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“Richard…we shouldn’t…it’s insane!”
“Yes, we should. And it isn’t insane. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything in the past eight years, and you do, too. Don’t you? Admit it, Emma. Tell me that you want me. Say it!”
“I want you, Richard,” she breathed. Oh, how she wanted him!
“That’s all I needed to know,” he said coldly.
And to Emma’s astonishment and chagrin, Richard rose to his feet.
“Good night, Emma.”
ANGELA DEVINE grew up in Tasmania, Australia, surrounded by forests, mountains and wild seas, so she dislikes big cities. Before taking up writing, she worked as a teacher, librarian and university lecturer. As a young mother and Ph.D. student, she read romance fiction for fun, and later decided it would be even more fun to write it. She is married with four children, loves chocolate and drinking tea and hates ironing. Her current hobbies are gardening, bushwalking, traveling and classical music.
Yesterday’s Husband
Angela Devine
To Kirk, whose eyes are the color of a storm-tossed sea,
AS THE hotel bus bowled along through the lush green Balinese countryside, Emma Prero felt a wave of nostalgia so powerful that she caught her breath. The Indonesian island was every bit as magical and exotic as her memories of her honeymoon had told her. Graceful palm trees waved their feathery green foliage overhead, monkeys scuttled in alarm up the mossy green walls of stone temples, girls in colourful tie-dyed skirts and blouses strolled along the roadside verges with baskets of fruit balanced on their heads. Once the driver was forced to come to a complete halt when a flock of noisy, squabbling ducks spread right across the road. As he opened the door to shout a protest at their owner, a warm rush of tropical air filled the vehicle’s air-conditioned interior. It brought with it the unmistakable scent of the island, a dense, intoxicating compound of moist sea breezes, frangipani blooms and Eastern spices. Breathing in that distinctive fragrance, Emma was hit by a sharp, painful longing for Richard. The sensation was so vivid that she shut her eyes briefly, almost expecting to find him sitting beside her just as he had done nine long years before. But there was no warm, muscular thigh next to hers, no large, calloused hand brushing her fingers, no rumble of masculine laughter beside her. When she opened her eyes again, the seat was empty and the door of the bus was closing with a soft hiss. Emma gripped her Gucci handbag and took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to control the wild beating of her heart. Why did I come? she wondered in panic. I must have been crazy! Do I really want to inflict this kind of pain on myself? It was a stupid idea. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Turning her head away from the window, she glanced at the other occupants of the bus. But that only made her feel worse. In front of her were two elderly couples with silvery hair and cheerful, smiling faces, who looked as if they were still on their honeymoons forty years after the wedding. Behind her she could hear a large assortment of excited young people, already striking up friendships. And directly opposite her was the most painful sight of all. A genuine honeymoon couple. The woman still had scraps of confetti in her long, curly auburn hair and she was gazing with luminous happiness at her new husband. As for him, he seemed to he oblivious of everything except his bride’s liquid brown eyes. The sight sent a pain like a knife twisting through Emma’s heart. She couldn’t be much older than them in years—after all, she was only twenty-eight—but she felt centuries beyond them in bitter experience. Sighing, she unscrewed the crumpled colour travel brochure which she had been thoughtlessly mangling, and tried to read it. It was no use complaining. She had made her own bed and now she must lie on it.
There was another bad moment as the bus pulled up in the leafy courtyard of the hotel. Following the luggage porter into the dim, cool interior, she heard the sound of a gamelan orchestra. The strange, percussive music with its drums and cymbals and bronze pots held a thrilling dissonance that was instantly and hauntingly familiar. Yes, there had been an orchestra just like that when she and Richard had signed in at this very desk nine years ago. It was the first time she had used her married name and her fingers had shaken as she’d taken the pen in her hand. They were shaking again now and her writing came out spidery and illegible.
‘Emma Fielding.’
The name looked strange to her, for she had barely used it in the eight years since she and Richard parted. Yet some foolish impulse had made her leave it on her passport, so that when she travelled she still had the illusion of being genuinely married. The same
