Sleepless Nights Read online

  “Have you had many lovers?”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright

  “Have you had many lovers?”

  Like his proposition at the table, the question startled her. In her world people didn’t ask such things. They repressed their curiosity...and much else.

  “Hardly any compared with your ally, should imagine.”

  He caught hold of her hand. “What makes you think I’m a womanizer?”

  “Because that’s the way you come across.”

  “Time isn’t on my side, Sarah,” Neal said gently. “The slow approach isn’t practical in these circumstances. You’re leaving town.... It will be a month after that before I get back to the U.K. Between now and then, anything could happen. My motto is Seize the Day.”

  “Mine is Look Before You Leap...especially before you leap into bed with someone.”

  Dear Reader,

  I was married in the spring. After the honeymoon, my husband had to leave for a rather dangerous place on the other side of the world. I’ll never forget how the months dragged until, just before Christmas, I was able to join him and, as a bonus, found the inspiration for my first book.

  The inspiration for Sleepless Nights came in a somewhat similar way. My husband and son decided to climb a mountain in the Himalaya together. They left at the end of September and for the next four weeks I tried not to worry about them.

  At last came the night when I flew to Nepal to wait for them there. I reached Kathmandu late the following day, spending another mess night in probably the most bizarre bedroom I shall ever sleep in. Early next morning I went out to explore the city, soon losing my way in a warren of fascinating backstreets. Eventually I returned to base. “Key not here,” said the smiling Nepalese desk clerk “Maid cleaning now.”

  But it wasn’t the maid in my room. It was a pair of hollow cheeked, bearded climbers who, by hitching a lift on a Russian helicopter, had arrived in Kathmandu a day sooner than planned.

  Our joyful reunion was followed by a family holiday exploring the Kathmandu valley until it was time for our son to return to the mountains, this time as one of the organizers of the Everest Marathon. Flying back to Europe, I read my travel notes. Ideas began to form. I hope you will enjoy the story based on that trip as much as I enjoyed living it.

  Sleepless Nights

  Anne Weale

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘IF YOU meet a truly gorgeous guy out there and he starts coming on strong, don’t back off.’

  Giving Sarah her final pep talk, her best friend Naomi went on, ‘Life isn’t a dress rehearsal. You’ve got this fantastic chance to break out of the cage. Make the most of it. Around here men to die for are thin on the ground...non-existent would be more accurate.’

  Taking Sarah’s agreement for granted, Naomi continued, ‘In Nepal there’s a better supply...or there was the year I was there. Real men like uncomfortable places...oceans and jungles and mountains. When did you last see a ten-out-of-ten in a shopping mall? Never... or hardly ever. They’re like any other rare species. If you want to get close to them, you have to go to their habitat... and it’s not where you and I are spending our lives, that’s for sure,’ she added, with a crack of ironic laughter.

  Forty-eight hours later, while the airbus droned through the night sky, over mountains and deserts, Sarah was thinking about Naomi’s theory that most people spent their lives caged by forces and circumstances beyond their control. Sometimes their conditions were miserable and they were very unhappy. Sometimes the cages were comfortable, even luxurious but, despite that, lifestyles they couldn’t escape and which often didn’t fulfil their real needs.

  Naomi’s and Sarah’s cages were somewhere between those extremes. Their lives weren’t the way they would have liked them to be. Unable to change them, they made the best of them. Until, suddenly and unexpectedly, the door of Sarah’s cage had opened.

  Now here she was, flying free in an unfamiliar environment that would become more exotic as the adventure progressed.

  For two weeks she was on her own, free of all her usual responsibilities...free to be her real self...whoever that real self was.

  The woman in the seat next to hers was asleep. From their conversation during dinner, Sarah knew that her neighbour was an off-duty air stewardess for whom flying round the world to glamorous destinations was an everyday routine.

  Sarah had never been anywhere glamorous. She was too excited to close her eyes for a moment. They had boarded the aircraft at ten o’clock. Dinner had been served at midnight. After watching both the in-flight movies, she spent the rest of the night reading a guidebook until dawn came up and breakfast was served. Soon after breakfast they landed at Doha, a place that until very recently she had never even heard of.

  The stewardess sitting next to her, who worked for an Arab airline and lived at Doha, was looking forward to relaxing in the bath at her apartment in the city. For Sarah it would be another five hours’ flying time before she reached her destination. Meanwhile the next ninety minutes would be spent in the airport’s transit lounge.

  After saying goodbye and thank you to the cabin crew lined up by the door, Sarah stepped out into the dazzling sunlight of a Middle Eastern morning.

  Yesterday, in England, it had been cold and wet, a foretaste of approaching winter. Here, in Qatar, an oil-rich desert state on the Persian Gulf, even at this early hour it was already as warm as a summer heatwave in Europe.

  Her only luggage was a small backpack. When it had been through the security X-ray machine, she slung it over one shoulder and went in search of the women’s room. She wanted a more leisurely freshen-up than had been possible with so many passengers waiting outside the aircraft’s cramped washroom.

  Her reflection in the mirror behind the hand basins was startlingly different from the image she was accustomed to seeing in her bedroom mirror at home. Bulldozed into changing her hair colour as well as its style, and advised what to wear and what to pack by Naomi, who had also lent her some clothes, Sarah wasn’t yet used to her new image. Or to the feel of the trekking boots on her feet.

  She had worn them for part of every day for the past month. But they still felt heavy and clumpy. And what could look more incongruous than a pair of thick-soled boots below the swirling hem of an ankle-length floral skirt in vivid Impressionist colours?

  Naomi had assured her that where Sarah was going such an outfit was commonplace. No one would look twice at it, let alone stare in astonishment.

  Uncrushable, easily washable long skirts had replaced the thick tweed skirts preferred by the intrepid Victorian lady travellers of a hundred years earlier.

  On her top half Sarah was wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt. Under it was a T-shirt belonging to her friend. Embroidered on the chest was the name of a mountainous route Naomi had trekked with a boyfriend during her gap year between school and college.

  Sarah took off both shirts. If any Arab ladies came into the washroom, she hoped it wouldn’t offend them to see her stripped down to her comfortable sports bra. Already she had been in transit for a total of twelve hours on her body clock. A proper wash would refresh her for the second stage of the journey.

  Fifteen minutes later, wearing only the faded blue T-shirt and feeling surprisingly wide awake despite her sleepless night, she returned to the lounge. Several important-looking Arabs in immaculately-laundered
white robes and traditional red and white head-dresses were walking about, but most people were in western dress ranging from business suits to clean or scruffy jeans.

  Sarah found the departure gate for her next flight and looked for a vacant seat near it. As she sat down she was aware of her fellow travellers looking her over with the speculative curiosity of people expecting to spend the next week or two in the company of strangers.

  Only one person wasn’t eyeing her. The man in the seat directly opposite hers was deep in a book.

  With a bookworm’s instinctive interest in other people’s choice of reading, Sarah tried to make out the title. That he was reading rather than gawking at her earned him points in her estimation.

  Then she noticed he had other things beside the book to recommend him. Tall, broad-shouldered and long-legged, he was wearing a khaki shirt and trousers with reinforced knees and lots of extra zipped pockets. As he had no luggage with him, apart from a plastic bag from the duty free shop at Heathrow airport, she concluded he was carrying all his vital belongings on his person, with most of his baggage going in the aircraft’s hold, to be reclaimed when they landed.

  His lean and muscular build suggested he might be a climber heading for the snow-bound peaks of the Himalaya. Mountaineering and trekking were two of the reasons why foreigners visited the kingdom of Nepal and its romantic-sounding capital, Kathmandu.

  Sarah had already noticed that most of the male transit passengers were in need of a shave. But not the man with the book. As darkly-tanned as those of a desert Arab, his cheeks and chin showed no trace of stubble. Everything about him looked spruce from the polished sheen of his boots to the scrubbed-clean fingernails on the strong brown hand holding the paperback.

  He looked, she thought, as if he would smell good. Not from expensive lotions, but in the natural way that clean babies and sun-dried laundry smelled good.

  As she was thinking this, and noting the way his thick black hair sprang from a high broad forehead, he glanced up and caught her studying him.

  Her instinct was to look away but she found that she couldn’t. Something about the steely grey gaze focused on her made it impossible to avert her eyes. For several seconds their glances seemed to be locked. Then, a slight smile curling his mouth, he looked her over as closely and appreciatively as she had inspected him.

  ‘If you meet a truly gorgeous guy out there...’ The memory of Naomi’s advice echoed in Sarah’s mind.

  It was actually the memory of her friend’s salty humour, rather than the admonition, that made her begin to smile. Then with a mental ‘Why not?’ she gave him her friendliest beam before sharing it with some of the people sitting alongside him.

  All of them responded with smiles or nods. In fact her initiative seemed to act as an ice-breaker. First the woman next to her asked which tour group she was with and then all the people around them began chatting to each other. All except the man with the book. He continued reading.

  When the flight to Kathmandu was called, Neal Kennedy went on reading. Long experience of air travel had taught him not to join the first rush to the departure gate. Even though the shuttle buses on Arab airports were exceptionally spacious, the first two or three buses would be crowded, the last one half-empty. The trip across the tarmac to the aircraft would offer a chance to talk to the attractive woman opposite.

  But when he closed the book and looked up, he was surprised to find she had already gone through. Judging by her outfit, he had taken her for someone who knew the ropes as well as he did. Travelling in boots was one of the hallmarks of the wised-up trekker. Any other equipment that went astray in transit was replaceable. A worn-in pair of top quality boots wasn’t.

  He had noticed her when they came off the flight from London. She had been ahead of him at the security check. He’d watched her walking away towards the washrooms and liked her back view. But maybe seen from the front...

  Then he’d forgotten about her until, a while later, he’d glanced up and found her looking him over. Her front view had confirmed his earlier impression of a figure that matched up to everything he liked about women’s bodies. Slim but not too slim, all the parts well-proportioned and set off by a graceful posture. Probably influenced by his mother, a leading osteopath, he had a built-in aversion to people who abused their bones by slouching and slumping.

  The woman in the colourful skirt wasn’t a beauty or even outstandingly pretty. But she had intelligent brown eyes and an irresistible smile of real warmth. He remembered from way back his father telling him that girls with brains in their heads and generous natures were the ones to look out for.

  Aged about sixteen then, he hadn’t paid much attention. What do parents know about life? was a fairly standard teenage attitude.

  In the intervening twenty years he’d learned that his parents were two of the sanest, wisest people he was ever likely to meet. He and his brother and sisters had grown up with the increasingly rare advantage of parents who loved each other and had the kind of marriage that would last as long as they lived.

  Between their generation and his, western society had undergone a cultural earthquake. Values and lifestyles had changed. Many people, including himself, thought marriage was on the way out. These days his brother Chris’s disastrous marriage seemed more typical than his parents’. Observing his brother’s experience and its aftermath, Neal had decided he wasn’t going down that road.

  He had five nephews and nieces and numerous godchildren. He didn’t need children of his own. Nor did he need a wife in the housekeeper-cum-nurse-cum-social secretary sense of the term.

  The practicalities of life he could manage by himself, probably more efficiently than many of today’s domestically unskilled career women. His mother had raised her sons as well as her daughters on the precept that every adult human being should be able to do their own laundry and cook simple meals.

  The only place Neal needed a woman was between the sheets. Even in his twenties he had never been a stud, learning early that relationships which lasted a while, and included some mental rapport as well as physical harmony, were preferable to casual one-nighters. That said, life was about enjoying oneself. If, when he reached Kathmandu, the right kind of woman made it clear she was available, what red-blooded male would prefer to sleep on his own on holiday?

  For the second lap of the flight Sarah had requested a window seat on the port side of the plane. Naomi had said this would give her a wonderful view of the Himalaya on the approach to Kathmandu.

  When she reached her row, she found a small plump woman in traditional Nepalese costume already occupying the seat that should have been hers. Had she been a European, Sarah might have pointed out the window seat had been allocated to her. But with her minimal grasp of Nepali she let it go, stowing her pack in the overhead locker before sitting down in the centre of the three seats on the left side of the left-hand aisle.

  Some time later, among the last to board, the man with the book came strolling along the aisle. After folding his tall frame into the empty seat next to Sarah’s, he turned to her and said, ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hi!’ Suddenly Sarah was glad the Nepalese woman had commandeered the window seat.

  The man beside her leaned forward, put his palms together, inclined his head and said something to the woman by the window. Her face wreathed in smiles, her drop earrings bobbing, she responded.

  ‘Was that Nepali you were speaking?’ Sarah asked him.

  ‘Yes...but I don’t speak it well. Just enough to get by and make the right polite noises.’ Feeling around for the ends of his seat belt, he fastened the clasp across his flat stomach and settled his shoulders comfortably against the back rest. ‘As we’re going to be elbow to elbow until late afternoon, shall we introduce ourselves? I’m Neal Kennedy.’

  ‘Sarah Anderson.’

  ‘Going trekking?’

  She nodded. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Not this time.’ He looked sideways at the emblems machine-embroidered on her T-shirt: t
hree snow-capped peaks surrounded by a double ring of stitching with the name and date of Naomi’s trek between them in a contrasting colour. ‘Like you, I’ve been coming to Nepal for a long time, but not always doing the same thing. This time I’m involved with the Everest Marathon.’

  Sarah knew she ought to explain the shirt wasn’t hers. But somehow she didn’t want to...not yet. From the books she had read about trekking, it was clear that the people who did the hard mutes, carrying heavy packs in the company of other seasoned trekkers, were inclined to disdain the groups of tourists who, with all the hard slog done for them by porters, had only to cover the ground on the less exacting routes.

  Neal Kennedy looked as tough as they came. She didn’t want to put him off her right at the start of their acquaintance. Instead of admitting this was her first time, she said, ‘Are you a runner? I thought they were usually shorter and more slightly built.’

  ‘They come in all sizes,’ he said. ‘But no, I’m not one of them. I’m going to report the event. I’m a journalist. What do you do?’

  ‘I work with computers.’ Already firmly decided to forget her everyday life until she returned to England, she didn’t elaborate. ‘Are you a freelance?’

  His smile warmed his rather hard eyes. ‘You obviously don’t read The Journal. I’m one of its columnists...and I do some TV and radio.’

  The only newspaper Sarah saw regularly, although she seldom read it, was the scandal-stuffed tabloid her mother took. Sarah herself kept up with world events through an Internet news service. But she was aware that The Journal was one of England’s most respected and independent broadsheets, read by the movers and shakers, the people who mattered. It followed that Neal must be one of the stars of his profession, even if he didn’t look at all like her idea of a top journalist.