The Billionaire's Island Bride

She can’t resist him...

...but can she trust him—with her heart?

Brooklyn Graves’s blissfully peaceful if solitary existence is threatened when billionaire Cole Abbott wants to buy her corner of their shared private island. She’ll never sell! But she quickly comes to enjoy sharing intimate evenings—and even more intimate secrets—with Cole... And what Brooklyn soon realizes she wants from Cole is something money can’t buy—his love.

DONNA ALWARD lives on Canada’s east coast with her family, which includes a husband, a couple of kids, a senior dog and two crazy cats. Her heart-warming stories of love, hope and homecoming have been translated into several languages, hit bestseller lists and won awards, but her favourite thing is hearing from readers! When she’s not writing she enjoys reading—of course!—knitting, gardening, cooking…and she’s a Masterpiece Theater addict. You can visit her on the web at DonnaAlward.com, and join her mailing list at DonnaAlward.com/newsletter.

Also by Donna Alward

Summer Escape with the Tycoon

Marrying a Millionaire miniseries

Best Man for the Wedding Planner

Secret Millionaire for the Surrogate

South Shore Billionaires miniseries

Christmas Baby for the Billionaire

Beauty and the Brooding Billionaire

The Billionaire’s Island Bride

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Billionaire’s Island Bride

Donna Alward

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90353-4

THE BILLIONAIRE’S ISLAND BRIDE

© 2020 Donna Alward

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To Dreamer, the best dog.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

BROOKLYN GRAVES HEARD the whomp-whomp-whomp of helicopter rotors and rolled her eyes, then let out a long breath as she turned her back on the cliff and followed its progress.

The wind off the ocean whipped her hair around her face and she shoved it back with a hand, tucking it behind her ears, where it stayed for all of about ten seconds before it was loose and blowing around again. She shaded her eyes and stared at the red-and-white chopper as it arced over her corner of the island and then headed toward the grand house and the helipad there.

She’d known this day was coming. Ernest Chetwynd had finally sold the island, and an American had bought it. If the ostentatious aerial arrival was anything to go by, Cole Abbott was going to be a real piece of work. Money to throw around on private islands, and an ego to match.

The sound faded, muffled by the rhythmic roar of the waves crashing on the rocks below. Ernest, who had been the one to build the landing pad, had occasionally had a helicopter chartered. He’d taken her up once, on her birthday, and given her a tour of the Nova Scotia south shore. It had been so different seeing it from the air, all the rugged rocks and islands and sandy beaches. And utterly harmless, since Ernest had been at least seventy-five at that time. He was lonely, and she and Ernest had been friends of a sort. There’d certainly been mutual respect, making her presence on the island quite secure.

His big mansion had once housed him and his wife, and then quite often their children and grandchildren. After Marietta’s death, everything had changed. Ernest went to see his kids instead. The house—all twelve thousand square feet of it—was too much for an aging bachelor, even though he’d hired Brooklyn to care for the grounds and he had a housekeeper come over from the mainland once a week.

As long as Ernest had owned the island, Brooklyn had been safe. She owned the southeast corner, a wonderful acreage passed down by her great-grandparents, and which provided her with solitude and peace and an amazing atmosphere to make a living. Her little boat ensured that she could get back and forth to the mainland whenever she wanted. And she did, often. For supplies and visits with friends. But always, Bellwether Island had been there for her to retreat to. Her safe haven.

Which was now spoiled by the new owner, who was ostentatiously arriving by chopper, now that crews had ferried his things from the mainland to the island and delivered them to the grand house on the bluff. She’d started calling him Mr. Fancy Man in her head.

In short, she was not happy about this new development, even though she’d known it was bound to happen. Ernest couldn’t hold on forever, and she’d hoped one of his kids would take it over. But none of them wanted it—not the isolation of being the only occupants of the island, nor the upkeep. Just some American billionaire who wanted to add it to his list of...well, whatever. Accomplishments? Possessions? It didn’t matter.

She let out another breath and started the walk back to the house. The sound of the waves faded, though the wind still tossed her hair around. She stopped at the vegetable garden behind the century-old house. The garden was nearly done now, in mid-September. It had been a good summer, a little dry, perhaps, but with enough rain to fill Brooklyn’s water tanks for when Mother Nature needed a little help. She’d spent every summer here as a kid, running over the island, swimming on the beach and helping her grandmother with gardening and canning while her grandfather fished. There’d been a hammock between two spruce trees, and she’d spent hours there curled up with a book. Almost every good memory she had of her childhood was tied to this island. It was why, when everything in her life fell horrifically apart, she’d come back. To the place where she’d last felt safe and happy. And here she’d stayed.

Now that peaceful existence was threatened. Because exactly one week ago, on the day that Cole Abbott took possession of Bellwether Island, she’d received an offer from his attorney, attempting to buy her out.

One she’d rejected immediately. The truth was, despite the gorgeous mansion and spectacular setting, living here wasn’t always easy. Popping to the store for a last-minute item couldn’t happen. Going out to dinner took planning, taking the weather and tides into account. And in the winter, it was downright isolating. She’d bet a hundred bucks that Abbott would be gone once he’d sat through his first January northeaster. And then she wouldn’t have to worry about him, except for maybe a few months of the year. The shine would certainly wear off his new toy.

She just had to do what she always did: persevere.

Cole hopped out of the helicopter and reached back for his duffel bag. With a wave to the pilot, he ran from the helipad toward the house. He was nearly to the back garden when the chopper lifted off again and started back toward mainland Nova Scotia.

He was finally here.

In a few days, work crews would ferry over and begin the renovations he had planned, and in early October, his first corporate retreat was booked, from one of his own companies. The executives were scheduled to stay four days, for rest, rejuvenation and an informal sharing of ideas while they unplugged.

During this event, there would be no Wi-Fi provided. His team would enjoy top-notch dining, an on-site gym, the hot tub, and the sound of the ocean. An antidote to the high-pressure lives they led and a way to keep them from burning out and to remind them of why they loved their careers.

He wished he’d had such a thing not so long ago.

The keys to his house were in his pocket, but he put his bag by the door and then ventured down to the beach. It wasn’t large—maybe two hundred feet of sandy shoreline that gave way to rocks, but it was enough. The September day was warm, and he took off his shoes and socks and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans, letting his toes squidge in the sand. Wind blew the short strands of his hair off his face, and he drew the salt air into his lungs. Ten extra steps led him to the water, where the cold Atlantic fizzed over his toes. The breakers washed over his ankles, splashing a little and dampening his jeans. But he didn’t care.

Having his Realtor best friend, Jeremy, find this place was the answer to a prayer.

Cole let out a breath and pulled in another. And another. A year ago he’d found himself on a dangerous path. One that mimicked his father’s, including a cardiac episode that had scared him to death. He didn’t want to end like his dad, dead at fifty-one—or thirty-five—from a heart attack because he’d been a workaholic.

Work hard, play hard. That was what Jeremy and Bran had always said about him. He never did anything halfway. Maybe not. He did tend to commit fully to something when he took it on. But in this case, it wasn’t about achieving. It was about living.

He dawdled in the water for nearly an hour, before heading back to the house and finally going inside.

It was a cavernous edifice for one person: twelve thousand square feet of understated luxury. There was a not-too-big garage, but it was enough to house a golf cart for getting around the island, and maintenance machinery, like the small tractor for mowing the grass and various garden implements. And a snow blower. He shivered, thinking about how bleak it would be here in the middle of a winter storm. And yet...there was something comforting about being snug inside while the outside was wild and untamed. He certainly couldn’t live here year round. He still had responsibilities. At thirty-five, retirement wasn’t an option. He still ran his father’s empire of manufacturing companies, and he needed that challenge. But he was less hands-on than he used to be, delegating far more responsibility. His hope was to spend maybe a third of the year here, overseeing the corporate retreat business, and two thirds back in Manhattan, home of the headquarters of Abbott Industries.

His things were already in the room he’d chosen for himself, a large suite facing southeast, with windows overlooking the beach and down the island, where the roof of the farmhouse was just visible among the trees. He put down his duffel and went to the window. Brooklyn Graves. That was the name of the woman who lived there, the one who refused to sell her parcel of land. It complicated things, in his mind. They shared access to the dock, which wasn’t really sufficient to his needs, and she owned the boathouse at the tip of the island. He’d hired a husband and wife to be caretakers here, and right now they had to be housed in the apartment above the garage. It would be far better if they could live in the farmhouse and have their own real home.

If only stubborn Ms. Graves would sell. What on earth was a single woman doing living on an island twelve months of the year, anyway?

He knew little about her, except that she ran some sort of cottage industry—had Jeremy mentioned knitting or something?—from her home and that her family had lived on the island for generations. He would have to put on the charm and visit, make her come around. She sounded like the type to offer him tea and scones. Knitting? She was probably someone’s reclusive aunt, too stubborn to move. It might take all his powers of persuasion.

He didn’t really want to, but he figured he should introduce himself as soon as possible. The longer he put it off, the more awkward it was bound to become. Chances were his reception would be chilly, anyway.

With a last look out the window, he turned away and went back downstairs, and out the front door this time. He’d just walk down to meet her and break the ice. He wouldn’t even mention selling. Not yet.

The front gardens were beautiful. The grass was neatly trimmed, and there were still flowers, yellow and red and rusty-colored ones, brightening the beds. Further along, past the manicured lawns, the landscape was wilder. One either side of the lane was waving grass and thick bunches of goldenrod and light purple wild asters. Most of the trees were evergreens, with very little hardwood, but here and there he saw birches and maples. The leaves on the birches were starting to yellow, but the maples were still green and vibrant. The walk took maybe only ten, fifteen minutes, tops, but it was a beautiful one.

The farmhouse came into view and he stopped for a moment, struck by the sight of it. It was old and rambling, but well kept, with freshly painted spindles on the veranda and potted flowers on the stained steps. There was nothing special about it really; the outside was white, with no fancy trim or shutters, but it was charming and cozy and like something he expected to see on an old-time greeting card. All that was missing was—

A bark sounded and a retriever bounded from around the corner of the house, straight toward him. Apparently a dog wasn’t missing from the picture, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the homey scene. Eyes bright and tongue lolling happily, the dog ran up to him and immediately rubbed against his legs, looking for pats.

Cole couldn’t help obliging. He loved dogs. Not that he’d ever had one growing up.

“Who’s a good boy?” He rubbed the dog’s head and then laughed when the dog dropped to the grass and rolled over, showing his belly. Cole willingly knelt down and gave him a belly rub, chuckling at the obvious enjoyment of the pooch as he rolled his back this way and that, legs in the air. Dogs were just so pure in everything they did. No agendas. Unlike himself...

“Marvin, come.”

The female voice jolted him from his thoughts and he stood, leaving Marvin on his back with his paws up. A clap from the owner of the voice had the dog jumping up and shaking all over, then trotting back to his human’s side.

Cole’s brain momentarily emptied. All the opening lines he’d imagined flew straight out of his head and away on the ocean breeze. He’d expected someone middle-aged or older. A...spinster. Not a thirtyish woman with hair the color of peanut butter, wearing skinny jeans, boots, and a sweater that nipped in at her waist and hugged her hips.

This was Brooklyn Graves?

“You’re Mr. Abbott.”

He realized he’d been standing there for long seconds and saying absolutely nothing. He nodded, then moved forward and held out his hand. “Yes, Cole Abbott. It’s good to finally meet.”

More than good. Wow.

She didn’t smile as she shook his hand. As he got closer he noticed that a few freckles dotted her nose, and her eyes were a clear, clear blue. Her hand was warm and strong, and he felt a few rough spots at the base of her fingers. Calluses? Interesting.

She dropped his hand and stepped back. “What can I do for you, Mr. Abbott?”

“Please, call me Cole.” He tried a warm smile, but it didn’t appear to be getting him anywhere. “We’re neighbors, after all.”

She gave a shrug with one shoulder. “Well, I know you’d like to change that, so I’ll be as clear as I can. I’m not interested in selling my house or acreage.”

Cole took a few moments to gather himself before responding. In the end, he tried a small smile. “I got your reply, Ms. Graves. I truly did just come down to say hello. The island will be pretty small if we aren’t on speaking terms.”

“Tell me you don’t want to buy me out and we can be the best of friends.” She put her hands on her hips, and Marvin the dog sat at her feet, the soul of loyalty and obedience.

He couldn’t lie to her. For one, he got the sneaky suspicion she’d see right through it. For another, lying always came back to bite him in the butt.

Instead he put away his “let’s be friends” face, choosing instead a more businesslike manner. “I’ll be honest. I would like to buy your property.” He figured it wouldn’t hurt to sweeten the pot. “What I’m prepared to offer can set you up somewhere very nicely.”

His initial offer had been for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The house would likely need renovations and the dock definitely needed work. It had been...reasonable.

“Would you pay me a million dollars?”

Her gaze was sharp and pinned him in place, but he’d been in business a long time. He knew how to hide his reactions, and right now he wanted to chuckle a little bit. He’d paid seven million for the rest of the land and house and considered it a steal. Her property accounted for maybe, at best, a sixth of the island. A million wasn’t that outrageous, really. Not considering the buildings on the property and the dock access.

“Yes.” Heck, if all it took was a million bucks to get her to sign away the deed, he’d do it happily. Jeremy had been the one to recommend lowballing. Cole didn’t mind upping the ante. “Yes, I’m prepared to offer you a million.”

She started at him a long moment and then turned away. “I don’t think so,” she said and started walking toward the house. “Come, Marvin.”

The dog jumped up and trotted at her heels. Meanwhile, Cole stood flummoxed on her front path, staring at her as she went in through the screen door, took Marvin with her and let the door fall shut with a loud snap behind them.

Huh. So, round one and two to Ms. Graves. But Cole wasn’t done yet. He had a history of getting what he wanted, and this was nothing more than a challenge.

CHAPTER TWO

BROOKLYN SAT IN her favorite chair, yarn trailing perfectly from her yarn bowl to the needles, and adjusted the weight of the shawl she was knitting. It was a simple pattern but incredibly lovely, both stylish and warm, and this was one item she was knitting for herself and not to sell.

The click of the needles in the silence gave her comfort, which was good. She’d come inside yesterday after talking to Cole Abbott and had shaken for a good thirty minutes. Confrontation was not her thing. She knew how to be strong but it had cost her, stealing her energy, prompting a near panic attack.

Marvin had stayed close all evening, soothing her and being steady and reliable with his company. At one point her therapist had asked if she wanted to get a service dog, but Brooklyn had declined. She had Marvin. And she’d come a very long way since she’d started counseling. She’d come to the island to escape and heal, but she’d stayed because she’d built a life she truly loved. And if she was occasionally lonely...oh, well. She’d learned that there were worse things in life than loneliness. She had everything just the way she wanted it here. No surprises.

Her needles slowed. Still, she’d coexisted with Ernest and his extended family without any trouble, and she’d admit—only to herself—that just knowing someone else was on the island had been a comfort. She wasn’t sure she could say the same about Cole Abbott. His very presence threatened the life she’d built for herself.

Maybe she should head over to the mainland tomorrow and get out for a bit. Pick up a few groceries, perhaps go for a coffee with Delilah or Jen, the sisters who ran the yarn and craft store in Liverpool. Hadn’t she just told herself that she needed to be patient? Mr. Fancy Man wouldn’t be on the island forever. It would be another plaything he’d tire of and move on. But her life...it would remain unchanged. Just the way she wanted it.

The morning dawned foggy, but by ten it had burned off and the mellow September sun had warmed the air. Brooklyn carried a large handbag over her shoulder, which contained fabric shopping bags, her wallet, her phone, and a leash for Marvin, who always joined her on her trips to town. In her hands were five small shipping boxes containing orders ready to be shipped to customers of her online store. She turned the corner toward the dock and stopped short. There was a second boat anchored there, and Cole stood on the dock while another man moved around, taking pictures with his phone.

What the heck were they doing? It wasn’t as if Cole didn’t have a reason to be there. He did. Their access to the dock was shared.

The sight of him, though, was unexpected. And she couldn’t deny that she rather enjoyed seeing him in faded jeans and a dark blue windbreaker. He looked...normal. Not like some rich tycoon, which he most certainly must be.

He caught sight of her and smiled, then waved. “Ms. Graves. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied and wished she’d put Marvin on his leash, because at the friendly sound of Cole’s voice, the dog trotted off for more pats and head rubs.