Donna Alward - Beauty And The Brooding Billionaire

Could this ray of sunshine...

...heal his frozen heart?

Widower Branson Black shuns the world on his private coastal estate. Until Jessica Blundon crashes into his life—literally! Her boat nearly wrecks on his shore. Artist Jess has suffered her own loss, so together they’re rediscovering the beauty in life. Only soon their old lives beckon, and their safe harbor is threatened. Will they risk their fragile hearts for a future...together?

DONNA ALWARDlives on Canada’s east coast with her family, which includes a husband, a couple of kids, a senior dog and two crazy cats. Her heartwarming stories of love, hope and homecoming have been translated into several languages, hit bestseller lists and won awards, but her favourite thing is hearing from readers! When she’s not writing she enjoys reading—of course!—knitting, gardening, cooking…and she’s a Masterpiece Theater addict. You can visit her on the web at DonnaAlward.com, and join her mailing list at DonnaAlward.com/newsletter.

Also by Donna Alward

Summer Escape with the Tycoon

Marrying a Millionaire miniseries

Best Man for the Wedding Planner

Secret Millionaire for the Surrogate

South Shore Billionaires miniseries

Christmas Baby for the Billionaire

Beauty and the Brooding Billionaire

And look out for the next story

Coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Beauty and the Brooding Billionaire

Donna Alward

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90321-3

BEAUTY AND THE BROODING BILLIONAIRE

© 2020 Donna Alward

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

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

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

JESS TOOK ONE look at the lighthouse and knew that the search had been worth it. After weeks of wandering, and months before that of her pencils hovering over her sketch pad, the battered white-and-red lighthouse on Nova Scotia’s east coast stood firm against the brisk, briny wind.

In some regards she wondered if the lonely structure was her. Tall, a bit battered from the winds of life, but still standing.

Her agent was after her to do another show. “Your last one was such a success,” Jack had insisted. “An original Jessica Blundon commands top dollar right now.”

“You can’t rush the muse,” she’d replied, deliberately keeping her voice light. “I don’t paint to order.”

She hadn’t been painting at all. Not since Ana’s death. Her mentor. Her best friend. The older sister she’d never had. Losing Ana had devastated her and killed her creativity. Her life had suddenly become colorless and empty. No significant other. No children. No best friend.

She’d isolated herself far too much. So after a good year of grieving and moping, she’d decided to stop hiding away and go in search of what her life was going to look like. The best place to start, she figured, was finding her passion to paint again.

And while she didn’t “paint to order,” she did do this as her career. Like most creatives, it was impossible to separate what she did from who she was.

The biggest shock had been that when she was finally ready to put brush to canvas, she couldn’t. The block had been real and infuriating, until about six months ago, when she’d finally started sketching.

And traveling. She’d left behind the waters of the Great Lakes—Chicago—and gone west, to Seattle first, then San Francisco and down the coast to San Diego. The Pacific had been beautiful, but it wasn’t what she was looking for. She was searching for that feeling, right in her solar plexus, that told her when something was just right . The Gulf of Mexico hadn’t been it, either, though she’d adored her time in New Orleans and along the panhandle. She’d come closer to finding “it” the farther north she’d gone; past the barrier islands in the Carolinas, to the beaches of New Jersey and then the rugged coastline of Maine. On a whim she’d jumped on the CAT ferry in Bar Harbor and headed to Canada. She’d sketched lonely beaches, colorful coastal houses, gray rocks made black by the ocean waves. Trees budding in the mild spring weather. All lovely. But nothing that had felt inspiring. Nothing that created the burn to create.

Her sketchbook was full of drawings, but the lighthouse before her? It was that punch-to-the-gut feeling, and she relished the trickle of excitement running through her veins. “This is it, Ana,” she murmured. “It’s time.”