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“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
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
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