“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
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