Beauty and the Brooding Billionaire Read online

  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?

  South Shore Billionaires

  Billionaires finding brides!

  Bonded at boarding school, best friends Jeremy, Branson and Cole have scaled the world’s rich lists and become New York’s wealthiest tycoons.

  Now these billionaires are swapping the bright lights of the city for the blue waters and golden sands of the coast. In stunning South Shore, they’ll find love and taste a life they never knew they wanted!

  Read Jeremy’s story in

  Christmas Baby for the Billionaire

  Discover Branson’s story in

  Beauty and the Brooding Billionaire

  And look out for Cole’s story

  Coming soon!

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome back to the South Shore Billionaires! In the previous book, Christmas Baby for the Billionaire, we saw Jeremy find happiness. Now it’s time to set our sights on Bran.

  Bran’s got a lot of healing to do. He’s suffered some big losses in his life. He’s a bestselling author who hasn’t been able to write since tragedy struck. But along comes Jessica Blundon, with her sunny hair and sunny smiles and stubborn spirit. Before long Bran finds himself wanting to rejoin the land of the living. And who knows...maybe the words will start flowing again!

  Writing through hard times can be a real challenge. As a writer, sometimes strife is what drives us to lose ourselves in the stories we create. But sometimes it also has the opposite effect, and creating seems utterly impossible. That’s so difficult.

  But you know, the sun comes out again, and somewhere along the way we find our way back to joy. And that’s the best feeling in the world. It gave me a lot of joy to write this story for two characters who certainly deserved happiness.

  I do hope you enjoy Branson and Jessica’s story, and come back for Cole’s own happy-ever-after, coming soon!

  Best wishes,

  Donna

  Beauty and the Brooding Billionaire

  Donna Alward

  Donna Alward lives on Canada’s east coast with her family, which includes her 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 favorite thing is hearing from readers! When she’s not writing she enjoys reading (of course), knitting, gardening, cooking...and she is a Masterpiece Theatre addict. You can visit her on the web at donnaalward.com and join her mailing list at donnaalward.com/newsletter.

  Books by Donna Alward

  Harlequin Romance

  South Shore Billionaires

  Christmas Baby for the Billionaire

  Destination Brides

  Summer Escape with the Tycoon

  Marrying a Millionaire

  Best Man for the Wedding Planner

  Secret Millionaire for the Surrogate

  Heart to Heart

  Hired: The Italian’s Bride

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Praise for

  Donna Alward

  “Ms. Alward wrote a wonderfully emotional story that is not to be missed. She provided a tale rich with emotions, filled with sexual chemistry, wonderful dialogue, and endearing characters.... I highly recommend Summer Escape with the Tycoon to other readers.”

  —Goodreads

  Contents

  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

  EXCERPT FROM HER TWIN BABY SECRET BY THERESE BEHARRIE

  CHAPTER ONE

  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.”

  The brisk wind off the ocean tossed her hair around her face and bit through the light cotton shirt she wore. May was definitely not Nova Scotia’s warmest month, even though the sun shone brightly and warmed a spot between her shoulder blades. She needed to get a different vantage point. The angle here was too sharp. But the lighthouse stood on a bluff jutting out toward the sea, and the only path to it seemed to be from the property before her. And the gate that baldly pronounced Private Property—Do Not Enter.

 
; “Private property,” she grumbled, peering over the metal barrier. She couldn’t see the house from here, and the drive led to the left while the lighthouse was off to the right and then south. Lips set, she swung her bag over her shoulder and put her foot on the bottom railing of the gate.

  “Not electric.” She grinned and then nimbly hoisted herself over the metal railings and landed on the other side.

  It didn’t take long for her to get a glimpse of the house. It was an imposing but beautiful structure, with gray siding and stonework and what would be marvelous gardens in another month or so. Fledgling hostas, their leaves still tightly furled, and a variety of tulips and hyacinths kept the beds from looking sad and naked. Jess expected that there were other perennials beneath the surface waiting for the summer warmth to wake them. The house had a fantastic panoramic view of the Atlantic coastline, and a sloped lawn led to what appeared to be low cliffs. She wondered if there was a beach below. And she’d like to look, but first she wanted to skirt the property and get to the isolated lighthouse, so she could take some pictures and perhaps make a sketch or two.

  The ground was hard and rocky beneath her feet as she set off to the lonely tower. She’d made a friend at the nearby resort, and Tori had told her about the hidden gem, suggesting its semi-neglected state might add to its allure. She hadn’t been wrong. The weather-beaten clapboards on the outside were in sad need of fresh paint, and as Jess got closer, she realized that the gray wood was worn surprisingly smooth from wind and salt. There was rust on the hinges of the door, and she wondered if the thing would even open or what she might find inside if it did. Dirt? Mice? Other creatures? She looked way up to the top, where the beacon lay, silent and still. Did it still work?

  The lighthouse was full of character and secret stories. Her favorite kind of subject.

  After her cursory examination, she pulled out her camera and started taking shots. Different angles, distances, close-ups, and with the Atlantic in the background. The ocean was restless today, and she loved the whitecaps that showed in her viewfinder, and the odd spray from waves that crashed on the rocks below.

  After she took the photos, she thought she might like to get a few of the house, too. It was more modern and certainly very grand, but still with that lonely brave-the-elements esthetic that she loved. She swung around toward the property and came face-to-face with a pair of angry eyes. The man they belonged to gave her a real start.

  “You’re trespassing,” he said, his voice sharp and condemning.

  He looked like a hermit. It was hard to tell his age, because his hair was shaggy and his beard was in dire need of trimming, but she guessed maybe forty, or a little older. The brown shirt was wrinkled and slightly too big for his lean frame, and he wore faded jeans and worn boots. All in all, he was a little bit intimidating. Not just his looks, but the expression on his face. He was angry, and he wasn’t bothering to hide it.

  Somehow, though, she found him rather compelling. Rugged and mysterious, and beneath the scruff his looks were quite appealing. She rather thought she’d like to sketch him. And while he was intimidating, he didn’t seem...dangerous. Just grouchy.

  “I was only on the property for a few minutes. I stayed right along the edge until I got to the lighthouse.”

  “The lighthouse is on my property. I’m assuming you saw the sign, and chose to ignore it.”

  She didn’t have an answer to that, because it was true. Except she hadn’t realized that the lighthouse was on his private property. Weren’t they usually parkland or municipal or something? How many people owned their very own lighthouse?

  She put on her most contrite face. Despite his abrasive manner, it appeared she was in the wrong here, not him. If she wanted to have access to this perfect aspect, she needed to appeal to his...friendly side? If he had one.

  “I’m really sorry. I truly didn’t realize the lighthouse was part of your property. I’m an artist, you see. I’d heard about it from someone at the Sandpiper Resort, and they assured me it was worth checking out. I wouldn’t have trespassed if I had realized I wasn’t just, well, cutting across your lot.”

  He crossed his arms.

  Now she was getting annoyed. Had she done anything so very awful that meant he had to be so...disagreeable?

  She tried again. “I’m Jessica Blundon.” She held out her hand and smiled.

  He didn’t shake it. Instead, his dark eyes assessed her from top to bottom, making her feel...lacking. One of his eyebrows lifted slightly, a question mark. She held his gaze, refusing to cower. If his goal was to intimidate her, he was failing. Despite his horrible manners, she did not feel the least bit threatened. This dog’s bark was worse than his bite, she figured. There was something in his gaze that she responded to. He wanted to be left alone. It wasn’t long ago she’d felt the same, so she merely lowered her hand and wondered what was hidden behind the beard and longish hair and grumpy exterior.

  “Well, Miss Blundon, you’re on private property. I’ll ask you to delete those photos off your camera and go back to where you came from.”

  Her mouth dropped open. He was actually going to get her to delete her pictures? She closed her mouth and frowned. “Is that really necessary? I mean, it’s not like the lighthouse is some giant secret.”

  “It’s my lighthouse, on my property, and I don’t want you to have pictures of it.” He reached into his pocket and took out a cell phone. “You can delete them or I can make a phone call and have the cops out here.”

  Now he was being utterly unreasonable, and any curiosity or sympathy she’d felt fled. “I could walk away and take my pictures with me. Unless you’re planning to personally restrain me.”

  She lifted her chin, met his gaze. Something flared there, and nerves skittered along her spine. Not of fear. But of awareness. Mr. Hermit was enigmatic, and no matter how much he tried to hide behind his ragged appearance, he was actually quite attractive. There was something familiar about him, too, that she couldn’t quite place.

  His gaze dropped to her lips, then back up again to her eyes, and for the first time, his mouth curved in a slight smile. “Good luck,” he replied. “I know your name and I know you’re at the Sandpiper. Not too hard to tell the RCMP where to look.”

  He’d call the Mounties. He’d really do it, over a few stupid pictures. She lifted her camera and glared at him. “Fine. I’ll delete the damned pictures.” Her heart broke a little bit just saying it. She needed them. The first true inspiration she’d had in two years...darn it. She held his gaze and got the sense he wasn’t bluffing.

  “You could just give me the memory card.”

  “I don’t think so. It wasn’t blank when I got here. I’ll delete the ones I took just now but that’s all. And you’re being a jerk.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

  Jessica switched to view mode and with growing frustration started deleting all the beautiful pictures she’d already taken, all the while calling him worse in her mind. He was being completely unreasonable. She toyed with the idea of keeping one or two, trying to hide them from him, but then figured why bother. When she looked up, he held out his hand.

  “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?