Gillian's Island
by Natalie Vivien
Synopsis:
Shipwrecked on a deserted island with a gorgeous woman... What could possibly go wrong?
Gillian Delaney's career is slowly tanking. As head photographer for Coyne Hotels, she used to love her job—but then her old boss's jock son took over, and it's all been downhill since. When Gillian is taken along on a company trip to scout out a new hotel location on an uninhabited island, she thinks it's going to be business as usual.
That is, until she meets the boat captain who will take them there: a gorgeous and enigmatic woman named Ivy.
The three-hour tour turns into a disaster when the boat is wrecked at sea. But Ivy rescues Gillian from a near-drowning, and they find themselves washed up on the deserted island. Tempers flare and passions ignite, and Gillian begins to fall hook, line and sinker for the woman who saved her life. But can love found in a beautiful, tropical paradise survive the real world?
"Gillian's Island"
©Natalie Vivien 2015
Rose and Star Press
First Edition
All Rights Reserved
No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Rose and Star Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. Please note that piracy of copyrighted materials is illegal and directly harms the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
About the Author
Chapter One
The minute I step up onto the dock, the Gilligan's Island theme song starts playing in my head. I watched reruns of that show nearly every day when I was growing up, but all I really remember from it is the music, and now the phrase three-hour tour keeps skipping on my mind's internal record player.
Knowing my luck, this song is going to be stuck in my head for the whole trip. The trip that I kind of wish was only a three-hour tour.
I heft my backpack a little higher on my shoulders, then pat my waterproof camera bag against my hip just one more time, feeling for my lenses and the camera through the thick fabric. I've checked the camera bag about four times since waking this morning; I know everything's packed in there, but I guess I'm kind of nervous. And as I walk along the wooden dock, glancing at the names stenciled on the moored boats, my stomach begins to tie itself into elaborate knots.
Okay, focus.
I'm looking for a boat called Swan Song. The name itself is ominous, but I've decided to ignore that for now. After all, I have enough things to feel uneasy about...
I pat my camera bag again and then stop myself mid-pat, as I realize what I'm doing.
My heart is in my throat, this close to the water, standing on a dock swaying over the water.
I need to calm down. I need to focus on the trip, on my upcoming work. This fear is way out of proportion. I'm only worried about being on a boat because I can't swim. But, really, boats don't sink nowadays. Right?
Right.
I'll...choose to believe that.
I swing my camera bag farther behind me to force myself to stop fiddling with it; then I take a deep breath and again move down the dock, skimming the boats' names.
Okay, so here's the thing: I'm really conflicted about this trip. Despite the fact that I'm going to be spending the next week with my oh-so-detested boss Brendan Coyne, and despite my water phobia, I'm looking forward to the getaway itself.
It's an adventure, and I haven't had an adventure since—well, okay, this is so sad, but I don't think I've ever really had an adventure. Not a good one, anyway.
In college, there was that spontaneous road trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras that I took with my then-girlfriend Paula. Paula ended up making out with a Girls-Gone-Wild wannabe wearing nothing but strings of beads and a pair of Daisy Duke shorts—a girl who, I would like to wager my nonexistent million dollars on, was as much of a lesbian as I am a straight woman. By which I mean, not at all. I ended up taking a bus back to my dorm alone.
At the time, I tried to delude myself into thinking that my failed fling with Paula was an anomaly. But the sad truth is that I've never had a successful relationship.
I have really, really bad taste in women.
I always go for the wild types—in stark contrast to my own I'd-much-rather-be-reading-a-book-indoors nature. So, of course, something—inevitably—goes wildly wrong. I haven't dated in more than a year now. Honestly, I feel burned out on love.
Well, revise that: I feel burned out on everything.
I need this trip, need some moments of awe, of adventure... But I fully expect it to be a mini-disaster thanks to Brendan's inescapable presence.
I've been Coyne Hotels' Media Director for a decade now, and ever since my old (wonderful, amazing) boss retired and was replaced by his obnoxious son Brendan, my work environment has become unbearable.
I feel as if I'm working in a frat house.
Brendan fired a lot of the older employees and replaced them with his friends, which is exactly as skeezy as it sounds. I'm one of the few women remaining, and I'm regularly catcalled in the hallways, ogled by the boys gathered around the water cooler... I keep promising myself that if I have to report one more maddening incident to Brendan's new HR manager—a buddy of his who insists that I'm “overreacting”—I'm going to quit.
This change of regime has only served to remind me of what I really wanted out of life before I became a corporate slave. I wanted to be a real photographer, traveling the world, having all sorts of adventures. But wanting and doing are two very different things, and, quite simply, I was afraid to take the leap. A friend of my father's put in a good word for me at Coyne, and I've been working there ever since—financially stable...and miserable.
I keep resolving to hand in my resignation, even going so far as to write it out, proofread it, print it... In the end, though, I always ball it up and throw it away.
Quitting takes more courage than I currently have. I know, soon enough, things will get bad enough to force me to quit. But I don't really have a plan for that eventuality—other than a celebratory happy hour with Charity. Not the soundest financial plan for my future.
I'm lost in reverie, reading boat names and daydreaming about telling Brendan exactly where to stick his, er, job, when Charity McCall strides into my line of sight with a parade of sailors carrying suitcases following at her heels.
I grin; I can't help myself, watching those sailors trail after her like ducklings behind a mother duck—albeit a very sexy mother duck.
Okay, my employment at Coyne hasn't been all bad. I did meet Charity there, after all, and despite the fact that we have nothing in common and would have probably never spoken to one another if we hadn't been required to do so because of our jobs, we've become best friends. Because we're so different, we're able to give one another fresh perspectives on things. Charity was really there for me after my dad died, and I helped her through her messy divorce—and all of the subsequent bad relationships she's had since.
“Hey, Gilly, ready for our three-hour tour?” Charity calls out, eerily in sync with the Gilligan's Island refrain cycling through my head.
Charity's dressed like a 1920s starlet who's about to go out to sea: white jumpsuit with a sailor's knot, designer blue handbag, spiked red heels. Her short-cropped jet-black hair and makeup
are, as always, perfect. She looks like a model, but Charity looks like a model every day.
She approaches me with a deliberate, exaggerated swagger and hugs me, smelling of floral perfume, before she turns and gestures to her entourage. “I offered them all twenty dollars to carry my luggage, but they said the view would be payment enough.” Charity turns a little and eyes her own back end, lifting her manicured brows. “Can't say that I disagree.”
I laugh. “Can't say that I do, either.”
“Oh, Gillian,” Charity teases, “I love it when you say lesbian things to me.”
I smile and shake my head while she dismisses her sailors with a wave of her hand—they look more than a little disappointed to be leaving her—and regards her piles of Coach-brand luggage uncertainly.
“I feel like I forgot something...” she mutters, her hands on her hips and her head tilted to the side as she eyes the suitcases in front of her.
“I doubt it. It looks as if you brought your entire closet,” I chuckle.
She turns to me, her bright blue eyes twinkling. “Oh, honey, if I brought my whole closet, I'd sink the ship.”
“Uh, speaking of sinking the ship...” comes a voice from behind us.
Charity and I turn, surprised, and at the same moment, I take in the fact that Swan Song is stenciled along the hull of a small boat nearby that looks like it could do with a new paint job.
My mouth goes dry.
There's a man standing on the gangway for Swan Song, and he looks embarrassed, blushing apologetically. He clears his throat and then continues, “We have a two-suitcase limit, ma'am.”
My stomach twists as I take in the fact that this boat is our boat, the most dated and unseaworthy-looking boat on the water. Charity turns to give me a look, appalled for a completely different reason. “Did you hear what that...” She clears her throat. “...strapping young man just said to me?”
I swallow down my fear and manage a small smile. “He said you have too many bags,” I tell her helpfully, my lips twitching as I try not think about scenes from the latter half of Titanic.
“No, not that part, Gilly. He called me ma'am.” Charity strides up to the man, placing one high-heeled foot on the gangway as she offers him her hand, her nails glittering red in the sunshine. “Call me Charity, sweetie,” she practically purrs at him. “We're going out to the rough, wild sea together. There shouldn't be any formalities between us, hmm? And I should call you...?”
“Uh, Rusty,” he says, looking smitten.
Wow, smitten already. That has to be a record, even for Charity. I've seen variations of Rusty's expression all too often in Charity's presence. Men literally fall at her feet.
I cross my arms, trying not to smirk as Charity sidles a little closer to her prey.
“Now, Rusty,” Charity says, her head tilted as a wisp of blue-black hair falls strategically in front of a bright blue eye. She flutters her long lashes. “We aren't going to let a little thing like luggage come between us, are we? I mean, my clothes are made of chiffon and lace; they hardly weigh anything at all. See?” She reaches out and takes up Rusty's hand, and then she delicately curls her fingers over his, placing their joined hands on her sailor's knot—
“Drop that chiffon, Rusty,” says a husky voice.
I glance up, boat phobia forgotten, and my heart, for just a second, stops beating. Time seems to stand still; everything slows and concentrates solely on this: up above us, gleaming down from the boat, is the most striking pair of green eyes I've ever seen. Eyes set in a lovely, angular face draped by long straight blonde hair that flows over slight, muscled shoulders and down a tanned back. The woman above us is tall, lean, commanding, and...she looks angry.
And really, really hot.
I'm blushing.
Blushing?
I know that I've been stressing about work and my flat, unexciting life—in which I purposefully don't follow my dreams—but I haven't felt attracted to anyone in months. Not even the new mail lady who comes by the office every day, wearing a huge, inviting smile as she hands me my packages. She's totally my type. I should totally be attracted to her, but I'm just...not.
And here, now, I'm floored by the strength of the attraction roaring through me. My fingers itch to take out my camera and snap photos of this woman's regal (and glowering) profile against the buffeting sea. Beneath the sky and in front of the water, her skin and hair take on a bluish cast, and I can almost imagine that she's a mermaid who's been given legs for the day—long, shapely legs that are bare except for a pair of cutoff jeans. Even though I've always been afraid of the water, I had this fascination with mermaids as a kid. I made mermaid tails for my Barbies out of Dad's roll of duct tape.
But the illusion of the beautiful mermaid shatters into itty-bitty pieces when the blonde woman crosses her arms over her chest, her glower deepening further. Rusty takes a quick step away from Charity, waving his hands.
“Hey, Ivy,” he says, talking a mile a minute, “I was just telling them that they can't—”
“Bring their entire wardrobes on board?” this woman, Ivy, finishes, her eyes narrowing as she catches Charity's gaze. “Ma'am,” she says succinctly, her jaw tightening, “we have a strict two-suitcase limit, and since your charming child-boss has stomped his foot and declared himself exempt from that rule, with his four suitcases of, I assume, hair gel and dirty magazines, I'm afraid you ladies will have to make do with one suitcase each. So—choose wisely.”
Both Charity and I are gaping.
“Child-boss”?
My attraction ratchets up about ten billion my-God-she's-gorgeous notches.
Charity splutters, “But I need all of these things—”
“Need?” Ivy repeats disbelievingly, her green eyes narrowing further. “Last I checked, nobody needs lingerie or lipstick on a deserted island.”
Sheepishly, Charity makes a little show of shoving one of her suitcases off to the side; then she places her hands on her hips, lifting her chin. Ivy has presence, yeah, but when Charity draws herself up to her full height, blue eyes flashing, her heads-are-going-to-roll face moves mountains—at our staff meetings, anyway.
“All right,” she says then, sharpness to her words, “but I do need all of the other things. And I was never informed of a suitcase limit—”
“Well, you can thank your CEO for that. What's his name? Brendan.” Ivy rolls her eyes. Then—for the first time—she meets my gaze. Her scowling expression smooths, softens, as I realize that I'm breathing a little faster. When Ivy speaks again, her tone is less cutting. She says, still holding my eyes with her own, “I don't make these rules for the hell of it, you know. Swan Song's an old lady”—she touches the side of her boat, smoothing the pad of her thumb over the chipping paint with love in her eyes—“and as captain—”
“Co-captain,” Rusty interjects with a small sigh, his lips curling up at the corners.
“As co-captain, safety is my primary concern. My boat's safety and...” She licks her lips, sliding her gaze brazenly over my length. “Yours.”
Did she...did she really just do that?
Okay, I'm flustered, but Charity is upset, so I square my shoulders and clear my throat. “Um, look,” I tell Ivy then, “I only have a backpack and a camera bag. That hardly counts as one suitcase, right?” I heft my camera bag up and shoulder-off my backpack, brandishing them to her. “Let Charity bring two suitcases, at least. Compromise?”
Ivy lifts a brow, her full lips frowning. “I'm not really into compromise,” she says in a soft, even tone.
But Rusty shakes his head, spreads his hands. “Come on, Ivy. What's a couple of suitcases? We'll still be underweight. And if we offload some of the extra tools and maybe a bag or two of provisions—what do you say?”
Ivy catches my gaze again in an intense, probing stare, her green eyes glittering in the sunlight. “Looks like I'm outnumbered.” She glances at Rusty. “Make it work, Rusty. Stow the extra suitcases in the storage locker. This is your call, reme
mber. I'll be in the cabin.”
Then she turns on her heel and abruptly disappears through a door marked Private.
“What a jerk,” Charity mutters under her breath, glancing down at the pile of suitcases surrounding her. “Oh, my God, I have no idea which suitcases to take! This is a disaster,” she moans.
“Maybe not,” I whisper, glancing at the door Ivy went through, still feeling the cool weight of her glittering green gaze. I self-consciously tuck a strand of hair behind my ears and then shiver a little, even though the sun pounding down on us is warm enough to melt ice.
“What do you mean?” asks Charity, glancing back at me with one raised brow. She's sharp as a tack and misses nothing, but I'm honestly too boggled by my sudden crush to talk about it. I find myself shaking my head, smiling at her.
“Nothing,” I tell her firmly.
Charity's brow lifts higher, and I wince, expecting her to pursue the subject, but then she glances back down at her pile of suitcases and moans again. “Seriously, a disaster.”
I exhale a shaky breath, glad that, for the moment, I don't have to explain myself.
Because I'm staggered by my immediate attraction to Ivy. Sure, the woman came across as prickly, but there was something so deeply magnetic about her sea-green eyes. I lean against the nearest post as Charity, muttering, begins to dig through her suitcases.
“And I didn't bring my entire lingerie collection. What does she take me for?” I hear, among Charity's many grumbles.
“Do you want help, Chair, or—” I begin, but she's shaking her head, waving me off, as if she's performing a delicate procedure. She begins to separate her luggage into two piles. Neither pile contains less than three suitcases, so I can't begin to imagine what her categorization system might be.
I hold on tightly to my camera strap and stare out at the ocean, the blue waves undulating over the surface, the seagulls flying and screaming overhead, everything made brighter and more sparkling by the sunshine pouring down.
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