of the advantages of having a lawyer in the family,’ she said dryly, as his secretary, a fearsome bottle blonde and normally a formidable lady, knocked and opened the door, bearing a tray.

  But she paused on the threshold and looked surprised as she saw Nicola. ‘Oh! Mrs Harcourt! I didn’t see you arrive, I’m sorry.’ She looked around the room, as if to make sure there was no one else lurking about. ‘I’d already gone to make the coffee.’ She came into the room and put the tray on the desk.

  Nicola studied the two cups and lifted a briefly sardonic gaze to her husband. But she said warmly to his secretary, ‘How are you, Margaret? I haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘Really well, thank you, and you do look lovely today, Mrs Harcourt. Uh…’ she pointed to a little silver dish ‘…I brought some of my homemade macaroons in for Mr Harcourt this morning. Hope you enjoy them.’