Husband Not Included. Mary Lyons

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.