Hired Wife. Karen Van Der Zee
to her, a volcano of controlled passion, ready to erupt….
She was aware of the faint scent of his aftershave, aware of sitting very close to him. It would be so easy to touch him—his arm, his hand, his thigh. Oh, good Lord what was she thinking? He was just another rich, workaholic businessman, a man who only knew about making money and had no talent for warm, intimate relationships with friends and lovers. He was most likely just a boring human being, a man without a wife and without a social life. He probably played solitaire at night while watching the stock market news on CNN.
Sure, a little voice teased her.
Mercifully it was not a long drive to the restaurant, a very upmarket place she’d never had the good fortune to visit.
“This is great,” she said, studying the wonderful modern decor, the interesting art on the walls. The aromas wafting around were promising; the menu alone was a piece of art.
A waiter in a black suit came to take their drink orders. He talked with a French accent, a real one even.
Kim requested Chardonnay, and caught the dark gleam in Sam’s eyes.
“Ah, yes,” he said evenly, “it’s legal for you to drink now.”
She knew instantly what he was referring to. She’d been well underage when she’d known him, which hadn’t kept her from secretly partaking of a couple of glasses of champagne at her father’s fiftieth birthday party. And Sam had been there. It took an effort to force down the heat of embarrassment that threatened to flush her face.
The champagne had made her brave and wanton. She’d more or less lured Sam into the garden, behind the big hemlock tree, and thrown herself at him, or tried anyway. She wasn’t very practiced at that sort of thing. It was mortifying even to remember it.
However, she was no longer a silly teenager. She was twenty-six, a mature adult, and she had to convince Sam of that so he’d give her the job.
“That was eleven years ago,” she said with a dismissive little shrug, fiddling with her napkin so she didn’t have to look at him.
“Indeed,” he said smoothly, not pursuing the matter like a true gentleman. “So tell me, what has happened with you in these past eleven years, apart from the obvious?”
“Oh, well, in a nutshell?” She laughed. “I argued with my father a lot, went to art school anyway, argued some more, went to graduate school, argued some more and then got a terrific job with an advertising agency until I got bored working on soap campaigns and decided to go freelance to have more artistic freedom.” She stopped to take a breath. “My father keeps thinking that I’m never going to have a real career, but all in all I’m doing quite well, and I enjoy my work. I’m good at what I’m doing and I’ve gotten great contracts. I’m working with architects and artists and interior decorators and—” She was off and rolling, telling him about her work, and every time she wanted to stop, for politeness’ sake—after all he had to get bored just listening to her—he kept asking more questions.
“And now,” he said finally, “you’re ready to give all this up to come to Java for a temporary job finding me a house, buying bath mats and hiring servants?”
“Oh, but it’s so much more than just that.” It could be, anyway. “You make it sound so…prosaic.”
“Setting up house usually is.” No inflection in his voice.
She took a sip of wine and put the glass down. “You told Marcus you wanted a home. You said you wanted something more than just a place to live. That you’re tired of sterile hotel rooms and impersonal furnished apartments.”
He scowled down at his glass. “Yes. I’ve been living like a damned nomad for the last ten years.”
Not in a lean-to or a tent, she was sure. No doubt he’d resided quite comfortably in expensive surroundings. But not in places he’d considered home apparently. It was hard to imagine. Even the shabby little apartment she’d had before she’d been lucky enough to get the loft, had been home. She’d simply made it that way, even buying in the beginning secondhand furniture. It had taken time and effort, but it had still been home—her things, her colors, her decorations and her choice of art on the walls.
“How long will you be living in Indonesia?”
“Five years, probably. Perhaps longer. And this time I’ve decided to get myself a place I can call home, not to rent someone else’s house with someone else’s furniture.”
Only he did not have the time to invest in doing what was necessary—find a house, furniture, servants— Marcus had told her. Setting up a new company, managing and staffing it was going to take all his energies.
What he really needed was a wife, but Kim decided not to point this out to him; it might not be news to him.
So here she was in a classy restaurant in her funeral dress, trying to convince Sam that, since he didn’t have a wife, she was the next perfect person for the setting-up-house job. She stared at his tie, a very nice one, thinking she might as well go straight for it. Just as she was about to launch into her appeal, the waiter came to take their order.
They ordered a first course, something duck-liverish that was artfully arranged on a big white plate and garnished elegantly.
“Food as art, I love it,” Kim said. “It’s almost too beautiful to eat—but I will!” She put her fork in the culinary art piece carefully and took a delicate little bite. It was delicious.
“Okay,” she said, having finished it a while later, “give me the job and I will find you a wonderful house with a great veranda and furnish it and decorate it to your taste and specifications. I will hire you the perfect servants. And if you wish, I will even put on a big dinner or cocktail party when it’s all done so you can show off your new home to your business connections and friends. I will do a fabulous job for you. I am very good at this sort of thing.”
He observed her with a kind of curious speculation. “And your instincts tell you that leaving behind what you’ve built up in New York and trotting off to do this job for me will somehow further your career?”
“I never trot,” she said, “But to answer your question, yes, in a way it will.”
“In a way?” One eyebrow cocked, suspicions raised.
She fiddled idly with the little hoop earring in her left ear. “I have ulterior motives,” she said with a bit of drama.
“Ah,” he said meaningfully. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
So she told him how much she wanted to go back to the Far East, how she loved Java, how there was nothing on earth greener than rice paddies, nothing better than… She went on for far too long, and he was quiet, listening intently as she told him of the wonderful art, the batik of Solo, the carved wood of Jepara, the fascinating wayang plays that went on all night, the delicious food. She explained how good for her creativity it would be to live there, how much inspiration she would get. And when she finally stopped, she could feel her face, flushed and warm, and knew she must look like an excited child. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and glanced down at her food, as yet uneaten. She felt his dark gaze on her as if it were a touch.
“Fascinating,” he said.
She glanced up and saw him smile.
“All right,” he said, “you’ve got the job.”
Kim locked the door behind her and made a triumphant little dance through the living room. She’d done it! She waltzed into the bedroom and began to undress. And tomorrow she would see Sam again. They’d made plans for her to meet him at his office at six, since she’d be right in the area, and together they’d go to her loft, so he could see what she had done with the decorating and to discuss things further.
She caught her smiling reflection in the mirror. And she had suggested, since it was evening, that he might as well stay and she’d cook them some dinner.
Too