Chapter 1
Oliver Sinclair pulled his rental car into the driveway of the imposing two-story beach house, cutting off the engine and opening the door. As soon as he stepped out, the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore filled his ears.
He took in a deep breath of the salty air and smiled. Even with the sound of the Pacific and the calls of the seagulls, this place felt serene compared to New York.
When he'd left his apartment this morning and headed to the airport he'd encountered three fire trucks, two police cars, an untold amount of construction vehicles and the noise they all entailed, and that was before he’d even entered the horrors of JFK airport and its infamously torturous security line.
This place was exactly what he needed. Peaceful. Quiet. A chance to defeat this damn writer’s block. And maybe if he got enough words in each day, he'd dive into the inviting water and pretend he was taking the first vacation he'd had in years.
Popping the trunk, he grabbed his bags and looked up at the huge beach house sprawling in front of him.
Clad with marble and white stone, and surrounded by a chain link security fence complete with keypad entry gate, it looked every inch the movie-star hideaway it was.
He knew from his friend’s description that behind the house was a cliff that overlooked the sparkling beach below, complete with a private staircase down to the sand that anybody staying in the house could use.
A few steps led him up to the wraparound porch and the wooden front door that Chris had already explained was steel lined in case of intruders.
Oliver’s friend was wary, but sensible. You had to be when you were a movie star at Chris' level.
Even now he was mostly producing movies instead of taking the dashing lead role, Chris Vaughn was a household name and caused mayhem wherever he appeared in public.
Chris and his family were in London for a month, promoting his latest movie and taking a vacation at the same time.
And when he'd heard about Oliver's writer's block, he'd offered him the use of his beachside house to get his head down and tackle the book he should have delivered to his publisher six months ago.
Oliver took a deep breath and tapped in the number Chris had sent him into the key pad affixed on the marble wall, and the front door immediately clicked open. Stepping inside, he was instantly engulfed by a vast lobby with a sweeping staircase and polished oak doors to the downstairs rooms.
He lifted a brow. His apartment in Manhattan had sucked up most of the royalties and advances he’d received ever since that first auction for his book ten years ago, and yet the whole thing could fit inside this lobby if you picked it up and flew it over to California.
The air inside the house was temperate, the way he liked it. Cool enough to provide a respite from the warm Californian air, but not so cold it made him shiver.
“Perfect,” he murmured to himself. He could get lost in this place. And nobody would be able to find him.
He wanted to be alone. Completely alone. Nobody to ask questions, nobody to disturb him. Just peace, quiet and a chance to finally finish this damn book.
Before it finished him.
He walked through the first door on the right, into a living room with a glass wall of doors and windows that overlooked the pool area just outside, and then the sparkling ocean beyond. He smiled, because you didn’t get views like these in Manhattan, either.
The house was full of plants of every variety he could think of.
Every surface was filled with succulents and orchids, birds of paradise, and bonsais.
In pride of place in the living room was a plant that looked suspiciously like the one from The Little Shop of Horrors.
Complete with serrated leaves and a demeanor that made you wonder if it wanted to eat you.
He vaguely remembered that Chris’s wife, Chelsea, was a huge plant collector. Chris had mentioned it the last time they met. Was he supposed to water these things? Oliver had no idea. He made a mental note to ask Chris the next time they talked.
With a sense of serenity he hadn’t felt in the longest of times, he grabbed one of his bags and headed for the stairs. A shower, some lunch and then some writing.
He had a good feeling about this place. After all this time, he was going to finish this book.
* * *
Oliver was smiling again six hours later, as he swam laps in the pool to cool himself down.
It was almost seven, and he’d written five hundred words.
It wasn’t a lot, and it wasn’t coming close to finishing his damn nemesis of a book, but it was more than he’d managed in the last few months, and he’d take that.
His fingers slid against the side of the pool and did a tumble dive, gliding easily through the water as he turned and swam to the other side. As a kid, he’d loved swimming, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a pool, or an ocean.
After forty minutes, his muscles started to tire, and he climbed out and headed for the outdoor shower at the edge of the pool, twisting it on with his wet fingers.
Pulling his shorts off, he stepped under the spray, groaning with pleasure as the water cascaded over his slick skin and knotted muscles.
He was showering naked, and nobody could see. Damn, he loved this place. Tipping his head back, the water washed over his face as he sighed with pleasure. Why hadn’t he thought of taking a vacation alone before? It was fucking glorious.
Or it was until he heard the blood-curdling scream.
His eyes flashed open, but his head was still tipped back and water poured into them, making them sting like hell. “Fuck!”
And she screamed again. Because it was definitely a scream. And she was definitely a she. And whoever she was, she’d caught him showering in all his naked glory.
“Shit! I’m so sorry.” Still blinded by the water, he grasped for the control, his fingers finally curling around the metal as he switched the water off.
He grabbed his towel, not sure whether to rub his face so he could actually see, or cover himself up so whoever it was didn’t have to get a full frontal of his goods.
His stinging eyes won out. And then he wished they hadn’t because, as soon as he could see, they focused on the woman standing in front of him. Her mouth was dropped open, and her gaze was firmly fixed to his thighs.
Or more accurately, his dick.
Instinct made him cover himself with the towel. And the woman blinked as though she was coming out of a fugue.
“Um, hi.” She didn’t look at all embarrassed at getting an eyeful of all he had to offer. Instead, her gaze lazily rose up his body until it finally met his eyes.
She was pretty. Maybe mid-twenties if he had to guess – a few years younger than him. Wearing a pair of cut-off shorts and a white tank that was knotted at her midriff, her hair cascaded down her back in golden waves, giving her a weirdly sexy but wholesome vibe.
“Who are you?” he asked her.
She winced, and he realized he’d asked a little too loudly. Okay, he’d shouted.
“I’m Juniper,” she told him, as though he should know exactly who she was.
Oliver knotted the towel around his waist to within an inch of its life, feeling distinctly at a disadvantage in his still-mostly undressed state. Juniper, whoever the hell she was, watched his every move like he was the best kind of entertainment she’d seen in years.
“What are you doing here, Juniper?” he asked.
“Oh.” She smiled, and it lit up her face. “Sorry. I’m the plant whisperer.”
“The what?” He frowned. Did he just hear her right?
“Juniper Wilde. The plant whisperer,” she said again. Yes, he had heard her right. And he still had no clue who she was. When he didn’t reply, her cheeks pinked up. “Chelsea pays me to take care of her plants when she’s away.”
“By whispering to them?” he asked, confused, because was that even a thing?
“Something like that.” She shrugged. “I come once a day to make sure they’re all thriving.”
“Jesus, only in California.” He ran his hands through his hair. Then he realized her gaze had dipped to his bare chest.
Thank God he kept that gym membership up.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to put some clothes on and then we can talk.”
“Okay,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Yes. Clothes would be good right now.”
* * *
Juniper was feeling more than a little weirded out as he disappeared into the house. It wasn’t every day you saw a man fully naked beneath a pool shower. Unless you were watching Porncenter, which she definitely never did.
No sir, not her.
And even if she did – which she didn’t, okay? – she wouldn’t need to watch it tonight. Seeing this man shower naked in real life was way better than anything somebody could conjure up on a phone screen.
Not to mention how, ah, endowed he was. If you were the kind of person who looked at a naked dick when it was swinging in front of you.
Which, of course, she wasn’t.
She shifted her feet. Was she supposed to just stand here and wait for him? Because she had work to do.
Glancing at her watch, she saw it was seven p.m. This house was supposed to be her last visit of the day.
She had a regular rota – people here in Angel Sands loved their plants and paid over the odds to make sure they survived during the heat of the summer.
From four until seven on weekdays, and during the daytime at weekends, she visited each house in turn.
And was paid handsomely for it.
During the day, she ran a plant shop in town. Had for the last two years since she’d saved up enough money for the deposit. And she loved it, liked she loved her clients and their plants who were more like pets to them.
“Right then.” The man walked back into the pool area, now fully dressed. He was wearing a pair of dark pants and a dark t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, a scowl pulling at his lips. “Can we agree you’ll never come here again?”