by Nic Saint
Chloe shook her head despondently. She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t bring herself to face Josh ever again. He would shoot her down, she knew. She’d had her chance, and she blew it.
Rolling off Kiki’s bed, she squeezed her friend’s arm. “Thanks for the support, Kiki.”
The big guy had been seated on the bed and now rolled to where she’d been lying. “Don’t mention it. If I’d just messed things up with my boyfriend, you’d do the same for me.”
“I sure would,” she agreed warmly. He was a real friend, and she knew she could always count on him in her hour of need.
With a little wave, she returned to her own room across the hall, leaving Kiki to his computer games. The moment she started to close his door, the sound of a deep snore reached her ears, and she smiled. No more computer games tonight.
As she hopped onto her bed, the blinking light of her laptop caught her eye. She’d simply slapped it closed that afternoon, her story still stuck in limbo. Now, feeling tired and forlorn, she suddenly decided perhaps this was a good time to fuel the muse and get cracking on that masterpiece she’d been trying to revive ever since returning from Eden Island.
The promise of Josh’s that he would read over her pages flashed through her mind. Pity she hadn’t taken him up on it. Now she wouldn’t have the benefit of his experience.
Seating herself at her desk in the darkness of the room, the only light coming through the window from the street lanterns outside, she flipped open her laptop and stared at the blinking cursor for a moment.
Evangeline was taking the advice seriously this time. Never again would she
She frowned. What would Evangeline never do again? She had no fricking idea, but then that was the thing, wasn’t it? No writer ever had a fricking idea what to write next. Then a piece of advice Josh had given her on the island struck her.
“Whenever you’re stuck, just close your eyes and write the next line. And then the next. And then the next. It’s the only way to proceed.”
Taking a deep breath, she poised her fingers over the keyboard and closed her eyes. At first, no words came to mind. Then, suddenly something did.
Never again would she doubt him. Never again put words in his mouth he hadn’t spoken. And never again would she love another. She’d found her man now, and the thought gave her the strength to go on.
Sentence after sentence rolled onto the screen as her fingers tapped the keys, and as a story unfolded before her mind’s eye, tears started welling up in her eyes. Furiously wiping them away before applying her fingers to the keyboard once again, she was a writing machine, and as sentence followed sentence, one page turned into two and then ten, she finally collapsed, exhaustion claiming her for its own, and when her head plunked down onto the keyboard, she wasn’t even aware of the soft chime of her phone, nor the buzzing of her printer.
As she finally drifted off into a deep sleep, Chloe Thomson was lost to the world of man and swallowed up by the world of dreams.
***
Josh had tried to reach Chloe numerous time after their unfortunate parting, but she either refused to pick up or had lost her reception. Considering they were on Long Island and not Eden Island, the first proposition was perhaps the most plausible one.
She really didn’t want to have anything more to do with him. And the weirdest thing? He didn’t even understand why.
After she’d stomped off, leaving him and Grace wrapped in an uncomfortable silence, Chloe’s mother had quickly started making excuses for her daughter. Chloe was distraught, she said, after the thing with the paparazzi. She’d hoped to escape that kind of thing when she’d returned to a life of anonymity, and she hated that she was being dragged back into the limelight like this.
He understood. Of course, he did. But then why would she take it out on him? Did she blame him, perhaps, for what had happened? In a sense, she was probably right. If not for him and the budding romance he’d imposed upon her, she would never have caught the paparazzi’s eye. The two of them together? That was front page news, and he’d told Grace. Explained how sorry he was about the whole thing.
She would have loved to see the two of them together, but knowing Chloe, Grace feared the affair was over before it had even begun. Her daughter was stubborn and prone to making rash decisions and then refusing to go back on them.
The decision to quit showbiz had been one of those snap decisions, and look where it had landed her. With no career and no friends. Well, at least if you didn’t count those five musclemen she bunked with as friends. They were all gay, anyway.
For some reason, this little bit of news had perked Josh up considerably, reminding him that even though he’d come to like Kiki and the others, he still harbored feelings of jealousy against the men who got to share Chloe’s home.
But why she would gladly play house with these men and not with him, Grace couldn’t explain.
“Perhaps you’ve sprung all this on her a little too suddenly, Josh,” she’d endeavored to find a reason for her daughter’s decision to bolt. “A girl needs time to adjust to important changes like these. We like to take matters of the heart slowly, not rush into them head over heels.” She’d tapped his hand smartly. “You should have wooed her a little. Candlelight dinners. Summer night concerts. Walks along the beach. That sort of thing.”
He would gladly have done all those things and more, but he was running out of time. This time next week, the new owners of his Hamptons home were moving in, and he was due in Pleasant Springs, all the arrangements made. His sister wouldn’t be too well pleased if he bailed on her now.
“Can’t you stay a little while longer?” Mrs. Thomson implored. “Just so she has time to come around?”
Hope had surged in his bosom. “But I thought you said she wouldn’t come around? That she never went back on a decision?”
She’d given him the sweetest smile, and pressed his hand. “She’s never met a man like you, Joshua. You might be able to break that lifelong habit of hers.” A cheeky wink had followed. “If anyone can, you can.”
And now here he was, failing to reach her on her phone. If she didn’t even want to speak to him, how could he ever make her change her mind about him?
With a sinking heart, he realized that Grace Thomson’s words had merely been the result of wishful thinking. She would love nothing more than to boast to all her friends that her son-in-law was none other than the famous Joshua Poole.
Well, he thought bitterly as he put his phone away and started toward his car, she would simply have to accept that some things were never meant to be.
CHAPTER 33
“So. Is this the book?”
The man’s voice sounded gruff and uninviting, and Chloe thought she didn’t care for him one bit. But she merely bowed her head deferentially and acknowledged his question with a question of her own. “How long will it take?”
The man frowned, as he flipped through the bundle of papers on his desk. “Meh. Manuscript this size? Shouldn’t be more than a week—two at the most.”
He scanned her with his intense gaze. “Are you sure you’re Chloe Thomson? The Chloe Thomson? You don’t look anything like her.”
“I assure you I am,” she replied, her smile faltering. “When will I know the outcome?”
He lifted his scrawny shoulders and fingered his hideous mustache. “Could be a month. Could be two. We’ll let you know. Are you sure you don’t want to publish this under your real name? Chloe Thomson will sell a lot more copies than…” He threw a disapproving eye at the title page of her manuscript. “Jacqueline DuBaux.” He pronounced it as if it was the name of a particularly nasty germ.
She nodded curtly. “I’m sure. Chloe Thomson belongs to the past. Jacqueline DuBaux is my future.”
The man’s lips curled up into a sneer. “If you say so.”
It was obvious he didn’t agree with her, his disdain for her writing persona obvious. But she was adamant. If she was going to make it as a writer, it would be on her own
terms, not the ones the world’s media hounds dictated. Gone were the days that she jumped through hoops just to please a billion-dollar industry intent on changing every little aspect of her persona until there was nothing left of her original self.
From here on out, she called the shots, and if the literary agent in front of her didn’t like it, she could always walk away and find another.
The agent sat back in his chair, eyeing her curiously. “I heard you were chummy with Joshua Poole. Why didn’t he set you up with his agent? Why come to me instead?”
She bridled at the inappropriate question. “Joshua Poole and I are far from chummy, and as far as his agent is concerned, I’ve never even met the man.”
“Woman,” the agent corrected. “Melinda DuChamp.” He gestured with his head to the window. “She’s just across the street, actually.” Then he shrugged, picked up her manuscript and dumped it onto a pile next to his desk. “Like I said. I’ll get back to you. Now if there’s nothing else I can do for you…”
His meaning clear, he rose, the expression of boredom never having left his ferrety face.
The man’s last words had sent a jolt through Chloe, and she quickly got up. “I can find my way out,” she muttered distractedly, and ignored the outstretched hand the unpleasant little man extended in her direction.
Reaching the outer office, she gave the secretary a fleeting smile, then hurried on through to the bank of elevators. Chewing her lower lip, she wondered whether to go through with the sudden plan that had formed in her mind or simply leave it.
Then, seeing a poster plastered to the wall, she read, ‘Take a chance on life and life will take a chance on you.’ It was one of those silly inspirational posters, but it suddenly decided her, and she straightened her spine, resoluteness replacing indecision. She was going to take a chance on life, and if anyone tried to stop her, they had got another thing coming.
Setting foot inside the office once more, she streaked past the surprised secretary, then swept into the agent’s office. Without deigning him a glance, she stalked over to the pile of manuscripts, picked hers from the top and shoved it under her arm.
“Thank you, but no thank you,” she spoke in measured tones, giving him her raised chin in the process.
When the man opened his lips to speak, she held up her hand. “I’ve decided not to retain your services, my good man. I’m taking my business elsewhere I’m afraid.”
And without waiting for his response, she stormed out, her precious manuscript pressed under her arm.
***
Josh had been waiting for over an hour, but now he was quickly running out of patience. Melinda didn’t usually take this long to go over one of his manuscripts. She was a fast reader, and when he sent her a new Frankie Knox, she read it in next to no time—in fact couldn’t wait to lay her hands on the next one the minute she’d finished the last.
He paced the outer office nervously. He had a lot riding on this one. He hadn’t merely taken his sweet time writing it—almost missing his deadline—but he’d taken some chances with the storyline, turning it into something that read more like a romance novel than an action thriller at times.
The longer Melinda took to get back to him, the more doubt started creeping into his mind. Perhaps she would tell him to go back to the drawing board and start over. Perhaps she would simply tell him the whole thing stank to high heaven and was a career buster and he would be forced to write the next Frankie Knox in the time it took him to set up the story.
He knew that if he didn’t deliver a masterpiece, his publisher would probably drop him, and the sweet money that had been flowing into his coffers at an ever-increasing pace over the last decade would dry up.
Not that money was an object, really. He’d wisely invested his royalties and advances, and was now worth more than the millions they’d paid him out over the years. Real estate was booming once again, and at the last count, his accountant had proudly welcomed him into the billionaire’s club. One of only a couple of billionaire novelists in the country. Maybe even the whole world.
But he loved being a successful writer, and had worked damn hard to achieve the coveted status.
Dammit, he cursed under his breath. When was Melinda finally going to let him out of his misery?
As he was passing by the entrance to Melinda’s office for the umpteenth time, the elevator chimed down the corridor and the sound of heels clicking assaulted his ear. Oh, great, another one of Melinda’s clients was joining his vigil. Now he would have to await the verdict in silence, being stared at by some doe-eyed female, admiration written all over her face.
He hated when Melinda did this. He’d strictly told her he only came in when she was dedicating her time exclusively to him. He didn’t care to meet any of his colleagues. When the female in question rounded the corner and hesitated by the door, his heart sank even more. Obviously someone who’d never even been here before. A debut author, no doubt. Some fresh-faced goopy teenager seeking to engage Melinda’s services.
So when he looked up and found himself staring into Chloe Thomson’s clear blue eyes, he gulped in surprise.
She was the absolute last person he’d ever expected to run into.
CHAPTER 34
Chloe watched in astonishment as Josh’s eyes darkened.
“What are you doing here?” he growled the moment he caught sight of her.
Instantly, the surprise and lift of her mood evaporated and was replaced by a wild fury. “I have every bit of a right to be here as you,” she curtly stated, stalking into the room and taking a seat, her manuscript on her lap.
His eyes flicked to the pile of papers, then back to her face. She blushed as he took a step closer and pointed an accusing finger at her masterpiece. “You’re peddling your book, aren’t you? Trying to enlist my agent to do your bidding.”
Her temper flared. “Last time I heard, this is a free country. I can ask whoever I want to be my agent.”
He shook his head adamantly. “Not my agent. She’s off limits.”
She narrowed her eyes, her face working. “Is that so, Mr. Big Shot? And why, pray tell, do you have an exclusive claim on Miss DuChamp’s services?”
“Because…” He glared, searching for something sensible to say. “Because Melinda only works for the best.” He stabbed a finger at her. “And you, my dear, are a debutante.”
She frowned. “Perhaps you mean debut writer?”
“Exactly!”
She tilted her shoulders lightly and turned her head away from him. “That may be so, but that still doesn’t give you the right to stop me from seeking Melinda’s assistance. And anyway,” she quickly added when he started to speak again, “that is for Melinda to decide. Not you.”
He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath at these words, but she pointedly ignored him, picking up a writing magazine from the table and flicking through it, pretending to read.
Before she could stop him, however, he’d reached out and grasped her manuscript.
“Hey! Give that back!”
He eyed it contemptuously. “The Island,” he read, then frowned. “What is it about?”
He idly started flipping through the stack of papers, then settled on a page and started reading.
Her heart sank. He was the last person in the world she wanted to read her work. After a couple of minutes, he sat down, engrossed in the pages. His expression of contempt had been replaced by one of growing indignation. Looking up, she met his gaze with defiance.
“This is—this is my story!” he cried out, pointing at the offending page.
“Our story,” she corrected icily. “And yes. It is the story of a debut writer and a veteran writer meeting during a writing retreat and engaging in a torrid affair.”
“Veteran writer?” he queried, eyebrows rising.
She hesitated, then figured what the hell, he would read her novel pretty soon anyway, once it hit the bookstores. “It’s the story of an old writer suffering a major cas
e of writer’s block. His career almost over now, he decides to give the young woman a break by helping her craft her debut novel.”
“Old?” he growled. “Who are you calling old?”
She shrugged, ignoring his objections. “When the woman becomes the next big thing, the old writer starts drinking heavily when he can’t stand to see his young lover’s career take off while his is dying a slow death.”
“Don’t tell me. The story ends with the tight embrace and happy ever after?”
She tilted her chin. “The old writer returns to the island and jumps off a cliff. The young writer mourns his death for a while, writes a book about the affair, and consequently becomes the biggest bestselling writer in the world. The end.”
“Hah!” he called out, throwing the manuscript in her lap. “As if!”
“It’s a poignant story about love and loss in the world of literature. I think when you read it you will be gripped by its engaging storyline and sense of realism.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he grunted, shaking his head disgustedly. “First you dump me, and then you turn our story into some cheap version of The Way We Were. Well let me tell you, honey. You’re no Barbra Streisand, and I’m no Kris Kristofferson. This thing?” He gestured from her to the door behind which Melinda’s office lay. “It won’t fly. Melinda doesn’t take on hacks.”
Her temper flared once again. “Who are you calling a hack? You? The writer who couldn’t even finish the next Frankie Knox without the help of a woman?”
“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even have a novel, baby!”
“Right back at you. Baby.”
For a moment, neither spoke, though the electricity in the air was palpable to the meanest observer. Then Chloe voiced a question she’d been wanting to ask since their last meeting. “So you finished the book?”