Billionaire Novelist's Fiery Debutante (15 page)

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 case 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?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” he grumbled. He then threw her a dirty look. “I don’t even have to ask if you finished yours. Had fun writing about me, did you? Making me look like a fool?”

This touched her heart, and she called out, “I didn’t make a fool of you, Josh. I would never write disparagingly about you or what we had together.”

He frowned, and muttered, “You wouldn’t?”

“Of course not. Just because things didn’t work out between us doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy our time together.”

“Same here. I had a great time on the island.”

She offered him a conciliatory smile. “So we’re good then? Friends still?”

“Guess so,” he returned, then continued, “What happened, Chloe? Why did you walk out on me all of a sudden? I never understood.”

She fell into silence for a moment. She didn’t know the answer to that one herself, to be honest. “Perhaps it was all happening too fast for me. One minute we were strangers stranded on a deserted island, next thing you were asking me to move in with you.” She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of puzzlement. “It was all a bit much, I guess.”

“Yeah, that’s what your mother said.”

“You talked to my mother?”

“The night you walked away from me. She said I should have taken things slow. Wined and dined you and all that, instead of beating you into submission and practically forcing you to move out to the sticks with me.”

“Pleasant Springs, Montana isn’t exactly the sticks,” she murmured.

He gave her a smile. The first one. “I guess it isn’t.”

“So you moved back, huh?”

“Yeah, been living the life of my dreams out on the old Reynolds Ranch.”

“Good for you,” she murmured, wondering not for the first time if she shouldn’t have clamped down on the niggling doubts in her mind and that persistent streak of stubbornness that had kept her from returning his calls.