Wife in Name Only

by Hayson Manning

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright ©2013 by Hayson Manning. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Kerri-Leigh Grady and Erin Molta

  Cover design by Liz Pelletier

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-62266-705-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition April 2013

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Monopoly, Six Flags, Forbes, “Dancing Queen”, KFC, iPhone, IBM, Dodgers, ESPN, Photoshop, Dow Jones, ABBA, “Waterloo”, Daisy Duke, “Mamma Mia”, “Money, Money, Money”, Mumford and Sons, Jack Daniels, Aston Martin, Ford Anglia, Ford Escort, Starbucks, Eye Toy, FaceTime, Risk, Scrabble, Women’s Weekly, Antiques Roadshow, Coppertone, Krug, Juicy Tubes, Kai, “Take a Chance on Me”, Black Keys, Green Giant, The Times Crossword, Albertsons, Tour de France, AC/DC, iPod, “I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do”, 49ers, Darth Vader, Frisbee, WWF, Band-Aids, “Nina Pretty Ballerina”, Taser, FedEx, Zodiac, Post-It, Barbie, Cinderella, Taj Mahal, Agnetha, Anni-Frid, Bjorn, Benny, Meryl.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Ben.

  My one, my only everything.

  Love you infinite plus one.

  Prologue

  Zoe Hughes stared at the e-mail, her blood sloshing through her veins like cold custard. Her office went gray until all she could see was her laptop at the end of a long tunnel.

  “Holy crap sacks , I’m screwed,” she whispered.

  “Pardon, Miss Zoe?”

  No, no, no, no, no.

  A soft hand landed on her forearm and squeezed. “All good?” asked Simi, the man she wished was her grandfather.

  The air in her office thickened until she felt she was breathing in cloud. “No, not good. The biggest honeymoon magazine in the world is sending a photographer to do an exclusive photo shoot. All this good press we’ve had caught Honeymoon Heaven’s interest, and now they want to do a spread.” She stared at the e-mail and tried to blink the words away.

  Our readers want to see more than just paradise, so we hope to capture the beauty of your resort and feature the couple who has found everlasting love .

  She took a deep breath and tried to calm the mild panic that threatened to become so much more. “Apparently, Rory and I are the poster children for the perfect marriage.” She should be doing poorly executed cartwheels of joy. She’d dreamed of this kind of publicity for her resort. Prayed for it. But the magazine wouldn’t focus on the success of the resort. Instead, what the world would see in glossy prints would be just…her. Because there was no husband. Not here.

  “That is good news. I am happy for you. For us,” Simi said, his eyes twinkling. Her heart softened. He’d been the first to welcome her when she’d arrived here, nervous, unsure of her welcome, clutching a fifty-year lease. He’d offered his services, and she’d hired him on the spot. He enthusiastically welcomed every guest, singing to them in Tongan. He sang to them when they left, having made lifelong friends. He helped out where needed, but he’d never quite understood why Rory wasn’t here with her.

  “But, Simi, they think I’m an example of the perfect marriage. How can I sell love ever after if I’m love gone wrong?” She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Not love gone wrong, just love…not worked out.”

  She patted his hand. “I love the hopeless romantic in you.”

  “Maybe it is time you call your husband and have him come where he should be, with his wife.”

  She stared at Simi. “I haven’t been his wife in a long time. We were over well before I arrived here.”

  Simi gave her his obstinate look, his chin jutted forward and his eyes narrowed. “Maybe it is time you stop telling all the guests that your husband has just missed the boat and is arriving on the next one. Maybe it is time you tell him he should be here with his wife.”

  She tried for a smile, but her lips weren’t cooperating. “He’ll want to be here as much as I want to be back in L.A., hanging out with his henchmen and playing corporate Monopoly.”

  She closed her eyes, desperate for a solution. A ghost of an idea popped into her fizzing brain. Maybe, just maybe, she could create giant life-size cardboard cutouts of Rory and move them around the resort.

  Or not.

  Crappier crap sacks.

  “You want good publicity for the resort?” Simi’s gaze hooked onto hers and wouldn’t let go.

  “Yes. I’d do anything,” she breathed.

  “Then you know what you have to do.” He picked up his cane and thumped toward the door.

  With her stomach on a Six Flags rollercoaster, she stared through her office window at the shimmering turquoise water and watched a couple walking along the shore, hands entwined. The man stopped, tipped his wife over his arm, and kissed her, long and deep. Perfect. The wind whispered through palm trees, and the fronds bent and shook as if applauding.

  “No,” she whispered to the now silent room. Simi, bent over his cane, came around the side of the building, waved, and headed down the path through the jungle toward his home. “I can do this.” She picked up the satellite phone and gave it a pat. “Please don’t cut out. I promise you can hang out with whatever electrical appliance you want, but please let me get through this call.”

  She glanced at her watch, calculating the time difference, and then punched in a number she never thought she’d call again.

  Her stomach executed a loop-da-loop at the first ring. She clutched the phone tighter when he answered on the third ring.

  “Hughes,” he barked.

  Her mouth dried, and she closed her eyes. He sounded like the same pissed-off man she’d walked away from.

  “Whoever you are, you’ve got exactly three seconds. Speak or shut up.”

  “Rory?” Her voice echoed down the line. The couple outside now lay in a hammock, feeding each other slices of mango. Her resolve strengthened.

  “I don’t know who this is, but you’re pissing me off, so—”

  “Rory, it’s me, Zoe.”

  A crackle of static ripped down the line. “Shit. Zoe?”

  She leaned against the desk. “Yeah. Look, I hate to have to call, but I really need your help.”

  “Zo,” he said softly. Then his voice got hard. “Where the fuck are you?”

  She jolted at his tone. “Tonga. I wouldn’t call, but I need your help.”

  “You in trouble?”

  “No. Yes. Not trouble, but possibly…” Oh, for God’s sake, Zoe, just spit it out. “Can you come for a few days, maybe even a week? I really need your help.” Her voice wobbled at the end. She cleared her throat and tried to start again. A spurt
of static cut her off. She glared at the phone.

  “Are you done playing?” his voice dropped to just above a whisper.

  “Playing? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s been a year, Zo. I’ve waited for a year for you to get your head on straight. I’m not normally known for my patience. It’s time for you to stop playing and come home.”

  “I am home, Rory,” she whispered. “We’re over.”

  She could feel his vibe from across the Pacific.

  She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and continued. “The biggest honeymoon magazine in the world is en-route to do a spread and photos of my resort.” She opened her eyes and stared out at the picture perfect sky. “I’ve done really well here.” She spoke quietly but with confidence. “The magazine thinks we’re still married and, even though we’re married in name only, you know I—”

  “How much publicity?”

  There he goes, straight into work mode.

  “A lot. With you being known as the Ice Man and Forbes Man of the Year, there are a lot of questions about how you’ve been able to split your time between there and Tonga. How you’ve run the most successful construction company on the west coast and transposed that to a tiny honeymoon resort in a tiny corner of Tonga.”

  Silence, the kind she’d come to expect in the final years of her marriage, shimmered down the line.

  She gripped the receiver tighter until she thought it groaned. “You know, on top of all this, we have other stuff we need to get sorted.”

  “Yeah, we do. Like you coming home.”

  Tears leaked out of her. “Don’t do this, Rory. We’re over,” she said in a quiet but determined voice.

  “Send me an e-mail with the details and the name of the magazine, and I’ll let you know my decision.”

  Her chin dropped to her chest. Holy hell. To think this was the same man who would walk along Venice Beach and discuss their future family, never letting go of her hand. The same man who would follow her to make sure she was okay when she woke for a glass of water in the middle of the night. This was the man who, every Christmas, would dress in hand-knitted sweaters adorned with bells and moveable antlers in the brightest shades of red and green wool. They’d laugh until they couldn’t stand anymore and then send the photos to the knitter, Myrtle Henderson, their only L.A. family. This was the man she’d married, but he wasn’t that man anymore.

  “I’ll send the details.”

  She ignored the tremor and concentrated.

  Come on, Zo, be just like the Ice Man. Make this all about business.

  …

  Rory Hughes hit end call on his phone and smiled.

  This was fucking awesome news. Not only was his wife a success, which pleased him on a cellular level, but because of her success she’d also just delivered news he needed like a starving man needed a loaf of bread.

  He’d been getting a crap-load of bad press. He read the papers, knew about the the Ice Man title, and did very little to quell it. He thought it was kind of cool. Any publicity was good publicity, but he’d had way more bad than good. Losing a bit of the cutthroat image by lounging against a palm tree next to his smoking hot wife and pretending that he had a hand running a successful honeymoon resort? He’d have a freaking halo circling his head.

  Hell yeah, he wanted this publicity.

  He wanted the mom-and-pop construction companies to want to sign on with him. Up until now there’d been a bit of nervousness about his cutthroat ways. This was the perfect opportunity to get some good press, and he needed it.

  He pulled up Zoe’s webpage, the page he loaded every day. His gazed at his wife.

  This year-long separation was over.

  We’re not over, Zo. He glanced down at his wedding ring. There was no way in hell they were done.

  It was time she came home.

  He leaned back in his chair and smiled. All in all, it was a win-win situation. He’d get the awesome PR he needed, and he’d get his wife back.

  He leaned forward in his chair. “Hillary,” he barked into his intercom to his assistant. “Get me a first class ticket to Tonga and two first class returns.”

  Chapter One

  Rory stepped onto talc-white sand on a lost dot of an island in the kingdom of Tonga. Salt-and-mango etched air assaulted his senses, and he breathed deep, his muscles involuntarily relaxing.

  Time to get his wife back.

  Priorities. Business first. After doing the photo shoot and ensuring he had the good press he needed, he’d then convince his wife that they needed to get this separation un-separated. Period. Enough of her being on the other side of the world. No ifs, buts, or maybes. Just her back with him where she belonged.

  He swung a backpack over his shoulder and stopped in front of a rustic pole. A picture of a facemask and the word Snorkelling pointed at the beach. An arrow that read Recharging Station directed him toward hammocks swinging lazily in the breeze. He found the one he needed. It read Welcoming Committee and pointed at a bungalow directly ahead. As he took the path, he passed a fleet of yachts, their glossy hulls bobbed in the harbor. He paused and raised his hand in greeting to Smithy, the captain of the yacht that had brought him here.

  Silence apart from a choir of competing insects rang loudly in his head. Jesus, this place was quiet. Too quiet. The seductive murmur of his mistress—downtown Los Angeles—called to him from across the Pacific. He could almost feel the throb of the city streets, hear the sigalerts issued for the clogged arteries of the 405 freeway, and inhale the early morning construction dust. He missed the cut and thrust already. The frenetic energy. It was like he was standing on another planet—an alien looking to get home.

  A couple walked along the beach, hand in hand. Another couple kayaked out by the reef. Their orange vessel was a smudge against the shimmer of the horizon.

  A sound he hadn’t heard in more than two years smacked his ears. The off-key sound of Zoe belting out the lyrics to “Dancing Queen” called to him. He walked into the bungalow, leaned against the doorframe, and drank in the sight of his wife. He’d know that body anywhere. Blind and in a dark room full of woman, he’d drink in her scent, touch her skin, run his fingers through her hair, and know she belonged to him. With her back to him, she stared down at a bench. She still couldn’t sing for the life of her, and it was still the most amazing sound on the planet. The sight of her after a year punched him deep in the gut. His body froze. Muscles unhitched from bone. His blood turned to slush.

  God, the woman was beautiful.

  Not just a woman. His woman.

  And she was coming back home with him as soon as this business was complete.

  She looked…different…but not. What the hell was so different about her? She had the same killer long legs but now in frayed denim cut-offs. Gone were the tailored shorts and matching sandals with a tucked in tee she’d worn like a stiff uniform. He drank her in. She was so close he could almost taste her. And man, he wanted to taste her. Her skin was now the color of polished mahogany. A hum vibrated deep throughout his body. Her hair was the same waterfall of honeyed hair that caught the sun. Copper and bronze strands formed a halo around her head. It was hair he hadn’t seen out of a tight French knot in years. He itched to run his hand from ankle to thigh and hear her low moan of pleasure. Instead, he let his eyes roam over her, hungrier than a condemned man with a Mega Bucket of KFC. God, he wanted her. He would always want her. He hadn’t seen her so relaxed and at ease in a long time. Unease threaded along his spine.

  “Zoe,” he said softly.

  She spun around, and whatever had been in her mouth sprayed across his chest in an arc of red.

  “Rory?” she choked out.

  Her mouth hung open in a perfect ‘O’. He stared down at the drops staining the front of his shirt.

  “Oh my God, I just spat on you. I’m so sorry.” She reached for a dishcloth and dabbed at his t-shirt, then clamped her hand across her mouth. Her amazing blue eyes sparkled.

  A
sound he hadn’t heard in years filtered to him. “Are you laughing?” It was a magical laugh, free and happy. It shut him down and restarted him in one easy beat.

  She shook her head, lifted an eyebrow, then nodded.

  “Sorry, it’s just that I haven’t seen you in ages and the first thing I do is spit Hunka Burning Love at you.”

  The snort in her laughter, the light shining in her eyes, and the warmth radiating out of her smile had his heart beating painfully against his ribcage. Before he could get a handle on the mess of thoughts trapped in his head, he frowned and asked, “What’s Hunka Burning Love? Is it something to do with the publicity photos?”

  She stepped back from him and glanced at a large bowl on the bench. He followed her gaze. Sliced oranges, limes, and mint collided like battleships in the red liquid.

  “It’s my thing. I invent fruity cocktails for the guests when they arrive. Hunka is still in production. And to answer your question, yes and no, I make the drinks for all the guests, but Hunka will be in the shots.”

  She clicked a button on a remote, and the notes of the song faded from nearby speakers. He caught the tremble in her fingers and the way she laced her fingers when she was nervous.

  “I haven’t heard you sing in years.”

  “I sing all the time now,” she said in a quiet but confident voice.

  He absorbed the blow, refusing to flinch. The pain radiated around his body, leaving cold sweat inching across.

  She was happy here. Happier than he’d seen her in a long time.

  Happy away from him.

  No fucking way was this happening.

  He stood frozen to the spot, his brain playing catch-up to the crap circulating in his head.

  Something must have registered on his face. Her face softened for a second before she turned her head away, took a long breath, and turned back with a forced smile.

  “Thank you for coming. It means a lot. I know you want to know all about the set-up here and how the photo spread will work. We should get together to iron that out.” She laced her fingers together again.

  “Right. Priorities. Tell me about the spread and what’s required.”