Barbara Hannay - The Husband She'd Never Met

Damn it.

Carrie had nearly killed him in there. She’d looked so vulnerable, standing in the middle of the room in her dressing gown and bare feet, a nervous sort of smile playing at the corners of her mouth. So beautiful.

He’d sensed that he could have taken her in his arms and she wouldn’t have put up a fight. In a moment of weakness he’d almost hoodwinked himself into believing that Fate had given him the old Carrie back, the girl who’d once loved him without reservation.

All that talk of their honeymoon had been agony. So many poignant, passionate memories. He’d been so tempted to take advantage of her innocence, to draw her in and kiss her, to have her once more in his arms, so soft and womanly and sensuous. To rekindle the uninhibited wildness and rapture of happier days.

To show her everything she’d missed.

But how could he take advantage of her now, too late? And why bother, when he knew her memory would return, and along with it her bitterness and resentment?

His hands tightened around the railing as he pictured the chilling moment when Carrie’s memory came back. He could almost see the curiosity and the light fading from her warm brown eyes to be replaced by dawning knowledge and cynicism, and quite possibly anger.

A soft groan escaped him. This was a crazy situation—having Carrie back with him, helpless and needing him. It was tearing his guts out.

He had no choice, though. He had to see this through. While his wife needed him he had to do everything he could for her, and then, with grim, unhappy resignation, he would weather the storms that inevitably followed.

* * *

Eventually Carrie slept, and when she woke the room was filled with pale light, filtered by the shutters. She heard sounds coming from the kitchen. The kettle humming to the boil. The chink of mugs being set on the granite bench.

She should get up and join Max. Throwing off the bedclothes, she sat up.

At the same moment there was a knock at the door.

‘Yes?’ she called, snatching at the sheets.

Max appeared. He was bringing her a cup of tea, and Carrie found herself mesmerised by the sight of him in black silk boxer shorts and a white T-shirt, spellbound by his muscular chest so clearly defined by the snug-fitting shirt.

Stupidly, she completely forgot to cover herself with the sheet, and now his intense blue gaze settled on her, taking in her dishevelled hair, her bare shoulders, the thin fabric of her nightgown. To her dismay her nipples tightened, and she was quite sure that he noticed.

Her pulse took off at a giddy gallop.

‘I thought you’d like a cuppa,’ he said.

‘It’s all right.’ Carrie knew she sounded nervous. Out of her depth. She had no idea how to deal with this. Quickly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for the bathrobe that she’d left on a nearby chair. ‘I’ll come out.’

‘As you wish,’ he said politely. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’

She could tell by the mix of amusement and sympathy in his eyes that he knew exactly why she was nervous. She was sure he’d guessed at her lustful interest in him. It was almost as if her body remembered...everything...

* * *

They went out for breakfast. Max suggested that Carrie should choose a venue, and without hesitation she selected at a café with a deck built over the waterfront.

A friendly young waiter with a shaved head and a gold earring welcomed them with a beaming smile. ‘Haven’t seen you guys in a while.’

To Carrie’s astonishment, he stepped forward and smacked kisses on both her cheeks.

‘Hey, Jacko,’ Max responded, giving the waiter a hearty handshake and back-slap. ‘Good to see you.’

‘And it’s great to see you two. How are you both?’

Carrie gulped, wondering how well she knew this fellow and how much she should tell him.

‘We’re really well, thanks,’ Max said smoothly. ‘It’s been a good wet season, which always helps.’

Jacko nodded, then shot a quick glance to a table right next to the water. ‘Must have known you two were coming. Your favourite table’s free.’

‘How’s that for timing?’ Max was grinning as they took their seats.

Carrie hoped that her smile didn’t look too surprised as Jacko flicked out a starched napkin and deftly placed it, unfolded, on her lap.

‘Shall I fetch menus?’ he asked with a knowing smile. ‘Or would you just like your usual?’

Their usual? Carrie knew she must look stunned and confused. She shot a quick look to Max, who sent her a reassuring smile.

‘Our usual, of course. We can’t break with tradition,’ he told Jacko.

Carrie was shaking her head as Jacko left. ‘Don’t tell me I picked our favourite restaurant?’

Max smiled again, and his blue eyes shone in a way that set off another starburst inside her. ‘It was uncanny,’ he said. ‘There are half a dozen places along this strand, but you zeroed straight in on this place, like it was the only possible option.’

‘I have no memory of ever coming here.’

‘Perhaps your taste buds remember?’

And there it was again...the disturbing possibility that her body remembered the secrets her mind withheld.

Carrie took a deep breath. ‘So, what’s my usual breakfast order when I’m here?’

‘Pancakes.’

‘Really?’ She gaped at him. ‘But I—I thought... I’ve always been so careful with carbs.’

‘Paris cured you of that,’ Max assured her. ‘Whenever you eat here you always have blueberry pancakes and whipped cream.’

* * *

Walking back along the foreshore, on a path that wove between lush tropical gardens, Max had an urge to take Carrie’s hand or to slip his arm around her shoulders, just as he always had in the past.

It was tempting to ignore the letter she’d written, claiming she’d grown tired of life in the bush. Damn tempting to take advantage of this situation. To simply carry on as if their marriage was fine.

He knew the chemistry was still there. More than once he’d caught Carrie checking him out, and he’d seen the familiar flash of interest and awareness in her eyes.

‘Max?’ She turned to him now, and her lovely dark brown eyes held a hint of excitement. ‘How long does it take to drive to your place?’

Caught out, he frowned. ‘My place?’

‘Your property. Riverslea Downs.’

‘About six hours. Why?’

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