Читать книгу Beauty And The Brooding Billionaire - Donna Alward - Страница 10

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?

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.

It didn’t stop her from getting wistful and broody around Tori’s newborn, though. And when Tori asked if she’d hold the baby while she popped inside for a light blanket, Jessica had no choice but to say yes.

Little Rose was a porcelain doll, with pale skin and thick lashes and a dusting of soft, brown hair. Her little lips sucked in and out as she slept, and she smelled like baby lotion. Jess cradled her close, looking down at her face and marveling at the feel of the warm weight in the crook of her arm. She did like babies. A lot.

When Tori came back, Jess held out her hand for the blanket, unwilling to give the baby up just yet. “She’s comfortable here and it’ll give you a break.”

“You mean I’ll get to drink my tea while it’s hot?”

Jess chuckled. “Exactly.” She tucked the crocheted blanket around the baby and leaned back in the chair. “Thank you again for asking me to dinner. The food at the inn is lovely, but a home-cooked meal was very welcome.”

“It wasn’t anything fancy.”

They’d had salad, grilled chicken and some sort of barley and vegetable side dish that had been delicious. Jeremy was now inside, catching up on some work while they enjoyed the spring evening.

“It was delicious. Besides, I was hungry. Someone made me angry today, and I went for a run on the beach after to burn off some steam.”

Tori leaned forward. “Angry? Who? Not one of the staff, I hope.”

Tori had resigned her position at the Sandpiper Resort, but she was still close with the staff and popped in on occasion to help with events or answer any questions the new assistant manager had. That was how Tori and Jess had met, and they’d ended up chatting and then sharing lunch on the resort patio.

“No, not staff. You know the lighthouse you told me about? I went to see it. Get some pictures...it’s gorgeous, just like you said. I got that tingly feeling I haven’t had in a really long time. And then the owner showed up. Man, he was a jerk.”

She expected Tori to express her own form of outrage, but instead her eyes danced. “So you met Bran.”

“You know him? Like, personally?”

“He’s Jeremy’s friend.”

Jess lifted an eyebrow. “You might have warned me. What an ogre. Hard to imagine him being friendly to anyone.”

Yet even as she said it she recalled the flash of vulnerability in his eyes. And while his hair was in major need of a haircut, it had been thick and wavy, a rich brown tossed by the sea breeze. Roguish.

“Bran’s been through a lot. He just moved here in February, too. The house is lovely, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t get to see much of anything. I took some pictures of the lighthouse, and then he stomped out and growled at me and made me delete all the photos I’d taken.”

Tori frowned. “He’s usually not quite that grumpy.”

“He was downright rude.” She sighed. “That lighthouse was it. I got the rush I get when I’m particularly inspired. If I could have kept one photo, I could have at least started a sketch.”

Except she did have one photo. The one she’d taken of “Bran,” now that she knew his name. Facing the ocean. She’d looked at it after her run, and had felt his loneliness.

Something else jiggled in her memory. “You said his name was Bran?”

“Short for Branson.” Tori leaned forward. “Do you want me to take her now?” She held out her hands for the baby.

“She’s asleep and fine here as long as you’re okay with it.”

“Are you kidding? When she’s sleeping I get to relax.” She sat back in her chair. “I just don’t want to take advantage.”

Jessica turned the name over and over in her mind. Branson. The dark hair, the eyes...

“Branson Black,” she said, her voice a bit breathy. “That’s him, isn’t it? The author?”

Tori frowned. “He keeps a very low profile here. No one in town really knows who he is.”

“Of course. It’d be like having Stephen King as your neighbor.”

Tori laughed. “Not quite. He’s not that famous.”

Jess tucked the blanket closer around the baby. “He’s pretty famous. And he hasn’t published anything since—”

She halted. She remembered the story now. Since his wife and infant son had died in a car crash.

It all came together now. His isolation. Desolation. Growling to keep people away. He was buried in grief, a feeling she could relate to oh, so well. A pit opened in her stomach, a reminder of the dark days she’d had after Ana’s death. And a well of sympathy, too. How devastated he must be.

She met Tori’s gaze and sighed. “It was in the news.”

Tori nodded. “I don’t want to betray a confidence, you understand. But yes, he’s been struggling with his grief.”

“And values his privacy. I understand now.” And her frustration melted away, replaced by sympathy.

“Do you?” Tori’s eyes were sharp. “Because he’s one of the best men I know. He’s one of the reasons Jeremy and I are together.”

Jess stared into the flickering fire. “A few years ago I lost my mentor and...well, the best friend a person could have. I’m just now starting to paint again. So yes, I get it. Grief can destroy the deepest and best parts of us if we’re not careful.”

Silence fell over the patio for a few minutes. Then Tori spoke up. “I’m sorry about your friend. And I agree with you. Which was why I sent you over there in the first place.”

Jess’s head snapped up. “You did?”

Tori nodded. “He needs someone to stir him up a bit. Looks like you did.”

Jess wasn’t too sure of that. But her heart gave a twist, thinking of what he’d lost, what he was suffering and how alone he must feel. Because she’d been there. And she’d come out the other side.

He hadn’t. And that made her sorry indeed.