One Spoonful of Trouble (Felicity Bell Book 1) (23 page)

“Mine. All mine,” she whispered.

CHAPTER TWO

Josh Poole sat musing in his recliner, fingers steepled on his chest, eyes half-lidded. He’d been hard at work on his new thriller, but so far had made little headway. He’d gone through dozens of permutations outlining possible plot structures, then had rejected them all just as swiftly.

He’d been staring at a blank page for three days now, unable to get a single word down. And, for the life of him, he didn’t know why. He’d never had this much trouble before with one of his hugely successful Frankie Knox thrillers.

It was perhaps a bit much to say that the damn things wrote themselves, but it wasn’t exactly Shakespeare. Frankie Knox, a young cop in New York, solved the most heinous crimes with the help of his zany female sidekick Jacqueline Spark, a fortune teller and self-proclaimed psychic. While Knox was a hard-boiled cop of the ‘shoot first ask questions later’ ilk, Jacqueline liked to ‘sense’ her way to catching the bad guys. The combination and rising sexual tension between the two had guaranteed Josh a position on the New York Times bestseller list for the past decade and made his agent Melinda a very happy woman.

Until this year.

He had a deadline, but no book. Complete and utter writer’s block. And when he’d finally owned up to Melinda, she’d immediately booked him a week on Eden Island. His second stay on the secluded island paradise in six months. She’d encouraged him to work things out the hard way: no booze, no women, no social media and no smartphones. Only Frankie and Jacqueline and the languid environment of the tropical isle.

He hated it. Christ, he was a social guy, and he hated to be cut off like this. But if he didn’t deliver the book before November 1, Frankie Knox would be without a new adventure for the first time in their spectacularly successful collaboration.

He groaned and raked his fingers through his dark hair.

Maybe he should hit the gym again. An hour on the StairMaster combined with a short swim and shower usually did wonders for his creativity.

With a deep sigh, he rose to his feet and stretched, then turned down the volume on the stereo. The pumping rock music, normally such a boost for his creative juices, had been of little help so far.

Just then, he thought he heard a familiar sound.

A chopper.

Frowning, he turned off his iPod altogether and pricked up his ears.

Nope. He hadn’t been mistaken. That was clearly the sound of a chopper.

How could it be? He’d only been here three days. The pilot wasn’t due to return until the end of next week.

He quickly headed over to the window to stare out at the clear blue sky.

“What the hell?” he grumbled as he watched the helicopter take off and disappear into the distance. With the noise from his favorite band Rock Slam blocking out all sound, he hadn’t even heard the damn thing land, and now it was off again?

For a moment, he credited paparazzi. Although the boys and girls of the tabloid press usually didn’t bother with harassing writers, even ones as rich and famous as he was, he didn’t put it past them to try and take a shot of him lounging in the Jacuzzi or having a drink by the pool.

Billionaire Novelist Poole Knox One Back in His Pool.
He could just imagine the headline.

With a groan, he made a mental note to tell his agent about this, when another sound put all his nerves on edge.

A door had slid open somewhere upstairs.

Dammit! Someone was here.

Like a prowling panther, he slunk to the door of his office and slowly opened the door a crack, peering out. If an intruder had landed here, there was a good chance it was someone who meant him harm. He’d heard of stalkers breaking into celebrities’ houses and surprising their prey by suddenly turning up.

Frantically, he searched around for a weapon of some kind. He’d left his gun at his Long Island beach house, not thinking he’d need it out here in the middle of nowhere. For a brief moment, he considered pushing the panic button on his wrist, but then decided against it. They’d never get here in time.

What would Frankie Knox do? He’d probably sneak up on the prowler and knock him out before he had a chance to even lay eyes on him. Then his gaze met the small statuette he’d won for his first novel. It was his good luck charm, and he took it everywhere he went. Snatching up the Edgar, he weighed it in his hand. It wasn’t what Frankie Knox would use, but it would do. A good hit would incapacitate the intruder long enough for him to call in the cavalry.

Suddenly, a shower was turned on.

What the heck? Why would a prowler take a shower? That made no sense.

Pushing open the door, he snuck into the hallway and made his way to the source of the sound. He was barefoot, as was his habit when traipsing around the villa, and only dressed in his boxers. Flexing his muscles and taking a firmer grip on the statuette of Edgar Allan Poe, he crept toward the bathroom.

The door, he saw, was open a crack, and he could see steam wafting into the hallway.

Shaking his head, he gently pushed open the door a little more, his heart rate rocketing.

Tiptoeing into the bathroom, he wasn’t surprised to detect a human shape behind the opaque shower curtain. What did surprise him was when that human shape suddenly burst out into song.

“Somewheeeeeeere over the rainbow, way up hiiiiiigh!”
the voice belted out. Terribly out of sync, he noticed, but also… Was that a woman’s voice?

Pursing his lips, he raised his makeshift weapon high above his head, mentally preparing himself for the impending confrontation. He’d simply yank that curtain back, and give his opponent a vicious wallop on the noggin before he—or she—knew what hit them.

“There’s a land that I know, um, lalala, erm, lullabyyyyyy!”

Definitely a woman’s voice, he concluded, and a very nice one at that. She couldn’t carry a tune if her life depended on it, but her voice was definitely melodious.

With a vicious yank, he opened the curtain, Edgar raised high above his head and… found himself staring into the clear blue eyes of just about the prettiest girl he’d ever met.

For a split second, their eyes met, and they simply stood there, she very much naked and wet, he—against his better judgment—very much checking her out from top to toe. Her creamy breasts were jiggling an enticing invitation, her pink nipples wet and puffy, her belly flat and taut, and just a hint of pussy peeping from between her thighs. Dang, she was hot.

Then she let rip a blood-curdling scream that pierced the silence and broke the spell.

“Aaaaaaaaargh!” she yelled at no one in particular. “Heeeeeeeeelp!”

Confused, Josh lowered the statuette.

For some reason, he had the distinct impression this girl was neither a paparazzo nor a stalker.

CHAPTER THREE

Chloe had never felt so vulnerable in her entire life!

In the last place where she’d expected to encounter another human being, here stood this burly man, all bulging muscle, and hulking presence, simply ogling her like some pervert peeping Tom!

Bunching the shower curtain and draping it across her naked form, she saw that he was gripping some sort of weapon in his hand.

Oh, no. He was probably some native who’d swum to this island from his distant home, intent on stealing whatever he could lay his hands on.

“T-t-take whatever you want,” she stammered, retreating until her back was pressed up against the shower wall. “P-p-please don’t hurt me.”

When he didn’t answer, she assumed he didn’t speak English. But what language
did
he speak? Studying him a little more closely—his dark roving eyes, the hard planes of his face, the short black curly hair and the muscularity of his bronzed torso, she figured he probably spoke Bahamian Creole, a language she didn’t master. Although, wasn’t English the official language of the Bahamas? She wished she’d studied her travel guide a little closer. But then he took a step closer, and her mouth flew open and her eyes went wide.

“Noooo!” she cried, involuntarily holding up an arm in protection.

That made the pesky shower curtain fall away, and once again, she was fully exposed to his roving eye.

She could see his expression darken again, his lips a malevolent slash.

“Here. Take this,” he growled, and she cowered in fear, only to find him shoving a towel at her. She took it hesitantly, and he abruptly turned his back and stalked out, leaving her shaky and fearful of his next move.

Quickly toweling off, she let out a yelp when his gruff voice sounded from beyond the door, startling her once more.

“What are you doing here?” he called out. “This is a private retreat!”

“W-w-what do you mean?” she stammered.

“I mean what I just said, lady. This is private property. You’re trespassing.”

Her cheeks instantly flushed at this ludicrous accusation, and the Thomson fighting spirit made a triumphant return. “I’m trespassing?
I’m
trespassing?”

“That’s what I said. I’m renting this island, and you’re trespassing.”

In spite of her state of undress, she planted her hands on her hips, even though the man couldn’t see her. “You’re renting the island?
You’re
renting the island?”

“Look, if you’re going to repeat every single thing I say, we’ll still be here this time tomorrow.”

She quickly slipped into her clothes. “
I’m
the one who’s renting—well, perhaps not exactly renting—what I mean to say is that I’m here because I’m
supposed
to be here. It’s
you
who’s trespassing, mister!”

He barked a curt humorless laugh. “Who
are
you?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she shot back, starting to feel defiant now that she was fully dressed. “And that’s what I’m doing. I’ll ask you the same thing. Who are
you
?”

“I asked you first,” he grunted.

“If you must know,” she declared, her head held high, “I’m Chloe Thomson and I’m a writer.”

“Never heard of you,” he riposted. “And I happen to know a lot of writers.”

She blinked. “You do, do you?”

“Yes, I do.” He let out an exasperated groan. “Look, this is getting us nowhere. Come out so we can talk face to face. Assuming you’re dressed, of course.”

Chloe didn’t know if she was quite ready to come out and face this—this he-man. Though if she was absolutely honest with herself, she had to admit he had a point. This conversation was going nowhere. Who was this guy, and what was he doing on
her
island? Only one way to find out.

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.”

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Copyright © 2015 by Nic Saint. All rights reserved.

Published by Puss in Print Publications.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.