Billionaire Novelist's Fiery Debutante (3 page)

She shoved the ‘knickers’ back into place and felt her cheeks burn as she turned to face their owner.

She wasn’t surprised to find him glaring at her, apparently his default expression. With a face like that, she wondered how he’d ever made it up the bestseller list. She gave him what she hoped was a conciliatory grin. “Be careful. Frowning gives you wrinkles.”

He let out a snort, and abruptly turned on his heel and strode off, leaving her feeling more than a little embarrassed.

She sighed in relief at his departure. Perhaps it was best for the both of them if they just avoided each other altogether.

After transferring the contents of her luggage into the cramped closet space, she tried tucking the suitcase under the bed. It didn’t budge. Kneeling down to take a peek, she quickly detected the problem: two overly large handmade burgundy leather suitcases were taking up all the space. She pursed her lips, then eased the biggest of the two from under there and unceremoniously plunked it on top of the bed—on his side. With a satisfied smile, she slipped her own suitcase beneath the bed and rose to her feet, rubbing her hands. If they were going to play house, they needed to divide up the space fair and square.

She then cast another look at the closet and felt pity for her garments, all bunched up on the top and bottom shelves while Mr. Bestseller took up the four middle shelves. So she shoved her arms in and came away with a load of expensive—and very nice-smelling—shirts, then dumped them on top of his suitcase, and transferred her own stuff to the freed up space. There. Three shelves for her. Three shelves for him. Perfect.

Next, she went into the bathroom carrying her travel toiletry bag. She noticed he’d scattered all possible shelf space with his stuff—razor, shaving cream, deodorant, washcloths… So she spent the next five minutes reorganizing everything. Her stuff went on the left of the shelves, his stuff on the right. There was one problem, though: there was only one cup to hold a toothbrush. Mh. She didn’t know her new roomie well enough to share the same cup, so… she took out his toothbrush and plunked in hers, dropping his on the shelf.

Whistling a happy tune, she emerged from the bathroom and decided to have a look at her new surroundings. And she’d just walked to the end of the hallway when she heard a strange sound emanating from one of the rooms. It sounded like the wind whistling through the pines. Not being able to curb her curiosity, she tiptoed thither and gently nudged open the door. In the semi-darkness of the room, a strange sight met her eyes. Casually draped across the couch, the long form of Mr. Mysterious was reclining peacefully. His eyes were closed, the curtains pulled, and from a small set of speakers placed on the desk, the sound of the wind resonated through the room. The scene exuded peace and quiet.

Her lips parted, she stared at his perfect form, like before only clad in boxers, and let her eyes trail from his impressive jawline to the strong column of his throat, his chiseled chest, washboard tummy, down to his bulging pecs and lower still to his flat belly and then to the bulge in his boxers. The man could have been a Leonardo Da Vinci model. Then she frowned. Was this the way all bestseller writers wrote their books? Reclining on a couch and listening to the wind? Perhaps she should try it sometime.

She decided not to give him any more reason to be mad at her, so she slowly retraced her steps. Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen the small side table placed next to the door. It contained a vase with a bouquet of fresh bougainvillea and a small ornament of twin dolphins seemingly engaged in a loving embrace. At least, all this was before she managed to upset the table and deposit its entire contents on the hardwood floor.

With a crash, the vase succumbed to the forces of gravity and shattered into a dozen little pieces.

“Huh? What?” her companion yelled, jumping up from the couch with surprising agility and speed and assuming attack position, his fists raised.

“I’m sorry!” she cried out before he had the chance to rush her and wrestle her to the floor like the attacker he apparently thought she was.

He slowly lowered his fists and slumped his shoulders. He didn’t seem particularly pleased to see her, and his next words confirmed this. “Oh. It’s you.”

She gave him a wide smile. “Yep. It’s me. Sorry about… this,” she added with a wide sweep at the mess at her feet. “I’ll clean it up, of course.”

“Just leave it.” He sounded weary all of a sudden. “Just… go. Do whatever you do, but do it someplace else.” And with a groan, he threw himself back onto the couch and covered his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Yes, sir,” she muttered.

“Joshua,” he supplied without looking up.

“Huh?”

“My friends call me Josh.”

“I didn’t know we were—”

“Just call me Josh, will you!”

“Okey-dokey. Josh it is.”

“Nice to meet you… Chloe.”

Somehow, he made it sound like he’d just been hit by the plague.

CHAPTER 6

It had taken all of Josh’s willpower not to grab Chloe by the shoulders and give her a vigorous shake that would rattle her teeth. Reclining on his couch, he realized no woman had had this effect on him in quite a while. In fact, he wondered if any woman ever had. Somehow, Chloe managed to bring out the worst in him. Staring up at the ceiling, he wondered why that was.

On the surface, the answer was clear: she’d disturbed his sacred alone time. The only time in a year that he was absolutely alone. In a career that was now filled with book signings, publisher’s demands, agent requests and millions of readers bombarding him with fan mail, he cherished his Eden Island time. It was his reset button. Time he needed to put in the heavy lifting that got another novel rolling. It also gave him the time to clear his head after another hectic year, and both reflect on the year that had been and the year that was to be.

He’d been here, barely one month ago, but his attempts had been fruitless. So now he was back, and if things didn’t work out this time, he was really screwed.

Of course, none of this was her fault. Whoever handled the bookings must have made a mistake. Nonetheless, it was a serious blow.

If he searched a little deeper, though, he saw that there was one other reason Chloe Thomson irritated him so. She was attractive. She was nice. She was a girl he could see himself falling for. And he so couldn’t go there. If only she’d been an unattractive old spinster, he could have borne her presence with fortitude. He could have simply ignored her. But he couldn’t ignore Chloe. He couldn’t ignore the biological pull he felt tugging deep within himself at the mere sight of her. Watching her move about the place put his biology on edge. Looking into those twin pools of crystalline blue made his heart constrict. He wasn’t in love, of course, nor could he be. But he did feel a strong attraction that could only lead to trouble.

She was the sweetest distraction he could ever have hoped for, but a distraction she was. And a major one.

Having been married at the tender age of nineteen and seen his marriage collapse into a torrent of flame and ruin, he wasn’t about to make that same mistake again. Not anytime soon and definitely not with Chloe Thomson. Besides, she was probably too young for him anyway. And definitely not interested. She was here for the same reason he was: to write a book, and everything else was a nuisance to be dealt with appropriately. They’d share the space, stay out of each other’s way, and salvage from the wreckage what they could.

And share a bed together…

He closed his eyes and groaned.

***

Chloe, continuing her tour of the place, had discovered that the office Josh had claimed for his own wasn’t the only writing place. Wedged in between bedroom and bathroom, there was another, smaller, writing space set up, with a single desk and chair and no window. It looked like a prison cell. Or a monastic room. Perhaps for the more Spartan writer?

As she proceeded to the living space, she saw that this, too, was equipped for writing. There was a small salon, with two sofas and a salon table that featured a stack of writing magazines and books as well as an old Remington typewriter that was still in working order—even the ribbon was brand new. French windows led out onto a patio where a creative writer could lounge on a deck chair and plunk out verse or prose on a laptop—there was a wall socket just for that purpose. And even the pool had an inflatable lounge chair where a writer could lay back, float on the water and tap out her next masterpiece.

Searching further, she wandered into the garden, its turf immaculately maintained, and found a small shack at the bottom. Entering it, she discovered not gardening tools but yet another writing space. Table and chair had been placed in front of a small window overlooking the jungle that lay behind the shack. For a moment, she sank into the chair, her elbows on the ebony desk, and stared out. Then the trees momentarily parted, and she could see the bright blue ocean shimmering beyond. This place truly was a writer’s paradise. She closed her eyes and let her head rest on her arms. She could hear the rustling of the trees, the whisper of the ocean, and the soft chirping of the birds.

If not for the presence of Josh, she could have really enjoyed this unexpected sojourn. Every day, she could have picked a different writing place, and in the evenings, after a hard day’s work, she could have run down to the beach and swum commando, letting the waves take away all the tension before retiring for the night.

Briefly, she wondered if Josh would join her for a swim if she asked him nicely. Perhaps they could both dive in sans clothes. She wouldn’t mind if he saw her naked. After all, he’d already seen her before. Her mind jumped to an image of the both of them cavorting in the surf, then lazily entwined on the beach, his body hard and unyielding against hers, his strong hands clasping her wet breasts, his lips on hers. She jerked up as if stung.

“Let’s not go there,” she murmured automatically, pushing herself up from the chair. The heat had made her drowsy, and her head spun for a moment as she stood.

Yep, the heat had done that. Sure.

CHAPTER 7

Josh awoke with a start. He must have dozed off. The rustling sound of the wind filled the air. It was his favorite background noise when writing—or thinking about writing. He checked the notepad next to the couch. It was still as empty as it had been before. No Gremlins or little green men had filled the pages while he was asleep.

He rubbed his eyes. One day into his retreat and he still hadn’t come up with a single idea for his next novel. This was simply getting ridiculous.

Then it dawned on him. The reason he’d awakened was the delicious smell wafting into the room. Food. Someone was cooking.

The rumble in his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He was genuinely hungry, and so, probably, was she.

She. Chloe Thomson. The recollection of his new roommate came crashing into his consciousness. Her being here made things all that much harder.

Already his agent had been complaining about the lack of spark in his last novel. The new one better be a real page-turner. He picked up the empty pad, rose to his feet and threw it onto the desk. His laptop sat abandoned, the blank screen taunting him. He closed it shut with an impatient slap.

Padding over to the bedroom to put on a shirt, he was surprised when he found his suitcase on the bed, a bunch of his clothes neatly piled on top of it.

He stared at it blankly. The last time a woman had put his suitcase and clothes out for him to find had been a clear message to clear out.

Was Chloe asking him to leave? But they’d talked about this.

He moved over to the closet to pick up a fresh shirt. Then he understood. She’d divided the space evenly between them, dumping the surplus onto the bed. He grinned. His first impression of her had been that of a meek young woman, but the more he spent time with her, the more he found she was anything but meek. She took what she wanted, and if he didn’t like it, tough luck.

He had to admit he liked her spunk.

As he buttoned up his shirt, he searched his memory in vain for a book that carried her name. Nope. Nothing came to mind. As far as he knew, she was a complete unknown. Probably a debut author.

He crossed the hallway to the living room on the other side, following the delicious scent, and felt his mood improve with every step he took. One thing he didn’t like about a retreat like this was that he had to do all the cooking himself. He was used to having his housekeeper take care of that side of life for him, and even though cooking at Eden Island mainly consisted of taking a pre-prepared meal out of the fridge, dumping it onto a plate and placing it in the grill, it was still work that potentially distracted him from his novel.

Huh. What novel?

Stepping into the living room, he was surprised that Chloe was nowhere to be found. The modern open kitchen with butcher block counter top at the center was empty, and so was the rest of the roomy space.

Then he heard the telltale sound of cutlery scraping against china outside. Following both smell and sound, he emerged onto the terrace to walk in on Chloe as she was finishing her meal.

Seated at the terrace table in her bikini, sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, she pronged a lone potato and raised it to her mouth when she noticed him. The fork hovered in the air, her mouth open as her eyes slowly rose to meet his.

“Smells delicious,” he grunted, feeling his mood plummet to below zero in spite of the heat.

“It is,” she confirmed with a smile, then popped the potato into her mouth and bit down, savoring the taste. “Yummy,” she added quite unnecessarily.

He narrowed his eyes and grumbled something under his breath. He didn’t know why he was angry. It stood to reason that they would eat alone, what with him insisting they avoid each other as much as possible. But he still felt annoyed. As she adjusted her position, he couldn’t help but stare at her wiggling boobs, pushed up by a tiny pink bikini top.

“You know?” she offered, unperturbed, “I think we should draw up a schedule. Like families do? Bathroom times, kitchen times, that sort of thing. That way we can stay out of each other’s hair.” She pointed to her watch. “Five o’clock. Bit early for dinner but I don’t mind. I’ll wash up so you can take the six o’clock shift. What do you think? We should do the same for breakfast and lunch.”