The Heir's Unexpected Return

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.”