“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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

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.

‘Well, you might not think he’s up to much—but as far as I’m concerned he’s definitely a bit of all right!’ Georgie leaned over to take the book from Flora’s lap and gaze down at the photograph of the ruggedly handsome man. ‘I just can’t wait to meet him!’

‘Meet him...?’ Flora echoed in bewilderment.

So, OK—her brains might be a little scrambled, and she was possibly still reeling from shock, trying to come to terms with the sudden bombshell about her ex-husband’s new profession, but even so, Flora knew that the chances of Georgie bumping into a best-selling author—whoever he might be—were just about zero.

‘I don’t want to dash your hopes,’ she told the plump girl, ‘but I really don’t think there’s any likelihood of you meeting the author of this book. Certainly not in the near future.’

‘Of course I’m going to meet him! After all, he owns Buccaneer Island, doesn’t he? Besides,’ Georgie added, as if explaining matters to a rather dim child, ‘I overheard Claudia saying that Duncan Ross was definitely going to be on the island, just to make sure that everything ran smoothly. Which is one of the reasons why I’ve been reading his new book.’

Flora stared at the other girl in shocked silence for some moments. Completely stunned and almost unable to comprehend the appalling, horrific information that in only a few hours’ time she was likely to meet again the man she hadn’t seen for so many years, it was some moments before she was able to pull herself together.

‘Are you seriously telling me that...?’

‘Oh, come on!’ Georgie grinned. ‘Surely you knew that Duncan Ross was the owner of Buccaneer Island?’

Flora shook her dazed head. ‘No...no, I had no idea. I mean...I don’t understand any of this,’ she muttered, feeling as though she’d been suddenly dumped in a foreign country, completely unable either to understand or speak the language.

‘I wasn’t involved in any of the plans for this trip,’ Flora continued, brushing a trembling hand through her long, curly hair. ‘I mean...no one’s even told me the reason why we’re using Buccaneer Island. Surely... Well, surely there must be lots of other places in the Caribbean which are just as suitable for shooting a promotional film. Why didn’t they choose Barbados—or Antigua, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Hey—calm down!’ Georgie frowned at the almost hysterical note in the other girl’s voice. ‘I didn’t make the arrangements. All I know is that Duncan Ross, who owns the island, seems to have some connection with Mr Schwartz, the American marketing director of ACE. And in any case,’ she added with a shrug, ‘since most countries in the Caribbean have a strict law about their beaches always being open to members of the public, maybe it’s a good idea not to have too many people cluttering up the scene? Especially if you’re likely to be prancing half-naked over the sand.’

‘I never prance—and certainly not half-naked!’ Flora snapped, before quickly realising that it was totally unfair to take her shock and frustration out on Georgie. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, with a brief, apologetic smile. ‘It looks as though I must have got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.’

‘That’s OK—forget it.’ Georgie gave her a friendly grin, clearly used to dealing with the more temperamental, prima donna type of model. ‘I’m really looking forward to the next few days. I haven’t been to the Caribbean before, and I can’t wait...’

Leaning back, allowing her mind to drift as the other girl continued to expand on the delights awaiting them all on Buccaneer Island, it was some moments before Flora suddenly realised that her troubles were now multiplying with the speed of light.

Oh, Lord—she’d forgotten all about her contract!

Claudia Davidson had been brutally frank about the cosmetic company’s basic rules: not only was Flora required to be pure in thought and deed—but they were also insisting on her being single! And yet within a few hours it was almost certain that she would be meeting the man who she regarded as her ex-husband...but to whom she was—alas!—still married.

Feeling totally sick to the pit of her stomach, she could see no way of avoiding the swift, ruthless and hideously embarrassing termination of her contract. And that wasn’t all. Not by a long chalk! She could virtually guarantee the fact that Claudia would go completely ballistic on discovering the truth about Flora’s marital status. And ACE weren’t exactly going to be whistling for joy either.

Shivering with fright, and trying to control her trembling limbs, Flora realised that she was now in deep, deep trouble. She had no doubt that the company would be in a strong position if they decided to take her to court in order to recover the costs involved in setting up this trip to the Caribbean. Because even if she hadn’t told an outright lie she’d still put her signature to a contract containing a clause which she had known to be false.

How could she have been such a fool? There was no way she would ever be able to repay the company’s expenses. In fact, if she’d been worried about her financial position before being offered this job it was a mere bagatelle when compared to the total bankruptcy which she was likely to face in the future.

Seething with frustration and anger, both at the malign fate which was about to engulf her and the incredibly foolish, outright stupidity of not having divorced Ross years ago, Flora struggled to contain her mounting hysteria, quite certain that her head was going to explode with pent-up rage and fury. But, as she continued to fulminate and rail against her own folly, she realised that there was absolutely nothing she could do to prevent the inevitable, total disaster which lay ahead.

Some hours later, as the small private plane which had been hired to transport them from Antigua slowly circled over the landing site on Buccaneer Island, Flora still hadn’t been able to find a solution to her problem. Certain that she’d never felt quite so frightened in all her life, she was in such a state of mental exhaustion that she couldn’t think of anything except the truly horrendous fate which awaited her just as soon as they landed.

It was almost as if she’d suddenly developed St Vitus’s Dance, she thought, miserably aware that her knees were knocking together like castanets. But, as the plane descended rapidly towards the green, grassy strip which lay alongside a wide sandy beach, she made a supreme effort to try and pull herself together.

Carefully descending the steps of the aircraft on legs which felt as though they were made of jelly, Flora found herself trailing behind Claudia Davidson and her entourage, who were walking briskly towards a small group of people clearly awaiting their arrival. Through the haze of shimmering heat, her eyes were slowly and forcibly drawn towards a man standing slightly apart from the others, leaning nonchalantly against a rather battered-looking old Land Rover.

Feeling suddenly faint, she was almost physically aware of the blood draining from her face at the sight of the tall, broad-shouldered figure and tanned, arrogant features of the person she hadn’t seen for so long. Drawing on her positively last reserves of courage, she took a deep, shuddering breath.

Here goes nothing! Flora told herself defiantly, putting on the performance of a lifetime as she walked slowly and steadily, with her head held high, towards her ex-husband, Ross Whitney. The man who, within the next few minutes, was almost certainly going to blow her world sky-high.

CHAPTER TWO

DELIBERATELY forcing herself to appear outwardly calm and collected, Flora knew her mind was in a complete turmoil as she walked slowly towards the husband she hadn’t seen for so many years.

Amongst all her other overwhelming problems, she now realised that she’d completely forgotten to put on her dark glasses. Not only would they have offered protection from the harsh rays of the sun, but—ridiculous as it might seem—she’d have felt a whole lot safer with her eyes well hidden behind the black shades. Unfortunately there was no way she could now begin fumbling through her large handbag. Not when she was striving with all her might to appear so cool and laid-back.

Despite knowing that total disaster lay only a few moments away, she couldn’t seem to stop her brain from frantically buzzing with completely hopeless, totally impractical plans of escape. But even as she desperately thought of trying to reach Ross before the others—and somehow managing to persuade him to keep quiet about their marriage—she knew that it was now far, far too late for any hope of rescue.

‘Ah, Mr Ross...!’ Claudia called out imperiously, ignoring the small group of people standing by an open truck as she strode purposefully towards the tall figure leaning nonchalantly against his vehicle.

‘We’re so grateful to you for allowing us to use this lovely island of yours,’ she told him with a beaming smile as she introduced herself and her faithful shadow, Helen Todd. ‘I understand that you’re a friend of that clever young businessman, Mr Schwartz?’

‘Well, no—not exactly,’ the tall man drawled. ‘Although I know his brother-in-law very well, I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting Bernie. However, I understand he is due to join us later on today,’ he added, before explaining that he only used the pseudonym ‘Duncan Ross’ for his books. ‘So, please call me Ross—and I hope you enjoy your stay on Buccaneer Island.’

‘I’m quite sure we will!’ Claudia trilled, smiling coyly up at the handsome man, a faint flush on her cheekbones as she nervously patted her hair.

Slowly coming to a halt beside them, Flora had been momentarily distracted from her own fear and trepidation by the amazing sight of that normally hard, tough and ruthless woman Claudia Davidson now simpering like a bashful schoolgirl. But she found herself being suddenly jerked back to harsh, cruel reality as Ross turned slowly to face her.

‘Oh yes...’ Claudia waved a limp, heavily ringed hand in Flora’s direction. ‘This is Miss Flora Johnson. She’s going to be the model for our Angel Girl campaign.’

‘An “angel girl”...? Well, well!’ Ross drawled, his vivid blue eyes beneath their heavy lids glinting with sardonic amusement as he gazed down at Flora. And then, with what she could only think of as bare-faced insolence, he proceeded to conduct an analytical appraisal of her, beginning at the top of her curly head and travelling slowly down over her slim figure before coming to a halt at the pink toenails of her feet in their light sandals.

Damned cheek! Flora gritted her teeth, fuming with resentment and anger. Despite feeling quite faint and sick with dread of the forthcoming explosion, which she knew could be only seconds away, she was sorely tempted to give his face a good, hard slap. How dared the foul man treat her as if she were standing there stark naked?

‘However, you won’t be seeing very much of her,’ Claudia continued in a dismissive tone of voice. ‘When she isn’t in front of the camera, Miss Johnson will have to stay indoors during the heat of the day, to make sure that she doesn’t get too suntanned.’

‘Really...?’ Ross murmured, lifting a dark, sardonic eyebrow as he blandly regarded the flushed cheeks and angry glint in the large green eyes of the girl standing beside him. ‘That doesn’t sound much fun.’

‘Miss Johnson is not here to have “fun”,’ the older woman corrected him sharply, clearly annoyed that he was paying attention to anyone other than herself. ‘This is strictly a working assignment as far as she is concerned. Isn’t that right, dear?’ she added, turning her hard, beady eyes in Flora’s direction.

Numb with fear of the storm about to break over her head any moment—and quailing beneath the grim note of warning in Claudia’s voice—Flora could only give a weak nod of agreement.

‘Never mind, Miss...er...Johnson,’ Ross drawled coolly. ‘I’ll certainly do my best to make sure that your “working assignment” proves to be a pleasant and... er...an interesting one.’

The other two women might have missed it, but Flora had no difficulty in hearing the low, ironic note of grim amusement which lay beneath Ross’s bland words. He’s playing with me, she thought, staring down at the ground for a moment before slowly raising her head to find herself being regarded by blank blue eyes and a cool smile which held no hint of recognition.

Totally confused, for a few brief seconds she almost managed to convince herself that Ross really didn’t know who she was. But then, as he gave her a swift, piercing glance before turning back to the two older women, she realised that she’d been momentarily living in a fool’s paradise. Whatever game he might be playing, it certainly wasn’t good news for her—not if that harsh gleam in his eyes and the cruel, mocking curve of his lips was anything to go by.

Unfortunately, she was given no time in which to mull over the question of exactly why Ross appeared to be pretending not to know her. Almost before she knew what was happening, she was being swept up in the general melee as they were joined by Georgie, and the small group of people who’d come to meet the plane.

With her mind in a complete daze, Flora barely noticed the luggage being loaded onto a truck which soon vanished into the distance. Nor was she given any time to acknowledge the loud, cheerful greetings from some of her old acquaintances. In what seemed the twinkling of an eye, she found herself seated beside Georgie in the back of Ross’s large open Land Rover, with Helen and various pieces of hand luggage occupying the bench seat in front of them, and being driven along a grass track edging a wide, sandy beach.

Luckily there was no need for her to say or do anything, since Claudia, seated in the front passenger seat next to Ross, was clearly intent on claiming his full attention.

Finally managing to find and put on her dark glasses, Flora knew that if she hadn’t been feeling so sick with nerves she’d have been able to appreciate the amusing, grim irony of being grateful to the awful woman. Thanks to Claudia’s determination to monopolise Ross’s attention she was being given a short break in which to try and get her act together. But, gazing blindly out of the vehicle, she was unable to savour the entrancing view of pale white sand and sparkling blue sea. Not when her whole attention was now focused on the one, overriding problem: how to prevent her ex-husband from spilling the beans?

She had no idea why Ross was pretending not to know her. He appeared to have transformed himself into a very successful author and had clearly made a new life for himself here, in the Caribbean. So, maybe he regretted their brief marriage as much as she did? However, as long as he didn’t open his mouth and ‘tell all’ before she had a chance to get him on his own and swear him to secrecy about their brief marriage, it was just possible that she might be able to prevent her career from going down the tubes.

Preoccupied with her overwhelming problems, it was some time before Flora noticed that they had left the coastline of the small island behind them and were now speeding inland along a grass track bordered on each side by shady groves of palm trees. On reaching a clearing, she saw that they faced a large plantation house whose green lawns were surrounded by brightly coloured trees and shrubs. But, instead of driving up to the house, their vehicle veered off to the side, winding its way through yet more palms and banana trees heavy with fruit before coming to a halt outside a small wooden building.

As Ross jumped out, helping Claudia and Helen down from the vehicle before leading them towards the front door, where their suitcases awaited them, Flora studied the tiny cottage. It looked enchanting, with a bright red corrugated metal roof set over white walls, a pale pink front door and window frames, and the whole surrounded by a pretty pink and white wooden veranda. She was just thinking that it must be every little girl’s dream-a large, magnificent dolls’ house of their very own—when Georgie gave her a sharp dig in the ribs.

‘How about this for a taste of luxury! Not bad, huh?’

‘Hmm...?’

‘Come on, Flora! Have you been asleep or what?’ Georgie stared at her in surprise. ‘Didn’t you hear Ross say that we’re all being allocated separate guest cottages?’

‘No, I...”

‘He was telling Claudia that this type of local building is known as a popular house, or “case”,’ Georgie explained quickly as Ross helped the older women with their luggage. ‘Apparently, they were originally designed for families who worked on the old sugar plantations, and are still used throughout the Caribbean. So, Ross decided they’d make perfect guest suites for his visitors and had some prefabricated units shipped over from Antigua,’ she added, peering through the trees towards where other small pastel-coloured buildings were scattered haphazardly amongst the lush vegetation. ‘I can’t wait to see mine.’

However, after Ross had dropped Georgie off at her cottage—which she was apparently sharing with the make-up and hair stylist—the atmosphere within the vehicle became positively glacial. Fully determined to sort matters out as quickly as possible, Flora was thrown completely off-base at being roughly ordered by her ex-husband to sit in the front passenger seat.

‘I don’t mind driving everyone to their cottages. But I’m damned if I’m going to act as a hired chauffeur to some flibbertigibbet model!’ he growled, waiting with barely concealed impatience as she hurriedly changed seats.

‘OK...OK, there’s no need to be so rude,’ she snapped, furious with herself for having so instinctively obeyed his harshly voiced command. ‘I didn’t make the arrangements to stay on this island. So how am I expected to know how you run things? In fact,’ she added grimly, ‘I’d never have come within a mile of the damned place—not if I’d known you’d be here!’

He gave a low bark of sardonic laughter, which only served to inflame her already raw nerves to screaming pitch.

‘Now, now, Miss Johnson,’ he murmured, ‘there’s no need to lose your temper.’

‘Oh, no...?’ she ground out through gritted teeth. ‘Well, that’s all you know! Because it looks as if losing my temper is the very least of my problems. And what’s with this “Miss Johnson” nonsense anyway?’ she added belligerently, turning to scowl at his handsome tanned profile. ‘You know very well who I am.’

‘Of course I know who you are,’ he drawled coolly as he brought the Land Rover to a halt outside a cottage screened from the other small houses by a thick hedge of flowering shrubs. ‘I’ve just been told that you’re Bernie Schwartz’s new Angel Girl. I also have it on good authority—from his own brother-in-law, no less—that Bernie seems to think you’re the best thing since sliced bread. How about that?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she exploded as he switched off the ignition. ‘Why on earth are you playing these stupid games?’

“‘Games”, Miss Johnson?’ He raised a dark, satanic eyebrow as he gazed at her with a bland, cool smile on his lips. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, yes, you damn well do!’ she accused him bleakly, grimly aware of the dark, insidious attraction of the man lounging so casually in his seat beside her. Maybe if she hadn’t been feeling quite so tired and exhausted, she would have been better equipped to ignore the muscular shoulders beneath the thin fabric of his short-sleeved cream shirt, and the long-fingered, strong hands lightly grasping the wheel.

Life was so unfair! Surely, if there was any justice in the world, Ross ought to have gone thoroughly to seed over the past six years? Unfortunately—instead of having become seriously overweight, with a paunch and receding hairline—he was still fit, slim, lithe and as diabolically attractive as ever. Besides which, there ought to be a law against allowing men to wear shorts, she told herself acidly. Because the sight of Ross’s bare, deeply tanned and muscular brown legs almost touching her own was definitely not helping her to concentrate on her problems.

Making a supreme effort to pull herself together, Flora took a deep breath.

‘Leaving aside the other interesting questions, such as how a one-time mining engineer has managed to become a best-selling author,’ she told him scathingly, ‘what I really want to know is why he’s also pretending not to know his wife?’

‘You’re right—that’s definitely an interesting question,’ he drawled mockingly as he got out and came around to her side. ‘Maybe the answer, dear Miss Johnson, is that since my wife was such a spoilt and 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!’ she ground out through clenched teeth, swearing under her breath as she tried to open the passenger door. ‘I really hate these trendy four-wheel-drive vehicles!’ she muttered, savagely banging her fist on the dashboard. Only to find herself becoming even more furious as he gave an infuriating chuckle of laughter.

‘Oh, dear—we really do seem to be losing our temper, don’t we?’ he murmured, calmly opening the door before scooping up her in-flight bag from the rear seat and walking towards the small blue and white cottage.

‘You...you damned man!’ she shouted furiously, tumbling out of the Land Rover and almost running to keep up with him as he strode up the steps to the front door. ‘You always were bloody-minded, and...and as obstinate as a pig!’

Calmly placing a key in the lock, he opened the door before turning slowly towards her. ‘That sounds a fair description of my wife,’ he 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 quite incapable of thinking of anyone or anything—other than her own selfish interests.’

‘That’s a really foul thing to say!’ she 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? Especially since you’re apparently such a very, very good friend of Bernie Schwartz,’ he added, the bland smile on his lips sharply at variance with the bleak, chilly gleam in his blue eyes.

Flora stiffened. ‘And just what’s that last snide remark supposed to mean?’

Ignoring her tense, angry figure, Ross merely shrugged his broad shoulders before carrying her luggage into the main sitting room of the cottage.

Trailing slowly behind him, Flora realised that she’d been acting like an utter fool. She might loathe this hateful man, but trading insults wasn’t going to achieve anything. Not when she needed his assistance to save her career. Unfortunately, however much it might stick in her throat, she had no alternative but to eat Humble Pie.

‘Look...I’m sorry if I lost my temper just now,’ she told him stiffly. ‘It’s been a long day, and I expect I’m suffering from jet lag. But the thing is...I’ve got a problem and I need your help.’

‘My help...?’ He gave a scornful laugh. ‘You must be joking! If you want to cry on someone’s shoulder I suggest that you’d better go and weep all over Bernie Schwartz.’

‘Oh—for heaven’s sake!’ Flora gave an impatient, heavy sigh. ‘That’s the whole problem. I can’t discuss this matter with Mr Schwartz.’

Ross studied her grimly for a moment. ‘Do I gather that congratulations are in order?’

‘What...?’ she muttered, frowning at him in confusion.

‘You and Bernie, of course.’

‘Well, I’m obviously pleased to have got this job, if that’s what you mean. But the fact is that Mr Schwartz, and everyone at ACE Cosmetics—not to mention that awful Claudia woman—all think that I’m single. It’s in the contract, you see.’

He shrugged. ‘No—I’m afraid that I don’t see,’ he retorted, before turning to leave the room.

‘Oh, please...!’ she cried, swiftly grabbing hold of his arm and hurriedly explaining the situation in which she now found herself. ‘And if they find out I’m still married to you I’ll be for the high jump,’ she added desperately. ‘You’ve simply got to help me.’

Ross stared at her silently for what seemed a long, long time.

‘Well, well...the plot thickens, doesn’t it?’ he said slowly, studying her intently from beneath his heavy lids. ‘So, you want me to pretend that we’ve never met before now?’

‘Why not? After all, you were giving a very good impression of not knowing who I was when we landed from the aircraft just now,’ she pointed out quickly. ‘The point is: it’s vitally important that everyone connected with ACE continues to believe that I’ve never been married.’

‘But why should I help you?’ Ross drawled coolly. ‘It’s no skin off my nose if you get sacked from this job.’

‘How can you do this to me?’ she moaned, waving her hands distractedly in the air.

He laughed. ‘Very easily! In fact, it might be quite amusing to stand by and watch the balloon go up.’

‘Oh, that’s great—thanks a bunch!’ she stormed. ‘Leopards never change their spots. So, I should have realised that you’re still the same thoroughly obnoxious, rotten bastard who walked out on me all those years ago. Right?’

As she saw his lips tightening into a grim, narrow line, and the dark flush of colour beneath his tanned cheeks, she was gripped by a sharp sense of fierce satisfaction. Despite knowing that she was every bit as much to blame for the break-up of their marriage, Flora was finding enormous release in being able—at long last!—to give voice to her deeply buried feelings of painful heartache and bitter, dark resentment at the way she’d been treated.

‘I’m amazed that our marriage lasted as long as it did.’ She gave a shrill, high-pitched laugh. ‘It was just like you to waltz off and leave me without even one word of explanation!’

‘As I recall, there were plenty of “words”,’ he ground out in a clipped, hard voice as he took a determined step towards her. ‘But would you listen to anything I had to say? Oh, no—that was asking too much, wasn’t it?’ he added grimly, catching hold of her arm as she tried to turn away. ‘You were far too preoccupied with your so-called glamorous career—too full of yourself and too damn selfish to pay any attention to your husband.’

‘And what right did you have to expect me to throw up everything I’d worked for just because you’d been offered a job in some fly-blown, disease-ridden jungle in South America?’ she snarled, desperately trying to wriggle out from beneath his powerful grip on her shoulders. ‘Did you listen to anything I had to say? Did you hell!’

‘That was different,’ he growled.

‘Oh, right! So you admit that there was one law for you as my husband—and quite another for me in the role of wife...? Nice one, Ross!’ she grated scornfully. ‘Besides, I notice that you clearly didn’t stay in South America for more than five minutes. So, it looks as if I made the right decision after all!’

‘You always were a first-class bitch!’ he hissed, pulling her struggling figure hard up against the length of his tall, firm body.

‘And you were always a total bastard!’ she panted. ‘If I’m going down the tubes with ACE I’ll damn well take you with me. I’ll tell them—I’ll tell the whole wide world just what a vile, rotten...devious...’

But even as Flora hunted frantically in her mind for a few more nasty adjectives to describe her foul husband she was forcibly silenced as he swiftly lowered his dark head. A brief second later his lips were on hers, fierce and contemptuous, as though he intended to totally drain her of the will to defy him ever again.

Her heartbeat was pounding like a sledgehammer beneath the stormy force of his cruel mouth, her soft breasts crushed tightly against his hard frame, and she knew that Ross was using this kiss as a punishment for her defiance; the brutal arrogance of his flesh was demanding her complete submission to his iron will.

Not until she was almost fainting, her tired and weary body trembling weakly against him, did she feel his lips softening for a few, brief moments before he slowly raised his dark head.

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of their heavy breathing, and she stared numbly up at Ross, too emotionally exhausted to say or do anything, knowing that without the support of his arms she would have slumped helplessly to the floor.

But if she was incapable of speech he seemed to have no problem in finding his voice.

‘I’ve no intention of apologizing for what happened just now,’ he grated. ‘And if you’ve got any sense in that beautiful head of yours—which I very much doubt—you’ll keep well out of my way for the rest of your stay on this island.’

‘Don’t...don’t you dare threaten me, you...you foul bully!’ she gasped huskily. ‘Believe me, if I had one of my father’s shotguns to hand I wouldn’t think twice before putting a bullet through your stupid head!’

‘You’re all heart, darling,’ he murmured sardonically. ‘But then, I always say that you can take the girl out of the farmyard—but you can’t take the farmyard out of the girl. And it looks as if I’m right—especially if your new “rustic” hairstyle is anything to go by,’ he added scornfully, lifting a curly lock of her long blonde hair.

‘Leave me alone!’ she snapped, unable to prevent an involuntary shiver at the touch of his fingers brushing against her skin.

He gave a short bark of angry laughter as he spun on his heel and marched swiftly towards the door. ‘Don’t worry—I’ve got far better ways of spending my time than dancing attendance on an empty-headed blonde bimbo!’

‘Get lost!’ she yelled, almost beside herself with rage. ‘And I hope I live long enough to dance on your grave!’

‘I’m sure that you will, Flora,’ he drawled coolly.

Opening the door, he paused in the doorway, his tall, broad-shouldered figure a dark silhouette against the bright sunlight as he delivered his parting shot. ‘But at least I’ll have the satisfaction—when I’m six feet under and pushing up the daisies—of not having to watch the last waltz being performed by a wizened, lonely, toothless old hag!’

Shaking with nervous exhaustion, her ears ringing with the loud bang of the front door being slammed shut behind Ross’s departing figure, Flora waited with bated breath until she heard the sound of his vehicle fading away in the distance. Only then did she feel capable of staggering a few feet across the floor, before sinking down into a rattan chair.

Trust the bastard Ross Whitney to make sure that he had the last word! she told herself grimly, shutting her eyes for a moment and allowing the waves of mental and physical exhaustion to flood through her weary body.

Goodness knows, almost from the first moment that she’d succeeded in gaining the Angel Girl contract she had been troubled by bad vibes about the job. And how right she’d been! Because this whole trip to the Caribbean had been clearly doomed from the start. And now, having stupidly thrown away her only opportunity of gaining the support of Ross, there seemed no way of avoiding the forthcoming disaster.

How could she have been such a blithering idiot? It wasn’t as though she was a teenager and didn’t know any better. She was supposed to be a sophisticated woman of twenty-six, for heaven’s sake! So, why on earth had she allowed herself to become involved in a stupid, no-holds-barred fight with Ross? And to have effectively torpedoed her only chance of solving her problems with the cosmetic company?

Groaning out loud at her own folly, Flora buried her face in her hands for a moment. Unfortunately, it was no good putting all the blame for the disastrous scene which had just taken place on Ross. Although it had been partly his fault, of course. The foul, rotten man had always known how to make her madder than a hornets’ nest—in just about five seconds flat—but there’d been absolutely no call for some of those nasty, snide remarks.

All the same...maybe if her nerves hadn’t been at screaming point, after such a long and tiring day, she might have been able to cope with her ex-husband. He had, after all, been the one who’d deserted her—suddenly vanishing into thin air, never to be seen again from that day to this—leaving her to face the lonely tears and all the problems involved in sorting out the shattered pieces of their brief marriage.

In fact, now she came to think about it, Ross had obviously been having the time of his life here in the Caribbean. While she’d been slaving away on the catwalk and in front of the cameras, her swine of a husband had probably been living the life of Reilly: swigging rum, making love to dusky maidens and writing those rubbishy books of his.

Nice work if you can get it! she told herself grimly. So, what now gave him the right to claim the moral high ground? Why was he still bothering to blame her for what had happened in the past?

However, despite running the disastrous scene back and forth through her tired mind, she failed to find any answers to those questions. In fact, she only succeeded in giving herself a thumping headache.

Realising that she couldn’t sit in the chair all day, Flora wearily began to unpack her cases. After taking some aspirins, and deciding that maybe a shower and a change of clothes might at least make her feel slightly better, she made her way to the small bathroom.

Unfortunately, even after showering and washing her hair, she still felt nerve-rackingly tense and jittery. Which wasn’t surprising, she told herself glumly. That encounter with Ross had been bad enough, but it was nothing to the explosion which was likely to break over her head once Claudia learned that she was married. And to have even hoped that her lousy ex-husband would help to save her bacon had been foolish in the extreme.

Gazing dispiritedly at herself in the dressing table mirror, trying to ignore the strained expression on her pale face as she dragged a brush through her damp curls, she cursed her ex-husband’s good memory. It had clearly been a bad, bad mistake to have ever told Ross about her past. Because he obviously hadn’t been able to resist the cruel jibe he’d made about her upbringing on the farm in Cumberland. And, knowing the swine, he’d undoubtedly have a lot of fun telling everyone on the island about it as well.

She gave a heavy sigh. There was nothing she could do if Ross decided to broadcast the news. But so what if he did? She was over twenty-one years of age. And besides, she was sufficiently successful nowadays not to care if her father, or her dreaded stepmother, did try to track her down, Flora told herself defiantly, gazing blindly into the mirror as she recalled the harsh memories of her childhood.

The only child of elderly parents, she had grown up on a large farm in the north of England. An ugly, gawky little girl—originally christened Florence, but more generally known as ‘our Flo’—she’d been fiercely protective of her weak, fragile mother, who’d died when her daughter was only fourteen.

Not that her father was a cruel man, Flora quickly reminded herself. It was just that such a dour and stern, upright churchgoing man had clearly had no time or inclination to cope with a teenage daughter—not when he would obviously have preferred to have fathered a son, who could have been of some use on the farm. However, if Flora had hoped that following her mother’s death both she and her father could have forged a new and warmer relationship, she had been doomed to disappointment. Only a few months after her mother’s death, Mr Johnson had announced that he was marrying a widow who owned a large farm adjacent to his own.

Unfortunately, her father’s announcement that his new wife and ‘our Flo’ were bound to get on like a house on fire, proved to be entirely false. Flora and her stepmother had hated each other on sight. And since the new Mrs Johnson had brought to her marriage not only a large farm but also two large, aggressive sons from her first marriage, Flora had found herself virtually frozen out of the new family, being treated as an unwelcome guest in what had once been her own home.

With hindsight, Flora could now see that her stepmother hadn’t been entirely to blame for the two years of misery that followed. Having to cope with a rebellious teenager was clearly enough to try the patience of a saint. And the difficult situation had been further exacerbated by the fact that as Flora had turned fifteen the once plain, awkward child had rapidly developed into an outstandingly beautiful girl, attracting the unwelcome attention of her two stepbrothers.

Flora had loathed what she thought of as the great, glumping, hairy boys, and spent as much time as she could in the homes of her schoolfriends, accompanying them on holiday whenever possible. Which was why, in a moment of teenage bravado, she and her best friend, Vicky, had entered a modelling competition when on holiday with Vicky’s parents in Bournemouth, on the south coast.

Flora could shudder now as she looked back at her young, teenage self, prancing around the stage in fits of giggles with absolutely no idea of how to even walk in a straight line. And she hadn’t won, of course. It had, after all, been nothing more than a lark. Which was why she’d been astounded to be approached after the competition by a scout from the Meredith Taylor Agency, whose clients apparently included many of the top international names in the modelling business.

Arriving home and informing her father and stepmother that she was being entered by the agency for the “Look of the Year” competition, she had been at first downcast and then rebelliously angry at being told there was no way they would allow her to partake. However, having by then turned sixteen, and with the bit firmly between her teeth, Flora had been determined to grab an opportunity—any opportunity—of escaping from what had become a very unhappy home life. And so, waiting until the coast was clear, she’d managed to hitch a lift into the nearest big town, where she’d caught a fast train to London.

What an idiot I was! Flora told herself now, almost shuddering at the thought of how, like so many silly young girls, she could have ended up amongst the flotsam and jetsam, sleeping rough on the streets of the capital city. However, with the Meredith Taylor Agency looking after her, Flora had easily won the competition, and within months she was appearing on the catwalks of Paris and Milan.

She had invented a new personality for herself by officially changing her name to Flora Johnson and claiming to have been born somewhere north of the border in Scotland—and over the next few years her career had taken off like a rocket. Not afraid of hard work—especially as it was nothing to the tough, physical labour used on the family farm—and ruthlessly ambitious to achieve both the stardom and the high-earning power of the top models, Flora had remained totally committed to her career. Which was why, even now, she completely failed to understand why she’d allowed herself to be persuaded to visit that low dive of a nightclub in Paris.

It was such an incredibly stupid thing to have done. And not only because she’d needed an early night before a busy photographic session the next morning. If she had remained in her hotel bedroom, she’d never have made the really bad mistake of meeting that awful man—Ross Whitney!

Giving herself a quick shake, Flora firmly suppressed the hurtful memories of her brief marriage. There was no point in trawling over that ground again. And if she was going to have to face the music this evening, it might be a good idea to put her feet up for a few minutes.

Fully intending only to have a short nap, she was woken by the strident ringing of a telephone, and was horrified to discover that it was now pitch-dark. Fumbling for a switch on the bedside table, it then took her some time to locate the phone, eventually tracking it down to a small table in the adjacent sitting room.

‘Flora! What in the hell are you doing?” Ross’s voice grated harshly in her ear.

‘I...I must have fallen asleep,’ she muttered. ‘What time is it?’

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