The Billionaire Playboy

  Published by Christina Tetreault

  Copyright 2012 Christina Tetreault

  Cover design by Calista Taylor

  Interior layout: www.formatting4U.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author via her website. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For more information on the author and her works, please see www. http://www.christinatetreault.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9883089-0-9

  This book is also available in print from some online retailers.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dedicated First to My family and Friends.

  Thank you for all you love and support. And also to all the other romance authors who have helped me along the way.

  Chapter 1

  I sure picked a hell of a time to come home. Charlotte O'Brien, or Charlie as her friends called her, sat in the darkened living room of her family's bed and breakfast, The Victorian Rose. Outside, Hurricane Andrea raged with gale force winds exceeding 110 miles per hour. As expected the hurricane arrived in the northeastern part of Massachusetts in the early morning hours. While it was not the first hurricane she had experienced in her life, it was the fiercest she could remember.

  She could hear the howling winds outside as they caused the branches from nearby trees to slam into the side of the house. A constant deluge of rain pelted the windows, which rattled from time to time under the onslaught. Frequently she'd see debris fly by the window. The most recent object looked like siding from a nearby house. So far her family and their home remained unscathed, but what about the rest of the town? Charlie reached for the battery-powered radio and switched it on. After several tries she got a local AM station to come in. The faceless voice of the radio announcer filled the silent room. “Severe flooding is already being seen on Church Street.”

  This announcement came as no big surprise. It had poured almost every day the previous week and the waterlogged ground and swollen rivers couldn't accommodate this new round of rain.

  The sound of shattering glass, followed by a crash, filled the room and blocked out anything else the radio announcer may have said. Without a second thought Charlie jumped to her feet and yanked her mother off the couch in front of the windows and pushed her toward a chair in the corner. At the same instant her brother Sean burst into the room.

  “A tree just went through the dining room window. Take Ma into the basement.” After giving his order Sean disappeared upstairs, his huge Irish Wolfhound, Max, following at his heels. She hated to admit it, but she should have thought of that sooner. The basement was the safest place during a hurricane.

  “Come on Ma, let's go.” Charlie grabbed the battery-powered radio and flashlight next to her and stood.

  “What about Sean?” Maureen O'Brien sat perched on the edge of a chair, her face pale and her hands gripping the arms of the chair.

  For half a heartbeat anger and resentment surged through Charlie. Why couldn't the woman ever do anything she asked? It was always about Sean. Almost as soon as the emotions came on they disappeared. Circumstances outside everyone's control had created a much tighter relationship between her mother and older brother. It wasn't fair to either of them to resent it—it wasn't as if her mother didn't love her. Sean was her mother's rock and had been since that day seventeen years earlier when her dad walked out on them. That day Sean became the man of the house. “Sean wants us downstairs now. He'll be down soon.”

  With some reluctance Maureen came to her feet and, as usual, Charlie felt like a giant standing next to her mother. At five feet eight inches she towered over her mother who barely reached five feet. Despite the height difference there was no mistaking them for mother and daughter. Both had thick red hair, and hazel eyes that seemed to change colors depending on their mood.

  Using her flashlight, Charlie led her mom through the dark house toward the basement door, a door she could have found even without the bright beam of light. Having grown up in the old Victorian she knew every nook and cranny of the house. Without even thinking she instinctively flipped the light switch then felt like an idiot when nothing happened.

  “Be careful,” Charlie said over her shoulder as she started down the steep wooden stairs.

  The beam from her flashlight bounced off the rock walls as the familiar scent of the basement enveloped her. She hadn't stepped foot in the basement in years, yet she would have recognized the smell anywhere. Since the basement remained remarkably dry her mom hung fresh herbs down there making it constantly smell like basil and rosemary. Some things just never changed.

  Behind her she heard the bottom step creak, as it had for years, letting her know that her mother had safely made it down the stairs.

  “I hope everything is all right out there.”

  Was her mom serious? A hurricane raged outside. Though a smart reply was on the tip of her tongue, Charlie held it back. When her mom was upset she had a tendency to ignore the obvious. So instead of saying anything she headed over to a partitioned-off section of the basement where her brother kept his pool table and several folding chairs.

  After taking down the battery-powered lantern on the shelf and turning it on, Charlie sat in one of the stiff plastic folding chairs and listened to the news reports coming over the radio.

  “Reports are coming in that the Stonefield Dam shows signs of giving out. Anyone living near the dam or along the river should leave the area immediately.” The faceless voice came through the radio, causing a ball of dread to form in the pit of Charlie's stomach. The area around the river and dam was heavily populated. If the dam let go a lot of people could be hurt. Unfortunately, there wasn't a thing she could do about it. Instead of focusing on what she couldn't control, Charlie thought about the things she could. Right now that meant keeping her mom safe and calm until the storm passed.

  “I noticed that you repainted the living room. It looks nice.” Idle chatter would help her mom pass the time and focus on something other than the hurricane and Sean's absence. Drumming her fingers on her leg she waited in the semi-darkness for her mom to answer.

  “It hadn't been done in a long time. Sean thought it was a good idea,” Maureen replied as the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs alerted them to Sean's arrival.

  Before Charlie could comment further all six feet three inches of her brother appeared along with his giant dog. Immediately the smell of wet dog assaulted her senses. No wonder it had taken Sean so long to get down there. He'd gone outside. What had he been thinking?

  “You two okay? The big maple near the shed just went down. The roots were ripped right out of the ground.” Sean pulled a chair next to Charlie's.

  ***

  Charlie blew a strand of hair which had escaped from her bun out of her face and rolled her shoulders. Sweat trickled down her back causing her
t-shirt to stick to her skin. More than anything she wanted a hot shower to wash away the grime and sweat covering her body.

  Since early morning she'd been systematically going through town with the other volunteers checking on its citizens and assessing the damage. It wasn't a pretty sight. The once picture-perfect New England town looked as if a Navy bomber had dropped a missile on North Salem, Massachusetts. The most severe damage was down by the river where the dam once stood. The entire area now sat under several feet of water. Charlie and several others were slowly working their way to that end of the town. Toppled trees and downed power lines made the trip slow and dangerous. On the positive side though, there had been very few serious injuries reported. Most of the ones she'd seen or heard about involved gashes from breaking glass and thrown-out backs from moving tree limbs and other debris. With any luck it would stay that way.

  Rolling her shoulders Charlie looked around at the other volunteers. Many of them leaned against trees or sat on the rain-drenched ground oblivious to the mud as they took a much-deserved break. Like her, most had started working hours earlier, the minute the storm passed. Despite the fatigue clawing at her body, Charlie didn't join the others. She needed to keep working. When there was work to do, she couldn't rest. After taking a long drink of water, she tossed the bottle back in her backpack and walked over to Tony Bates, the town administrator’s son.

  “I'm gonna check on Mrs. Mitchell. No one I've talked to has seen her since before the hurricane.” Without waiting for a response she navigated her way across the minefield of fallen trees and debris toward the old widow's house. She had no idea how old Mrs. Mitchell was, but she guessed she had to be close to eighty. According to her mom, Mrs. Mitchell had been living alone since her daughter moved to North Carolina the previous summer.

  The single-story ranch looked exactly as Charlie remembered when she'd taken piano lessons in the fourth grade. White paint covered the exterior while black shutters, several of which were missing, framed each window. The only differences were the shattered glass windows and the fallen trees. An empty hole occupied the spot where the doorbell should have been so Charlie pounded on the front door and waited for a response. When no answer came, Charlie looked through the nearest window but all she saw was an empty living room.

  Maybe she went to the basement. Charlie took the steps two at a time. She'd spent enough time at Mrs. Mitchell’s house to know that the only way into the basement was through the bulkhead around the side of the house.

  When she reached the bulkhead she found a young oak tree lying across it, making it impossible for her to open the door. Getting down on her hands and knees she pounded on the metal door. “Mrs. Mitchell it's Charlotte O'Brien,” she shouted. “Are you okay?”

  “I can't get the door open,” a familiar soft voice answered, sounding frazzled.

  Relief washed over her. The elderly woman was safe. “There's a tree covering the door. Are you hurt?”

  “I'm hungry and cold, but not hurt.”

  “Just sit tight and I'll have you out in no time.”

  Although not huge, the tree would have to be cut up before it could be moved. Cupping her hands around her mouth she called out, “I need some help over here. Bring a chainsaw. Mrs. Mitchell is trapped in the basement.”

  At the request for help several other volunteers stopped what they were doing and ran over. By the time the others arrived Charlie had already started to pull away some of the loose tree limbs. “Mike, just make the pieces manageable for now. You can cut them smaller later.”

  Without questioning her orders Mike started the engine on his chainsaw and got to work.

  “Kevin, help me with this one,” Charlie said as the first section of the tree was sliced off.

  It took several trips but eventually Charlie and Kevin moved each section of the tree. Later they would need to be removed from the property but for the time being they were fine lying against the house's foundation.

  “Thanks guys.” Charlie wiped her damp hands on her pants and walked back to the bulkhead door.

  Before gripping the handle, Charlie again knelt down next to the door. “I’m going to open the door now, Mrs. Mitchell.” Wrapping her hand around the cold metal handle, Charlie pulled open the bulkhead door. The groan of rusty hinges assaulted Charlie's ears. Despite its cry of protest the door opened, and Charlie found Mrs. Mitchell huddled on the concrete stairway that led into the basement. The elderly woman looked tired and cold but otherwise fine. Just to be on the safe side, Charlie went down the stairs to offer Mrs. Mitchell help up.

  “I didn't think anyone would find me.” With a bit of struggle Mrs. Mitchell came to her feet. “I forgot the cell phone my daughter gave me and I couldn't get the door open.”

  “You had everyone worried. Let me help you up.” Charlie held out her hand. “Just to be on the safe side I want to check your vitals.”

  It wasn't until after Charlie helped Mrs. Mitchell up the last step that she noticed the black Cadillac Escalade parked on the street and the two men standing near it. So the Falmouth Foundation sent its poster boy to the front lines, Charlie thought as she watched Jake Sherbrooke speak with Joseph Bates, Town Administrator. She knew the billionaire playboy was the head of the Falmouth Foundation, a disaster relief organization. The town administrator had mentioned that the foundation was arriving with some much-needed aid. However, she hadn't thought they would send him. From what she heard, he didn't strike her as the hands-on type. Rich spoiled men like him acted as the public face of organizations while everyone else did the real work. After all he was not only a member of the Sherbrooke Family, one of the richest families in America, but his father was the President of the United States.

  At least he'll be out of here as soon as his photo op is done.

  As Jake listened to the town official explain what damage the town suffered, he couldn't keep his eyes off the redhead barking out orders. He figured she could probably make a Marine drill instructor drop and give her fifty push-ups. Normally he didn't go for redheads. He'd always favored brunettes, but he couldn't keep himself from watching her as she helped an elderly woman from her basement. There was an aura of self-confidence emanating from her.

  “Like other towns around here we have no electricity and many downed trees. The dam letting go is what really devastated us. All the neighborhoods near the river and lake are flooded. Those between Church Street and Lincoln are in the worst shape. Water levels in some spots have been measured at seven feet,” the town administrator explained.

  Jake already knew about the dam. In fact that was why he'd chosen North Salem. “What about injuries?” Jake pulled his eyes away from the redhead who was sitting by the older woman, checking her pulse.

  “Only three reported casualties. But there are lots of injuries and several people are still unaccounted for. Dr. O'Brien can give you a detailed medical report. She's been handling medical issues in the field.”

  Jake made a note to check with Dr. O'Brien as soon as he finished with the town official. “How do things stand with shelters?”

  “We've already started setting things up at the high school, but it won't be enough. There are not many places …” Before he could finish his cell phone rang. “If you'll excuse me, I need to take this call,” he said after checking the caller ID.

  Jake nodded. “No problem.” Once the man walked away Jake surveyed the activity around him. It seemed as if everyone around him was active and the few that weren't were simply taking short water breaks. At the head of it all was the redhead. He couldn't help but wonder who she was. She didn't strike him as a town official, yet she gave the appearance of authority and people seemed to listen to her.

  Unable to just stand around and do nothing while others worked, Jake figured the redhead was the person to ask where he could help. Ignoring the stares and whispers he got as he walked by, Jake made his way toward the elderly woman's house where the redhead was at work covering up one of the broken windows with some plywo
od. Stopping close enough so that she would hear him over the pounding hammer without shouting, but far enough away to avoid getting hit by her swings, he was momentarily speechless. From a distance the redhead was pretty, but up close she was downright beautiful. He guessed she was about five-foot seven or so because she stood only a few inches shorter than his six-one. Her fiery red hair was pulled back in a knot and the gray t-shirt and khaki cargo pants she wore did nothing to hide her figure.

  “What can I do to help?” Jake asked watching the muscle in her well-defined upper arm flex as she swung the hammer.

  “All set here, thanks.” The redhead answered without even pausing to look at him.

  Despite her cool behavior, Jake wasn't deterred. There was plenty that needed to be done and he sensed that she could direct him to where he could be most useful. “Then point me to where I can help. That's why I'm here,” he snapped back, his voice smooth but insistent.

  The redhead stopped in mid-swing and turned to look at him, her gaze meeting his eyes. “That other window needs to be covered. I promised Mrs. Mitchell I'd take care of this before I go.” The woman nodded toward an open toolbox on the ground. “If you don't want to do that Mary could use some help down at the high school setting up the shelter.”

  Jake didn't miss the coolness in the woman's voice, but he chose to ignore it. Jake grabbed the hammer from the tool belt around his waist. “Not a problem Ms...”

  “Captain actually, Captain Charlotte O'Brien.”

  This was the doctor the town administrator mentioned! Interesting. With the hammer from his tool belt in one hand, Jake extended the other toward Charlotte. “Jake Sherbrooke.”

  Charlotte accepted his extended hand. “I know,” she said, her mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile. “There is a lot to do. We better get back to work.”

  She didn't wait for him to answer. Instead she went back to pounding nails and for the most part ignoring him. What is her deal, Jake wondered as he began working. It was obvious that she didn't think much of him. It wasn't a situation he ran into very often. Most people liked him, only occasionally did he come in contact with a wise ass who resented him for who he was -- or at least who they thought he was. Thanks to the Sherbrooke name and the media, most of the country thought they knew him. The media liked to portray him as a carefree playboy who never thought of anyone but himself. He let everyone believe it didn't bother him, even his family. But he resented it.