Donna Alward - Beauty And The Brooding Billionaire

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she muttered, taking the strap off her neck and putting the camera in his hands.

He scrolled through, appeared to be satisfied, and handed it back.

“Thank you. You can leave now.”

Her cheeks flared at being so readily dismissed. She shoved the camera into her tote, fuming. He hadn’t even offered his name when she’d introduced herself.

She met his gaze. “For the record, you didn’t have to be so rude.”

Then she swept by him. She was only a few feet away when she thought she heard him say, “Yes, I did.” But when she looked over her shoulder, he was standing with his back to her, looking out to sea.

She hurried on, but when she got to a curve in the property, she turned back. He was still standing in the same spot, looking angry and lonely and lost.

She reached for her camera and took one hurried shot, then scurried back to the gate.

Bran sensed when she was completely gone, and let out a low breath.

Solitude. All he wanted was solitude. For people to leave him alone. The months of pretending in New York had taken their toll. He’d lost himself in his grief, only pulled out occasionally by his best friends, Cole and Jeremy. There’d even been times when he’d smiled and laughed. But then he’d gone home to the reminders of the life he’d once had, the one he’d been on the cusp of having, and he’d fallen apart. Every. Single. Time.

When he’d started to self-medicate with alcohol, he’d known he had to make a change. At first it had been just beer, and in the words of his grandmother, “it’s not alcoholism if it’s beer.” He’d used that for a long time to justify his overindulgence. But when he’d graduated to Scotch, and then whatever alcohol was available, he’d known he was in trouble. He needed to sell the brownstone and get away from the constant reminders. Get his act together.

Jennie would be so angry to know that he’d resorted to alcohol to cope. And so he’d thrown out all the booze, because Jennie’s memory deserved better.

The house in Nova Scotia was damned near perfect. Sometimes Jeremy and his new wife were close by, providing him with the odd company to keep him from transitioning from eccentric to downright crazy. No one knew him here, or if they did recognize his name, they didn’t make a big time about it. He had groceries delivered to the house. Couriers delivered anything he could buy online...there wasn’t much shopping nearby anyway. He spent hours staring out at the sea, trying to make sense of everything. Wondering how to stop caring.

Wondering if he’d ever be able to write again.

The one downside was the stupid lighthouse. In the beginning, it had been an incentive to buy. It was interesting and unusual, and he’d liked the idea of owning it. What he hadn’t counted on was the foot traffic, skirting his property and solitude with cameras and picnic blankets and... He shuddered. At least once a week he found a condom on the ground. It wasn’t so much the idea of it being the site for romantic trysts. He could appreciate a romantic atmosphere. But heck, would it be too much to ask for people to pick up after themselves?

Today he’d seen the reddish-blond head, and he’d had enough. The moment she’d pulled out her camera and started taking photos, he was ready to put on his boots. But when she turned to take a picture of the house? That was the clincher. He valued his privacy far too much. So far reporters hadn’t found him, as they had in New York. But it was only a matter of time. She didn’t seem like a journalist or a paparazzo, but he couldn’t be sure.

He watched a gull buffeted by the wind and sighed. She was right; he’d been a jerk about it. And part of that was because she’d been trespassing, and the other part was because he’d immediately realized how pretty she was. Early thirties, he’d guess, with blue eyes that had golden-green stripes through the irises, making them a most unusual color that deepened when she got angry, as she’d been with him when he’d demanded she delete her pictures. A dusting of freckles dotted her nose, pale, but enough that it made her look younger than she was. But there were shadows there, too. And the fact that he’d been curious at all set him on edge.

He started back to the house, turning over the encounter in his mind. Jessica Blundon, she’d said. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe she was a reporter.

Once inside, he went to his “den,” a round-shaped room on the bottom floor of the house with windows all the way around. There was a fireplace there for when it was cold or damp, as it had often been during the end of the winter when he’d moved in. A huge bookcase was near the door, the shelves jammed with a mixture of keepers, books on writing and stories he had yet to read. The furniture was heavy and well-cushioned, perfect for curling up with a book. He picked up his laptop and hit the power button, then started an internet search.

It wasn’t difficult to find her. The first hit was her website, and the second was for a gallery in Chicago. Her site had her picture on a press page, but also a catalog of her paintings. He wiped a hand over his face. She was good. Really good. The gallery page brought up a press release from a showing she’d done...nearly two years ago. He flipped back to her site. It didn’t appear to have been updated recently.

Had she not been painting all this time? Or had she been secluded away, working on something new?

Something sharp slid through him, and he recognized it as envy. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel whole enough to write again, and his agent had got him an indefinite extension of his contract, with his publisher saying he could turn in a manuscript when he wanted. Hell, at this point his publisher had more faith in him than he did in himself. The only thing keeping him from paying back the advance and killing the deal was that he was in his thirties. What else was he going to do with his life? At least with the open contract, there was something left ahead for him. More than just picking away at his trust fund, and existing.

And here she was, with her messy hair and bright eyes and pink cheeks, living life and standing up to the ogre.

Because that was surely what he’d become, and he hated himself for it.

But he was certain he didn’t deserve any better.

He lowered the cover of the laptop and set it aside, then picked up his coffee and took a cold sip.

He’d stopped drinking. But nothing else had changed. And that scared him to death.

Jessica looked around the gardens of Jeremy and Tori’s house and let out a happy sigh. The property didn’t have the wild restlessness of the one with the lighthouse, but the scent of the ocean was strong and the burgeoning perennials added bursts of color. Tori had invited her to dinner, and now they sat outside, listening to the ocean and having tea. Tori held her three-week-old baby in her arms, the tiny bundle making small noises as she slept. Jessica held back the spurt of jealousy. She’d had a chance at a husband and family once, and had blown it. She’d been all of twenty-four and had wanted to travel and paint and not settle down yet.

He hadn’t waited. Broken heart number one.

Now she was in her thirties with no relationship on the radar. She’d started to accept that a partner and family was not in the cards for her. It seemed that everyone important in her life always picked up and left in one way or another, and after a while a heart got tired of taking all the risks and never reaping the rewards.