Mary Lyons - Husband Not Included

‘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.

So, any model with an ounce of sense normally concentrated on just getting on with the job. And since the company had obtained the services of a world-famous photographer, with whom she’d worked many times in the past, Flora could see no reason why there should be any real problems on this assignment in the Caribbean. Besides, there was definitely no point in crossing any bridges before she came to them. Right?

Busy lecturing herself, Flora found her thoughts sharply interrupted as Georgie gave a loud groan.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, quickly sitting up and regarding the other girl with concern. ‘Are you feeling all right?

‘It’s OK—I’m fine,’ the other girl told her sadly. ‘It’s just that I really hate finishing a good novel.’

‘You are an idiot!’ Flora sighed, brushing a tired hand through her long curly hair. She’d already come to the conclusion that maybe the plump, sandy haired girl wasn’t too bright. But it now looked as if Georgie was definitely a few sandwiches short of a picnic. ‘Why make such a fuss? It’s only a book, for heaven’s sake!’

‘But...but you don’t understand. It really was totally riveting,’ Georgie retorted, ignoring Flora’s protests as she firmly placed the large volume on the model’s lap. ‘There’s no harm in at least having a look at the book. I think you’ll be surprised.’

‘I doubt it!’

‘Well, it’s been on the New York bestseller list for I don’t know how many weeks—so, it’s definitely not rubbish,’ Georgie said firmly as she loosened her seat belt and rose to her feet, before announcing that she was going to stretch her legs.

Still convinced that the book wasn’t at all her sort of thing, Flora glanced idly down at the blurb inside the front cover. As she had suspected, A Time to Live—A Time to Die appeared to be the usual sort of Boys’-Own story concerning espionage and skulduggery in high places.

What sort of guy writes this rubbish...? she asked herself, turning over the book to look at the author’s picture on the back cover. She’d never even heard of Duncan Ross, and—What the hell?

Suddenly feeling as though she’d been hit very hard in the solar plexus, Flora felt her emerald-green eyes widen with shock as she stared down at the photograph of a dark-haired, ruggedly handsome man. What on earth was going on? What was her ex-husband, Ross Whitney, doing with his picture on the back of this book?

How could the publishers have made such a really stupid, stupid error? Goodness knows how or why they’d managed to get hold of the wrong photo—but surely the real author would be highly indignant at having his identity stolen by a completely unknown mining engineer? A man who was, moreover—certainly as far as she knew—busy working for a large, international company in South America.

Completely stunned, and with her mind in a total whirl, Flora desperately tried to pull herself together. Maybe she was wrong? It had, after all, been almost six years since she’d last seen Ross. And it was just a photograph. So, while the author of this book, Duncan Ross, might appear to be the absolute double of her ex-husband, the two men might well turn out to be quite dissimilar in real life. Right?

However, as she stared down at the large black and white photograph, which took up most of the space on the shiny back cover of the book, Flora could feel the tight knot of apprehension deep in the pit of her stomach gradually swelling into a large, heavy lump of total certainty.

It was no good. There was no point in trying to fool herself. Because, however strange and peculiar it might seem—and however hard she might cling to the hope that it was all a terrible mistake—she had no doubt about the identity of the man gazing out at the world with a slightly wry, mocking twist of his lips. She knew that it was a photograph of her ex-husband, Ross Whitney. Why, she could even see the faint scar beneath one dark, sardonically raised eyebrow—the result, as she knew only too well, of an accident on the rugby field soon after their wedding.

Besides, there were just too many coincidences for her to swallow. While two men might bear a very strong resemblance to each other, it was extremely unlikely that they would also have almost the same name.

Suddenly feeling breathless and dizzy, as if the world was spinning twice as fast as usual on its axis, Flora fell back against her seat, gazing blindly up at the roof of the plane as she tried to sort out the chaotic muddle and confusion in her brain.

Even if it was true, even if she had to accept the fact, however weird it might be, that the writer Duncan Ross and her ex-husband Ross Whitney were one and the same person—she could still hardly believe it! Goodness knows, they’d only been married for a very short time. But she had absolutely no recollection of Ross being in any way interested in writing novels. Surely... Well, surely she ought to have seen some sign of the fact that he was interested in becoming an author?

She was deeply immersed in trying to solve the conundrum, and her distraught thoughts were interrupted as Georgie returned to her seat.

‘Hah! I just knew you’d be interested in that book,’ Georgie said triumphantly, placing some Duty Free perfume in the overhead locker before lowering her ample curves into the seat beside Flora.

‘Well...er...’

‘Doesn’t he look fantastic? Really drop-dead sexy—if you know what I mean!’ Georgie grinned. ‘I bet he has girls buzzing around him like bees round a honey-pot.’

Flora, her mind still trying to grapple with the extraordinary fact that her ex-husband appeared to have somehow turned himself into a best-selling author, could only stare blankly at the other girl.