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Hired Wife
Karen Van Der Zee
Sam Rasheed needed a live-in interior designer to transform his home, and Kim wanted the job. So she convinced him that the infatuated teenager he'd rejected eleven years ago was now a controlled, responsible businesswoman…But her professionalism was already wavering. She'd only played along with Sam's suggestion of a fake marriage–"to keep idle gossip at bay"–in the hope that it would protect her from the unwanted admirers that had plagued her lately. She'd had no idea that she'd still find him quite so irresistible–or that he intended to keep up the "devoted husband" routine behind closed doors–in the bedroom!
“You have a natural sexiness.”
Sam leaned a little closer, capturing her gaze with his, and continued, “You are a real woman, Kim.”
She scooted away from him into the corner of the sofa, half scared, half amused. Her heart was racing, yet she wanted to laugh about the absurdity of it all. “Don’t play games with me.”
He took her hand. “But you’re my wife.”
His tone was light, yet for a fraction of a second she caught a glimpse of something dark and smoldering in his eyes. And her heart made a nervous leap.
Ever since KAREN VAN DER ZEE was a child growing up in Holland she wanted to do two things: write books and travel. She’s been very lucky. Her American husband’s work as a development economist has taken them to many exotic locations. They were married in Kenya, had their first daughter in Ghana and their second in the United States. They spent two fascinating years in Indonesia. Since then they’ve added a son to the family as well and lived for a number of years in Virginia before going on the move again. After spending over a year in the West Bank near Jerusalem, they are now living in Ghana again, but not for good!
Hired Wife
Karen Van Der Zee
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
THE BEDROOM door creaked softly and Kim stirred in the big bed. Through half-opened eyes she saw the man enter—a dark, floating shape in the moon-shadowed room, mysterious, undefined. Outside the open window, palm fronds rustled in the cool sea breeze and she could hear the gentle rushing of the waves lapping onto the beach.
The door closed behind him and he moved toward the bed, soundlessly. She caught a glimmer of white, a dress shirt? Slowly she began to see more. He was tall and she could see the outline of strong, square shoulders. His face was in darkness. She willed her eyes to see, to focus. She noticed the movements of his arms and hands as he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. The moonlight silvered over his broad, bare chest.
She could not see his face.
It did not matter. She closed her eyes, waiting, smiling in the dark, wondering where she was. An island?
The breeze floated over the bed, stroking her face, and naked shoulders, carrying the scents of sea and sand and some exotic night-flowering bloom. The sheets were cool against her skin. A slow, languorous sigh escaped her. She felt blissful, sleepy soft, the beginnings of a delicious warmth stirring in her blood.
Waiting, wanting, drifting.
She felt him beside her, felt his body against hers, warm and hard and strong. He put his arms around her and she nestled into his embrace. He was so big and she was so small; he nearly swallowed her.
Happiness suffused her. She belonged in these arms, sheltered, safe. At the center of her, desire stirred. The scent of him filled her and her blood began to tingle through her body as if it were champagne.
“Hello, Kim,” he whispered near her ear.
“Hi,” she whispered back, heady with his nearness.
He began to kiss her, tender kisses by her right ear, her temple, her closed eyes, her cheek. He had reached her mouth. “You smell delicious,” he murmured against her lips, his voice deep, intoxicating.
His hands joined in the caressing and her body sang with his touch. A yearning, deep and real, captured her heart and soul and body—a yearning to love him, this man in her bed, to hold him and cherish him and never let him go.
He whispered something magical and secret she did not understand.
She looked up at his face. It was still hidden in the darkness. Reaching up, she traced her fingers along his hard square jaw, newly shaven, and along his cheeks and nose and wide forehead—a strong, manly face, she knew. She touched her fingertips to his mouth.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
Floating out of darkness into light, bright light, Kim moaned in protest. She wanted to slip back into the velvety darkness, a darkness full of sensuous delights and pleasures.
The sounds of New York City traffic, muffled, familiar, insinuated themselves into her consciousness. She buried her face in the pillow. She wanted the sounds of the waves washing ashore, the sound of whispered words of love, the exquisite sensation of his hands stroking her body. Slowly she inhaled the air, her eyes closed, willing herself to smell the sea breeze, the scent of the man who shared her bed. Nothing.
Surfacing. She struggled against it, not wanting to leave behind the magic of the night, but knowing she had to.
A police car, the siren going full blast, shrieked down a nearby street, shredding the last of the veil of sleep. Kim sighed. There was no denying it; she was awake, totally completely awake. And sadly aware of the cold reality that there had been no lover in her bed last night.
It was the third time in two weeks that she’d had the dream. It was a wonderful dream, no question, but what was the meaning of it? Who was the man? It was a tad disturbing, really, making love with a man she didn’t know. Shame on her! Still, in some mysterious way he seemed familiar, as if she knew him somehow.
She hoisted herself up into a sitting position and with both hands wiped the hair out of her face, over her shoulders. It was a mess; she couldn’t even get her fingers through it.
It didn’t make sense for her to be having a dream like this, especially now. She was fed up with men, at least for the moment.
For a while she wanted no more love and romance to complicate her life. Men demanded so much attention and coddling and ego-stroking; she really was quite tired of it and felt in need of a well-deserved man rest. Now if only Tony would quit bothering her she might find a little peace.
She’d met him at a party three weeks ago, and it hadn’t taken long to realize that the only topic of conversation of interest to Tony, was Tony. Much to her despair, he had taken an immediate fancy to her and was now making a nuisance of himself by devising various crazy schemes to gain her interest.
She was not interested.
Amused, maybe, but not interested. He did have a sense of humor, she had to give him that. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and grinned, thinking of the hideous painting of a half-dead weeping willow he’d sent her as a joke two days ago, accompanied by a poem—something impressively maudlin about how he wept like the willow for being unable to gain her love. Last week he’d sent her reservations on a love boat cruise through the Caribbean. She’d returned them, of course—not that she didn’t want to go on a cruise, but she wasn’t for sale.
Cruise. Islands. Palm trees. She was thinking about the unknown lover in her bed again, the feel of his naked body against hers. She groaned. Stop it, she told herself. Stop it! She struggled to her feet, swaying a little, feeling a distinct lack of energy. The dream sure had taken it out of her.
In the bathroom she turned on the shower and gingerly tested the temperature of the water. Jason, who shared her spacious loft apartment with her, liked his water frigidly cold—some torturous regimen to keep him awake so he could work on his doctoral dissertation, something excruciatingly brainy to do with statistics. She adjusted the temperature and stepped into the warm spray. No more men for a while. She’d concentrate on her career. She was twenty-six and she had plenty of time for them later. No, not them, she corrected herself. She wanted just one man: the right man. And children, too, of course. She’d teach them how to bake cookies and paint and sculpt and sing and dance waltzes. They’d have a blissfully happy, creative, colorful family…
Later.
She turned off the water, dried herself and went back to her bedroom.
She slipped into a long, slim skirt with an exotic, multicolored design and topped it with a white silk T-shirt. Humming a little tune, she brushed her hair until she’d tamed it into some sort of order and tied it back with a scarf the color of sandalwood. When at work she needed to keep her hair out of her face, constrained in a scrunchy or a scarf, or it would end up in a bright halo of out-of-control curls, which made her look even younger than she already did. Blond hair and big blue eyes were the stuff of baby dolls. She made a face in the mirror, then put on some makeup and a pair of long, artsy earrings to add a touch of sophistication.
In the kitchen area she made coffee and contemplated the view from the window—an untidy design of brick walls and rooftops adorned with antennae, water tanks and chimneys. Here and there hopeful souls had created what looked like small gardens of potted plants.
Maybe she needed a change of scenery, to do something different, go somewhere else, get away from the men in her life.
Now where had that thought come from? Why would she even think about a change? She was happy. She loved her work and her roomy loft, she loved New York, and her friends. What else could a person want?
A sexy lover.
“No, I don’t,” she said out loud, glancing up at the sound of a door opening. Jason emerged from his room, dressed in gray sweatpants and a blindingly white undershirt. He was tall, blond and handsome like a Viking, but he had no social life to speak of. Why he hid his drop-dead gorgeous self from the world was anybody’s guess.
“Good morning,” Kim said cheerily, pouring him a cup of coffee. He looked bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and in need of some serious fortification.
“Thanks,” he muttered, taking the coffee from her and leaning his hip against the counter to drink it.
“Sit,” she suggested.
He raked his free hand through his thick hair. “I’ve been sitting all night.”
While she’d been dreaming of her secret lover making passionate love to her in a moonlit room, he’d been conquering the universe of numbers, or whatever genius thing it was he did.
“When you dream,” she asked on impulse, “do you ever have the sense that there’s a message in it?”
“I don’t dream,” he said.
“Everybody dreams,” she returned. “You just don’t remember them necessarily.”
“Which relieves me of the worry of interpreting them.” There was a flicker of humor in his deep blue eyes.
Kim sighed. “I keep dreaming the same thing over and over again and it’s beginning to be a bit…concerning.”
“What type of dream?” he asked. “Is someone chasing you? Are you falling down a bottomless hole?”
“No. It’s more of a…romantic variety. A man I don’t know comes into my bedroom while I’m in bed. He takes off his clothes—”
“You don’t need to go into detail,” Jason said, taking a gulp of coffee.
Kim laughed; she couldn’t help it. She’d done it on purpose, wondering at what point in the story he was going to stop her. “Haven’t you ever had a really wonderful romantic or erotic dream, one that—”
“I told you, I don’t dream.” His face was expressionless. “I’ve got to go back to work.”
She watched his broad, retreating back and grinned.
The dream would not leave her alone; images of lovemaking floated into her mind as she worked, discussing the designs for a line of lamps she had created for a small, exclusive interior decorating firm, which was going to have them manufactured in Honduras.
How many tall, broad-shouldered men were there in Manhattan? Kim had never paid any attention or kept count, but now she saw them everywhere—walking in the streets, sitting in restaurants, riding in elevators, smiling down at her from billboards. She imagined them slipping into her room at night, getting into bed with her, stroking her. She couldn’t help herself; it was embarrassing; it was awful.
The dream followed her as she rode home in a taxi, and stayed with her as she worked at her computer all afternoon. She kept seeing the tall dark man, kept feeling his tender touch, tasting his kisses. And the magic word he’d whispered, sounds that had no meaning to her, floated on the edges of her consciousness—tantalizing, mysterious.
She was going nuts. When a friend called and suggested meeting for dinner, she was so relieved with the distraction that she found herself leaning weakly back in her chair, gulping for air.
“Girl,” she muttered, “get a grip on yourself.”
Coming home later that night, Kim found a message from her brother, Marcus, on the answering machine. He had something of interest to discuss with her, he informed her, and suggested she call him at his office the next morning. In the grip of curiosity, Kim reached for the phone, hesitated and glanced at the clock. No, it was too late to call him at home. His wife Amy, heavily pregnant with their third child, would be asleep already and might wake up. Loving kindness won out over selfish curiosity and Kim put the receiver down with a sigh. The suspense was killing her.
Interesting. What could he possibly mean?
She got ready for bed, stumbling clumsily over her shoes, wishing she knew what Marcus wanted to tell her. At least she didn’t have a boring life. She had a weepy stalker who sent her poems, a secret lover who visited her at night and now a brother with a surprise. She smiled as she rolled into bed. Life was pretty good.
She adjusted the pillow under her head, closed her eyes and felt herself sinking like a rock into sleep.
Again that night the man came softly into her room, took his clothes off and slipped into bed with her. Again, she could not see his face.
“Hi,” she murmured, burrowing into his embrace. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Yes,” he whispered, and kissed her deeply.
Outside the window, the palm fronds stirred in the sea breeze.
“Bahibik,” he whispered, a mere breath of sound feathering against her cheek, bewitching her.
She could not see his face, his eyes. With her hands she touched the familiar outline of his cheeks and chin and nose, traced his mouth with her fingers.
“Who are you?” she asked.
She could feel him smile. “You know who I am, Kimmy, you know.”
Kim got Marcus on the phone at ten minutes before eight the next morning. He was always early at his office.
“Kim, remember you’re always saying you want to go back to the Far East one day? To work, for artistic inspiration?”
Kim sighed longingly. “Yes, of course.” If only she could figure out how to do it—find a job over there, inherit some money, win the lottery. The family had lived on the island of Java, Indonesia, for four years and had returned to New York when Kim had been fifteen. She had loved the Far East, loved the international school she had attended and the lush, tropical beauty of the island. She had vowed she would go back when she grew up, to study maybe.
“I’m waiting to win the lottery,” she said to Marcus.
“Well, maybe you won’t need to. Sam’s back in New York, getting organized for…”
