The Billionaire Playboy (2 page)

“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 plywood. 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.

Forget about it. Everyone's under a lot of stress. That's
all it is.
With
thoughts of Captain O'Brien pushed from his mind, he focused on pounding nails
into plywood. He'd done the exact same thing on numerous occasions since
starting the Falmouth Foundation, though the media always failed to include
that bit in their stories about him. In fact, the media almost never mentioned
the foundation when they did a piece on him. And when they did, it was as a
side note. That didn’t surprise him; the American public preferred to hear
about which actress he'd taken to the new movie premier or which model he'd
taken to dinner.

Jake pounded the
last nail into the wood with more force than necessary at the thought of the
media vultures that seemed to shadow his every move. “All done with this one,”
he said turning to look at the woman next to him. “Anymore?”

Captain O'Brien
put the final nail in the board covering her window then turned to face him
before her eyes looked over at the plywood he'd hung. As he watched she ran her
gaze over his work and Jake guessed that she expected it to fall at any minute.

“No. All set
here. Thanks for the help.”

“Where to next?”
He saw no reason to stop working now.

For a minute she
stood eyeing him, her lips pressed tightly together. “I need to get back to
treating injuries but you can take your pick. The Larsons across the street
need help or you can check down the street.”

Jake looked
across the street to where a man wielding a chainsaw worked by himself. It
looked like as good a place as any to help. “Across the street it is.”

He felt the
doctor's eyes on his back as he crossed the front lawn to the edge of the
street, but he ignored it. Too much work remained for him to worry about one
person's opinion of him.

As Jake
approached, a burly man with a long light-brown beard that reminded Jake of a
younger version of Santa, killed the engine on his chainsaw.

“Need some help
over here?” Jake stopped in front of the dismembered tree trunk.

The other man's
eyes narrowed for a moment as he studied Jake and he knew the second the
younger version of Santa recognized him. The man's eyes grew wide and his
eyebrows shot up.

“Aren't you the
President's son?”

“Please call me
Jake.” Jake extended his free hand. “I'm here with the Falmouth Foundation.
What can I help with?”

“Phil Larson,”
the other man said accepting Jake's hand. “I could use some help covering up
this glass slider. Damn tree went right through. If I don't get it covered
today my wife won't sleep in the house.”

“Let’s get to it
then.”

Chapter
2

Charlie took the
last bite of the strawberry cereal bar she'd snagged from the pantry and
hightailed it out of the kitchen before her mom could rope her into helping
cook dinner. The bed and breakfast had no paying guests so her mom and brother
had opened its doors to anyone who needed a place to stay.
 
Although they still didn’t have electricity
back they did have a generator, which meant hot meals and running water.

While she was
proud that her family made such a gesture, she had no plans of helping in her
mom's well-ordered kitchen. Cooking wasn't one of her skills. If a meal
required much more than putting it on a tray in the oven, she was lost. Her mom
knew this, so if she did ask for help, Charlie would find herself either
washing and chopping vegetables or taking care of the dirty pots and pans. On a
normal day she wouldn't mind helping her mom a little in the kitchen, but not
today. Every muscle in her body ached and she suspected she could fall asleep
standing up. It'd been a long day doing everything from treating injuries to
boarding up broken windows. All she wanted to do right now was lay down because
she knew tomorrow she'd be doing it all again.