Beauty and the Brooding Billionaire

by Donna Alward

  The hinges creaked as he pushed the door open.

  She followed behind, stepping into the hollow-sounding space that closed out the sound of the wind. The bottom of the lighthouse was simply a large, single room. An old army cot was against one wall, with a wool blanket heavy with dust covering the mattress. There was a table and chairs there, too, and an oil lantern—empty—sitting on the table. A space jutted out from the otherwise square base of the lighthouse, and a wood stove was in the corner, the flue vented out through the top of the addition. When Bran went to examine it, she stopped him. “Don’t,” she said quickly. “I promise I’m not usually a wimp, but I have visions of that stove either being full of mice or that birds have made a nest in there.”

  He chuckled and stepped back. “I’ll explore that on my own, then.”

  “Thank you.” She shuddered. She hated mice, and she also hated the thought of a bird flying out of the iron stove and getting trapped in the room.

  “It’s pretty plain, isn’t it?”

  She wandered over to the army cot, pushed up against the wall. What a lonely spot. “Was there ever a lighthouse keeper?”

  He nodded. “The lighthouse was made defunct in the late forties, after the war. But before that there was. And one before him. Back to 1893, when the lighthouse was built. There was a house, too, but it burned in the twenties, apparently.”

  She was intrigued. The light in the room was dark and gloomy, thanks to a lack of windows. A sparse amount of sunshine traveled down to the bottom level from a singular window above, along the staircase that led to the actual lamp. She went to the staircase and looked over at him. “I’m lighter. I’ll go first and make sure it’s sound.”

  “Please be careful.”

  She smiled in reply and turned her attention to the rough steps leading to the top. The spiral staircase was narrow, but solid, and Jessica held on to the handrail as she climbed up...and up...and up, Branson’s footsteps close behind. She reached a trapdoor at the top, and with a little help from Branson, released the closure and pushed it open.

  Light poured in, brash and cheery, along with a gust of cool air. Apparently the windows at the top were not airtight, and the wind gusted around the structure, whistling eerily through the cracks.

  Jessica had never been a big fan of heights, but she couldn’t deny the view was spectacular. She could see for miles—up and down the coast, and also inland, to where the main road cut through the trees and clearings where other houses were built. None of them were as grand as Bran’s.

  “Wow,” Branson said, standing close behind her. There wasn’t much room in the top, and she could feel the warmth of his body near her back. “It’s tiny. But look at the size of the lamp.”

  She looked. “I can’t even see a bulb or anything. Is there one?”

  “I think it’s so old it might have been a lantern. And all these lenses. Cool, right?”

  It was cool. It was one of the neatest things she’d ever seen. And the lenses...so many angles and slivers of light and texture. She wished she’d brought her camera. Wondered if Bran would let her come in here again. She thought about the challenge of painting simply light. Tingles ran down her arms and she turned to him. “I need to paint this. Look. It’s all glass and angles and light and can you imagine what it would look like on canvas?”

  His gaze locked with hers, and the power of it slammed into her. They were utterly alone, at the top of an abandoned lighthouse, and the intimacy of the moment was too strong to be ignored. His gaze dropped to her lips briefly, and a slow burn ignited low in her pelvis...attraction. Desire. She tried to push it away. She had no business being attracted to him, especially after their rather personal conversation earlier in the week. He certainly wasn’t in any headspace to return any attraction.

  “Do you want to go outside?” His voice was rough as he backed away and moved toward a small door leading to the 360-degree platform.

  She inhaled a deep breath and accepted the distraction gratefully. “Yes, but I don’t trust that railing.”

  “Me either. It’s probably rotted. Stay close to the building.”

  She followed him out, watched as he gingerly stepped on the platform. Despite its age, the wood seemed mostly sound. She stayed close to the wall, buffeted by the wind until they reached the other side of the lighthouse, which was sheltered and afforded a view that went miles down the coast. The water sparkled so brightly it hurt her eyes, but her chest filled with the fresh, salty air, and she felt a freedom she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

  She turned and saw Bran watching her, and she smiled, feeling a connection with him that was new. He smiled back, surprising her, and stepped closer. Her heart hammered at his nearness. A pair of gulls screeched, their cries swallowed by a gust of wind.

  “Bran,” she murmured.

  His gaze tangled with hers, dark, complicated. She shouldn’t want him to be nearer. Should suggest they go back inside. Should say she was cold or something...but the truth was she wasn’t cold and she didn’t want to go back inside and she wanted to sink her hands into his rich mane of hair and feel his beard against the soft skin of her face. Oh, Lord. They had just said they were friends. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  And she’d called him by a shortened version of his name. Not Branson, but Bran. It seemed too intimate and yet suited him perfectly.

  “Jess,” he answered, also shortening her name, and all the delicious tension ratcheted up a notch.

  He lifted his hand, cupped the back of her head and drew her close. She had barely caught her breath when he dropped his mouth to hers, and she wasn’t sure she could still feel her feet.

  His lips were full and soft, and his tongue tasted of coffee as it swept inside her mouth. Oh, the man could kiss. Her toes were practically curling in her sneakers as his wide hands drew her up and held her against him even as she melted. Instinctively she reached out and grabbed his shoulders, holding on, fingers gripping his shirt. He shifted, letting her down a little, his hand dropping to the hollow of her back, and she did what she’d wanted to do for days. She slipped her hands into the thick mass of his hair, luxuriating in the soft fullness, the untamed wildness of it.

  He groaned. She shifted her weight and...

  Her foot went through a board.

  She cried out, losing her balance. Branson tore his mouth from hers and pulled her firmly into his arms, his face full of alarm. “Not as sturdy as we thought,” he said, backing up a few steps away from the weak spot. Jessica hadn’t even had time to be afraid. One moment she’d been kissing him; the next she’d been yanked against his body while his face paled.

  She looked over the railing. It was a long, long way down. Dizzying, even. If both her feet had gone through...she would have fallen straight down to the rocky ground below.

  “Let’s get back inside,” he said firmly, leading her back the way they’d come, opening the door and practically shoving her inside. Once he’d secured the door again, he let out a breath. “Okay. That was unexpected.”

  She didn’t know if he meant the near accident or the kiss, and she wasn’t about to ask him. Both events had her feeling off balance and speechless.

  “I’m fine, really,” she assured him, startled by his still-pale face while her heart pounded from the adrenaline. “It was just one foot.”

  “We shouldn’t have gone out there at all. Shouldn’t have...” His stormy eyes caught hers. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Her feelings were momentarily hurt. He was apologizing for kissing her, as if she hadn’t been there, just as involved as he. He wasn’t solely responsible. She lifted her chin. “Are you sorry because you regret it or sorry because my foot went through the wood? Just asking if I should take this personally or not.”

  His lips fell open as he stared. “Take this personally? Jess, you could have fa
llen. A fall like that would have killed you.”

  His face was so tortured right now that her heart squeezed. Considering his past, of course this was upsetting. But she stepped a bit closer, enough that she could put her hand on his forearm. “What I’m asking is if this is about the danger or if you think kissing me was a mistake.”

  He didn’t answer. She watched as he swallowed, his throat bobbing with the effort as she slid her hand to his wrist and twined her fingers with his.

  “Kissing me isn’t wrong, Bran,” she said softly. “It’s just a kiss. I liked it.”

  His thumb rubbed over hers. She was sure he didn’t realize he was doing it, but it did strange things to her insides. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

  “Why? We’re adults. Kissing is...kissing.” She tried a flirty smile, unsure of how it really looked, figuring she probably appeared awkward. But she was trying. She wanted to keep this light. And she wanted to kiss him again. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

  So she eased herself even closer and lifted her other hand to his face. His eyes closed as her thumb rubbed over the crest of his cheekbone, a soft caress to a man who appeared to need it desperately. She wondered how long it had been since he’d been touched. If there’d been anyone since his wife’s death...considering how he hid himself away, she somehow doubted it. Was what just happened the first physical intimacy he’d had in two years?

  “Branson,” she whispered, and his eyes opened. “Please kiss me again. Please.”

  There was a pause where she didn’t think he was going to, and then he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers.

  It was different from the kiss outside, which had been windswept and turbulent and unexpected. This was gentle, deliberate, decimating. Jess leaned into him as he folded her into an embrace, and kissed her with a thoroughness that left her breathless and wanting more.

  But more was too much, at least for today. So she contented herself with the kiss, the nuances of it, the way he delved deeply and then retreated to nibble at the corner of her mouth, stealing her breath. The way his broad hand curled around the tender skin of her neck, where her pulse drummed heavily. How his body was solid and warm and unrelenting in all the right places, while his lips were soft and persuasive.

  She was the one to break away finally, a bit overwhelmed by her own feelings and desires. If it were up to her, they’d christen the lighthouse right here and now, or perhaps dash over the rocky knoll to the house and find their way to his bed. Those desires were natural and exciting, but it was different with Bran. He wasn’t the type to sleep with a woman impulsively, or to simply slake a thirst. Not after what he’d been through. So she stepped away, bit down on her lower lip, hoping to memorize his taste, and took a deep, yet shaky, breath.

  “You’re some kisser,” she said, trying a smile. “Please don’t apologize for that.”

  He turned away and faced the windows, looking out over the ocean, and cleared his throat. She smiled a little to herself as she recognized the moment for what it was. She wasn’t the only one aroused from that kiss. Secretly, she was glad that stopping was difficult for him, too.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” he replied, his voice rough. “But—”

  “Don’t say but,” she interrupted. “Let’s just leave it as a very nice moment between two very nice people, with no regrets or expectations.”

  He turned his head to look at her. “Is that possible?”

  “I think so. Besides, you’re not ready. I’m not stupid, Bran.”

  He nodded. “We should go back down. The afternoon’s getting on.”

  He opened the trapdoor, and Jess started down the stairs. They were plunged into darkness again as he shut the door, blocking out the light. The small window partway up gave them a sliver of grayness to navigate by, and then they reached the bottom. Branson opened the door and Jess stepped outside into the blustery wind, while he followed and locked the door behind him.

  She shouldered her bag and gathered up her gear. Without asking or offering, Bran carried her folding chair and one of her bags to her car, which sat at the end of the lane—she still didn’t park at the house. Didn’t feel it would be right.

  They were nearly to her car when she let out a breath and said what had been on her mind for the last ten minutes. “Bran?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You weren’t thinking of...her, were you? Your wife? When we were kissing?”

  And then she held her breath. She could understand him not being ready. Could understand if she was the first sexual contact he’d had since losing Jennie. But she did not want to be a stand-in. Bran didn’t have much of a poker face. She peered up at him, hoping she could tell if he were lying.

  He didn’t look at her, but faced straight ahead. “No,” he said firmly. “No, I was not thinking of her when I kissed you.”

  She should have been relieved. But the underlying anger in his voice killed whatever joy she might have felt.

  Because maybe he hadn’t been thinking of his dead wife. But he wasn’t happy about it, either. And that left her exactly nowhere.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BRAN DIDN’T GO to the lighthouse anymore. He had no problem with Jessica setting up there, and he sometimes caught glimpses of her, but he didn’t watch from the balcony or take her food or ask if she’d like to go inside.

  He’d kissed her, for God’s sake.

  He poured himself another coffee and wandered through the kitchen, aimless. He’d wanted to be a hermit, to go somewhere isolated and alone to work things out in his head. And it had been fine for a few months. He’d popped into Jeremy’s on occasion, and Tori made sure he wasn’t too solitary. He hadn’t come to any conclusions, but at least he’d been able to stop pretending that he was okay. He didn’t have to go through the motions for anyone. And if he wanted to fall apart, he was free to do so without being watched by friends, colleagues and even the press.

  Now he was getting a bit of cabin fever. Maybe it was the June weather. The days were warmer and things were really starting to grow. Tulips and daffodils had come and gone in his perennial beds, and the hostas were showing their broad, striped leaves. Now other perennials he couldn’t name were sprouting in his flower beds, along with weeds. There was some kind of leafy plant growing in a clump behind the house that he had no idea what to do with.

  He could garden, he supposed. Just because he never had didn’t mean he couldn’t.

  But not today. Today was bleak and rainy, a gloomy cover of cloud hanging over the coast while rain soaked into his green lawn. He looked at the lighthouse and wished the light was there, flashing into the distance. Instead, it just looked cold and neglected.

  There was the section of platform where Jessica’s foot had gone through, scaring him to death.

  The railing that wasn’t safe, either. How easily she could have lost her balance and gone through it. His heart seized just thinking about the possibility.

  The hand holding his coffee paused halfway to his lips as a scene flashed into his head.

  A scene. With characters, and danger and a question only his writer’s brain could answer. Did she fall or was she pushed?

  Excitement zipped through his veins. He took his coffee and headed straight for the den and his laptop. This time when he booted up, he didn’t bother opening email or his browser. He went right to his word processing program and started typing.

  When he looked up later, two hours had passed, his coffee was cold, his brain was mush and he was equal parts relieved and scared.

  He could still write.

  He could maybe move on.

  And he was still carrying guilt with him. Only this time he didn’t want to feel guilty for doing something that used to be as natural to him as breathing.

  After saving the document, he heated his coffee in the microwave, looked at the time and
grabbed a muffin from a plastic container on the kitchen counter. He’d missed lunch but he didn’t care. He’d written. Maybe not a lot, but it was a start. And he was standing in his kitchen with two-hour-old coffee, a just-okay blueberry muffin and no one to share his excitement with.

  He could call Jeremy, but Jeremy worried too much and would tell Tori, who would ask too many questions in her quest to be helpful. Besides, he wasn’t sure either of them would truly get it. He thought about Cole, who totally understood loss and moving on, but who was a workaholic who scheduled his recreation time like part of his to-do list. Bran wasn’t close with his own family, and the last people he wanted to talk to about making this kind of a step were his in-laws. They loved him. He loved them. But their relationship was so painful now, tinged with grief and regret. They hadn’t spoken since he’d moved into the house.

  He picked up his phone and sent a text instead. It said simply:

  I wrote today!

  There was no immediate answer, so he finished his muffin, pondering more about the kernels of the story he’d begun. Right now he had only a scene. He wasn’t even sure who the villain was, or the story question. There was no outline, no solid plot. But there was something. There was a victim and a suspicious death, and that was definitely something to a mystery writer.

  His phone vibrated on the countertop, making a loud noise in the silence. He picked it up and saw it was Jess, replying to his text.

  That’s wonderful! Happy for you!

  And she truly was. He knew because she understood.

  His thumbs paused as he tried to come up with a suitable response.

  It is because of you. I have a dead body at the bottom of the lighthouse. Not sure if she was pushed or if she fell. All because you scared the heck out of me last week.

  The phone vibrated in his hand.

  I’m trying not to be alarmed by any of that. Seriously, congrats on catching a glimpse of your muse. Give her time to come back to you slowly. Accept what she offers you. Soon you will be good friends again.