He's My Husband!. Lindsay ArmstrongЧитать онлайн книгу.
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...
She looked down at the gold ring on her left hand. It had never been accompanied by an engagement ring—she’d insisted she didn’t want one, that it would be a bit ridiculous, because they could hardly call themselves engaged when they were to get married within a bare week of Brett proposing the marriage of convenience quite out of the blue to her. And, finally, weren’t engagement rings a token of love?
She’d asked her husband-to-be this with a dangerous little glint in her blue eyes, which he’d observed placidly, then he’d shrugged and murmured that it was up to her. But he’d gone on to say that their wedding would not be a hole-and-corner affair if she had that in mind as well.
‘But surely you don’t want all the trimmings?’ she’d protested. ‘I certainly don’t.’
‘What would you like?’ he’d countered. ‘Don’t forget we need to make some kind of a statement, after what’s happened to you and what people are saying.’
‘Well...’ She’d coloured. ‘Something quiet and dignified.’
A look of amusement had flickered in his eyes, causing her to say rashly, ‘I’m quite capable of being dignified, Brett.’
‘Oh, I believe you, although I sometimes prefer you when you’re not, but...’ He’d shrugged.
Her eyes had widened—and, she recalled, sitting now on the veranda, watching the green waters of Trinity Inlet, which formed Cairns Harbour, that had given her another cause to hope.
So she’d made no further objections, and she’d married Brett Harcourt in a simple but beautiful, ballerina length dress of ivory stiffened silk, with a matching pillbox hat crowned with flowers, no veil and short gloves. The ceremony had taken place in the garden of his home, before a marriage celebrant, and the handful of guests had all been of his own family. His children had been present, but, at three and four, had had no real idea of the significance of the occasion.
They’d been wild with delight, however, when she’d moved in permanently from that day.
She finished her lunch with a sigh and remembered that, when making her marriage vows, she’d been uncomfortable and barely audible. Then she’d taken hold and told herself that at least she was in love with her tall, worldly husband, so it couldn’t all be a sham. But of course now, in hindsight, that was what it still was and always had been.
‘All quiet on the western front?’
‘Oh!’ Nicola started. It was that evening, and she was seated at a large and beautiful maple desk in the den, dealing with the household accounts. There was an open chequebook in front of her and a sheaf of bills. It was eight-thirty, the children were in bed asleep, Mendelssohn was playing on the state-of-the-art sound system—and she hadn’t heard Brett come home.
She pushed a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles up on top of her head and regarded him severely. He had a glass of whisky in one hand and was pulling off his tie with the other. ‘You were supposed to be home for dinner.’
‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I got held up.’
‘You don’t have to apologise to me. Your children are another matter, however. You promised to watch The Wiggles with them.’
‘Damn, I forgot.’ Brett Harcourt raked his hand through his dark brown hair. ‘Don’t they put out videos? I could watch a Wiggles video with them.’
‘This was a special concert—televised live.’
‘So I’m well and truly in the sin bin?’
‘I would say so. And you could find yourself in the sin bin with your liver if you make a habit of dining on Scotch.’
Brett Harcourt had hazel eyes that could be extremely enigmatic at times, much to Nicola’s chagrin. They could also be coolly insolent and worldly—another thorn in her flesh. But there were times—and she often wondered if she didn’t find this the most infuriating—when they laughed at her, although he maintained a perfectly straight face. Such as now.
He said gravely, ‘This is my first and last one for the day. It’s been a hell of a day and I got my secretary to order some dinner for me. Have you taken up good works, Nicola?’
She blinked at him. He sat down on the corner of the desk and let that hazel gaze drift over her. She’d changed into a large white T-shirt printed with gold and silver shells, and a pair of yellow leggings. Her hair was twisted up and secured by a big plastic grip. Her feet were bare. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘You sound as if you’re trying to reform me. You even sounded wifely, which is something you avoid at all costs, you must admit.’
The slightest tinge of pink ran beneath the smooth skin of her cheeks, but she said coolly, ‘With good reason, Brett. I’m a wife