An Inconvenient Husband

Divorce solution

It
wasn't that Nicky hadn't loved her husband - quite the opposite. By leaving
Nicky had hoped to provoke some kind of reaction. Blake Chandler was the strong
and silent type. He didn't show much emotion behind

those
impassive grey eyes. Of course, Nicky's plan had misfired - Blake had been only
too happy to sign the divorce papers.

Now,
four years later, Nicky is abducted by her ex, and this time Blake is far from
silent about his feelings.

"You wrote me we
didn't have a marriage at all."

Nicky's nails were digging into her
palms. "I suppose it was more like an…arrangement."

The silence was deafening. "I
see," Blake said at last, his voice ominously low.

"A convenient arrangement for
you," she heard herself say. "You'd go on your trips and whenever you
came home I was conveniently there for you to cook your meals and be available
in bed."

"I don't think," he said at
last, "that this is a fruitful discussion." His voice was cold with
barely restrained fury. "I have no desire to have an argument over
something that's been dead and gone for over four years."

Ever since
Karen
van der Zee
was a child growing up in Holland she wanted to do two things:
write books and travel. She's been very lucky. Her American husband's work as a
development economist has taken them to many exotic locations. They were
married in Kenya, had their first daughter in Ghana and their second in the
United States. They spent two fascinating years in Indonesia. Since then
they've added a son to the family as well. They now live in Virginia, but not
permanently!

AN

INCONVENIENT

HUSBAND

BY

KAREN VAN DER ZEE

MILLS
&-BOON

DID YOU
PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you
did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was reported
unsold and destroyed
by a retailer. Neither the author
nor the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no
existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation
whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even
distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all
the incidents are pure invention.

All rights reserved including the right
of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by
arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V. The text of this publication or
any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in
an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission
of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the
condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,
hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.

MILLS & BOON and the Rose Device
are trademarks of the publisher. Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited, Eton
House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

© Karen
van der Zee 1996 ISBN 0 263 79560 8

Set in Times Roman 10 on 11'A pt.
01-9607-56472 CI

Made and printed in Great Britain

PROLOGUE

Nicky's
hand trembled as she
reached for the phone on her father's desk, pushing aside the tiny cup of thick
black coffee the servant had brought her a few moments ago. She had all the
jitters she needed without the caffeine.

She dialled the number
and heard the ringing of the phone on the other side of the world. Her heart
was beating so frantically, it was frightening. She stared out the window as
the phone kept ringing, at the view of palm trees and the tall minaret of the
mosque silhouetted against the cobalt blue Moroccan sky.

Finally the ringing
stopped and a female hotel employee answered the phone in English, her voice
accented and cheerful. The line was clear, as if the voice came from the house
next door rather than from Manila in the Philippines.

Nicky closed her eyes
and braced herself, her chest heavy with anxiety. "I'd like to speak to
Mr. Blake Chandler, please. I don't know the room number."

"One moment,
please."

The phone rang again.
In Blake's room. Finally, his voice—short, clipped, deep. The voice she loved
more than any other in the world. The voice of her husband.

Yet her heart was not
racing with love and excitement. It was thundering with trepidation.

"Blake, it's
Nicky," she said.

"Nicky?" He
sounded surprised. "I'm glad you're calling. I was about to call you. How
are you?"

She swallowed.
"I'm fine."

I'm not
fine,
she corrected silently.
I'm scared. Blake,
I'm so scared.

"And your
mother?"

"She's doing much
better."

Nicky was in Morocco
with her parents because her mother had become ill and she'd wanted to be with
her. Her father worked for the U.S. Agency for International Development and he
and her mother had lived in Marrakech for the past year.

Nicky tried to relax her
hand gripping the receiver. "Why were you going to call me?" she
asked.
Please tell me you miss me. Please tell me you love me and can't wait to be
home together again.

"There's a
problem with the project," Blake said instead. "It will take a couple
of days to straighten out. I'll be home two days late, on Saturday, same flight
schedule.''

Disappointment tasted
bitter in her mouth. He wasn't telling her what she needed to hear. She
swallowed. "It's all right. As it turns out, I've changed my plans, as
well." She tried to sound matter-of-fact. "I'm going to see Sophie in
Rome on my way back to the States. She's having her baby and
I...
I think it's nice for me to be
there."

"How long will
you stay?" A businesslike question. His voice was expressionless.

She swallowed hard.
Go ahead,
do it,
urged the little voice inside her.

Next week Blake would
come home and the plan had been for her to be back in Washington, as well. She
closed her eyes, steeling herself. "Three weeks," she said, feeling
her heart grow cold.

A slight pause.
"We won't see each other, then," came his voice. "You won't be
back home until after I leave again for Guatemala."

Her hands shook. She
clenched her left one hard around the receiver. "Right." She gulped
in air. "Do you mind?"

They had not seen each
other in almost three months and if she didn't go straight home next week they
wouldn't see each other for another month or so until Blake came back from his
next consulting trip to Guatemala. And she was asking him if he minded.

"You have to be
there for your friends," Blake stated. There was no inflection in his
voice. "I'll manage. I'm a big boy."

She felt as if she
were suffocating. He doesn't care! came the desperate thought. He didn't care
last time and he doesn't care now. What was it he had said last time?

If
your mother needs you, then of course you have to stay.
That had been five
weeks ago when she had called him and told him she wouldn't be home when he
came back from his business trip because her mother still wasn't very well.

Which had been true
enough, but the virus she'd caught had not been serious, just took its own
sweet time to run its course, making her mother tired and cranky.

Nicky could have gone
home to Washington and spent time with her husband while he was back in the
country preparing for his next consulting job overseas. She could have been
home cooking food for him, sleeping in his arms, making love, planning the
future.

Instead she'd decided
to stay at her parents' house in Morocco and Blake had not objected. He had not
said he minded, that he would miss her, that the house was lonely without her.

Now, after not having
seen her for three months, he still didn't say any of those things. He told her
he could manage without her while she was in Rome to see her friend Sophie.

Of course he would
manage. He'd managed without her for years and years. He was an independent,
self- sufficient man with a career that took him all over the world. She had
known that when she had married him eighteen months ago. It had not bothered
her—her father's job had taken her quite a few places, too, when she was a
child. She understood her husband's life-style, his work.

They'd married and
made plans for the future. As soon as she had her journalism degree, she
planned to go with him on his trips, write her articles about travel and food,
maybe even a book. They'd be together most of the time. So many plans, so much
to look forward to.

And now, her degree in
her pocket, her dreams were crumbling like stale cake, dry and tasteless. Blake
could do without her.

He doesn't need me,
she thought, tears hot behind her eyes. I'm convenient and comfortable, but I'm
not essential to him. She saw him in her mind's eye, the tall, confident man
with calm gray eyes and uncompromising, square chin. The man whose strong arms
fitted so perfectly around her, whose body made magic with hers. A heavy weight
settled on her chest and she sucked in a painful breath. There hadn't been
magic for a long time.

"How's the food
over there?" she asked, and she could hear the odd wobble in her voice.

"I've got you
some recipes—you'll find them interesting." She loved food and cooking,
all kinds, simple and exotic. She loved looking at displays of fruit, spices,
vegetables, loved the colors and shapes and fragrances. Her husband the world
traveler brought her gifts of cookbooks and recipes from faraway places for her
collection.

"Thank you."
Again the wobble in her voice.

"Nicky? Are you
all right? You sound strange."

"I'm fine,"
she lied. "The air is so dusty here, it makes my throat feel
scratchy." This was not a lie, but the fact was irrelevant.

They talked for a
while. About his work, about the magazine article she was writing about
Moroccan food, about how lucky they were to be missing the bad weather at home
in Washington, D.C.

Later that night she
lay in bed, her stomach churning with anxiety, praying she would just sink away
into oblivion and not dream the dream that kept coming back time after time. A
dream that made her cry when she awakened.

Here she was, in her
parents' home in one of the most exotic places on earth, a place of deserts and
camels and Berber nomads, a place of veiled women, busy souks and ancient
mosques, yet where she really wanted to be was in her own small town house in
Washington, D.C., which at this very moment was battling the leftovers of a
tropical storm. She wanted to be in her own bed in the arms of the man she
loved. She wanted him to tell her he loved her, that he had missed her
terribly. That those long absences were harder and harder to bear. That from
now on he wanted her with him on his trips.

She knew it wasn't
going to happen.

She knew she was losing
him.

CHAPTER ONE

It was
a wonderful party.
Nicky sipped her wine, knowing she should be enjoying herself rather than
letting the odd sense of foreboding spoil her fun. She surveyed the interesting
mix of people. Women flaunted bright sarongs and silk saris, as well as
fashionable designer dresses. Men sported well-cut suits or trousers and silk
batek
shirts. From the large, elegant sitting room with its beautiful Chinese
furniture, the festivities spilled out into the jasmine-scented garden bathing
in the tropical Malaysian night air.

It was a wonderful
party.

And something was very
wrong.

Nicky clenched her
fingers around the stem of her crystal glass and glanced over at her father, a
tall and distinguished man who stood out a head taller than most people at the
party. He looked worried and she didn't like it. She'd arrived in Kuala Lumpur
two weeks ago for an extended visit and working vacation, and she'd sensed
immediately that not all was well with her father. It had something to do with
business, Nicky knew, something involving an unscrupulous Hong Kong investment
company causing problems, but he'd told her it wasn't serious.