The Billionaire's Island Bride (South Shore Billionaires 3)

CHAPTER ONE

BROOKLYN GRAVES HEARD the whomp-whomp-whomp of helicopter rotors and rolled her eyes, then let out a long breath as she turned her back on the cliff and followed its progress.

The wind off the ocean whipped her hair around her face and she shoved it back with a hand, tucking it behind her ears, where it stayed for all of about ten seconds before it was loose and blowing around again. She shaded her eyes and stared at the red-and-white chopper as it arced over her corner of the island and then headed toward the grand house and the helipad there.

She’d known this day was coming. Ernest Chetwynd had finally sold the island, and an American had bought it. If the ostentatious aerial arrival was anything to go by, Cole Abbott was going to be a real piece of work. Money to throw around on private islands, and an ego to match.

The sound faded, muffled by the rhythmic roar of the waves crashing on the rocks below. Ernest, who had been the one to build the landing pad, had occasionally had a helicopter chartered. He’d taken her up once, on her birthday, and given her a tour of the Nova Scotia south shore. It had been so different seeing it from the air, all the rugged rocks and islands and sandy beaches. And utterly harmless, since Ernest had been at least seventy-five at that time. He was lonely, and she and Ernest had been friends of a sort. There’d certainly been mutual respect, making her presence on the island quite secure.

His big mansion had once housed him and his wife, and then quite often their children and grandchildren. After Marietta’s death, everything had changed. Ernest went to see his kids instead. The house—all twelve thousand square feet of it—was too much for an aging bachelor, even though he’d hired Brooklyn to care for the grounds and he had a housekeeper come over from the mainland once a week.

As long as Ernest had owned the island, Brooklyn had been safe. She owned the southeast corner, a wonderful acreage passed down by her great-grandparents, and which provided her with solitude and peace and an amazing atmosphere to make a living. Her little boat ensured that she could get back and forth to the mainland whenever she wanted. And she did, often. For supplies and visits with friends. But always, Bellwether Island had been there for her to retreat to. Her safe haven.

Which was now spoiled by the new owner, who was ostentatiously arriving by chopper, now that crews had ferried his things from the mainland to the island and delivered them to the grand house on the bluff. She’d started calling him Mr. Fancy Man in her head.

In short, she was not happy about this new development, even though she’d known it was bound to happen. Ernest couldn’t hold on forever, and she’d hoped one of his kids would take it over. But none of them wanted it—not the isolation of being the only occupants of the island, nor the upkeep. Just some American billionaire who wanted to add it to his list of...well, whatever. Accomplishments? Possessions? It didn’t matter.

She let out another breath and started the walk back to the house. The sound of the waves faded, though the wind still tossed her hair around. She stopped at the vegetable garden behind the century-old house. The garden was nearly done now, in mid-September. It had been a good summer, a little dry, perhaps, but with enough rain to fill Brooklyn’s water tanks for when Mother Nature needed a little help. She’d spent every summer here as a kid, running over the island, swimming on the beach and helping her grandmother with gardening and canning while her grandfather fished. There’d been a hammock between two spruce trees, and she’d spent hours there curled up with a book. Almost every good memory she had of her childhood was tied to this island. It was why, when everything in her life fell horrifically apart, she’d come back. To the place where she’d last felt safe and happy. And here she’d stayed.

Now that peaceful existence was threatened. Because exactly one week ago, on the day that Cole Abbott took possession of Bellwether Island, she’d received an offer from his attorney, attempting to buy her out.

One she’d rejected immediately. The truth was, despite the gorgeous mansion and spectacular setting, living here wasn’t always easy. Popping to the store for a last-minute item couldn’t happen. Going out to dinner took planning, taking the weather and tides into account. And in the winter, it was downright isolating. She’d bet a hundred bucks that Abbott would be gone once he’d sat through his first January northeaster. And then she wouldn’t have to worry about him, except for maybe a few months of the year. The shine would certainly wear off his new toy.

She just had to do what she always did: persevere.

* * *

Cole hopped out of the helicopter and reached back for his duffel bag. With a wave to the pilot, he ran from the helipad toward the house. He was nearly to the back garden when the chopper lifted off again and started back toward mainland Nova Scotia.

He was finally here.

In a few days, work crews would ferry over and begin the renovations he had planned, and in early October, his first corporate retreat was booked, from one of his own companies. The executives were scheduled to stay four days, for rest, rejuvenation and an informal sharing of ideas while they unplugged.

During this event, there would be no Wi-Fi provided. His team would enjoy top-notch dining, an on-site gym, the hot tub, and the sound of the ocean. An antidote to the high-pressure lives they led and a way to keep them from burning out and to remind them of why they loved their careers.

He wished he’d had such a thing not so long ago.

The keys to his house were in his pocket, but he put his bag by the door and then ventured down to the beach. It wasn’t large—maybe two hundred feet of sandy shoreline that gave way to rocks, but it was enough. The September day was warm, and he took off his shoes and socks and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans, letting his toes squidge in the sand. Wind blew the short strands of his hair off his face, and he drew the salt air into his lungs. Ten extra steps led him to the water, where the cold Atlantic fizzed over his toes. The breakers washed over his ankles, splashing a little and dampening his jeans. But he didn’t care.

Having his Realtor best friend, Jeremy, find this place was the answer to a prayer.

Cole let out a breath and pulled in another. And another. A year ago he’d found himself on a dangerous path. One that mimicked his father’s, including a cardiac episode that had scared him to death. He didn’t want to end like his dad, dead at fifty-one—or thirty-five—from a heart attack because he’d been a workaholic.

Work hard, play hard. That was what Jeremy and Bran had always said about him. He never did anything halfway. Maybe not. He did tend to commit fully to something when he took it on. But in this case, it wasn’t about achieving. It was about living.

He dawdled in the water for nearly an hour, before heading back to the house and finally going inside.

It was a cavernous edifice for one person: twelve thousand square feet of understated luxury. There was a not-too-big garage, but it was enough to house a golf cart for getting around the island, and maintenance machinery, like the small tractor for mowing the grass and various garden implements. And a snow blower. He shivered, thinking about how bleak it would be here in the middle of a winter storm. And yet...there was something comforting about being snug inside while the outside was wild and untamed. He certainly couldn’t live here year round. He still had responsibilities. At thirty-five, retirement wasn’t an option. He still ran his father’s empire of manufacturing companies, and he needed that challenge. But he was less hands-on than he used to be, delegating far more responsibility. His hope was to spend maybe a third of the year here, overseeing the corporate retreat business, and two thirds back in Manhattan, home of the headquarters of Abbott Industries.

His things were already in the room he’d chosen for himself, a large suite facing southeast, with windows overlooking the beach and down the island, where the roof of the farmhouse was just visible among the trees. He put down his duffel and went to the window. Brooklyn Graves. That was the name of the woman who lived there, the one who refused to sell her parcel of land. It complicated things, in his mind. They shared access to the dock, which wasn’t really sufficient to his needs, and she owned the boathouse at the tip of the island. He’d hired a husband and wife to be caretakers here, and right now they had to be housed in the apartment above the garage. It would be far better if they could live in the farmhouse and have their own real home.

If only stubborn Ms. Graves would sell. What on earth was a single woman doing living on an island twelve months of the year, anyway?

He knew little about her, except that she ran some sort of cottage industry—had Jeremy mentioned knitting or something?—from her home and that her family had lived on the island for generations. He would have to put on the charm and visit, make her come around. She sounded like the type to offer him tea and scones. Knitting? She was probably someone’s reclusive aunt, too stubborn to move. It might take all his powers of persuasion.

He didn’t really want to, but he figured he should introduce himself as soon as possible. The longer he put it off, the more awkward it was bound to become. Chances were his reception would be chilly, anyway.

With a last look out the window, he turned away and went back downstairs, and out the front door this time. He’d just walk down to meet her and break the ice. He wouldn’t even mention selling. Not yet.

The front gardens were beautiful. The grass was neatly trimmed, and there were still flowers, yellow and red and rusty-colored ones, brightening the beds. Further along, past the manicured lawns, the landscape was wilder. One either side of the lane was waving grass and thick bunches of goldenrod and light purple wild asters. Most of the trees were evergreens, with very little hardwood, but here and there he saw birches and maples. The leaves on the birches were starting to yellow, but the maples were still green and vibrant. The walk took maybe only ten, fifteen minutes, tops, but it was a beautiful one.

The farmhouse came into view and he stopped for a moment, struck by the sight of it. It was old and rambling, but well kept, with freshly painted spindles on the veranda and potted flowers on the stained steps. There was nothing special about it really; the outside was white, with no fancy trim or shutters, but it was charming and cozy and like something he expected to see on an old-time greeting card. All that was missing was—

A bark sounded and a retriever bounded from around the corner of the house, straight toward him. Apparently a dog wasn’t missing from the picture, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the homey scene. Eyes bright and tongue lolling happily, the dog ran up to him and immediately rubbed against his legs, looking for pats.

Cole couldn’t help obliging. He loved dogs. Not that he’d ever had one growing up.