Wife in Name Only

by Hayson Manning

  She had needs.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I saw that look. Don’t even think of Rudy. I’ll find the fucker and bury his batteries. You need something, Zo and I do know what you need. You come find me.”

  If she’d been walking, she’d have stumbled. Damn it. How did he always freaking know what she was thinking?

  “I’ll give you two minutes, then I’ll meet you back here.” His dark, gravelly voice grazed over her. “I’ll come find you.”

  She made it back to her bungalow and threw on a bikini she’d never worn. She’d been saving it for a trip in the future, like a singles cruise or a man-hunting trip to New Zealand.

  A band of loneliness wrapped tight around her heart. She hoped she’d be ready for such a trip sometime in the foreseeable future.

  She dragged on a gray coverup dress, stuffed sunscreen and the camera into her bag, grabbed two towels, and made it back with five seconds to spare. She ignored the flutter of her heart and the way her blood zinged through her veins at the killer smile that Rory sent her way when he saw her.

  …

  “That’s one hell of a bikini.” Rory sucked in his breath as Zoe peeled the gray dress from her body. Two triangles just barely held her breasts. If she moved too fast, he was sure one would break free. Damn him for not bringing a Frisbee. Instead of string, the top was joined together by a tiny gold chain. Another triangle just covered the front of her, and he hissed in a breath when she turned around. All he could see was a thin chain that sat on her hips and a tiny scrap of fabric that disappeared into her very brown, very firm, and very supple butt cheeks.

  He blinked and big head just overruled little head. Barely. Even with the bruises on her neck and shoulders, she was one smoking hot woman.

  Down boy, he mentally called to his shorts.

  Blood fired through his body at a rapid rate, and he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me anyone else has seen you in that.”

  “Honestly, you cavemen. You’d have us walking around in sacks if you had your way.” She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips.

  “No, just you in that bikini.” He kept his hands loose at his side when all he wanted to do was pull the dress back over her head in case anyone else happened by. Meanwhile, he’d burned the image of her into his brain for long, lonely nights.

  “It’s a honeymoon resort.” She walked toward him, shimmying in the sun, the bronze of her bikini firing spears of light into her hair. “I’ve never worn it before today.”

  “Lucky me.” The pulse in his belly wasn’t going away anytime soon. He stared at the ocean. “I’m going in.”

  “Same.”

  He kept a measured distance between them as they walked into the waves.

  “This is my beach. The locals don’t come here, ever. I know they respect the privacy we want to give visitors.” She patted his arm. “No one is going to see us or me when I’m here alone, so chill.”

  He banked her words. He sure as hell wasn’t going to think of her being alone, not now, not after what had happened to her. That sent a bucket of icy reality to his heated skin.

  She ran into the waves and kicked at the turquoise, sending a curtain of sparkles into the air. As she passed, he’d seen the look of disquiet on her face. She had been rattled by what had happened, probably more than she cared to admit, and her announcement that she was unobserved and alone here had hit her as hard as it did him. Jogging into the water, he plowed into the Pacific and swam in long, powerful strokes until he hit a cold current. Treading water, he waved to Zoe. She was just a dot on the shore. With what felt like indigestion in his gut that he knew wasn’t, he kicked off and headed back to the shore.

  His lungs screamed as he finally pulled himself to the shore and sat with her at the water’s edge. She rubbed sunscreen from a nearby bottle onto her arms, filling the air with what would be a Coppertone memory.

  “Let me get your back.” He moved behind her and smeared the cream onto her back in a bullseye shape. Using gentle strokes, he massaged the cream into her velvety skin. He couldn’t help himself. He gently pressed his lips to her shoulder.

  She turned her head. “You going all soft on me, are you?”

  He pulled her to a standing position and pulled her toward the shade of a clump of palm trees.

  “Nah, just worried you’ll get burned. There is quite a lot of you showing.” He glanced at her very lovely butt.

  The wind swishing through the trees and the waves hitting the beach were the only sounds.

  “Do you ever get lonely here, Zo? It’s so damn quiet I can hear what’s going on in my head.”

  She sat on her towel and dug her toes into the soft sand. “Sometimes. When the resort is full of honeymooners it can be lonely, with all that love. It’s nice to see, though. Love. Gives a girl hope.”

  She pulled on her bottom lip and busied herself with digging a hole in the sand.

  That feeling that he’d started carrying around with him returned. It felt like a WWF fighter had crashed into his chest and was doing pushups.

  “I’m cooking dinner tonight.”

  She smirked. “You? Cook? What are we having, toast?”

  “Yeah. I’m cooking.” He shot her a sidelong glance. “And no, it won’t be toast.”

  “Honey, we don’t have any wild, wooly mammoths here that you can spear and roast over a campfire, you know.” Her voice sounded a bit shaky, as if she was masking what was really going on inside.

  Look at the king of pain, sweetheart. I’m fucking covered in Band-Aids.

  “Hey, my caveman skills are pretty legendary. You’ll see.” He tried to smile, but his lips refused the command. He held out his hand. “Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder and take you back.”

  She smirked. “Yeah, you and what army?”

  In one scoop, he had her over his shoulder, one hand on her very firm butt, the other jamming their stuff into the bag.

  She smacked his shoulder. “Put me down, or I’ll start singing ABBA.”

  “Since I’ve been here, I’ve reluctantly learned the words to “Waterloo,” so I’ll join you in the chorus.” He stilled. “You all right back there? Anything hurt?”

  “The only thing that will be hurting is your pride if you don’t put me down.”

  He walked along the path while Zoe squirmed against his hold. When that didn’t work, she tried tickling, nuzzling, and slapping, and then she finally went limp in his arms. He loosened his hold on her only to have her wriggle off his shoulder, land, and start running toward the resort, her breathy laughter trailing her.

  He let out an expletive and took off after her. She disappeared down trails he didn’t know, and with blood ripping through his veins he arrived back at the resort a few steps behind her.

  “Shit, Zo. Don’t do that. I have to know your safe.”

  “I am safe,” she panted.

  They stood facing each other, breathing hard.

  When he’d lost sight of her, his heart had practically somersaulted in his chest. That whole memory of her running down the path away from the dude who meant to do her harm flashed through his head, and it didn’t put him in an amiable mood.

  He pulled a hand through his hair. “I didn’t like the feeling of not knowing if you’re safe.”

  He scanned her face, but she’d slipped on a neutral mask.

  “I’m fine, Rory. I’ll be fine. Honestly. You have to let it go.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Hard to unsee what I saw.”

  “I know, but you have to try. I’m trying.”

  He blew out a gutful of air.

  “I’ll go start dinner. See you at seven thirty. Dress is formal.”

  She nodded, turned, and walked away.

  A tension headache tightened around his forehead. He stared out at the tranquil waves of the resort and beyond the atoll to the pounding waves of the Pacific. Soon he’d be sitting on a yacht making his way toward the mainland. After that, he’d be s
itting in his downtown office, sipping a triple espresso, and having a pissing competition with a room full of suits. For the first time in years, that didn’t fire his blood.

  With his feet dragging through the sand and the tension headache turning into a bad mood headache, he made it to the kitchen and turned on Zoe’s iPod, which immediately started in with a song about a girl called Nina and something about ballet.

  Zo’s happy music.

  He started pulling stuff from the industrial-sized fridge, his muscles relaxed, and he started humming.

  He snorted and nearly laughed aloud. She was right. You couldn’t stay pissed off at the world while ABBA was playing.

  …

  Zoe walked toward her bungalow with a hollowness in her bones, and she smartly gave herself a speech that started with “get over yourself” and ended with “what the hell is wrong with you?” She pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank top over her bikini and stood in her bedroom, trying to figure out what to do. Her mind was a jumble of different thoughts she wasn’t going to unravel. Best to ponder those when Rory was gone and it was just her and a giant bag of cheese puffs.

  She glanced at her watch. Simi had told her he’d call about now. She walked to the office and a few minutes later, the phone pinged into life. She gripped it tight and listened to Simi, her blood crawling through her veins. The meteorological office in Nuku’alofa had phoned the island police to advise him of the potential danger.

  “Another one?” She stared out the window at the blanket of blue sky. “Francis? Where do they get these names?” Static crackled down the line.

  She listened while Simi gave her the rundown. Francis was out there tracking through the Pacific but wasn’t predicted to come anywhere near the island.

  “Okay, thanks, Simi.” The air gushed out of her.

  She gripped the phone tighter when Simi told her in very solemn tones that Toma, after claiming he’d met Zoe for a planned tryst, had been disowned by his family and had agreed to leave the island and never return.

  She sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “You know that’s not true, Simi. I didn’t meet Toma to have ‘a liaison’ with him.” Angry tears built at the base of her throat. She nodded, and the air whooshed out of her. “I know. His word against mine. But he’s gone, right? Never to return?”

  She rung off a few minutes later after telling Simi she loved him and heard his whispered “I love you, too.”

  She sat lost in thought until the song belting out of her speakers shook her from herself.

  She grinned as “Nina Pretty Ballerina” danced on the breeze.

  She had two hours left before dinner, and tonight she had plans. Big plans. She washed and conditioned her hair and, wanting tonight to be special, hauled out her hardly used blow-dryer and curled her hair. She carefully made up her face, chose her favorite dress, and put on kickass lacy underwear with a garter belt and super sheer stockings. With her blood already dancing a samba through her veins, she pulled out the Scrabble box and put it on the nearby table.

  Smithy would be here soon, and tonight she was going to have one last fling with her husband before he left to return to his mistress, the one who held his heart–––Hughes Enterprises. It would be one night that she could remember every night he was gone, that she could relive each exquisite minute of.

  Tonight she was giving him a piece of herself. Tonight she was giving him his freedom.

  She looked at herself in the mirror and practiced a smile. She pinched her cheeks to bring color to her pale face. At least her bruises had faded to the point where she could cover them with makeup.

  “See you later.” She looked down at the Scrabble box and then slipped on ridiculously high silver heels, checked the time, and walked toward the restaurant bathed in a sea of candlelight.

  “Hey,” she said, knocking on the door, a clutch of nerves racing around her body.

  Rory looked up from where he’d been frowning down at a crystal glass on the counter. He stilled, his eyes raking over her.

  “You’re beautiful.” He walked toward her, holding out the goblet he’d been glaring at.

  She took the glass from him. “Thank you. The tux looks good on you.” She took a sip, grateful for the cool liquid sliding down her too-dry throat.

  The tux looked more than good on him. He looked hot enough to eat. Snowy white cotton that strained to cover his shoulders was tucked into black pants. His blue eyes were mesmerizing against his tanned face. Dark stubble peppered his chin.

  “No shoes.” She glanced down at the rubber thongs on his feet. If there was a calendar of super-hot corporate gurus, Rory could grace every month.

  “Feels good not wearing them.”

  She took another sip of the purple drink. “This is really good. What is it?” she asked, trying to distinguish the fruit flavors.

  “I thought I’d give your cocktail thing a go, but with alcohol. That,” he indicated with his head, “is The Transporter. One sip and it will take you to where you want to be.”

  “Nice. I like that it’s purple. Blackcurrant is a nice touch.” She walked to the table set for two and smiled at the vase in the center. Two hibiscus flowers dangled to the side. She pushed them back in and sat down. “Where do you want to be when you take a sip? Downtown L.A.? Clogged arteries of the 405? Sitting in a meeting with the henchmen, axes sharpened, mace balls at the ready, competing in silent pissing competitions?”

  He padded out and placed a plate in front of her. A New York steak surrounded by garlic and rosemary baked potatoes and French green beans sat before her. Her mouth watered. She didn’t know how he knew, but a steak was exactly what she’d wanted tonight.

  “Where I am tonight is good.” He sat across from her. “Though, when I leave I might take some of this back with me. So I can transport back here in my head.”

  “Yeah, I’ll probably have a glass every now and then as well.” They clinked glasses, and before she knew it, Zoe cleaned her plate.

  “Did you talk to Simi?” he asked, clearing away the plate.

  She waited until he returned, refilled her glass with more Transporter, and sat down.

  She updated him on Francis, telling him that there was probably no way the storm would turn and track here. He paled at the news nevertheless. She reached across and squeezed his hand then took a deep breath and told him that her attacker was sailing away as they spoke. He’d agreed to leave on the commercial fishing vessel Nina Louise and would never be coming back. She grasped his hand and bit back the anger when she told him that there hadn’t been any charges as Toma had told the elders that she’d written him a note—which he couldn’t provide—asking to meet him for sex, and she’d like it rough.

  She glanced across at Rory’s dark face.

  “Don’t let him win, Rory. I’m not thinking about him anymore. He’s gone, and I’ll never see him again. The Nina Louise moors at the main island. He’s agreed to never come back. Don’t let him ruin our night.” She patted her full stomach and pasted on a grin. “That was lovely, Rory. Thank you. And this,” she tilted the glass, “is lethal. One more of these, and I’ll be toast.”

  “I swear, Zo. If I hear of him coming anywhere near you…” He dug a hand through his hair, his eyes burning. “I’ve told Simi my views, and he agrees. He was adamant that Toma wouldn’t be allowed back on the island.” He let out his breath. “Can’t say I wouldn’t rather see him behind bars, though.”

  After a comfortable silence during which they finished a very tasty lemon meringue pie he’d unearthed from her freezer, she thought ahead at what she had planned and smiled. “I’ll help you clean up; there’s something I want to do tonight, and I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rory sat across from Zoe, who in the space of ten minutes was minus a shawl she’d insisted she’d worn to dinner on a tropical island.

  “I’d kill for the letter C,” she murmured.

  He looked down at the
plastic letters in his rack. “I’ve got a C, babe. I’ll trade it for your dress.”

  “Stop it. I’m thinking.” She bit her lip. “Besides, that’s cheating.”

  He took a swig of The Transporter. “Nope, new rules. Island Strip Scrabble.”

  Sitting across from her, he had trouble keeping still. A soft white dress floated over her tight curves.

  He longed to run his fingers through the curls in her hair, to kiss the gloss from her lips, and to lay her on the bed.

  She was the most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen.

  Keep it light, dude.

  He shifted in his chair. “So about that C…” He lifted up the tile. “You want it?”

  She stared at him, her beautiful blue eyes narrowing. “Well, the thing is, if I take the C, I’m pretty sure I’ll beat the next word you’ll put down, and then you’ll be minus your shirt.”

  He didn’t miss the way her pupils dilated when her eyes swept across his chest, nor the way her face flushed. He nearly had to excuse himself to take care of some urgent business in the bathroom. Either that, or he would lose it big time.

  He dangled the tile in front of her. Damn, he wanted to see her out of that dress.

  She reached across, plucked the letter from his hands, and with a whoop slid the word CZAR onto the board.

  “There, beat that.”

  His eyes flicked to the board then back to her. “I don’t take IOU’s.”

  Without taking her eyes off him, she stood, reached around with one arm, unzipped the dress, and let it fall from her shoulders in a cloud of white.

  Fuck.

  He wiped a hand across his chin, taking her in from the white lacy strapless bra to the matching lacy garter belt. The seam on his pants nearly split at the tiny white suspender belts holding up impossibly sheer white stockings.

  “Your turn,” she said in a heated whisper. She sat with a satisfied smirk on her face.

  He glanced at his tiles. Without the C, it was a bit of a shitty hand, but using her R, he put the word “RAPT” on the board.

  She threw back her head and laughed. “Rapt. Nice.”