Beauty And The Brooding Billionaire. Donna Alward
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would if she had any sort of sense at all.
But he didn’t check; he heard her feet scrambling up the stone steps behind him. He hurried to the house and stripped off his shirt the moment he got in the door. Within five minutes he’d dumped his wet clothes in the tub and had on warm, dry jeans. He was walking toward the front door with his sweatshirt in his hand when he stopped short.
She’d come inside, just into the foyer, and stood staring at him and his bare chest. Her cheeks blossomed an awkward shade of pink, and she bit down on her lip as he shoved his arms in the sleeves and pulled the shirt over his head. But something strange threaded through him at her silent acknowledgment of...what? Attraction? Awareness? What a ridiculous thought.
He opened the door and guided her outside again, then put a set of keys in her hand. “Where did you get the boat?”
She cleared her throat, and the awkwardness dissipated as they were back on topic. “Cummins’s, about a mile from the resort.”
He knew the location. “Take my car and drive there. I’ll take the boat back. Then I’ll drop you at the resort and that’s that.”
“Branson, I...”
His gaze snapped to her. “How do you know who I am?”
She didn’t answer, and he held back a sigh of frustration. It had to have been Tori or Jeremy. “It doesn’t matter. Take the car.”
He stalked off to the dock again. Damn woman was nothing but trouble.
It took thirty minutes to get to Cummins’s boat rentals, and Jessica was already there, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Bran held on to his anger as he turned the boat over to John Cummins, then followed Jessica back to where she’d parked his car. He got in the driver’s side and immediately hit his knees on the steering wheel; she’d moved the seat forward. Held back another curse word as he adjusted it, and turned onto the road leading back to the Sandpiper.
He never spoke to her once.
She never spoke to him, either.
The drive was short, and he dropped her in front of reception. Then, and only then, did she speak.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, and backed away from the door, as if afraid to say more.
He didn’t answer. She shut the door, and he put the car in gear and steered back onto the main road.
But a hundred yards up the road, he pulled over to the side and gulped for air as the shakes finally set in.
The shakes had held on for a long time, part of an anxiety attack that had been utterly debilitating. When he’d been good to drive again, he’d eased his way home, parked the car and had stood at his front door for ten solid minutes, knowing he should go inside, unsure of what he wanted to do when he was in there. The urge for Scotch was strong, so it was just as well he didn’t have any. He didn’t want to be alone, but the idea of having company was repulsive. The adrenaline in his body told him to pace; the idea of lying down on his long sofa and avoiding everything held similar attraction.
She could have died. Died! For being utterly foolish.
It was just a damned lighthouse. There were dozens along the coast. She could pick another one.
If he’d let her keep her pictures yesterday, this never would have happened. And if she’d been hurt, or worse, today, that would have been his fault.
Like he didn’t already have enough guilt. It was bad enough he had Jennie and Owen on his conscience. The last thing he wanted was to add to the tally of people he’d failed.
In the end he went inside and sat on the sofa, staring at the unlit fireplace. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that his fear and anger were all tied up in Jennie and Owen, and how he hadn’t been able to save them. Or how his selfishness was responsible for them being on the road in the first place. Jennie hated driving from their place in Connecticut into the city, but he’d been too busy to drive home to see them.
All his life he’d promised himself he’d be different from his father, who had always been too busy working to spend time with his wife and son. He’d promised himself he’d be there, and present, and cherish every moment so his kid would never feel alone or unloved. And he’d failed spectacularly.
Since he was too busy to go home, Jennie had been going to surprise him with a midweek visit while he was doing promo for his latest book.
And they’d never made it.
Jessica probably hated him. He certainly wasn’t overly keen on her at the moment. But she was alive, and he’d take that as a win.
And hopefully that would be the last he’d see of her. Surely, after today, she’d learned her lesson.
Jessica felt like a complete and utter fool.
An online course and a few fun rides on the lake years ago, and she’d considered herself suitably experienced to be piloting a boat on rough waters. To Cummins’s credit, he hadn’t been keen on renting her the boat, but she’d assured him it was a short trip and she’d be fine. And she had been, at first. Until she got near the point at Bran’s place.
She’d wanted to get the pictures and get gone. But the waves had been bigger than she’d expected, and more than once she’d hung over the side and retched. The crosscurrent had made everything more difficult, and one particular roll had knocked her down, her shoulder ramming against the fiberglass side.
It still hurt, but not as much as her pride.
She looked at the bruise forming on her shoulder and sighed, then gently put her arms in a soft sweater and pulled it over her head. The moment she’d seen Branson coming toward her, she’d been relieved and then embarrassed all at once. She didn’t need rescuing, for Pete’s sake. She’d never needed rescuing. She was very good at picking up when things went wrong and starting over. She’d done it when her adoptive parents had divorced. When her mom had died. When she’d lost jobs in the days before she could make a living with her art. After her horrible breakup. Even Ana hadn’t rescued her...not really. She’d just appeared, ready to be a friend, a confidant, a professional mentor. She had made Jessica’s life richer, but she hadn’t saved it.
Today Jessica felt as if Branson Black had literally saved her life. She’d been reckless—not unlike her. But she’d got in over her head, and he’d come to her rescue. He hadn’t been pleased about it, either. He hadn’t even grunted when she said thank you when he dropped her off.
Twice now she’d got off on the wrong foot with him. Instead of sneaking photos from the water and never having to deal with him again, she’d made it more obvious than ever that she was a pain in his neck.
And for that, she needed to apologize.
She had no idea how to do that, but she’d come up with something. And kill him with kindness if she had to.
Room service sounded like a perfect idea, so she ordered and then took the memory card from her camera and popped it into her laptop. When she opened up the directory and brought up the first picture, she sighed. It was out of focus, but not too bad. But there were only two or three that were even close to being useful. Then the lens got wet and every single picture was blurred and smudged.
All of that for nothing. She’d only accomplished making him hate her even more. Tomorrow she would apologize. And then she’d find another lighthouse. Or something else that sparked her creativity and gave her the burn to create again. In the meantime she’d keep working, because nothing helped get the muse back in business like being ready for her.
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