When Callie Shawcross's fiancé jilts her days before the wedding, her best friend insists a relaxing break in the sleepy Egyptian town of Fidda Hilal is just what she needs to escape her disastrous love life.
The sun is shining and the locals seem friendly, even if the hotel staff do seem intent on playing matchmaker. But what better way to get over a broken heart than with a holiday fling? A sexy stranger who even makes a wetsuit look hot provides the answer, but is he all that he seems?
A series of mysterious disappearances leave Callie hunting for answers, and during her frantic search she finds it’s not only the town that has secrets. Will she end up wishing she’d stayed at home with the ice cream?
Trouble in Paradise is a full-length romantic suspense novel, with a bit of humour thrown in!
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Excerpt: The Beginning…
I sat on the floor in my living room, surrounded by the wreckage of my hopes and dreams. Scattered papers on my left side, a pile of used Kleenex on my right. The aftermath of the past day and a half.
The half empty box of new tissues took centre stage in front of me, and I plucked out another one so I could blow my nose.
“Callie, have you called the florist yet?” my mother called from the kitchen.
I gave a shuddering sniffle and swallowed down another batch of tears. “No, Mum. It’s on the list.”
Along with contacting the rest of the wedding guests, speaking to the caterer, getting hold of the dress designer, cancelling the hire of the vintage Rolls Royce… The list went on.
All I’d done so far was explain to the organisers at the lovely hotel we’d chosen as the venue for our wedding reception that we were no longer getting married.
The lady I spoke to sounded suitably shocked, but recovered enough to say, “I’m terribly sorry, but with only three days until the wedding, we can’t give you a refund.”
That was the icing on the cake. Cake. The tears fell harder. Of course, there would be no cake. The beautiful three-tier affair that we’d chosen together would probably be distributed at the local homeless shelter, the little bride and groom that were supposed to perch on top consigned to the dustbin.
When I said “we’d chosen,” I meant my fiancé Bryce and I. No, no, my ex-fiancé.
My mother wandered through and put a glass of red wine down in front of me. “Darling, drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”
I looked at my watch. “Mum, it’s only ten thirty in the morning.”
“I know, dear, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”
Was she saying I was desperate? No way! I was off men, forever.
“People will think I’m an alcoholic.”
“No, dear, alcoholics go to meetings. You’d just be a party girl.”
I looked up to the ceiling, praying for divine intervention. It was great that Mum was being supportive and everything, but I couldn’t help wishing she’d do it from the comfort of her own home. That way I could sit and mope in peace.
“You’ve got to get right back in the saddle, show that no-good scoundrel what he’s missing,” she continued.
It was easy for her to say. She’d had plenty of practice. She was now on husband number five. Or was it six? She’d married one of them twice, saying she couldn’t quite make up her mind.
My father had been hubby number one. He’d stuck around long enough to saddle my sister and I with the names Callista and Persephone then taken off for parts unknown. The last time I heard from him, which was eight years ago, he was running a bar in Santorini.
I’d got the better end of the deal, though. At least I could shorten my name to Callie. There wasn’t an awful lot you could do with Persephone. I often thought that had contributed to the chip my sister had carried round on her shoulder since she was a toddler.
I took a deep breath. Things could be worse. Persephone could be here too. But in a tiny miracle, she’d cried off the wedding. Apparently attending a golf tournament in Quinta do Lago with her oh-so-perfect husband was far more important than watching her only sister get married.
Or not get married, as it turned out.
“Mum, give me a break, would you?”
“Men aren’t worth crying over. Especially that one. I never liked him, you know.”
Oh, now she told me. I’d only been dating him for six years. I felt some incomprehensible need to defend him. “He wasn’t that bad. He had his good points.”
“What were they?”
I struggled to think. Maybe I was just trying to defend my own judgment. I couldn’t stand the thought I’d wasted six years of my life on an idiot.
Finally, I came up with, “He always left the toilet seat down.”
