Take a Chance on Me

Copyright © 2015 Debbie Flint

First published by the author as
Hawaiian Affair

Published 2015 by Choc Lit Limited

Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

www.choc-lit.com

The right of Debbie Flint to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

EPUB ISBN 978-1-78189-220-6

MOBI ISBN 978-1-78189-219-0

To all at Choc Lit, and also to Simon, who knows who he is, for taking a chance on me.

Title page

Copyright information

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

About the Author

Introducing Choc Lit

She nearly did it. In that split second, she nearly did it. After all, if throwing a mobile phone into the sea could magically take
all
her troubles away, Ms Sadie Turner (PhD) would instantly be a stone lighter, debt-free and not in the mood for killing somebody. Well, one body in particular – the one explaining light-heartedly that he couldn't have the girls at the weekend – again. Something had ‘cropped up'
– again
. But this time, Sadie had a way out. This time, the deal of a lifetime was within reach, and this time, nothing could stand in her way. Least of all the waste of space she used to call husband – because tomorrow she had a business meeting with a billionaire, and, with his investment, everything could change. A way to be finally free of the painfully thin string that was holding her hostage to her past.

She had just thirty days to make it happen.

‘Aw come on, sweetie, let your mum have them for me. She did it for you last month when you went swanning off to play aloha halfway round the world.'

‘She's my mum, Stuart. And it was business,' Sadie replied. At that moment a ship sounded its horn offshore, and Sadie jumped, as did a hundred seabirds who took off, filling the air with their cawing and flapping. Not quite the Mediterranean ‘breeze' she had in mind.

‘Anyway, where are you? On another cheapo jaunt? Some European jolly, sweetie?' said the voice on speakerphone.

‘Don't call me sweetie,' she replied. ‘It's not a jolly. And they flew me here Club Class, if you must know.'

‘Oo-ooo, sorry, sugar-lips.'

‘And don't call me sugar-lips! Or babe, or cutie-pie, or anything – in fact, don't call me at all when I'm away on business!'

‘Is it proper business?'

‘
Yes,
of course it's proper business!
' Sadie snapped a little too loud for her opulent surroundings. She heard a ‘tut' from somewhere nearby and looked around but couldn't see anyone, just a group of glamorous people a little further down the jetty, queuing to board one of the executive yachts.

She adjusted her jacket, lowered her voice, and banished her demons.

‘No more of your sob stories, Stuart. And I'll tell you something – if you don't take your daughters somewhere nice this weekend, then your latest “girlfriend” –
girl
being the operative word – will be mysteriously
twittered
about how old you really are.'

‘It's tweeted.'

‘I don't care if it's
twatted
, don't let your children down again.'

She made a mental note to tell her kids later about this latest heated debate with their dad – it would make them smile. He had stopped being their fourth musketeer years ago, but it could be worse – he could be worse.

‘But there's no way I can miss my …' he began, but at that moment her call waiting bleep sounded.

‘Hold on a sec, Stuart,' she said as she jabbed at her phone sharply. ‘Good afternoon, Sadie Turner speaking.'

It was an update on her lost luggage. It was still lost. A few more hours in the business suit then.

Sadie swapped calls again, and let out a big sigh.

‘Was that one of your big sighs?' her ex-husband asked.

She rolled her eyes at the phone.

‘And I bet you're rolling your eyes?'
Damn the man.
‘So I saw the local paper – who'd have thought it, my Sadie winning a marketing award and a trip to Hawaii to pick up some trophy.'

‘I'm not your Sadie. Not any more.'

‘Something happen when you were out there?' he continued, ignoring her comment. ‘No sooner are you back than I try to call and get yet another foreign ringtone. What's that all about then?' He gabbled straight on, not waiting for her reply – like he used to do when he had a bee in his bonnet. ‘Most unlike my workaholic Sadie. Have you met someone?' he asked an edge to his voice.
Ah, there it was.

She took a moment to compose herself, then mentally squeezed him out from under her skin like a great big spot.
Satisfying.

‘That's none of your concern, is it?' she replied triumphantly, stretching her neck to left and right. ‘Not any more. Got to go, Stuart, people to see, things to do. And don't forget – be there on Saturday. It's your turn. Bye.'

She hung up before he could reply. That felt good. She exhaled and closed her eyes. Things to do indeed –
like wasting time waiting for my suitcase to turn up.
She started to walk along the jetty.

Lost luggage – today of all days.

A long blonde tendril escaped in the breeze and blew onto her face, so she stopped walking to fix it. Her handbag was heavy and she put it down at her feet. She'd brought the shiny glass trophy along so she could look at it every now and then as a kind of talisman, a good luck charm. And maybe if she rubbed it enough her luck would continue. She'd need it because palpitations hit her chest like a freight train every time she thought about the make or break presentation she had to give tomorrow morning. Was it any wonder, with the challenge she was facing? Could she do it? Could
anyone
do it?

Just thirty days to find an investor and sign the contract – certainly not your run-of-the-mill business deal. But then Sadie Samantha Turner was ‘not your run-of-the-mill business woman'. At least that's what her fridge magnet said.

She pulled a little tube of high protection sun cream from her jacket pocket. It smelled wonderfully exotic and felt soothing as she dabbed some onto her glowing cheeks. Then she shoved the wayward hair back into the once-smart ‘up-do' that had become more ‘do' than ‘up'.

Picking up her weighty handbag again, she set off, carefully clip-clopping along the cobblestones as fast as her five-inch stilettos would allow.
Ouch
– not so fast – she nearly twisted an ankle.

She wasn't expecting cobblestones. Why cobblestones not wood? Well, the boats were huge.
Goodness only knows how wealthy you had to be to own one of these beauties. She remembered the conversations amongst the plane passengers on the way over, two of whom were having an in-depth debate about which stars were docked here for the Grand Prix. She'd been so fascinated by their conversations, and so clearly out of her depth in Club Class, that they'd taken pity on her and regaled her with stories of the glitterati in Monaco. ‘Here,' one of them had said, ‘take this ticket – if you don't mind pretending you're on the guest list. It's for an Open Day for a yacht that's for sale – not on our agenda, darling, not this trip. But you are welcome to go – you've certainly got the shoes for it.'

She'd hesitated.
What would it be like … imagine the view from the deck … just to get one photo on board, to see the girls' faces when they saw it …
She'd heard about the famous marina and wanted to see how the other half lived – play a bit of make-believe. But now cold feet had set in. Maybe just seeing the outside of the
Nomusa
– the massive blue yacht pictured on the ticket – would be enough. Maybe it would be best not to try to pass herself off as someone she wasn't, considering her inappropriate business attire and dishevelled hair. But as she got closer to these amazing craft it was hard to ignore the pull of curiosity to find out more. Yet the nearer she got, the colder her feet became.

No, it's no good – I just don't belong.

She couldn't do it. She'd just have a look from the outside. And maybe find some interior images later online. Ever the stickler for detail, she took out a tiny notebook and pen, and looked around her on the dock, jotting down one or two of the other yacht's names to Google later. Two very glamorous people passed her by and looked at her quite strangely, so she smiled and quickly popped her notebook back in her bag. Then she walked off, head in the clouds, allowing herself a little daydream.

Several feet above Sadie, on the deck of one of the biggest yachts in the marina, a seaman called Mac was distracted. Sadie's slightly raised voice and mad gesticulating had caught his attention. Then her voluptuous curves had kept it, despite her tetchy manner. So who was this woman in the tight blue business skirt? No tourist dressed like that, plus she'd been taking notes. Maybe this was the harbour inspection the Captain had warned the crew about. But in those shoes …?
Hmmm.
Mac stopped his chores, rested an elbow on the end of his mop handle, and took in the sight of Sadie's backside swaggering away up the jetty in her towering heels.

He pondered, taking out a handkerchief – white-linen and monogrammed – to dab the sweat from his tanned forehead and chiselled face. Then the corners of his mouth quirked as, several yards away, Sadie tripped a tiny bit, and glanced around to check that no one had seen her.

Smiling and shaking his head, Mac tucked the hanky away in the shortest of shorts, and kept one eye on Sadie while he went back to mopping the deck.

Sadie was completely oblivious to being watched. She meandered down the jetty, approaching the queue of people near the
Nomusa
, trying to pretend she belonged. She was, however, much better at sticking out like a sore thumb. Sadie drew level with the group of supercilious fashionistas standing in line, all hoping for a spare invite. As she got nearer her heart pounded knowing she had what they desired – the magic ticket tucked tidily inside her bag. Could she do it?

Nope, no way am I going on there
, she thought, as the glamorous group of girls nudged each other and glared at Sadie. She took a deep breath, and strutted straight by, sticking her chin in the air. Just then, several tresses of Sadie's hair suddenly freed themselves and dramatically flopped onto her face, blocking her view completely and the group giggled. She simply tossed her head back, and continued walking by, peering out from underneath the hair at a funny angle, just till she passed the end of their queue. She cursed under her breath and stopped to rummage around in her bulging bag, removing things one by one.

‘Where's that damn brush …?' she muttered to herself.
Ahh, there it is, underneath everything else, naturally.

Looking around she spotted a low post nearby and deposited her things on it, while she fixed her hair. In the bright sunshine, if she held the glass trophy at the right angle, she could just about see her reflection in it. Stupid hairdo.
It might be newly blonde, but it's definitely getting another cut when I get home.
A business-bob, yes, that would suit her new executive image.

Absent-mindedly she started placing her things back in her bag. With an effort, she began to close the zip, then stopped. The last thing she'd stuffed inside was the colourful invite, with gold embossed lettering in French. She took it out again, and gazed at it, thoughtfully, completely unaware that a pushy salesman, holding a clipboard, had spotted the invite and was coming her way. Suddenly a pair of very smart brogues were right in front of Sadie and she looked up, holding the ticket. The gaggle of yacht groupies behind her fell silent, and she felt their eyes piercing through her back.

‘Ah, the final latecomer,' he said, with a strong French accent. Then he thrust a glossy brochure into her hand and took the ticket from her before she could say a word. ‘Do come on board. You are just in time. And I believe I know who you are,' he said. Sadie's heart began to pound as the man continued. ‘Mr Clooney said to look out for ze heels! Ha-ha. Welcome to the tour, Miss …'

‘Turner,' Sadie replied. ‘And it's Ms.'

‘Merzzz?'

‘Yes, Ms. As in
not-Miss
but
not-Missus.
' The man merely raised an eyebrow then started looking down a list of names on his clipboard.

‘Oh, but you won't find me on any list of Mr Clooney's,' she said.

‘You won't be the first woman to say that,' he said. ‘Or the last.' Shaking his head slightly, he gave up looking at his list. With another glance at her heels, and at her, he shrugged, closed his clipboard and put away his pen. He took her ticket, then her elbow and guided her to the walkway.

‘We are about to commence. Straight up the gangplank there, but stay on the red carpet. Champagne awaits you at the top.'

Sadie opened her mouth to explain, and then stopped, looked up at the plush, luxurious red carpet leading onto the yacht, and the buzzing hubbub taking place on deck. Jealous eyes burned into her back from the queue behind her. A massive, full-headlights beam spread right across her glowing face as mischief crossed her mind, and she held her arm out graciously to accept his offer to help her onto the gangplank.

Why not? Why the hell not! About time, lady luck …
Before she knew it she had joined a tour of a very large vessel that apparently was having an Open Day for a certain Mr Clooney.

Half an hour, a few nibbles and two small glasses of Cristal champagne later, Sadie was back on the jetty, having learned that Mr ‘Alistair' Clooney was no relation to any film stars, married or otherwise, and not at all partial to gatecrashers.

But hey, she thought, fanning herself with the glossy brochure she'd been allowed to keep by the amused French salesman, it would make a nice little story to tell her girls when she got back. And she'd got the prized photo on her phone – which she began uploading to her cloud storage straight away, while she wandered distractedly back down the jetty once more. It had been worth it, pretending to be someone else, even if only briefly. And no one would know, would they?

Time to chase the luggage again.
But there was still no news. She could only hope and pray it would turn up at her hotel by this evening, as her laptop and back-up were in there with everything she needed for the meeting tomorrow.
Oooo more palpitations.
The meeting tomorrow, everything depended upon it. Her little health food store back home in Surrey, the girls' education – everything. This opportunity was what she'd been praying for and it simply had to be a success. And if it wasn't …