Hired Wife

“And she comes cheap,” her brother was saying, as if he were selling her off like a slave trader, he a graduate of Harvard Business School.

Kim glared at him. “I am not cheap,” she countered. “I insist on being paid fairly for my services.” She groaned inwardly as she heard her own words. She sounded like a call girl. This whole exchange was beginning to have farcical overtones, which was not a good omen. She needed to present herself as serious, efficient and competent if she wanted to have any chance with the imposing Sam, the successful international business executive.

The problem was that, although she was perfectly efficient and competent, she simply didn’t look it. Curly blond hair, big baby blue eyes and dimples just didn’t add up to a serious appearance. She had trouble sitting still and she laughed too much. And nature had given her full breasts that were hard to hide. The truth was that efficiency and competency weren’t qualities that came to men’s minds when they first met her. It was a cross to bear sometimes.

Sam glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to think about this,” he said noncommittally.

He was not a man of many words, obviously; he hadn’t been eleven years ago. Whatever he was really thinking now, he wasn’t telling. Kim was annoyed. She liked people who were easy to read, easy to know. People who were not afraid of saying what they meant or felt. Sam was not one of these people.

What had she expected? That he’d say, Excellent! You’re exactly the person I’ve been looking for! I’ll have someone get your tickets tomorrow, and let’s talk, you and I, over dinner tomorrow.

No, he was still the same introverted, reticent person, with those same eyes that often seemed impenetrably black, but sometimes glowed with sparks of secret amusement. He did have a sense of humor; he was just so…quiet about it. Often his face gave nothing away. You’d just have to guess what went on in his mind. She didn’t like all that still, deep water stuff.

But when he smiled at her—not the most exuberant smile she’d ever seen, but a smile nonetheless—her heart flipped.

“I have to go now,” he said. “It was a pleasure seeing you again after all these years, Kim.” It sounded sincere enough.

Two days later Kim still hadn’t heard from him. All she had thought of for the last forty-eight hours was Indonesia, the job, feeling suddenly hungry for adventure. Ah, to eat nasi-goreng again, to hear gamelan music, to see the emerald rice paddies!

And she’d thought about Sam.

This was a mistake, of course, she was well aware. In spite of her teenage crush, in spite of the fact that he was stunningly handsome, not to speak of successful and well-manicured, he was not her type. He was too serious, too formal. And it took him much too long to get back to her with an answer. She was beginning to feel nervous and irritable. How long did it take to make a simple decision?

She decided to call him, which was easier said than done, but eventually, after verbally wrestling herself past a series of receptionists, secretaries and assistants, she got the busy man on the phone.

Her heart was beating fast. “Good morning, Sam,” she said, trying to sound businesslike. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you’d had time to consider giving me the job. You’re leaving soon and it would be good to get started on some preliminary work as soon as possible.”

A silence ensued. A short but noticeable one.

“Good God,” he said then, “you weren’t serious, were you?”

Her heart began a nervous rhythm. “Oh, yes, very,” she said in as solemn a tone as she could muster. He thought they’d been joking. Well, she could hardly blame him, considering the way the conversation had developed, and the fact that he’d probably never taken her seriously in the first place. To him she was just Marcus’s silly little sister who’d had a crush on him. Oh, Lord, she hoped he didn’t remember the stupid, naive things she had done to get his attention, all those years ago.

“You want to come all the way to Java to set up house for me? Buy pots and pans, arrange furniture?” he asked, as if he were talking about scrubbing public toilets and mucking out pigsties.

“Yes, I would love to.” She bit her lip.

Another brief silence as he was digesting this. “I don’t believe that that would be what they call ‘a positive career move’ for you.”

“I’m known for my bad career moves,” she said impulsively. “Just ask my poor suffering father.”

“Ah,” he said succinctly, meaningfully.

“But somehow they always work out very well for me,” she explained. “When I make decisions I use my intuition, my creative instincts, rather than my rational mind.”

“And that is supposed to reassure me?” he asked with dry humor.

She kicked herself mentally. “I suppose not. I imagine your life is ruled by logic, reason, common sense and intellect.”

“Employing those tends to work to my advantage, yes.”

Kim made a face at the receiver. He had to be the most boring person in the universe, no matter how handsome he was.

“Well, don’t worry,” she said reassuringly. “I know exactly what I want and—”

“This is craziness, Kim,” he said, interrupting her. “I’m not going to facilitate one of your harebrained schemes. I’ll hire someone locally.”

Kim grew hot with sudden anger. He was talking to her as if she were a child, not a grown woman who could make good decisions for herself.

“Sam, I’m not fifteen anymore,” she asserted tightly, trying to control her anger. “This is not a harebrained scheme. I know what I want, and I want to go to Java and—”

“Kim, I have no time for this nonsense. I have a meeting to go to.”

“Sam! I—”

“I must go,” he argued. “Please, do excuse me.”

And the busy man hung up.

Kim was so angry, she could scream. Who did he think he was to hang up on her? To not take her seriously? How dare he!

And who did he think he was going to hire locally? she thought later that day. The frustrated wife of an American contractor or consultant maybe. Someone with time on her hands because she couldn’t get a work permit and have a job of her own. Somebody with no taste and no sense of design, Kim thought, sulkily, who’d cover the walls and beds and furniture with purple cabbage roses and put gaudy plastic flower arrangements everywhere and choose frilly pink lampshades and ruffled pink pillowcases. It would serve him right.

She visualized Sam’s dark, manly head lying on a frilly pink pillow. In spite of her anger, Kim laughed.

Somehow she had to get Sam’s attention. Kim lay in bed, wide-awake, staring up into the dark rafters, plotting, just as she had done when she was fifteen.

Phoning wouldn’t work; he’d just find an excuse to end the conversation. She had to do it face-to-face, with no other people around to distract him or to use as an excuse to get away from her.

She’d ask him out to dinner.

Brilliant!

Not too forward a gesture, really. After all, she was no stranger. He knew her family well, had enjoyed much hospitality in her parents’ house. He would be too much of a gentleman to refuse her invitation, surely? And once she held him captive, eating dinner in a public place, he wouldn’t have any choice but to listen to her. She would be very professional and businesslike and convince him he wanted her to do the job.

The next morning she once again managed to get Sam on the phone, telling the slew of secretaries that she was his sister, Yasmina, calling internationally from Jordan on urgent family business.

“Sam, all I want is a moment of your time,” she said hastily as he answered the phone.

“Kim,” he stated, unsurprised. “I thought you were my sister, Yasmina.”

“You don’t have a sister, Yasmina,” she informed him.

“Yes, I know,” he said dryly.

“But that army of people you’ve got protecting you from the vultures preying on your precious time, don’t know that,” she continued smugly.

“I must speak to them.” His tone held humor, which was reassuring. She didn’t want anyone fired.

She sucked in a deep breath, fortifying herself with oxygen. “Sam, I’m calling to invite you out to dinner.” So there, she’d done it, brazen woman that she was. “Any night this week, whenever it’s convenient for you.”

There was only the slightest of pauses. “I’d be delighted to have dinner with you,” he said then, “but on one condition.”

Her heart sank. He was going to tell her not to discuss the job. “What condition?”

“That you’ll allow me to take you to dinner.”

She laughed, relieved. “Sam—”

“I know what you’re going to say, but let’s not have a big argument over it, shall we?”

“Okay,” she said obediently. It didn’t matter to her who took whom. What mattered was that they sat at the same table and that she had his undivided attention.

“Excellent,” he said. “How about tonight?”

Tonight. He wasn’t wasting any time. “Tonight is good,” she said.

His sister, Yasmina, indeed. Sam grinned as he put down the phone, still hearing the echo of Kim’s bright, singsong voice. He’d known it was her, of course—Marcus’s gregarious sister with the wild blond curls, the Renaissance woman who was comfortable in cyber space, who was not afraid of snakes and who could cook “real” food. And, reckless and impulsive as ever, she wanted to come to Java and set up house for him.

It wasn’t going to happen.

He glanced down at the file on the desk in front of him and couldn’t for the world remember what he had been doing before her call had come through.

Ever since he’d seen her in Marcus’s office a few days ago, she’d been on his mind, which he’d found distracting in the extreme. He was busy and it had interfered with his concentration. When she’d called the first time, asking about the job, he’d been short with her, mostly because he’d been irritated with himself for his inability to stop thinking about her.

And now she had called him again and he knew he wasn’t going to get her out of mind.

Marcus’s lovable, feisty little sister, all grown-up.

It hadn’t taken great powers of observation to see she hadn’t changed much. Spontaneous, vivacious and as charming as ever.

And tonight he was having dinner with her. It would certainly be interesting.

Kim stood in front of her bedroom closet and scrutinized the kaleidoscopic contents in despair. Her clothes were all so hopelessly unsuitable, but she had no time to run out and buy something new.

She loved clothes, but not the formal variety, which were fortunately not required for her work as a freelance commercial designer. She preferred fun, casual clothes, bright colors, playful designs. But for dinner tonight she needed something seriously sophisticated. She groaned with frustration as she rummaged frantically through the hangers hoping to find something halfway acceptable.

And there it was, in the very back: a neat little black suit—sober, proper, bought for the funeral of Great-Uncle Amos last year. She lunged for it with a sigh of relief and put it on the bed. From the back of the closet she excavated a pair of black pumps. Her jewelry box yielded simple gold earrings and a matching chain necklace, a birthday present from her conservative father. She was set.

Now her hair. She’d wear it up, out of her face. She grinned at herself. Boy, was she going to impress Mr. Samiir Rasheed with her businesslike image!

He came for her in a long, sleek limousine.

She was waiting outside the door to her building. The ancient cage elevator was out of order and she wanted to spare him climbing the stairs to the top floor.

The uniformed driver held the door open for her with a flourish and she slipped in beside Sam, taking in the television, computer, phone, fax machine, refrigerator and bar. A company vehicle, designed so the busy executives could continue doing their business while being transported from airports to offices to hotel suites, or perhaps their girlfriends’ apartments.

“Hi,” she said, trying not to sound too bright and peppy. Wearing conservative tan slacks and a deep blue blazer, he managed to look stunning, setting all her nerve endings atingle. She imagined that Sam would look stunning no matter what he wore.

She was sitting close enough to see the fine lines next to his eyes, to notice that his square chin was freshly shaven. Close enough to see sparks of mirth in the depth of his dark eyes.

“I hardly recognized you,” Sam said. “You, in black.”

“Actually I hardly recognized myself.” Kim smoothed her skirt over her thighs. “I only wore this suit once, to a funeral and—” She stopped herself, and heard him laugh.

“A funeral? I hope wearing it now is not an indication of how you feel about having dinner with me.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I hardly ever feel funereal about anything. It’s too depressing.”

“And you’re not a depressed sort of person,” he commented. “At least you weren’t as a girl.”

“No.” This was dangerous territory. She didn’t want him to think of her as the silly girl she’d been, the naive girl madly in love with him. That girl would no doubt have worn red tonight. Kim had the perfect dress in her closet—a deep, rich passionate red to express her real feelings about having dinner with Samiir Rasheed, the man who gave her foolish little heart the flutters, the man who rescued her from a tragic death in her fantasies. Of course they’d never been out to dinner together then, not just the two of them. They’d hardly ever been alone together anyplace, except that one time, in the garden of her parents’ house, at night.

Not a good train of thought. She pushed it aside and glanced out the window at the neon lights, the billboards, the buses and taxis and people rushing along, all of it like a silent movie behind the dark glass of the air-conditioned limousine. An oasis of calm in the turmoil of the city.

Only she didn’t feel calm. She had never before been aware of the power of the past, the pull of memories. It made her angry with herself. She’d been a stupid teenager, for Pete’s sake! What she had been feeling then had no relevance to the present; she was no longer the same person. She was a grown woman now and she was not romantically interested in this cool, enigmatic man in his expensive clothes—no matter how drop-dead attractive and sexy he appeared. At the time Sam had been exotic 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 excited to sleep, Kim prowled around the living room in her peacock colored kimono, replaying the evening with Sam in her head as if it were a movie, recounting the conversation, seeing Sam’s handsome face in her mind’s eye.

“Why did you never settle down?” she’d asked. He didn’t even own an apartment in New York, but lived in the company penthouse when in town.

“There was never much point,” he’d said with a faint shrug of his shoulders. “I was free to do the work overseas, and most of the time I enjoyed the experience. There was never a reason to stop.”

He had no brothers and sisters, she knew, and when his parents died when he was twenty, he’d lost his parental home. Kim remembered her mother being impressed by Sam’s courteous appreciation of their welcoming him into their home during weekends and holidays, how he’d always brought a thoughtful little gift for her mother to thank her for her hospitality. Kim hadn’t realized it then, but now, as she paced restlessly around the loft, she wondered if Sam had been lonely. Lonely for family and companionship.

And she wondered if he was lonely now, living like a global nomad.

Except for the widowed uncle who ran the company in New York, and one married Greek cousin, all his extended family lived in Jordan and Greece. Although he’d been thoroughly Americanized during his high school and college years, in his younger years he had lived and been educated in Jordan, but spending much time in Greece as well with his mother’s family.

“I don’t have a very strong sense of really belonging anyplace,” he’d said over dinner, and his dark eyes had suddenly been full of shadows. She’d wondered what had been hidden in those shadows. Loneliness? It was an odd thought to have about Sam, who had always seemed so self-reliant, so…together. Yet who could tell what dwelled in the deepest part of people’s souls?