A Billionaire for Christmas

I watch a small stream of water flow down the foreboding mountain on my left. Utterly gorgeous. “What about the island?” Brant breaks me from my thoughts as the truck moves forward, bringing us back to the interview. To work.

I clear my throat and pull at my seatbelt. “Well, the island is mostly self-sustaining and I’ve heard it’s due to traditions and in a good part because of the Kulls?” I say although it’s really a question. More of a hunch I’ve gathered.

Brant nods his head slowly, but doesn’t speak. Just as my hope of gaining a little intel dies, he says, “The brothers brought back more jobs, a better economy I suppose.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

His hands twist on the wheel as if debating on telling me something. I almost have to press, but after a moment he sighs and says, “His father was different is all.”

“Have the Kulls always…” I don’t know how to end my question, but I don’t have to.

“Everyone here descends from ancient clans. Mostly two. And we followed those traditions, but Alec’s father did not. It was more about money than anything else.” He huffs in obvious disapproval, but continues. “They already had it all. They’re the wealthiest and determine most of what goes on around here.”

I reach into my purse as I ask, “What traditions did their father stray from exactly?”

Brant’s eyes find mine in the mirror as he answers, “All of them.”

My pen clicks in the quiet air as I get out my small notebook. It’s leather-bound and filled with scribbled notes. I turn to a clean page and ask, “So the new generation of Kulls, they’re bringing back the old traditions?”

When he doesn't answer me, I look up to see Brant smirking as he says, “Not quite.”

He doesn’t continue, and the look on his face is as though he knows something I don’t.

“Could you elaborate?” I ask him.

I watch as his jaw clenches and the truck makes a wide turn onto a cobblestone road. It looks new and clean; unlike the others I’ve seen so far.

“Some traditions died a long time ago, and their father wanted them all to go. He wanted industry here, and that caused a lot of tension.”

“Political tension?’ I ask.

Brant clucks his tongue and says, “You could say that.”

“I don’t see much industry here,” I point out. It’s true. Everything looks like small mom and pop stores.

“There’s some, but not much. In the last couple of decades, the town’s focus has been on sustainability and self-reliance.”

“Since the sons took over?” I ask him to clarify.

Again he shrugs and says, “It was happening regardless of the Kulls. They have the wealth, but their father’s disregard of our ways shook their foothold in the law.” I jot down all of these gems of history. Brant continues telling me about their water supplies and electrical systems, although most of that info I saw online. The history of the Kulls that’s not exposed yet is more of what I want.

“What happened to his father?” I ask.

He shrugs and the truck turns down a path that’s shaded by trees, obviously a driveway. “He grew old,” he finally answers, but the sight of the estate takes my immediate attention.

It’s grand and intimidating. Old money would best describe it. The once copper roof now has a rich patina in a beautiful shade of pale green. It's the perfect accent for the cream stone and manicured dark green ivy along the side of the house, as if they knew all those years ago when it was built that it would look stunning at this very moment. Besides the ivy, there’s no shrubbery in sight, only the pine trees on either side.

“Oh,” I manage to get out only that single word as the truck stops in front of the estate. The loud rumbling of the engine seems so out of place here. I glance down at myself, smoothing out my cream silk blouse and taking a steadying breath as I reach for my purse. The second my back is turned, my door opens.

A gasp slips from my lips as my grip tightens on my purse straps. The man staring back at me is as breathtaking as the scenery. His eyes are a pale blue and at complete odds with his dark brown hair. It's so dark, it’s nearly black.

“Miss Travers,” the man says with a deep voice that echoes through my body and heats my blood. For a moment, I’m stunned from the intensity of his gaze but also from the way he said my name. Like he already knew me. Like he owns me.

It’s only when he takes a step back that I regain my composure and slowly slip out of the truck. It’s high up off the ground and when I look down, the man offers me his hand.