Billionaire Novelist's Fiery Debutante Read online

  So she took a deep, steadying breath and stepped through the bathroom door into the hallway. He stood leaning against the wall, and actually looked surprised when she joined him.

  Once again, his eyes scanned her from head to foot—such an annoying habit! Well, two could play that game, so she purposefully let her eyes wander all over that gorgeous body of his in one smooth sweep. But then she got caught on that significant bulge in his boxers. The man was hung! Which, of course, was neither here nor there, so she quickly returned her eyes to his face. Which was a thundercloud.

  “Chloe Thomson, huh?” he snarled.

  “That’s me,” she acknowledged, folding her arms across her chest—she now wished she’d brought a less revealing set of clothes instead of the beachwear she’d stuffed into her trunk.

  “A writer,” he scoffed.

  “Yes. I’m a writer.” She wondered if the guy was dense. “And now that we’ve established that fact—again—I’m very much interested to learn from you who you are, mister.”

  He grimaced. “If you really were a writer, you should have recognized me by now.”

  She studied his face, looking for something to trigger her memory, anything that would be familiar, but nothing came. She’d never set eyes on the man before. “You’re also a writer? Like me?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing like you, honey. I’m a successful writer.”

  The slight had her narrow her eyes, though she had to admit he was right. She was pretty much a nobody on the literary scene. But then again, his face really didn’t ring a bell. He glared at her, defying her to recognize him. Nope. She was pretty sure he was an absolute unknown.

  “Never seen you before in my life,” she finally stated. “Did you write something I might have read?”

  This seemed to surprise him, for he looked confused for a moment, his cockiness waning. He nodded slowly. “You might. But obviously you haven’t.” He then made a throwaway gesture with his hand and pushed himself away from the wall. “You know what? Let’s drop the subject. What I want to know is what you’re doing here, crashing my retreat.”

  “Your retreat?” she yelled. “Your retreat?”

  For the first time, she thought she detected the hint of a smile on his lips, but it was wiped away as quickly as it had appeared. “Yes, my retreat,” he confirmed. “Booked and paid for in full by my agent. And I’m pretty sure the booking was for one person only. Per the usual terms of the agreement. I know this because I come here once a year and have done so, without fail, for the last ten years. So let me ask you again. What are you doing on my island?”

  She blinked a couple times. Well, if he put it that way… “I, erm, won a contest?”

  His eyebrows shot up at these words. “A contest,” he scoffed. “Don’t tell me. Spend the night with a celebrity?”

  She gave him her best eye roll. The man might be easy on the eyes, but he sure as hell was arrogant. “Write Magazine’s annual writing competition. I won first prize. One week paid vacation at Eden Island Writing Retreat.” And under her breath, she added, “I knew I should have settled for the meeting with Melinda DuChamp.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Melinda DuChamp?” The familiar name jolted him out of his anger.

  “Yeah. She’s this big shot New York agent? Dinner with her was the second prize.” She shrugged, a tendril of wet hair falling across her face.

  Damn, she was cute. Big blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face, she was petite and lovely.

  “I know Melinda.” He hesitated. If she hadn’t guessed who he was, perhaps he shouldn’t tell her. People had a tendency to freak out when they met him for the first time, and turn into blubbering heaps of crazy. He didn’t need a stalker on the island any more than he needed a distraction, which he simply knew she was going to be, regardless of how this thing panned out.

  “You know Melinda DuChamp? How so?”

  “She…” How much should he tell her? “She’s the agent of a close friend of mine.”

  “Oh?”

  She was waiting for him to tell her more, but he was damned if he was going there. Having a woman here was bad enough, he didn’t need a groupie.

  He studied her carefully, trying to decide how much of a pain in the ass she was going to be. “So you’re here for the whole week, huh?”

  “Yep. You?”

  He grimaced and nodded curtly. In response, she bit her cherry lip and tucked that strand of errant hair behind her ear. So cute…

  “I guess that means we’re stuck here together.”

  He shook his head. How the hell had this happened? The ones responsible for this fuck-up were going to hear from him the minute he got off this island. At the very least, he would demand a full refund. “I guess so.” Chloe Thomson, huh? He’d never heard of her. If she was a writer, she was definitely a complete unknown. But so, so cute… He closed his eyes. He so wasn’t going there. “Let’s make one thing clear. This week is extremely important for me.”

  “As it is for me,” she countered, her initial bashfulness long gone.

  Ignoring her, he continued, “I have a novel to map out, and I plan to do just that.”

  “What a coincidence,” she returned, eyes wide. “Me, too!”

  He shook his head, like a bull trying to rid itself of a pesky fly. “I’ve got a lot riding on this one—”

  “That makes two of us. My last novel didn’t sell, so I really need to make a fresh start.”

  “—so I want to be left in peace.”

  She gestured around. “From what I’ve seen of this place, it’s big enough for the both of us.”

  He glowered. “There’s only one bedroom.”

  “So?”

  “I won’t sleep on the couch.”

  “You won’t?”

  “Uh-uh. Not a chance.”

  “For a famous writer, you’re not very chivalrous, are you?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Let’s not go there, honey. I’m not the one crashing the party.”

  She crossed her arms defiantly. “I won this contest fair and square, so I have every right to be here, Mister Big Shot Writer.”

  He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “All right. Someone messed up, but it wasn’t you, okay?”

  “Thank you.”

  “But we still have to make this work. The chopper won’t be back for another week, and until that time we have to play nice.”

  “Can’t we… you know… press this little thingamajig?” She was gesturing at the emergency bracelet she was carrying loosely around her wrist, another clear indication she was perfectly within her right to be here. He had to admit it was the perfect solution. “You would willingly give up your vacation for me?”

  A sheet of flame shot from her eyes. “Me give up my vacation? For you? I thought you would give up yours!”

  Now it was his turn to cross his arms in defiance. He straightened his back and leveled an arctic glare at this maddening intruder. “Not a chance, honey. I paid for this vacation—a good big chunk of dough I might add. If there’s anyone who should give up their claim it’s you.”

  She shot her arms heavenward. “I can’t believe this. We’re right back where we started!” She planted her hands on her hips—and such nice hips they were. “Look. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. So let’s just settle this once and for all. I’m taking the bed. You take the couch. Deal?”

  He chuckled bitterly. “You’re one major pain in the ass, aren’t you?” He thought about it for all of one second. “I can’t write if I don’t get my shut-eye. And I can’t sleep on a couch. So either we’re sharing the bed, or you’re shit out of luck. Deal?”

  She emitted what sounded like an animal snarl. Not a dangerous animal, however. More the barnyard variety. A cute little bunny, perhaps. If she hadn’t simultaneously given him the dirtiest look any woman had ever given him, he’d have actually enjoyed it.

  “Fine! But I’m taking the left side.”

  “Fine!” h
e grunted.

  “And I’m putting pillows in the middle. Just in case you try anything funny.”

  “Lady, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

  “Fine!”

  “Fine!”

  Their negotiations thus concluded, they both stormed off, he in the direction of his office, she into the bedroom, probably to start working on that wall of pillows to prevent him from jumping her bones.

  As he sat shaking his head in disbelief at what fate had dealt him, one thought stood out amongst the welter. Chloe Thomson was trouble. Big trouble.

  CHAPTER 5

  As Chloe unpacked her stuff, she found herself grumbling mentally at that stubborn man. First of all, what kind of architect would plunk down a luxury villa and only equip it with one bedroom! As she slipped her collection of panties—enough for one week—onto the top shelf of the single closet the room held, she cast a nervous eye at the bed. It wasn’t as big as she’d hoped, and she just couldn’t imagine sharing it with a man she’d never met. She’d said she’d take the left side, but that still didn’t leave her much wiggle room. And she knew from experience that she was a major wriggler. In fact, it often happened that she woke up in the middle of the night with her comforter all twisted up, and her pillow on the floor.

  Shaking her head, she eyed the closet censoriously. The mystery man—he hadn’t even told her his name!—had practically taken over the entire space, leaving her with only one bottom shelf and one top shelf. She’d never heard of a guy possessing so many clothes. Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, she fingered one of his boxers. Black and silky, with a fashionably thick elastic band. It looked quite new. She slipped it off the shelf and let it fall open. She gulped in surprise as she took in the huge bulge unfolding before her eyes.

  “Having fun with my knickers?”

  The voice had her jumping at least a foot in the air.

  “I, erm, was just, erm…” Checking out his package.

  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.