One Spoonful of Trouble (Felicity Bell Book 1)

by Nic Saint

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 yo
u 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.