“Seen enough?”

“I didn't mean to stare. I was just …”

“Curious?” Kellen demanded. “My leg might be mangled, but I can assure you everything else is in working order.”

He'd expected Brigit to stomp out of the room in a huff. He should have known his dot-every-i and cross-every-t manager would do no such thing. Indeed, Brigit drew closer and came around the side of the bed.

“Now you expect me to apologize,” he said.

“As a matter of fact …” She fisted her hands, settled them on her hips and sent him an arch look.

Nice hips. Neatly rounded and, along with her firm backside, just right. Given Kellen's position on the bed, the hips he was admiring were practically at eye level. His mouth watered and parts of his body that had been dormant for months began to stir back to life. Some of his frustration and anger dissipated, only to be replaced by feelings that were far more dangerous.

Even though he knew he was playing with fire, Kellen was helpless to keep his gaze from traveling up Brigit's slender frame and touching on all of the parts that interested him.

“Well?” she demanded.

Their gazes met—collided, really. He didn't see sparks fly, but he swore he felt them. They showered his skin.

The sensation was life-affirming. And he reveled in it.

The Heir’s Unexpected Return

Jackie Braun

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JACKIE BRAUN is the author of more than two dozen romance novels. She is a three-time RITA® Award finalist, a four-time National Readers’ Choice Awards finalist, the winner of a Rising Star Award in traditional romantic fiction and was nominated for Series Storyteller of the Year by RT Book Reviews in 2008. She lives in Michigan with her husband and two sons, and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com.

For Mark, my real-life hero.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EXTRACT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

FAT THUNDERCLOUDS ROLLED overhead and spat rain like machine gun fire as wave after wave battered Hadley Island’s sandy beachfront. As it was on one of the barrier islands off the South Carolina coast, the sixteen-mile-long stretch of pristine shoreline was used to the abuse. Mother Nature’s fury, however, was no match for the emotions roiling inside Brigit Wright.

Unmindful of the worsening storm, she continued to walk. In the pocket of the yellow rain slicker she wore, she fisted her hand around the already-crumpled piece of paper. Printing out the email hadn’t changed its content.

Miss Wright, I will be arriving home the day after tomorrow for an extended stay. Please have my quarters on the main floor ready.

—KF

Two curt sentences that still had her blood boiling.

Kellen Faust, heir to the Faust fortune, was returning—coming “home” as he’d put it—to continue his recuperation after the skiing accident he’d suffered four months earlier in the Swiss Alps.

If the news reports she’d read about his fall were even remotely accurate, then Brigit supposed she should feel sorry for him. Along with a concussion, dislocated shoulder and broken wrist, he’d snapped his ankle, mangled his knee and shattered the femur in his right leg. Four months out and the man was still in the midst of a long and very painful recovery. Even so, she didn’t want him here while he did his mending, potentially meddling in the day-to-day minutia of running the exclusive Faust Haven resort. Brigit preferred to work without interference.

Kellen’s family had a large home outside Charleston, as well as an assortment of plush real estate holdings sprinkled around Europe. Why hadn’t he picked one of those places to do his recuperating? Surely they would be more accommodating to Kellen’s large entourage and the other assorted sycophants who enabled his Peter Pan–like existence.

Why choose Faust Haven? This wasn’t his home. It was hers, dammit! Just as Faust Haven was her resort, the name on the deed notwithstanding. While he’d spent the past five years hotfooting around Europe, living off what had to be a sizable trust fund and enjoying the life of the idle rich, Brigit had been hard at work turning a tired and nearly forgotten old-money retreat into a fashionable, five-star accommodation that offered excellent service and amenities and, above all else, discretion, in addition to its panoramic views. As such it was booked solid not only for the current calendar year, but for the next three. Brigit had made that happen. And she’d done so without Kellen’s help.

Now the heir was returning and he wanted his quarters readied. His quarters? During the time she’d managed the resort, Kellen had never set foot on the island. It was Brigit’s understanding that he hadn’t visited the island since he was a boy. So she’d made the owner’s private apartment on the main floor her own, and had turned the manager’s rooms into a luxury suite that commanded a handsome sum.

Where was she going to sleep now? She might go to bed after most of the guests were tucked in for the night and rise long before they awoke, but that didn’t mean she wanted to bunk on one of the overstuffed couches in the lobby or the big leather recliner in the library, no matter how comfy she found it to be for reading.

Muttering an oath that was swallowed by the wind, she stopped walking and looked back in the direction she had come. The cedar-shingled resort stood three stories tall—four, really, given the pilings that raised it another twelve feet above sea level to protect it from flooding. Natural sand dunes dotted with clumps of gangly grass buffered the structure from the worst of the Atlantic’s abuse.

Home.

Kellen might refer to it as such, but for Brigit that truly was the case. It was here she’d come after her nasty divorce. Pride battered, feeling like an epic failure. The sea air, the sense of purpose, both had played a key role in ushering her back from the brink of despair.

Her gaze skimmed the balconies that stretched out from every room to maximize the view. Even though it was early afternoon, the lights burned brightly in the windows, beacons of welcome to any guests who had braved the worsening weather and boarded the last ferry from the mainland before the storm halted service. Once travelers reached the island, of course, they would still have to navigate the winding roads over the hilly center of Hadley Island to the eastern shore where the resort was situated. But even accounting for the slow going, those guests would be arriving soon.

With a sigh, Brigit headed back. She had a job to do and she would do it. Right now, her priority was to see that all new arrivals were comfortably settled in their rooms. Once that task was accomplished, she would work on figuring out her own accommodations for the duration of Kellen’s stay.

By the time she reached the resort, any part of her body not covered by the slicker was drenched. She had hoped to have enough time to change into dry clothes and do something with her hair before the first guests arrived, but a full-size black SUV was pulling up under the covered portico at the main entrance as she came around the dune.

The driver hopped out, as did another man, who came around from the vehicle’s passenger side. Both were big and burly. Bodyguards? It wasn’t a surprise. A lot of the inn’s guests were important people—Hollywood A-listers, business magnates, politicians. Before either man could reach for the handle, however, the rear passenger door swung open.

Brigit covered her mouth, but a gasp still escaped.

Kellen Faust. The heir was early.

She’d never met Kellen in person. They exchanged emails and texts a couple times a month, and occasionally a phone call. But he’d never come for a visit. Now here he was. In the flesh. And he wasn’t at all what Brigit had expected.

Every photograph she had seen of him—and the guy turned up in print and online media reports with as much regularity as the tide—showed a handsome young man with sun-lightened brown hair, deep-set hazel eyes, a carefree smile and a body honed to perfection under what had to be the capable tutelage of a well-paid personal trainer.

Meanwhile, the man trying to exit the SUV’s rear seat was thin, borderline gaunt, muscles withered away from long hours spent still and sedated. The dark smudges under his eyes made it plain he hadn’t been getting much sleep as of late. He remained good-looking, but if his rigid posture and pinched features were any indication, he was far from carefree.

Vital, healthy, fit? None of the descriptions she’d seen in press clippings applied to the man now.

“I’ll get the wheelchair, Mr. Faust,” said the man who’d come around from the front passenger side.

“No! I’ll walk,” he bit out in an angry rasp that carried to Brigit despite the howling wind.

“But, Mr. Faust—” the driver began, only to be shouted down.

“I said I’ll walk, Lou! I’m not a freaking invalid!”

Kellen swung his left leg out the door without too much effort, but when it came to the right one, he had to use his hands to manipulate the limb over the threshold. Then, lowering himself to the running board first, he eased to the ground. He held a cane in one hand. He used the other hand to grip the door frame. Unfortunately, neither support was enough to save him. A mere second after both of his feet hit the driveway, his right knee buckled. The man he’d called Lou caught Kellen under his arms before he hit the pavement. Ripe cursing followed. The other man rushed forward, as did Brigit, determined to help.

“Who in the hell are you?” Kellen bellowed, shaking off the hand she placed on his arm.

She pushed back her hood and offered what she hoped was a professional smile. Wouldn’t it just figure that she looked her absolute worst for the occasion? Despite the rain slicker’s hood, her hair was damp, and the bangs that she was three months into growing out were plastered against her forehead. As for makeup, she doubted the little bit she’d applied that morning lingered on her eyelashes and cheeks now. Her feet were bare, her calves spattered with wet sand. It was hardly the professional image she’d planned to portray when she first made his acquaintance.

“I’m Brigit Wright.” When he continued to stare as if she were something to be studied on a slide under a microscope, she added, “We’ve spoken on the phone and via email for, well, several years. I manage Faust Haven.”

That news elicited not a polite smile, but a snort that bordered on derisive.

“Of course you do.” His gaze flickered down in seeming dismissal. Although he said it half under his breath, she heard him well enough when he added, “I had you pegged right.”

So, the man had preconceived notions of her, did he? That didn’t come as much of a surprise. And to be fair, she entertained plenty of her own where he was concerned. Still, it irked her that, after a mere glance, he could so easily marginalize her—both professionally and, she didn’t doubt, personally.

Brigit cleared her throat and drew herself up to her full height of five foot six. Since he was hunched over, it put them nearly at eye level. When their gazes connected she didn’t so much as blink. Using her most practiced “boss” tone, she told him, “I wasn’t expecting you. Your email, which I received only this morning, said you wouldn’t arrive until the day after tomorrow.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Obviously.”

“I was in Charleston visiting...” His words trailed off and his expression hardened. “I’m here now. I trust that’s not a problem, Miss Wright.”

“None whatsoever,” she assured him with a stiff smile. “I just wanted to explain that your quarters, well, they are not ready at the moment.”

“Am I expected to wait out here until they are?” he demanded irritably.

Standing under the portico, they were protected from the worst of the rain, but the wind pushed enough of it sideways that it splattered them every now and again.

“Of course not,” she replied as heat crept into her cheeks. What was she thinking, keeping a guest of his position, much less his current condition, out in the elements? She turned on her heel and marched toward the lobby entrance, calling over her shoulder, “Right this way, gentlemen.”

* * *

Kellen didn’t follow the ever-efficient Miss Wright inside to the elevator. Rather, he allowed Lou and Joe to half drag, half carry him in the direction of the door. He’d ticked her off but good. No surprise that, since he’d been so rude. Another time, he would have felt bad about the way he’d treated her. Unfortunately for her, both his usual good humor and his abundant charm had gone the way of his right leg. That was to say, fractured beyond repair. Or so the doctors claimed. They were wrong. They had to be. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life like this...barely able to walk. A mere shadow of the healthy, active man he used to be.

The elevator doors opened after a bell dinged, announcing their arrival. The lobby looked different than he remembered from the last time he’d been to Faust Haven. Gone were the deep green, gold and maroon that had always struck him as more suited to a Rocky Mountains cabin than an ocean-side resort. Varying shades of blue and turquoise dominated the color scheme now, accentuated with weathered white and a pale yellow that reminded Kellen of sand. Overhead lights, along with the glow of table lamps, gave the lobby a warm, welcoming ambiance despite the storm that raged outside.

He exhaled slowly, and some of the tension left his shoulders. He remained a long way from relaxed, but he knew one thing for certain. He’d been right to come here.

He’d been second-guessing the decision to leave Switzerland ever since his plane touched down in Raleigh and the only one to greet him at the airport had been his mother’s ancient butler holding a hand-lettered sign bearing Kellen’s name. Orley hadn’t changed much, but Kellen apparently had. The older man hadn’t recognized him. Of course, it had been nearly a dozen years since Kellen had set foot in his boyhood home in Charleston.

And it had been longer than that since he’d been to the island.

He glanced around again. “This is...this is nice,” he said to no one in particular.

“The remodeling was completed last fall. All of the guest rooms have been updated in a similar color scheme.” She cleared her throat. Her tone was just this side of defensive when she added, “I emailed you numerous photographs.”

He didn’t remember the photos. He probably hadn’t bothered to open the attachments. Too busy burning through his trust fund to care, he thought with a mental grimace. Well, he was done with that. In a way, the accident had forced his hand. He couldn’t ignore his responsibilities any longer. It was time to put his degree to use and start earning his keep.

“They didn’t do it justice,” he murmured.

Nor, Kellen admitted, had the image he’d had in his head done her justice, despite what he’d just said about having her pegged.

For the past five years, he’d signed her paychecks, given the reports she’d dutifully sent on the first of each month a quick skim and approved her capital improvements—all while offering minimal input. This had been accomplished remotely. He’d never laid eyes on the woman to whom he’d entrusted what was now all that was left of to his birthright...until now.

She’d shed the old-man-and-the-sea rain slicker and stood in front of the reception desk wearing an aqua-blue polo shirt adorned with the inn’s logo and a pair of white shorts that skimmed to mid-thigh. Nice legs—tanned, toned and surprisingly long for someone who probably topped out at five and a half feet. His gaze lifted to her waist, which was small, before rising to her breasts, which were just the right size to fill a man’s hands.

He tore his gaze away, surprised to find himself ogling the woman—his employee no less—as if he were some sort of sex-crazed frat boy on spring break. At the same time, he was a bit relieved by his reaction, as base as it was. He’d felt dead for so long...

“I need to get off my feet, Miss Wright. Sooner rather than later, if you don’t mind.” Pain turned his tone surly.

“Of course.” She gave a curt nod. “Follow me.”

Pride demanded that he do so under his own steam, as slow as that would make the going. He took his cane from his driver before turning to Joe.

“Help Lou with the bags.”

Officially, Joe was his physical therapist, but the younger man didn’t mind pitching in as an extra pair of hands when needed. He was being paid well enough, and it wasn’t as if he was kept particularly busy since Kellen regularly skipped his daily stretching and strengthening workouts.

He knew he needed to do them, of course. But knowing and doing were two different things. Hell, some days, Kellen was lucky to get out of bed at all, especially when specialist after specialist offered such a grim prognosis.

He shifted from his good leg to the bad one. Even using the cane to bear much of his weight, the pain was excruciating. He bit back a groan and wondered for the millionth time if it had been wise to swear off the narcotics his doctor prescribed, even if they had made him dizzy and brain-dead. Even if secretly he’d worried that the lure of oblivion might prove too much and he would wind up addicted.

His progress was slow, his gait uneven and lurching, although at least he was able to bear his weight. Brigit turned around once, concern obvious in her expression, but she didn’t offer any assistance. Even when he stumbled before catching his balance, she kept her distance and said nothing. Apparently, his rude dismissal of her help outside had done the trick. He was glad for that. Kellen hated the way people were always rushing to his aid, opening doors, clearing a path for him. For the invalid. Hell, he was surprised they didn’t try to wipe his mouth or other parts of his anatomy as if he were a damn baby.

Women had been among the worst offenders. That was one of the reasons he’d ditched the entourage of females that had routinely crashed at his chalet. As for his male friends, the number had dwindled to nil once it had become clear Kellen no longer would be throwing any of the parties for which he had become legend.

Users and hangers-on, every last one of them. What did it say about him, Kellen wondered, that the only loyalty he commanded was among people such as Joe and Lou and, yeah, Miss Wright, all of whom were on his payroll?

Behind the reception desk, a door led to a short hallway. To the left were the business office, supply room and laundry facility. Kellen remembered playing hide-and-seek in them as a boy during visits with his grandfather. The employee break room was new. He didn’t ask about it, though. No doubt she’d told him about its addition in one of those emails he’d barely skimmed.

The owner’s two-bedroom apartment was on the right. The door was closed, the word private stamped on a plaque affixed just below a peephole. After Brigit pulled a key from her pocket and opened it, Kellen stepped over the threshold, prepared to be assailed with memories of his grandfather, the one person in his life whose love had been complete and unconditional. But as in the lobby, nothing here was as he remembered. Given how emotional he already was feeling, he wasn’t sure whether he was grateful for that or not.

The last time Kellen had been inside, the decor had been far more masculine. It wasn’t only the pale, almost pastel shades of paint on the walls that made it seem feminine now. It was the furnishings: overstuffed white couch, patterned throw pillows, decorative lamps, fat candles in ornate holders, glass jars filled with an assortment of seashells that he’d bet Brigit had collected herself. The scent that lingered in the air was not that of his grandfather’s pipe tobacco. Rather, it was light, fresh and pretty. Her scent. He inhaled deeply, finding it oddly comforting and arousing at the same time. He shoved the unsettling thought aside, only to have another take its place.

“You live here.”

She frowned. “For the past few years, yes. Room and board are one of the perks of the job.”

“I know that. But this was my grandfather’s apartment. It’s for the owner... I didn’t realize.”

“You didn’t realize?” Her tone was as incredulous as her expression. “But I told you—”

He cut her off. “I thought there was an apartment on the other side of the lobby to accommodate the manager.”

Brigit’s mouth puckered at his response, drawing Kellen’s attention to a pair of lush lips that needed no added color to make them appealing, despite the agitation reflected in her eyes.

“There is, or rather, there was. But since this apartment was just sitting empty all the time, I...that is, we decided it made more sense to turn the manager’s apartment into a luxury suite that could accommodate four or more guests for an extended stay.”

“We did?”

Color rose in her cheeks. He was surprised he couldn’t see steam waft from her crown. “I sent you several reports listing the pros and cons. You said you agreed with the cost-benefit analysis that I supplied when I first made the suggestion.”

“Right. I remember now.” Kellen nodded, although he was damned if he could recall doing any such thing.

She’d taken excellent care of the inn. Every penny invested in capital improvements had paid off, he decided, thinking of the lobby. Whereas he had been reckless in the past, the risks Brigit took had been calculated and well thought out.

He might have approved her plans, but the decisions had been hers alone. Kellen had a business degree. One that he’d never earned a living from...although he planned to do so now. He’d be wise to pay attention, learn the ropes from what was obviously a very competent manager.

“It’s been full ever since,” she added.

Which meant it was full now.

Kellen appreciated her ability to turn previously unused space profitable, but it did make for a tricky situation. “Where are you going to sleep, Miss Wright?”

* * *

Where was she going to sleep?

Brigit gritted her teeth. That was the million-dollar question, but she shrugged and offered what she hoped passed for an unconcerned smile.

“I’ll figure out something for the duration of your stay.” As unspecified as that might be. And as short as she hoped it would turn out.

Kellen lumbered to the couch and dropped heavily onto the cushions, his face pinched with a grimace. Sheer will had kept him upright, of that much she was certain. She might have admired his tenacity if it weren’t accompanied by such a surly disposition.

“Well, there must be at least one guest room available, right?” For the first time, he sounded more uncertain than he did irascible.

“No. Full means full. And we’re full this week.”

“And next?”

She exhaled slowly. “Actually, for the rest of the season barring any last-minute cancellations.” When he just continued to gape at her, she added, “It’s been an excellent summer so far. Revenues are up by—”

He cut her off with a ripe oath. “Well, you can’t sleep in the damned lobby.”

Brigit already had made the same determination, but her options were limited. The only alternative was...

Her gaze cut to the hallway and the spare bedroom, where she exercised when the weather prevented her from getting outside for a run. It had a futon that pulled out into what her older sister claimed was a pretty comfortable bed. Robbie and her son, Will, were the only overnight guests Brigit had ever entertained. On a sigh, she recalled their upcoming visit. She’d have to let them know plans had changed. Yet another disruption in her otherwise well-organized schedule.

“I’ll have our bellboy set up a cot for me in the office,” she said at last.

“The office we just passed?” He snorted. “It’s barely big enough for the desk. You can’t get a bed in there, even if it is a damn cot.”

“It will be tight,” she admitted. Not to mention that she would need to figure out where to shower and stow her belongings, but at least it would afford her more privacy than the inn’s common areas.

“No.”

She blinked. “No?”

“No.” This time his tone made the single syllable sound even more final.

Brigit felt her blood pressure rise again. The man certainly knew how to push her buttons. She didn’t like being told what to do. Since her divorce, no man had dared, nor would she have stood for it. After her fiasco of a marriage, during which she had all but disappeared behind her husband’s overbearing and autocratic personality, she’d vowed never to become invisible or obsolete again. She had a brain and a voice. These days, she used both with impunity.

But just as she opened her mouth to protest, Kellen leaned his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. Dressed in varying shades of gray and black—colors that mirrored his mood—she couldn’t help but notice how out of place he looked amid the array of cheerful throw pillows. Still, she might have argued with his edict. Firmly but politely, of course, since he was her employer and tact was in order. But his expression stopped her. The taut line of his mouth and the way his brow furrowed made it plain that he was hurting.

“When was the last time you took a painkiller?” she asked. She kept her tone neutral, careful to keep any concern from leaking into it lest she knick his pride. From the way he’d shrugged off her assistance earlier, she gathered he didn’t want any.

Men. It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. She’d thought she was done stroking their damned egos now that Scott was out of the picture. Well, apparently not.

“I quit those a few weeks ago,” he muttered. Just when she started to think his decision was rooted in some sort of macho tough-guy bull, he added, “They make me a zombie. It’s not all that unpleasant of a feeling, but the last thing I need is to wind up addicted to pain meds on top of everything else.”

His reasoning was sound, even if it meant his pain was left unmanaged.

The two men who’d accompanied Kellen strode into the apartment then. The driver was hauling a pair of suitcases that were large enough to hold Brigit’s entire wardrobe. The younger man pushed the wheelchair. A smaller piece of luggage was balanced on its seat with a garment bag draped over top of it. Brigit’s stomach dropped. Kellen had brought a lot of baggage—in more ways than one. And none of it boded well for how long she would be displaced from her home.

“Where do you want your things, boss?” the driver asked.

Without opening his eyes, Kellen motioned with one hand in the direction of the hall. “Put them in the master bedroom, Lou.”

“And mine?” the guy pushing the wheelchair asked.

Kellen did open his eyes now and he straightened in his seat. “Change of plans, Joe. Miss Wright will be bunking in the spare room. You’ll be out here on the couch.”

Brigit’s mouth fell open. Just like that, he’d turned them all into roommates.

CHAPTER TWO

AGAIN, BRIGIT TRIED to protest. “That’s not necessary. As I said, I can sleep on a cot in the office.”

“And I say it is necessary.” Kellen waved a hand. Then, “Not to be rude, but if you could move your belongings out of your room into the spare and be on your way, I’d appreciate it. I need to lie down.”

He didn’t wait for Brigit to respond. Rather, he returned his head to the cushion and closed his eyes once again.

She’d been dismissed like the hired help she was. Well, hired help or not, his dismissal made her blood boil. It took an effort, but she managed to swallow the pithy reply that likely would have seen her fired. Instead, as she followed the pair of burly men down the hall, she muttered half under her breath, “Sure, Mr. Faust. No problem, Mr. Faust. Happy to oblige.”

Brigit kept a tidy home, even in the rooms that casual visitors normally didn’t see. She was grateful for that fact now that strangers were invading her privacy.

Although the rooms were neat, she would have to change the sheets on her bed before Kellen used it. She’d planned to handle that chore in the morning, as well as gather up her clothes and toiletries in anticipation of his arrival. By showing up a day and a half early, and bringing another overnight guest, he’d left her scrambling and feeling...inadequate.

She swallowed the bile that threatened to inch up the back of her throat. The sentiment didn’t sit well.

While the driver continued down the hall, Brigit stopped at the first doorway. Glancing around the spare room, she tapped a finger to her lips. The treadmill would need to be moved to the corner to make room to open the futon, which would need fresh linens. Ditto for the living room’s pullout couch, where Kellen had assigned Joe to bunk.

As if reading her mind, Joe said from behind her, “Sorry for all of the inconvenience our stay is causing you.”

She turned, taking in his sheepish smile. She guessed him to be a few years her junior, which would put him in his late twenties. Despite a hairline that was already receding halfway across his crown, his face was almost boyish. If he had to shave once a week, she would be surprised.

“It’s no problem,” she lied.

“I’m Joe Bosley, your other uninvited guest.” He let go of one of the wheelchair handles so he could shake her hand. “I’m Mr. Faust’s physical therapist.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Brigit Wright. As you probably guessed, I manage Faust Haven.”

Joe nodded. Then, “Hey, would it be okay if I stowed my stuff in here?”

Better in the spare room with her than taking up space in the main living area. Brigit nodded and then pointed across the room. “The drawers in that dresser are mostly empty. If you’d like, you can have a couple of them.”

“Great. Thanks. I’ll take the bottom two.”

That left her with the top three. “And there’s plenty of room in the closet if you have anything you want to hang up.”

“Nah.” Joe wrinkled his pug-like nose and motioned to his hulking frame. “I’m a wash-and-wear kind of guy. Shorts, T-shirts and sweats mostly, although I do keep a pair of khaki pants and a few polo shirts on hand for anything that requires me to dress up.”

She nearly smiled. Khakis and collared shirts were Joe’s formal wear. Meanwhile, if all of the photographs she’d seen of Kellen over the years were any indication, the guy probably owned stock in Armani. Not that Kellen didn’t wear a tux well, a traitorous voice whispered. She silenced it.

Joe’s simple wardrobe explained why he had only one medium-size suitcase while his boss had brought a pair of ginormous ones as well as a garment bag. Whatever designer-label duds were stuffed inside of them really wasn’t the issue. The sheer amount said he was planning a far more extended stay than she’d first assumed. Just her luck.

“This is a nightmare,” she muttered, momentarily forgetting about her audience.

Not surprisingly, Joe misunderstood what she meant. “You’ll hardly know we’re here.”

“I’m sorry. That was rude. I’m not usually rude,” she said.

Uptight, unimaginative and colossally boring both in the bedroom and out, according to her ex, but even that jerk had never called Brigit’s manners into question.

“It’s okay.” Joe sent her a reassuring smile. Then, motioning over his shoulder with one thumb, he added, “He’s not so bad, you know.”

“I’m sure.” Her attempt at sounding convincing fell far short.

“Really,” Joe insisted. “Mr. F is in a lot of pain right now.”

She nodded. “He said he’s not taking the meds the doctor prescribed. Said they give him brain fog.”

She decided to keep to herself the part about him worrying about becoming addicted.

“They’d give an elephant brain fog.” Joe leaned closer then and dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. “His pain isn’t all physical, although I doubt he’d admit to that.”

So, the accident had taken an emotional toll as well. Brigit supposed she shouldn’t find that surprising. Even strong people could succumb to depression. God knew, she’d hovered at its dark door for a time just before finally calling it quits on her marriage.

“Mr. Faust’s injury...how bad is it?”

“To be honest, it’s one of the worst I’ve ever seen. His wrist and shoulder have healed pretty well, but his leg...he mangled it but good. Major tendon and ligament damage in addition to the bone fractures.” Joe shook his head and exhaled. “You know, the doctors initially advised amputating just above the knee.”

“My God!” Brigit gasped. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, well, he managed to keep that much from being leaked to the press. His friends...” Joe snorted, as if finding the word laughable. “They forwarded all sorts of information and even a few photographs snapped in Mr. F’s hospital room to the tabloids. He wasn’t happy about it.”

“I’d say he needs a better class of friends.”

Joe grunted at her assessment. “I can’t say I was sorry when he announced we would be heading back to the States. Some of them probably haven’t noticed he’s gone, although they’ll get the idea once the chalet sells.”

Brigit’s stomach dropped. “Sells?”

“He said he doesn’t want to go back there. Of course, it might just be the depression talking.”

One could hope. Because if he didn’t go back there, she had the sickening feeling she knew where he might next call home.

“How’s his therapy going?” she asked, hoping for good news.

That wasn’t what she got.

“Slow.” Joe sighed. “All of the scar tissue isn’t helping, especially since most days he doesn’t want to do his exercises.”

“That must make your job difficult.”

“It does. It also feeds his frustration, because depressed or not, he refuses to give up hope.”

“Of walking without assistance, you mean?” she inquired.

Joe nodded. “Walking without assistance to start. Then running, skiing. He wants to be as good as new.”

Despite a mangled leg that the doctors had wanted to amputate.

“That’s not likely to happen, is it?” she asked softly.

Joe looked away and cleared his throat. “I really shouldn’t be talking about Mr. F’s case with anyone. I just wanted you to know that, well, he’s not being a jerk right now just to be a jerk.”

“Understood. Thank you.”

But if Joe thought she was going to cut the irritable Kellen Faust some slack, he was wrong. Oh, she would tread lightly. She wasn’t an idiot, and she loved this job. But letting people get away with being insufferable, even if they had a good reason for being that way, wasn’t healthy for anyone. Besides, she was finished being anyone’s verbal punching bag.

When Brigit reached the master bedroom, the driver was waiting for her. Kellen’s large suitcases were open on the bed.

“I’ll need a few drawers in the bureau where I can put away his things. Hope that’s okay?”

Where Kellen ordered, his employees asked. She appreciated their restraint.

“Sure.” She grabbed a tote bag from the closet and started to fill it with socks and underwear from the top drawer. Over her shoulder she called, “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

The man sported a shaved head, so her phrasing earned a wry look.

“No rush, Miss Wright.”

“Call me Brigit.”

He smiled, showing off a gold front tooth. “I’m Lou.”

“So, Lou, where will you be staying? I assume you won’t be bunking in here. Will you and Joe be flipping a coin to see who sleeps on the floor and who gets the pullout sofa?”

“Nah.” Lou chuckled. “The kid gets the living room all to himself. I have family on the other side of the island not far from the ferry docks. I’ll be staying there, although I’ll be on call for the duration of Mr. Faust’s stay.” He grinned and sent her a wink. “Worried that you were going to have to make room for another unexpected boarder?”

“Not at all. The more the merrier,” she said drily.

They both laughed.

While she finished filling her bag with clothes from the dresser drawers, Lou hung an assortment of shirts and pants in the closet. All of the garments screamed expensive and were far more formal than the nylon pants, T-shirt and track jacket Kellen had on now.

Did he plan to wear them? If so, when? Where? Once again, she was left with the uneasy feeling that her employer was hunkering down for the long haul.

The man was accustomed to a robust social life, if the press accounts were to be believed. Well, he wouldn’t find much of that on the island. Of course, since his accident, he’d lain low. In recent months, the only time his photograph had graced the newspapers, whether the legitimate press or the gossip rags, he’d been shown leaving a doctor’s office or a hospital. No smiles for the cameras in those pictures. He’d worn the same pain-induced grimace she’d viewed firsthand. And his palms had been up, as if to ward off the swarming paparazzi.

Brigit finished clearing out the drawers and hastily grabbed a selection of outfits from the closet, which she took to the spare room. Joe had finished emptying his lone suitcase. Hands on his hips, he was glancing around.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked.

“I’ve got some equipment I need to bring in for Mr. F’s sessions. Some of it is going to take up space. I don’t think you’re going to want it in the living room.”

He was right about that. “The inn has a gym on the main floor. It’s small, but there should be room for your equipment.”

“Mr. F prefers privacy.”

Brigit nodded. She couldn’t blame him for that. She preferred privacy herself. Not that she would be getting much of it for the next who-knew-how-long.

“If I have my treadmill moved to storage, will that be enough space? The bookshelf under the window can go, too.”

Joe squinted, as if visualizing the room sans the items she’d mentioned. “Yeah. I think that will do it.”

“Great. I’ll call the bellboy.”

“No need. Lou and I can handle this.”

“All right.” That settled, she nodded toward the bag that was still on the wheelchair’s seat. “Is that Mr. Faust’s?”

“Yes.”

“I can take that to the master bedroom, if you’d like. I still need to get my toiletries from the bath.”

“Appreciate it.” Joe handed it to her. Then, “Speaking of toiletries, I take it the two of us will be sharing the bathroom in the hall.”

Brigit managed to squelch a groan. The invasion of her privacy was officially complete. Still, if she had to share a bathroom, she supposed she’d rather do so with an affable Joe rather than a sullen Kellen. The latter would be too...intimate.

Where had that thought come from?

She forced a smile and, striving for good humor, asked Joe, “So, are you neat?”

“I can be when the situation calls for it.”

“Trust me. It does,” she replied drily.

“Then I promise I’ll do my best to remember to put the toilet seat down, too.”

Brigit’s laughter was cut short by a snort coming from the living room. Then Kellen yelled, “Can you two skip the chitchat and finish up? As I’m the one who signs both of your paychecks, I know you have better things to do with your time than flirt.”

Flirt! Brigit felt her face flame, but it wasn’t merely embarrassment that brought heat rushing into her cheeks. The nerve of the man accusing her of flirting, as if her spending a few minutes talking to a colleague meant she was some sort of slacker. And to think mere minutes earlier she’d started to feel sorry for him based on the extent of his injury. Every ounce of sympathy had evaporated now.

Joe pulled a face. “Sorry,” he mouthed.

Brigit nodded, but she was too damned irritated to be sorry.

She delivered the bag to the master bedroom. While Lou and Joe moved the treadmill and bookshelf to storage to make room for the physical therapy equipment, she changed the sheets on the bed where Kellen would sleep. Afterward, she gathered up her toiletries from the attached bathroom and put out fresh hand and bath towels. Then, satisfied that everything was in order, she turned to leave only to do an about-face.

“Toothbrush,” she muttered aloud.

She opened the medicine cabinet, planning to grab the item in question. When her gaze landed on the bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen, an idea formed. One that she couldn’t resist. She fished the eyeliner pencil out of her makeup bag and, after jotting her message, grinned at her reflection in the mirror.

* * *

As Brigit entered the living room, she braced for an unpleasant exchange.

Be polite. Be professional. But hold to your principles.

She needn’t have bothered with the internal pep talk. Kellen was fast asleep on her couch. He remained seated where he had been, but his bad leg was propped on the coffee table, one of her colorful pillows under the heel serving as a cushion. In sleep he appeared less formidable and intimidating than he had while glowering at her and barking out orders. But even in slumber he wore a grimace that pulled down the corners of his mouth. Pain. Add in a wheelchair and cane, and it should have made him seem vulnerable. Only none of that did.

Nor did it detract from his overall good looks. With his chiseled cheekbones and square jaw, the man was classically handsome. No getting around that, even in his diminished physical state. Nor was there any getting around his reputation as a freewheeling ladies’ man. A lot of women probably thought his polished looks and well-padded bank account made him quite a catch. Especially if they were able to excuse his nasty disposition, she thought uncharitably.

Kellen’s head was canted sideways in a position that was sure to leave his neck sore when he awoke. Even so, she didn’t attempt to wake him. She had no desire to poke a sleeping bear. Instead, she tiptoed past him, eager to avoid further unpleasantness. At the door, she chanced a glance back. The less interaction Brigit had with her boss, the better.

* * *

Kellen woke to the sound of a door closing. He straightened on the couch and craned his neck to one side and then the other. In the short time he’d been asleep, a crick already had formed just below the base of his skull. He grunted. Yet another sore muscle for Joe to work on during their afternoon session. If Kellen went. Maybe he’d skip it again. What was the point, anyway?

It was this kind of thinking that made him angry, even as it also left him feeling defeated. He wanted to get better, but what if he never did? What if all of the medical experts were right?

Kellen rose unsteadily to his feet, bearing as much of his weight as possible on the cane. Damned thing. He hated using it. Hated that he had to use it. But most of all, he hated what it represented. It shouted to the world that Kellen Faust was no longer the man he used to be. He was injured, limited.

Useless.

The very thing his own mother had always accused him of being.

The conversation they’d had not long after he’d arrived at her home in Charleston sprang to mind.

“The only thing you’re good at is spending money. You’ve all but drained your trust, living high on the hog in Europe. No cares, no responsibilities.” She’d waved one of her bejeweled hands, the diamonds her second husband had given her winking under the lights. “Well, don’t expect me to bail you out. You’re just like your father. You’ve never planned for a rainy day.”

They were estranged, had been since he was a boy, really. Since not long after his father’s lengthy illness and death had left them nearly penniless. She’d come back stronger than ever thanks to remarrying well, but not before hocking almost everything of value to stay afloat. As his grandfather’s sole heir, Kellen had been well provided for. In a way, that had only made her resent him, especially since he’d continued his father’s free-spending ways. As a result, Kellen and his mother had never shared a close bond again. He’d been foolish to think things might have changed either because of his injury or his changing financial situation.

But he hadn’t been wrong to come to Hadley Island. He’d come here to find a purpose, if not a vocation then an avocation. Something, anything, to give his life meaning if it turned out that all of the doctors, including the latest one in Charleston, were right.

The best memories of his childhood were rooted here. The place had been his sanctuary, both during his father’s illness and after his father’s death. Where his relationship with his mother had always been rocky, a young Kellen had been the apple of his grandfather’s eye.

“You’re bright, ambitious. You’re going to be a fine man when you grow up, Kellen.”

He wondered what his grandfather would think if he could see Kellen now. The bum leg wouldn’t be an issue. But what Kellen had made of his life to this point...that wouldn’t sit well with the old man. Granddad had placed his trust in Kellen, left him his fortune and all of his real estate holdings, not the least of which was the resort. These days, most of what Kellen still owned of his grandfather’s had been mortgaged to the hilt and would soon go on the auction block to pay off his mounting, post-accident debts. Except for the inn. Kellen had left that untouched.

“Everything I have will be yours someday.” Kellen could hear his granddad’s raspy voice, feel the hand he’d placed on his grandson’s shoulder as he’d made the promise. “I know you’ll take extra good care of the inn, because you love it as much as I do.”

Guilt settled over Kellen now like a smothering fog. Yeah, he’d loved it so much that he hadn’t been back in nearly a dozen years, and had rubber-stamped renovations without paying close attention to the plans. Thank God Brigit was so good at her job. The managers before her had been more than happy to stick with the status quo, shrugging their shoulders as the bottom line fell. She’d shored up the aging resort and had brought in record profits as well.

When all was said and done, Kellen would see to it that she was properly compensated.

“Do you need anything, Mr. F?” The question came from Joe, who, with Lou’s help, was bringing in a portable table and the weight bench Kellen thought of as a personal torture device.

I’ll take a new leg, some motivation and a renewed sense of purpose, he thought bitterly. But what he told the younger man was, “I’m going to lie down for a little while.”

Joe frowned at him. “Do you think that’s a good idea, Mr. F? Your muscles are probably stiff from the drive over, especially since we didn’t get in a session this morning.”

Joe was being diplomatic. His wording made it sound as if the omission of the a.m. therapy session had been an oversight rather than because Kellen had refused to cooperate. Hell, he’d refused to get out of bed. Well, at least Joe wasn’t mentioning the evening before when Kellen had called it quits a mere five minutes into basic stretches using a tension band.

“I’m going to lie down,” Kellen repeated, heading in the direction of the bedroom.

Joe lifted his shoulders as if to say suit yourself.

Lou cleared his throat. “As soon as we finish unloading this gear, I’m going to take off. That okay with you?”

Lou had been with Kellen for more than a decade, mainly working as his driver—more often designated than not. Sometimes he also stepped into the role of bouncer when party guests got out of control. There hadn’t been much need for the latter services the past four months. Kellen’s partying days were over. Truth be told, they’d lasted longer than they should have even before the accident.

“This mishap of yours might be for the best,” his mother had said just that morning.

“Mishap?” He’d motioned with his cane. “I didn’t fall down a couple stairs.”

No, more like he’d tumbled head over skis down the side of an icy mountain.

“You know what I mean. You have to grow up sometime, Kellen. You need to start earning more than you spend and make sound investments for the future. Better to learn that now when you have no one counting on you for support. God knows, you father didn’t figure that out until it was too late.”

“I’d say you landed on your feet,” he’d responded.

All these years later, her second husband remained a source of friction between them.

She’d pursed her lips at the remark, causing half a dozen fine lines to feather around her mouth. They marred her otherwise youthful complexion. At sixty-two, Bess Faust Mackenzie remained a beautiful woman thanks to good genes, enviable bone structure and the skills of an expensive plastic surgeon.

“I did what was necessary. Meanwhile, you are content to blow through what little remains of the sizable inheritance from your grandfather. I’m surprised you’ve held on to the inn. It’s prime real estate. Even in this soft market, the money would keep you comfortable for...well, for a few years anyway.”

Kellen blocked out his mother’s parting shot as he took a couple halting steps. She was right about a lot of things, but he would never sell the inn. In fact, he planned to take a far more active role in its oversight.

“Boss?”

He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, realizing he’d never answered Lou.

“Fine. Cell service can be a little spotty on the island, so be sure to leave a landline number.”

“Will do.” Lou offered a jaunty salute. He always seemed to be in a good mood. Same for Joe. Kellen used to be like that, too. As much as his mobility, he missed his old disposition.

“And Miss Wright?” he asked. “I assume she cleared out her belongings.”

It was Joe who answered this time. “Yep. Brigit moved her clothes to the spare room, and her toiletries are in the guest bath now. Lou and I got all your stuff put away.”

Kellen barely heard the last part. Brigit. First-name basis. Hmm. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, he didn’t like Joe’s familiarity. Just as Brigit’s laughter with the younger man had grated on his nerves earlier.

“The last I saw her, she was on the phone in her office.” Lou chuckled. “It sounded like she was giving someone a chewing-out over a delivery snafu.”

Formidable. No-nonsense. Take charge.

All of those descriptions applied, as did intelligent and capable, which foolishly he’d taken to mean she was dowdy, her looks nondescript. In Kellen’s social circles, attractive women were vacuous and helpless—or at least they pretended to be. Draped in frumpy yellow vinyl Brigit had fit his preconceived notion perfectly. But once she’d peeled it off and had shoved the damp hair back from her face, well, Brigit Wright wasn’t at all what he’d expected.

Kellen found her attractive, which was a surprise in itself. She wasn’t anything like the women who usually caught his attention: flashy women whose beauty relied on a lot of enhancement, from hair extensions and capped teeth to serious breast augmentation.

Brigit was pretty in an understated way. She’d worn no makeup that he could see, although her dark lashes hadn’t needed much help to highlight her blue eyes. Her hair was as black as coal. It hung past her shoulders in a limp curtain, lacking any discernable style. Of course, she had just been out for a walk in the rain.

What would she look like with her hair coiffed, makeup accentuating her eyes and dressed up for a night out in something curve-hugging?

He silently answered himself with a second question. What the hell does it matter?

She was an employee. The same as Lou. The same as Joe. Right. Both his body and his mind mocked him.

He limped into the bedroom that had been his grandfather’s during Kellen’s childhood. It was decorated as differently as the lobby and the rest of the rooms. Bright, fresh, inviting even on this stormy afternoon. And more jars filled with shells on the bureau. The bedding had been turned down; the linens that peeked from beneath the comforter were creased in places, leaving little doubt that she had just changed the sheets for him.

He ran his fingers over the pillowcase. He would be sleeping in her bed.

And she would be in the room next door.

He swallowed hard and told himself the sudden uptick in his pulse rate was only because he was wondering how long the arrangement would have to continue. Weeks at least. Months? Possibly. She’d said the inn was booked, so it would be a while before a vacancy opened up.

Regardless, he had a lot to learn from the efficient Miss Wright if he hoped to run the resort as capably as she had been.

Eventually, that was his plan. He’d decided on it during his long stint in the hospital, when the shallowness of his life had been as impossible to ignore as his mounting debts. Kellen was done shirking all responsibility. Life as he’d known it was over in more ways than one.

In the meantime, he had an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon in Charleston the following week. He hoped to receive a better prognosis than the one the previous six had given him. Hoped being the operative word.

As if on cue, his leg muscles began to cramp and spasm. He leaned on the door frame to the bathroom to take the weight off his bad leg. When he glanced up, he spied the message. It was written in block letters on the mirror, and accompanied by an arrow that pointed to the bottle of over-the-counter painkillers on the counter.

“Non-habit-forming,” he read aloud. “Take two and thank me later.”

An odd sound echoed off the tile work as he studied his reflection. The hollowed-out eyes and gaunt cheeks no longer took him by surprise. But it came as a serious jolt to realize he was smiling. And that strange sound? It was his laughter.

CHAPTER THREE

A COUPLE HOURS LATER, Brigit was in the resort’s commercial, galley-style kitchen helping the chef with dinner preparations when one of the swinging doors opened and her unwanted guest lumbered inside.

Sherry Crofton glanced up from the pot of sauce she was stirring on the cooktop.

“Sorry, but guests aren’t allowed back here,” the chef said politely, if firmly.

The kitchen was Sherry’s domain, and she didn’t care for outsiders breaching its door. To call her temperamental would be putting it mildly. She’d been known to shoo out the staff with a few choice words. One time, she’d even thrown a pot of blanched green beans at Danny’s head when the young bellboy had had the audacity to filch a sugar cookie without asking.

But she was a damned fine chef, classically trained with twenty years of experience running some of the finest kitchens on the East Coast. Brigit considered it a major coup that she’d managed to get Sherry to sign on as the chef at a small resort tucked away on an equally small island, regardless of the inn’s growing reputation.

Kellen’s brows notched up in surprise. It was a good bet he wasn’t used to being told where he could and could not go, especially on property he owned.

Hoping to ward off a battle of the egos, Brigit set aside her paring knife and wiped her hands on the bib apron she’d donned to protect her clothes.

“I think we can make an exception for this one since he signs our paychecks.”

“Mr. Faust?” the chef began, her tone brimming with disbelief. Her gaze slid to his leg and then over to the cane. “I didn’t recognize you. You look—”

Sherry was known for her innovative dishes, but not so much for her tact. Brigit decided to keep the older woman from digging herself into a deeper a hole.

“Mr. Faust, this is Sherry Crofton, the inn’s chef. You’re in for a treat at dinner tonight. She’s making her specialty, pan-seared sea bass in an herbed butter sauce.”

“Sounds excellent.” He acknowledged the chef with a perfunctory nod, but his gaze strayed to Brigit and his eyes narrowed. “Why are you wearing an apron?”

“The sous chef is running late because of the storm. He lives on the mainland. I’m lending a hand with prep. Nothing that requires a culinary degree. Just chopping up vegetables for a steamed medley.”

Eyes still narrowed, he asked, “Do you help out often?”

Since the question seemed rooted in genuine curiosity, she decided to answer truthfully. And, okay, she wanted him to be aware that she went above and beyond the call of duty when necessary.

“I wouldn’t say often, but I pitch in when and where an extra pair of hands is needed, whether that’s here in the kitchen or someplace else on the property.”

Indeed, during her tenure, Brigit had changed soiled bedding, flipped mattresses, unclogged drains and performed dozens of other less-than-glamorous chores. Nothing was beneath her, despite her high rank in the staff’s pecking order. Apparently all of her predecessors had had other ideas. They’d deemed themselves too good for menial labor. Brigit figured her willingness to roll up her shirtsleeves was why she had earned the staff’s respect as well as their loyalty. Turnover was at an all-time low.

Kellen rubbed his chin. “I see.”

Did he? Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell from his expression whether he thought this was a good use of her time and managerial skills or not. Some of her old insecurities bubbled to the surface.

You’re so stupid, Brigit.

She banished her ex’s hurtful words. She refused to start second-guessing herself again. Those days were long over.

Squaring her shoulders, she asked, “Was there something you needed?”

“Needed? No. Just...taking a look around. I haven’t been to the resort in years. A lot has changed.”

From Kellen’s tone, however, Brigit couldn’t tell if he was happy about that or feeling nostalgic for the past.

His grandfather had owned the resort from the late 1950s on, which helped to explain why it was a virtual time capsule when she’d been hired. None of the managers before her had pressed for renovations to improve the business’s bottom line. Perhaps they’d been as apathetic toward the place as their employer, seeing it as an easy paycheck rather than wanting to mine its potential. She’d gotten enough compliments from new guests as well as returning ones to know that the new look and amenities were a hit.

Speaking of changes, Kellen had undergone a bit of a transformation as well. His dark hair was wet as if he’d recently showered. He wore it slicked back from his forehead, although a few curls fell across his brow, giving him a rakish appeal. His face was freshly shaved, all shadow gone from its angular planes. But it wasn’t the absence of stubble that caught her attention. It was the absence of a grimace.

“I see you took me up on the offer of some ibuprofen.”

The barest hint of a smile lurked on his lips when he asked, “How do you know?”

“Well, for starters, you’re no longer gritting your teeth.”

“And?”

“You look...rested.” The word approachable fit even better.

As did handsome. Despite his obvious weight loss, the man was definitely that. Instead of the workout attire he’d arrived wearing, he had on a crisp collared shirt that was tucked into a pair of beige dress pants. The carved wooden cane in his right hand added to his air of sophistication, although she was pretty sure he would take umbrage at her description.

“I got in a nap.”

“And a workout?” Joe had mentioned something about that.

“No. I wasn’t in the mood for more pain. Don’t let Joe’s baby face fool you. He can be ruthless.”

Kellen’s subtle attempt at humor came as a welcome surprise. She decided to return it.

“I would think that you’d pay him extra for that. No pain, no gain.”

Just that quickly, his expression clouded. She gave an inaudible sigh. Apparently, she’d gone too far with the reminder of his slow recovery. While Brigit and Sherry traded covert shrugs, he looked away, breaking the silence a moment later when he asked, “New ovens, right?”

“Yes. The summer before last. And the cooktops were changed out at that time, too.”

He glanced around, nodding.

Since it was so much easier to talk business than to try to exchange pleasantries, she continued. “The walk-in refrigerator just needed some repairs and it was good as new. Of course, your investment is almost fully paid back. Adding a meal package to the room rate has proved to be quite lucrative. And thanks to Sherry’s talent we get quite a bit of non-guest traffic, too. The mayor stops by for Sunday brunch at least twice a month.”

“Excellent.” Kellen nodded, but she got the feeling he was only half listening to what she said.

Of course, she had sent him detailed reports every month. She’d like to think he’d read them.

“Are you hungry? Dinner service doesn’t begin for another hour yet, but—”

“That’s all right. Joe made me an omelet.” He sent her a smile that bordered on sheepish. “We used up your eggs, by the way.” He coughed. “And your bread. Joe was a little disappointed it wasn’t whole wheat.”

“Oh?” Brigit wasn’t sure how she felt about strange men rummaging about in her cupboards. Every last inch of her private space had been invaded. But she kept her tone casual when she replied, “I’m sorry I don’t keep more in my fridge and pantry. Sherry is such an excellent cook that I eat most of my meals here in the kitchen.”

“In your office, you mean. The girl is a workhorse,” Sherry told Kellen. Her expression turned shrewd when she added, “And probably due a raise.”

Brigit smiled thinly. “Sherry and I will be heading to the mainland bright and early tomorrow for groceries and other supplies for the inn. We go the first and third Fridays of each month. If you give me a list, I’m happy to pick up whatever you need.”

“I’ll have Joe put something together. If you can’t find everything, don’t worry about it.” Kellen’s lip curled. “He likes to make wheatgrass shakes and other...healthy concoctions.”

“The body is a temple?” she asked.

He snorted. “Mine feels more like an ancient ruin, but, yes, that’s his philosophy.”

Kellen looked away and his scowl returned in force. She didn’t think it was their lighthearted banter that had irritated him. But something had. She followed the line of his vision to the far side of the room. The only thing there was Sherry’s oversize calendar with the days that had already passed marked off with red Xs.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head and, without another word, turned and limped out of the kitchen.

“Real friendly sort, isn’t he?” Sherry muttered sarcastically once Kellen was out of earshot.

For a moment, a very brief moment, he had been.

Brigit returned to the cutting board and picked up her knife. “Let’s just do our best to stay out of his way, okay? As fast as this summer is going, he’ll be gone before we know it and things will be back to normal.”

At least Brigit hoped that would be the case.

* * *

Kellen wasn’t sure why seeing the days marked off on the kitchen calendar had torpedoed his mood. He only knew that where a moment earlier he had been close to joking, being hit with the reality that four months had passed since his accident had yanked the rug out from beneath him. The ibuprofen Brigit had put out for him had taken the edge off his physical pain. His emotional pain, however, was another matter.

Nothing seemed to dampen that.

Kellen wished it were nicer outdoors so that he could sit on the raised deck and watch the waves rise and swell. When he was a boy, the ocean had always had a calming effect on his emotions. Even on days such as this one, when the waves beat ruthlessly against the shore, at least he’d known what to expect. Waves would crash, but the water always receded and eventually calmed. Soon enough, the sun would come out and chase away the gloom, and the beach would be the same as it had been before the storm.

Nothing about his life now was consistent...except for his limp and the pain that came with it.

Guests milled about in the lobby, which was to be expected, he supposed, on such a wet, gloomy day. In the library, a couple of well-dressed women sat reading books in the sand colored wing chairs that flanked the French doors leading to another section of decking, and a few preppy-looking college kids huddled around the coffee table playing poker.

Kellen remembered playing cards in this very room as a boy. Gin rummy with his grandfather and sometimes with Herman, the old groundskeeper. Kellen had rarely won. When he had, he suspected it was because his grandfather had let him. The memory had him smiling, even as it made him sad.

God, he missed the old man. Hayden Faust had been the only doting adult in Kellen’s life from age eleven on. After his father’s death, his mother had been too busy looking for a new husband to pay him much mind. Then she’d remarried and, once again, Kellen had been shunted aside.

Even now Kellen refused to consider how desperate she must have felt to find her financial footing kicked out from under her. His grandfather, however, had cut her some slack.

During Kellen’s final visit to the island, as they’d sat in this very room, Hayden had told him, “I’m not condoning the way your mother has treated you since remarrying, but try to see things from her perspective.”

“What do you mean?” he’d asked.

“You’re so much like your father.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.” Kellen had laughed, not sure how else to respond.

His grandfather hadn’t cracked so much as a smile as he’d laid his weathered hand on Kellen’s shoulder.

“I loved my son dearly, but I’m not blind to his shortcomings. He made some poor choices over the years. Choices that your mother has paid for in more ways than one.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, be sure you make better ones. Make me proud, Kellen.”

A final request that Kellen had failed to honor. What would his grandfather think of the choices he’d made now? The likely answer had Kellen limping back to the privacy of his rooms.

* * *

“Mr. F?” Joe poked his head around the door.

Although Kellen was awake, he kept his eyes closed and feigned sleep. He’d been lying on the bed in his room for the past two hours thinking and trying to work out the details of his plan B. A plan that Brigit Wright wasn’t going to like when he eventually told her about it.

His grandfather had left Kellen the inn with the hope he would actually run it, rather than merely sign checks and authorize improvements when he took a break from the ski slopes in Europe.

It was time to start making those better choices the older man had urged.

“Boss?” Joe called again.

Leave me alone! Kellen shouted the words in his head, but he didn’t say them out loud. He was tired of being sullen and disagreeable, even as he felt powerless to change his mood. So he kept his eyes closed and his breathing deep and even. He expected that would be the end of it. Joe would go away and Kellen could continue to stew in silence.

But his physical therapist wasn’t alone.

“He’s sleeping soundly,” Kellen heard Joe tell whoever was with him. “Just go in and grab what you need.”

“I’d hate to disturb him.” Brigit’s voice.

She sounded indecisive. Once again Kellen found himself wanting to shout, Leave! His reason this time was embarrassment.

Could she see him? God, he hoped not. When he’d returned to the room, he’d shucked off his other clothes and now lay atop the comforter wearing a pair of black nylon gym shorts. Briefly, he’d pulled on a T-shirt whose neon green slogan was intended to inspire. Since it only served to mock him in his current condition, he’d tugged it off as well. He’d balled it up and tossed it. It was on the floor somewhere across the room. He’d never been embarrassed to go shirtless before, but these days he was a pale imitation of the physically fit man he’d been. Still, it would be the lesser of two evils if her gaze remained on his chest and didn’t detour to the ugly web of scars on his mangled leg.

“Perhaps I’ll come back later,” she said.

“You’d rather see him when he’s awake?” Joe’s tone was wry and teasing.

Brigit chuckled and Kellen bristled inwardly. He didn’t appreciate being the butt of their joke.

“You make a good point,” she said. “Okay. I’m going in. I’ll be quiet so as not to disturb him.”

“I know you will.” This time Joe chuckled. “Hey, I’m going to make wheatgrass smoothies. Stop by the kitchen on your way out. I’ll make one for you.”

“A wheatgrass smoothie?”

“They’re delicious and good for you.”

“Sure. Can’t wait.”

Liar, Kellen thought.

Footsteps sounded then. Joe leaving? Where was Brigit? Kellen strained his ears, listening for the creak of floorboards or the rustle of fabric—anything to announce that she was moving about inside the bedroom. Finally, on the opposite side of the room from the hallway, he heard a door squeak. The bathroom? The closet? He chanced opening his eyes. The room was dim thanks to the pulled shades. It wasn’t quite dusk outside, although the weather certainly made it seem later. Brigit was in the walk-in closet, standing under the light. He studied her profile as she rose up on her toes and pulled down a basket from the one of the shelves.

She was slender and pretty in a way that left him to wonder if she purposefully downplayed her looks. After she gathered whatever it was that she’d come in to get, she turned. Through slit eyes, Kellen watched her switch off the light and gently close the closet.

She started to tiptoe toward the bedroom door, but then stopped at the foot of the bed. If she had looked at his face, she would have realized he was awake. His eyes were fully open now. But she wasn’t looking at his face or any other part of his anatomy found above the waist. She was studying his bad leg, starting at the ankle. The break had healed, but the not the damage. The calf was noticeably smaller than its counterpart on his good leg. Joe attributed the disparity to muscle atrophy, although he couldn’t guarantee Kellen that regular workouts would fix that.

Her gaze wandered up to his knee before skimming his thigh. It wasn’t a pretty sight, to be sure. Nothing could be done to erase the scars from where jagged bone had ripped through his flesh or the multiple surgeries that had followed.

She didn’t strike him as the squeamish sort, but she closed her eyes briefly. Did he disgust her? Did she pity him? He wasn’t sure which reaction would be worse. He only knew he could tolerate no more of her thorough examination.

“Seen enough?”

She nearly dropped the belt she’s retrieved from the closet.

“You startled me.”

Spoiling for a fight, he levered up on one elbow. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t mean to stare. I was...I was just...”

“Curious?” he demanded.

She cleared her throat. Even in the dim light, he could tell she was flustered and probably blushing. Embarrassed? Definitely. But not turned on. Why would she be? He was an invalid, repulsive. Angry with them both, he spat out in a suggestive tone, “My leg might be mangled, but I can assure you, everything else is in working order.”

She did drop the belt now, and her hand flew to her chest. “Excuse me?”

“I think you heard me.”

At that, he expected her to stomp out of the room in a huff. He should have known his dot-every-i and cross-every-t manager would do no such thing. Indeed, Brigit drew closer and came around the side of the bed.

“I heard you. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“And now you expect me to apologize,” he said, keeping his tone insolent.

“As a matter of fact...” She fisted her hands, settled them on her hips and sent him an arched look.

Nice hips. Not too wide, not too narrow. Neatly rounded, and along with her firm backside, just right. Given Kellen’s position on the bed, the hips he was admiring were practically at eye level. His mouth watered and parts of his body that had been dormant for months began to stir back to life. Some of his frustration and anger dissipated, only to be replaced by feelings that were far more dangerous.

Even though he knew he was playing with fire, Kellen was helpless to keep his gaze from traveling up Brigit’s slender frame and touching on all of the parts that interested him.

“Well?” she demanded.

Their gazes met, collided really. He didn’t see sparks fly, but he swore he felt them. They showered his skin. The sensation was life-affirming. He reveled in it.

Common sense took a backseat to desire, and he taunted, “You first.”

“What?”

“You apologize first.”

“You expect me to apologize to you?”

Her tone hovered between incredulous and royally ticked off. Perversely, he found it a turn-on. As he did her narrowed eyes and pinched lips.

“That’s right.”

“What am I to apologize for?” she demanded.

“Well, for starters, you’re trespassing. You’re in my bedroom...uninvited.” A small matter that could be remedied easily enough, his libido whispered before he could quiet it.

“This is...well, until this afternoon, it was my bedroom. I’m hardly trespassing.”

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