The CEO, the Puppy and Me

Then Ric leaned over to her and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

* * *

If you missed the previous story in The Bartolini Legacy duet, check out

The Prince and the Wedding Planner

And look out for the next book coming soon!

If you enjoyed this story, look out for these other great reads from Jennifer Faye

Her Christmas Pregnancy Surprise

Wearing the Greek Millionaire’s Ring

Claiming the Drakos Heir

Carrying the Greek Tycoon’s Baby

All available now!

Keep reading for an excerpt from The Billionaire’s Island Bride by Donna Alward.

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The Billionaire’s Island Bride

by Donna Alward

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

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