Husband Not Included

“Why are you pretending not to know your own wife?” About the Author Title Page PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“Why are you pretending not to know your own wife?”

“Maybe the answer, dear Miss Johnson, is that since my wife was such a spoiled, tiresome woman, I’m doing my best to forget that I was ever married...?”

“Believe me—your wife feels exactly the same way about her crummy, despicable husband!” Flora ground out through clenched teeth.

“That sounds like a fair description of my wife,” Ross drawled smoothly. “In fact, it seems as if you’ve already had the misfortune of meeting the lady. If so, you’ll know that she’s a bad-tempered, completely self-absorbed person, who’s incapable of thinking of anyone or anything—other than her own selfish interests.”

“That’s a really foul thing to say!” Flora cried. “I’m not like that. I...”

“My dear Miss Johnson!” he interjected swiftly. “I was, of course, referring to my wife. Surely you can’t imagine that I was talking about you?”

MARY LYONS was born in Toronto, Canada, moving to live permanently in England when she was six, although she still proudly maintains her Canadian citizenship. Having married and raised four children, her life nowadays is relatively peaceful—unlike her earlier years when she worked as a radio announcer, reviewed books and, for a time, lived in a turbulent area of the Middle East. She still enjoys a bit of excitement, combining romance with action, humor and suspense in her books whenever possible.

Husband Not Included!

Mary Lyons

PROLOGUE

‘IT’S BEEN really great talking to you, Brad. Good luck with your next film—I hear it’s going to be a smash hit!’

The auburn-haired reporter gave the young film star a brilliant smile before swirling around to face the TV camera.

‘Wow! It’s certainly a fantastic party going on here, following the Oscar ceremony,’ she continued, her voice almost breathless with excitement. ‘I’m hoping to have a word later with some of the really fantastic, mega, mega film stars here tonight. But first I’d like you to meet the man who gets my own personal vote for “hunk of the month”. Yes, folks, it’s the winner of the Oscar for Best Screenplay...Duncan Ross!’

The camera swung around to focus on a tall, broad-shouldered figure as the reporter hurried to his side, quickly thrusting a microphone up towards his tanned face.

‘Of course, just about everyone has read your exciting, action-packed novels. Which is why I’m so thrilled to meet you tonight,’ she gushed, an eager smile on her lips as she gazed up at the handsome features of the dark-haired man towering over her diminutive figure. ‘I’m definitely one of your greatest fans!’

‘Er...thank you,’ he muttered, clearly uncomfortable at suddenly finding himself in the spotlight.

‘I’m told your latest book, A Time to Live—A Time to Die, has been on the New York bestseller list for the past twelve weeks?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you must be over the moon at having won an Oscar tonight... right?’

He shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘But, I bet you never imagined that the film of your book, Fear No Evil, would completely sweep the board?’

‘No...er...no, I didn’t,’ he muttered tersely.

‘Hey, come on! I’ve heard all about the famous British reserve, and I can see that you’re definitely a modest kinda guy. But, let’s try and loosen up here, OK?’ the reporter urged, clearly struggling to inject some pizzazz into her interview with such an obviously taciturn and tight-lipped man. ‘I mean, it’s definitely unusual for a film to win so many Oscars, right?’

He raised a dark, quizzical eyebrow before giving a brief shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I know virtually nothing about the past history of these awards.’

‘OK...’ She sighed, quickly glancing down at the clipboard in her hand. ‘Well, how do you feel about the prize for Best Actress going to the lovely Lois Shelton? I hear that the two of you spent quite some time together on location!’

‘Oh, really...?’ he drawled coldly. ‘Maybe you should find better things to do with your time other than listening to idle, foolish gossip.’

‘Whoops! I guess that’s put me in my place!’ The reporter gave a shrill peal of hollow laughter as he gazed stonily down at her. ‘Well—it’s been a real pleasure talking to you,’ she cooed through gritted teeth, before turning to give the camera a wide smile. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s meet some more of the wonderful, wonderful people here tonight. But first, a word from our sponsor...’

With a deft flick of the remote control, Marty Goldberg switched off the video recording.

‘Quite frankly, I’ve seen better interviews in pitch-dark, under water!’ he announced, swivelling around in his chair to face the man sitting on the other side of the desk. ‘You’re going to have to do a lot better than that in the future, Ross. A whole lot better!’

Ross Duncan Whitney gazed silently at his literary agent for a moment, before giving a dismissive shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘You know how I loathe all that Hollywood razzmatazz. And I can’t stand stupid, empty-headed women. Especially ones asking impertinent questions about my private life,’ he added grimly.

‘So, who cares about the girl’s IQ?’ Marty demanded in exasperated tones. ‘That reporter was only doing her job. And, besides, she’s quite right. You’re going to have to learn to loosen up a little and face the fact that you no longer have much of a private life. Because winning the Oscar has made you “News”—whether you like it or not.’

‘OK...OK, I’ve got the message.’ Ross sighed, rising to his feet and strolling over to gaze out of the large plate glass window at the skyline of New York city. “So, where do we go from here?’

‘Well, your “Duncan Ross” books are continuing to sell like hot cakes. What’s more—thanks to the Oscar—we can add another zero to the sum offered by the publishers for your next contract So, all in all, I’d say that you’re now a very rich man!’

Ross turned to grin at his agent. ‘I’m not likely to complain about that.’

‘I should hope not!’ Marty laughed. ‘And definitely not when you see the terms I’ve managed to screw out of the film company for the rights on your latest book,’ he added, tossing a thick, heavy contract onto the desk in front of him.

‘They’ll have to find some other writer to do the adaptation, because I’m never going to write another screenplay,’ Ross announced grimly. ‘In fact, rather than have to put up with any more of those neurotic Hollywood filmmakers, I’d prefer to spend the rest of my life working down a Siberian salt mine!’

The older man gave a deep chuckle of laughter. ‘OK—I reckon it’s now my turn to say that I’ve got the message. So, what are your plans for the next six months? Will you be returning to that Caribbean island of yours?’

‘Yes, I think so. Especially since I want to get the next book to you as soon as possible.’

‘OK, that sounds fine. There is just one thing...’ The agent paused for a moment, gazing at the tall, dark figure of the man once again clearly buried in thought as he stared out of the window.

Powerfully built, his body all lean muscle and sinew with a mind to match his physical perfection, Ross was certainly nobody’s fool. And Marty wasn’t looking forward to getting the brush-off from such a very hard, tough man—who was perfectly capable of annihilating a guy with just one scathing glance from those deep blue eyes beneath their heavy lids. There was no way, for instance, that he would have made the mistake of asking Ross about his romance with Lois Shelton—a subject which was clearly off-limits as far as his client was concerned.

‘I wonder...’ Marty cleared his throat. ‘I wonder if you’d do me a favour?’

‘Sure. What is it?’

‘Well, I’m really asking for your help on behalf of my wife. I like to try and keep her happy, and...’

‘Oh, Marty!’ Ross grinned and shook his dark head. After twenty-five years of marriage, and despite all his friends’ dire warnings, the small, tubby agent had insisted on divorcing his wife to marry a blonde bimbo young enough to be his own daughter. ‘Is she giving you a hard time?’

‘Yeah, you could say that,’ the agent muttered, wondering—as he’d done so often lately—whether possessing a ‘trophy wife’ was all it was cracked up to be. ‘But the favour is really for my wife’s brother, Bernie Schwartz. He’s a real whiz-kid, and earning piles of dough with that cosmetic company he joined a few years ago.’

‘So—what’s the problem?’

‘Well, it isn’t exactly a problem, as such. More the fact that Bernie has put together a spectacular advertising campaign which, so my wife tells me, is likely to get him a seat on the board. Unfortunately, with everything all set for “go”, there’s been some problem with the proposed location.’ Marty shrugged. ‘To put it in a nutshell, Bernie needs to find a small, virtually uninhabited island in the Caribbean—and as quickly as possible.’

‘Hold it!’ Ross gave a grim laugh. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that he uses Buccaneer Island?’

‘Aw...come on, Ross—it wouldn’t be for more than a week. And just think about all those sexy young model girls, skipping along the beach with hardly a stitch on. You’d love it!’

‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t!’ Ross growled, turning away from the window to pace up and down the room. ‘I was once married to a fashion model, so I know what I’m talking about. Believe me, a more vain, egotistical, selfish bunch of people would be hard to find.’

‘Hey—wait until you see the girl who’s been chosen to promote the new line of cosmetics.’ Marty grinned, ignoring his client’s rough words as he spread some large photographs on the desk. ‘Bernie says that she’s absolutely gorgeous. According to him, she looks just like a Botticelli angel! What do you think?’

Ross gave a heavy sigh as he stopped pacing and strode towards the desk. ‘I think both you and your brother-in-law need your heads examined,’ he muttered, picking up one of the pictures. ‘And why you should imagine I’d want my quiet, peaceful island turned into a damned circus, or have to—’ He broke off, his brows drawing together in a sharp frown as he gazed down at the glossy print.

‘Nice, huh...?’ The older man gave a deep chuckle of laughter. ‘I wouldn’t mind spending a few days on a desert island with that particular girl!’

‘What’s her name?’ Ross demanded curtly, carrying the photograph over to the window to study it more closely.

Marty shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about her, except that, like you, she’s British—and Bernie clearly thinks she’s the best thing since sliced bread!’

There was a long silence as Ross continued to study the picture in his hand. ‘You say that your brother-in-law only wants to use my island for a week?’ he said at last.

‘Yeah—maybe even less,’ Marty assured him quickly. ‘On top of which, he’s more than willing to pay a large fee.’

‘Well...if it’s only going to be for a few days, I suppose I could probably help him out...’ Ross drawled slowly.

‘Great! And, there’s no reason for you to get involved with all the shenanigans if you don’t want to. All you have to do is to take off on your yacht, or whatever, and leave them to it.’

‘No.’ Ross shook his dark head. ‘Unfortunately, the small number of staff on the island would never be able to cope on their own. Besides,’ he added with a grim bark of sardonic laughter, before abruptly tossing the photograph back down onto the desk, ‘I’m beginning to think that this little idea of Bernie’s might prove to be very interesting, after all. Very interesting indeed!’

CHAPTER ONE

‘JUST remember—this is a contract to die for! There are hundreds of gorgeous-looking models who’d give their eye teeth for a chance to be the new Angel Girl. So, whatever happens, don’t mess up what could be the last chance to resurrect your career.’

Flora Johnson sighed, her lips tightening with apprehension as she recalled the words of her agent, Meredith Taylor, at the end of their celebratory lunch just over a month ago. Turning to stare blindly out of the small window of the aeroplane, she barely noticed the white clouds or the sparkling, azure sky.

Exactly why she should be apprehensive about the job which lay ahead of her, she had absolutely no idea. There seemed no sane, sensible reason for her faint, vague feelings of disquiet and unease. She was obviously being ridiculous, and it was time she pulled herself together, she told herself firmly. Anyone who wasn’t looking forward, with one hundred percent enthusiasm, to enjoying the warm sandy beaches, blue seas and brilliant sunshine of the Caribbean clearly needed their head examined!

‘You’ve simply got to read this book, Flora. It’s absolutely terrific!’

‘Hmm...?’ Flora turned to face the plump, sandy-haired girl sitting in the seat beside her.

Georgie held up the book for her inspection. ‘It’s the very latest novel by Duncan Ross. Quite honestly, I hardly got a wink of sleep last night!’ she added enthusiastically. ‘It’s so exciting that I simply couldn’t put it down. I’m on the last chapter, so I’ll lend it to you when I’m finished. I know you’re going to love it.’

‘I doubt it!’ Flora muttered, grimacing at the sight of the book’s dramatic, vividly coloured dust-jacket—mainly featuring a gruesome, evil-looking dagger dripping with blood. ‘To tell you the truth, I really don’t care for those sort of “action man” type of books, which I reckon are mostly written for overgrown schoolboys.’

‘You’re quite wrong—it’s not that sort of book at all!’ the other girl protested.

Flora merely smiled and shook her head. ‘We’ve got a long flight ahead of us. So I think I’ll just try and catch up on some beauty sleep.’

‘Come off it!’ Georgie gave a hoot of wry laughter, gazing enviously at the thick cloud of tightly curled blonde hair and beautiful features of the slim girl now reclining in the seat beside her. ‘As far as I can see, you need more beauty sleep about as much as fish need bicycles!’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ Flora grinned before determinedly closing her eyes against any further conversation.

In fact, following the late photographic session last night and an early dash to the airport this morning, she really was feeling a bit sleepy. The steady rhythmic background hum of the plane’s engines wasn’t helping, of course—nor her deep, comfortable seat in the First Class section of the aircraft, which was positively encouraging her to nod off.

And that, now she came to think about it, probably wasn’t such a bad idea after all. She knew, from past experience, that the dry, pressurised air in the cabin was likely to play havoc with the texture of her fine, delicate skin. Besides, if she made the mistake of drinking any alcohol during the flight she would undoubtedly find herself arriving at Antigua for their onward flight to a small private island looking thoroughly tired and washed out.

Not that it would normally matter, of course. Most of the passengers on the plane were anticipating a well-earned, relaxing holiday in the sun, well away from the stress and strain of everyday life. So it didn’t matter a hoot how weary or crumpled they appeared on their arrival in the Caribbean. Unfortunately, she was expected to walk down the steps of the aircraft looking a million dollars—and all ready to grace the pages of high-fashion magazines.

So, while she appreciated Georgie’s kind remarks about her looks—which amounted to nothing more than a useful tool, as far as her working life was concerned—Flora knew that the other girl could have no idea of the problems which might lie ahead. Nor of the many difficulties she’d had to face in the past.

Up until just over a year ago, Flora had enjoyed a very successful career as a top fashion and photographic model. Earning huge sums of money, and accustomed to a highly luxurious way of life, she’d foolishly given little thought to such boring, mundane matters as health insurance, or the need to save money for a rainy day.

Which only went to show just how much of an idiot she’d been! Because, following that horrendous car accident, which had resulted in a long stay in hospital and an even longer convalescence, she’d not only found herself flat broke—but, with no work in sight, it had also looked as if her career was on the skids as well.

In fact, what she’d have done without her agent, she had no idea. Meredith Taylor, who’d been virtually a mother-figure to Flora ever since she’d run away from home seeking the bright lights of London at the tender age of sixteen, had done her best to calm her fears.

‘So, OK—you’ve been out of the action for some time. But it’s not the end of the world,’ the older woman had told her firmly. ‘Just be patient. Once the word gets around that you’re available for work again, I’m sure the jobs will flood in.’

However for Flora, now aged twenty-six and only too well aware of the many fresh, beautiful young girls who were desperately keen to take her place—both on the catwalk and in front of the cameras of world-famous photographers—it had been a nerve-wracking few months. With her phone remaining ominously silent, she had almost given up hope of ever working again when she’d received an urgent call from Meredith with the news that a very large American company were desperately looking for a fresh face to launch their new line of cosmetics.

‘Get yourself over there as fast as possible,’ Meredith had told her urgently, quickly rattling off an address in Mayfair. ‘ACE Cosmetics are up against a heavy deadline, so I reckon there’s a good chance of you getting the job. But they’ll insist on you being as pure as the driven snow,’ she’d warned, before explaining that the model who’d originally gained the three-year, multi-million-dollar contract had just been sacked following unfortunate reports in the Press regarding the girl’s private life.

‘Too many riotous, drug-related late-night parties in Bad Company,’ the older woman had added succinctly. ‘So, just make sure you come over as squeaky clean. And no mention of your brief marriage to that awful man. Right?’

‘Er...right,’ Flora had muttered, guiltily suppressing the fact that despite Meredith’s strong advice she’d never, somehow, quite got around to arranging a divorce from her husband, whom she hadn’t seen for almost six years.

Successfully gaining the job, and almost light-headed with relief at the thought of finally having solved her pressing financial problems, she hadn’t taken any particular notice of Meredith’s sage advice. But over the past few weeks she’d come to realise that her future prospects might not be quite so rosy after all.

‘You might have warned me about that simply awful woman!’ she’d moaned down the phone to her agent. ‘I thought I’d already met most of the fierce, hard-as-nails ladies in this business. But I bet anything you like that Claudia Davidson turns out to be an absolute nightmare!’

‘What on earth are you talking about? I’ve never had any problems with Claudia.’

‘Well...lucky old you—because she scared me rigid!’ Flora retorted grimly. ‘I’d hardly entered her glamorous, ultra-modern office to sign the contract when she announced that I was positively the last person she’d have chosen for the job. And, she seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out that I was only picked because Mr Schwartz, the American marketing director of ACE Cosmetics, refused to accept any of the other girls she’d got lined up and insisted on me being given the job.’

‘Well, if you’ve got the head honcho rooting for you I can’t see that you’ve got too many problems,’ Meredith had responded soothingly.

‘Yes, but...’

‘Even if you don’t particularly like Claudia,’ the other woman continued firmly, ‘she was amazingly successful at creating a totally new, up-market image for the Elegance Fashion Group. Which is why, I heard, she was headhunted last year by ACE Cosmetics to completely revamp and promote their products for a major assault on the European market. And, in any case,’ Meredith added, ‘I’m sure you’ll find that her bark is far worse than her bite.’

‘I should be so lucky!’ Flora had ground out glumly, before putting down the phone.

It wasn’t just the fact that she and the glamorous, high-powered PR executive in charge of promoting the cosmetic company’s new line had taken an instant dislike to one another—although that was likely to mean a difficult working relationship—but Claudia Davidson had also been very explicit regarding Flora’s new contract.

‘I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings on your part,’ she’d told Flora with an icy smile, her voice carrying a clear warning note of threat and menace.

‘As you’ve seen, your contract stipulates a yearly break clause—with no obligation for the company to explain its reasons for dispensing with your services. On top of which, you must not accept any other work. So, don’t let me catch you modelling for any of your old photographer friends—even if you’re giving your services for free. Because I’ll have you out on your ear so fast, you won’t know what’s hit you!’ she’d added grimly, with what Flora had considered to be quite unnecessary relish.

‘The same goes for the fact that we require you to remain single,’ the awful woman had continued relentlessly. ‘A steady, long-term boyfriend is acceptable, of course. However, since the whole emphasis of the campaign to promote the new Angel Girl will be on her misty, pure and ethereal qualities, we are insisting that your private life must be as clean as a whistle. Do I make myself absolutely clear?’

‘Oh, yes—absolutely!’ Flora had agreed fervently, her hands shaking slightly as she signed away her life for the next three years.

After all, as she’d consoled herself later, she wasn’t likely to have too many problems with most of the clauses in her new contract. Her only regular escort, John Macdonald was a very wealthy and highly respectable merchant banker. And she could see no reason why either Claudia or the cosmetic company should ever find out that she was—in name only, of course—still a married woman.

However, as she now turned to gaze across the aircraft cabin, to where Claudia was sitting beside her principal assistant, Helen Todd, Flora couldn’t help feeling slightly apprehensive. Helen, who to all intents and purposes appeared to be a clone of Claudia, and dressed in the same bandbox-fresh, high-fashion resort wear as her senior colleague, wasn’t perhaps quite so frightening. But there was no doubt that together they made a formidable team.

Only Georgie Wilson, a general dogsbody and ‘gofer’, who’d been seconded from the cosmetic company to look after Flora, seemed in any way a normal person. It was Georgie, for instance, who’d informed Flora that everyone in the company was terrified of Claudia Davidson.

‘She’s a really scary lady,’ Georgie had confided earlier this morning as they’d checked in their baggage at Heathrow Airport, adding with a nervous giggle, ‘I’m told that a lot of people in the office refer to her behind her back as “Cruella De Vil”!’

‘That sounds a fairly appropriate nickname,’ Flora had agreed with a grin, recalling from her childhood the story of 101 Dalmatians who’d been chased and terrorised by a horrifically frightening woman intent on their slaughter to provide herself with a glamorous fur coat.

However, it was pointless to look for trouble, Flora now told herself firmly. The world of fashion and beauty products contained a considerable number of really awful, highly eccentric and weird people—all given to claiming artistic licence as an excuse for what would normally be thought of as extremely bad behaviour.