An Inconvenient Husband

“You wrote me we didn’t have a marriage at all.” About the Author Title Page PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE Copyright

“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.” Hie 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. They live in Virginia, but not permanently!

An Inconvenient Husband

Karen Van Der Zee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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 dialed 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 Manilla 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 unconapromising, 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.

She didn’t believe it for a minute.

Nazirah appeared by her side in a rustle of emerald silk. “Did you see that great-looking guy come in a minute ago?” she whispered.

Nicky shrugged indifferently. “Which one?”

Nazirah rolled her eyes. “Come with me. I’m going to fix my face.”

In the lavishly appointed bathroom, they stood next to each other in front of the mirror. They were the same height, five feet two, equally slim, but that’s where the resemblance stopped. Nazirah was half American, half Malaysian, with very long, sleek, black hair and blue eyes, while Nicky had very short, curly auburn hair and brown eyes.

Nazirah took a tube of lipstick out of her small clutch bag and unscrewed the top. “Are you sure you didn’t see him?” she asked, glancing over at Nicky. “The really tall one with the great shoulders? Dark hair, gray eyes. Calm and composed looking, but you just know there’s all that passion brewing underneath. He—”

“No,” said Nicky curtly, and fished in her bag for lipstick, as well.

“Oh, right, you’re not interested in men.” Nazirah eyed her curiously in the mirror.

And certainly not in tall handsome ones with great shoulders and gray eyes, Nicky added silently. She felt a stab of pain. Four years after the divorce and still she had those sudden moments of anguish set off by a word, a memory, the scent of roses. She put the lipstick back in her bag. “What time do you want to get started tomorrow?” she asked, to change the subject. Nazirah was going to take her to explore the Central Market.

Nazirah’s parents were friends of Nicky’s father, and she’d offered to be Nicky’s guide and translator on her ventures through Kuala Lumpur. Nicky was doing research on a magazine article about street food, which involved roaming the markets and streets sampling snacks from the ubiquitous vendors.

“The earlier, the better,” stated Nazirah. “I’ll pick you up at seven. You know, I just love your dress. Classy, but sexy. Where did you buy it? Washington?”

Nicky nodded. She loved the dress herself. Made of a soft silk crepe in various shades of aquamarine, it was long and slim-fitting and made her appear less short. High heels, of course, and long earrings, helped. “Let’s get a drink. I’m thirsty.”

The bar was set out in the garden where semi-hidden garden lamps discreetly augmented the moonlight, creating a romantic ambience.

“There he is!” whispered Nazirah, squeezing Nicky’s arm. “Isn’t he something?”

Nicky looked up and froze. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart stopped beating for an instant.

The man was something all right.

Tall and lean in an immaculate tropical suit, he looked the perfect male specimen—fit, healthy and confident. Steely gray eyes were bright in the tanned, angular face, the strong chin indicating purpose and command. Here was a man who was comfortable in the world, comfortable with himself, a man in his prime. A man with an undeniable magnetism.

The man who’d once been her husband.

“Hello, Nicky,” said the familiar voice—the voice that made her legs feel weak and her body flush with warmth, even now after all these years.

“Blake?” Nicky whispered. There seemed to be no air to breathe. She was not prepared for this. She felt dizzy with the shock, or the resulting lack of oxygen.

He nodded, his cool gray eyes intent on her face. He extended his hand and automatically she held out hers.

“How are you?” he asked, taking her hand in his. His voice sounded perfectly calm, as if greeting a colleague or acquaintance.

She swallowed at the dryness in her throat. “I’m fine,” she managed. His hand was warm and firm and the contact set off a tingling all through her, causing every cell to spring to life with remembered love.

This is crazy, she thought. Crazy, crazy. Here she was, politely shaking hands with a man with whom she’d once shared a bed, whose body she knew intimately. She suppressed a hysterical little laugh and forced herself to smile politely.

“What a surprise to see you here,” she said. The understatement of the year. No mere surprise could cause such a tumultuous reaction in her mind and body. No, she wasn’t surprised. She was stunned.

He released her hand, but his eyes did not leave her face. “It’s a small world.”

Well, it was, of course. The expatriate communities in foreign countries were comparatively small. She nodded, not knowing what to say.

“It was good to run into your father again,” he said. “Hadn’t seen him for years. He told me he’d left USAID and joined the world of private business—a venture capital firm, no less.”

“Yes,” she said, hearing more the deep timbre of his voice than the words. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, as if she were hypnotized, or in some sort of trance.

He took a drink from his glass. “They’re involved in some interesting investment projects in China, I understand.”

“Yes: All over South East Asia, really. He’s just interested in China now that it’s opening up.” She spoke automatically, not even knowing if she was making sense, not caring. All she saw was the familiar face of the man she had once loved.

Blake looked the same, only a little older. And a little harder, a little rougher around the edges. There were a few strands of gray hair at his temples and his jaw had a steely set. He was thirty-seven now, she realized, ten years older than she. He still emanated the same dynamic vibrations, and he seemed to her more attractive than ever.

“Are you working in Malaysia?” she asked, remembering he’d always loved the Far East, ever since he’d spent two years in Malaysia as a Peace Corps volunteer in his early twenties, before she’d known him. The question came automatically, as if some part of her was going through the motions of making polite conversation while the rest of her was struggling with emotional chaos.

He nodded. “I’m doing research for the World Bank. Tropical fruit.”

“What about tropical fruit?”

“Production, processing, exporting—how to develop the business in Malaysia. I spent the last few weeks looking at farms and factories. There’s a growing demand for exotic fruit all over the western world.”

She nodded. “People want a change from, apples and pears. Here come the guavas and the mangos and the soursops.”

“I knew you’d understand,” he said dryly. He took another swallow from his Scotch. “You’re in Malaysia to visit your father?” His tone was polite. He might have been speaking to a total stranger. Something was different about his voice. It was rougher—the voice of someone who’d seen much and expected nothing.

She moistened her lips. “Yes. It’s a fascinating place and I thought I’d come for a while and do some writing. With my father living here it was a wonderful opportunity.”.

He studied her with what seemed detached interest.

“You haven’t changed.”

“Should I have? Did you expect me to?” Her heart was beating erratically. She wished it would calm down.

He shrugged. “I somehow just thought you would have.”

“Why?”

Something flickered briefly in his eyes. “I never could imagine you to still be the same person I once knew.” He shrugged. “But then, I can’t really judge, can I? I don’t know you now. I’m just looking at the externals.” He gave a polite little smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “And they’re as pleasant as they always were.”

Always the gentleman. “Thank you,” she said, wishing she had a drink. “And as for the rest of me, I imagine I’m pretty much the same person I always was, except older and wiser.”

“We grow and we learn,” he added casually. Nicky wondered if she heard an undertone of mockery. She found the unsmiling gray gaze disconcerting. But then, what could she expect? Surely not warmth or humor.

“You’re still consulting, then?” she commented. When she had met him, years ago, he had worked with her father for the U.S. Agency for International Development, but soon after he’d become an independent consultant working internationally in the field of agricultural economics, often contracting with the World Bank.

He nodded. “That’s what I do. I took a two-year teaching position at Cornell a few years ago, for a change of pace, but then decided to go back to consulting. I enjoy doing better than teaching. And how’s your career been coming along?”

How polite the conversation. It seemed unreal, as if it were happening on another plane. “I’m doing well.” Her articles sold to magazines and newspapers, and she was writing her second book, a hybrid mix of travelogue. and cookbook for the more adventurous readers, generously spiced with humor. She wished she could find some humor in the present situation, but it eluded her.

- He glanced at her left hand. “Not married again?”

Her heart contracted painfully. “No.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest, knowing it made her look defensive, not knowing what else to do with her hands.

One dark eyebrow arched slightly. “I thought you would have.”

“Who?”

He lifted his left shoulder fractionally. “You’re rather the marrying type, with all your domestic talents.” His voice gave nothing away. Once he had enjoyed her domestic talents. Her cooking, especially. She pushed away the memories.

“And you? Are you married again?” Somehow she managed to sound casual, but an odd terror tightened her chest, and she realized in a flash of insight that she didn’t want to hear the answer. That she didn’t want to know there was another woman in his life.

He gave a dry laugh. “I think I’ll save myself the effort.”

The terror vanished and she felt an upsurge of hot anger—unexpected, surprising. Effort? What effort had he ever put into their marriage? She clamped down on the feelings. “I wasn’t aware being married to me had been such a trial,” she commented, trying to sound coolly sophisticated, but knowing she wasn’t pulling it off. Her voice shook with emotion.

Because of his career there had been long absences in their short marriage, but when he’d been home between consulting trips, life surely had not been much struggle for him—she’d treated him like a king.

Because she’d loved him. Because she’d thought he was the most wonderful, sexy man she’d ever known. Because she’d been a romantic idiot.

He gave an indifferent shrug. “Let’s not go into this, shall we? It hardly matters now.” He tossed back the last of his drink.

As if a failed marriage were a mere triviality.

“You never did care, did you?” she said bitterly, feeling her body tense further with remembered pain.

His eyes glittered like cold crystal. “You never bothered to ask. How would you possibly know whether I cared or not?”

“As your wife, I had no trouble telling. I’m glad I got out when I did.” She clenched her hands, sorry she’d let the anger escape.

His body stiffened. He shoved his free hand into his pocket and she noticed it was balled into a fist. Anger burned in his eyes.

“You weren’t interested in having a discussion when you ended our marriage,” he said harshly. “Whether I cared or not was apparently irrelevant to you. Is there any point in having this discussion now, four years later?”

“No, there isn’t, you’re right,” she said frigidly. She whirled around and walked off, knowing she couldn’t stand being with him a moment longer, feeling terrified by the sudden onslaught of emotions she’d thought had been buried long ago—anger, bitterness, and a deep, searing anguish.

She had a throbbing headache and her eyes burned treacherously. She’d had enough. All she wanted was to go home and go to bed, fall asleep and forget she’d seen Blake.

Her father’s driver took her back to the house, which wasn’t too far away. The watchman came running to the gates and opened them to let the car through. She said good-night to the driver and he drove off again to go back to the party to wait for her father.

A small light was on in the entryway, but the rest of the house lay in darkness. The servants had gone home and the place seemed empty and deserted. An odd chill shivered down her back. The place was too big; she wasn’t used to all that empty space. Her own apartment in Washington was small and cozy. She’d moved into it after the divorce, not wanting to stay on in the historic Georgetown town house she and Blake had shared during their marriage. She’d wanted a new beginning with nothing to remind her of Blake. Such a silly illusion—as if it were possible to erase Blake from her life. A man like Blake Chandler tended to leave an indelible impression, marking you for life.

The moonlight shining through the palm trees outside threw moving shadows across the furniture and rugs. Beautiful carved teak furniture, exquisite Chinese rugs, silk draperies, ornate brass lamps. The house had been decorated professionally and lacked a personal touch. She knew what her mother would have thought of it: too opulent, too pretentious. Poor Daddy, she thought, you must miss her so. Her mother had died unexpectedly a year ago and her father had been at a loss ever since. He’d taken on a new job, moved to new, exotic surroundings, but it only seemed to accentuate his loneliness.

She turned on a couple of lamps as she found her way to her room which lay at the back of the house. Inside, she switched on the light. She dropped her bag onto a chair, noticing the French doors that opened into the garden were standing slightly ajar.