Beauty And The Brooding Billionaire (South Shore Billionaires 2)

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.