The Billionaire's Healer (Braxton Family Saga Book 2)

by Jane Keeler

  The Billionaire’s Healer

  Braxton Family Saga Book 2

  Jane Keeler

  Fiction Book Promotions UK

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Jane Keeler

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Also by Jane Keeler

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Jane Keeler & The Publisher

  All rights reserved.

  It is unlawful to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit or otherwise use any part of this document by electronic means or in printed form or at all, except as the original purchaser of a copy of the same, offered for sale by the publisher or by a content platform provider on its behalf. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document or any part of the same is prohibited except for the purpose of reading the contents by the original purchaser. No action or inaction by the publisher or any other persons shall be deemed to be a waiver of the foregoing except as set out in express written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved. Breach of any of the foregoing may lead to criminal prosecution and/or civil liability.

  About the Author

  JANE KEELER is the author of many fine romances. She writes across a number of genres including billionaire, Regency and second chance. She loves writing romances because "they have a quality that brings passion to the fore, while tugging at the corsets of convention".

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  Get in Touch

  @authojanekeeler

  authorjanekeeler

  www.janekeeler.website

  jane@janekeeler.website

  Check out the First Braxton Family Saga Book!

  The Long Ride

  Reviewers Say:

  “Fun Loving Adventure”

  “Awesome Romance Book”

  4.6 Stars!

  Chapter 1

  Sarah worked in her garden, enjoying the warm touch of sunlight on her back. She stabbed the weeding fork into the rich soil and dug out the cape tulip seedling with satisfaction. They had pretty flowers, but they were poisonous, and once they established a foothold you couldn’t get rid of them.

  She wiped the perspiration off her face with a handkerchief and glanced around for more noxious invaders. Her sculpted cheekbones were glazed a warm bronze with heat and exertion, and her generous mouth lifted at one corner when she spotted two ice-blue eyes, about two feet off the ground, in her black snakeroot patch.

  “You! Get out of there! Shoo! Arabella Jenkins, get your dog out of my garden! You know some of them plants are bad for dogs!” Sarah didn’t know how he’d gotten in. She had a good fence around her entire garden—to protect it from the deer, if nothing else. That dog had his ways, though. It had taken her years to gather all of her herbs together, and she didn’t want to see them eaten or trampled.

  The dog in question pranced up to her, mouth open and tail moving back and forth in a self-satisfied swish-swish. The purple-black leaves of Sarah’s slightly bruised plants flattered his fur, and he acted like he knew it. The Australian shepherd mix was incorrigible. Even Sarah’s normally potent, get-it-done voice rolled off his multi-colored back like water off a duck.

  “There you are, You. Come here.”

  The dog had originally been named Rex Beauregard the Third, but wide usage had boiled that down to ‘You’. It was the name he was most likely to answer to, anyway. And here was the person he was most likely to answer to.

  Arabella Jenkins was a skinny ten-year-old with curly dark hair and bright brown eyes. She was wearing a faded red dress that barely covered her knees. Her right knee had a scab on it. Arabella rode her bike all over the town of Hannahs Branch and environs, usually accompanied by You (also known as ‘That Menace’).

  “Please, Miz Abbot, the baby’s poorly.”

  “I’ll be right with you, dear, just let me wash my hands. You’d best come with me in the car; we can put your bike in the trunk. And hang on to That Menace’s collar.”

  Sarah hurried inside to wash her hands and grab her bag. Once everyone was situated, she got into the driver’s seat of her car and turned the key, praying it would start. Her elderly Chevrolet Impala liked to spend long, restful vacations at the shop, but the mechanic had faithfully promised that this time everything was fixed for at least the next six months.

  It was a short drive—Hannahs Branch was a small town. Sarah lived on the outskirts, but the Jenkins weren’t far away. Sarah called to mind what she knew about them.

  Tom and Naomi Jenkins were a nice enough young couple. Tom worked at the hardware store and Naomi took in laundry. There weren’t many jobs available in Hannahs Branch, but people made do. Tom and Naomi had two children: Arabella and a baby boy, who, if Sarah remembered correctly, was about four months old.

  She pulled into the driveway of the Jenkins house, noting the tall grass in the yard and the dying flowers in the large pot Naomi kept by the front door.

  “Why don’t you water those flowers while I see to your brother, dear?” she said to Arabella.

  Sarah knocked on the door, hearing the baby crying in the distance. It was a thin, thready, consistent sound, like he had been crying all day and might keep it up all night too. The poor parents must have been at their wits’ end.

  Sarah stopped for a moment at the doorstep and centered herself. She took a deep breath, and let all her stress flow out of her body and into the ground, like water.

  Tom Jenkins answered the door in shorts and a t-shirt. He had dark circles under his eyes and obviously hadn’t shaved (or bathed, it smelled like) in several days. Sarah remembered the rumor that he had lost his job at the hardware store, but forbore to ask about it just then. First, she needed to see to the baby.

  The room she stepped into was dark and smelled vaguely of unwashed dishes and dirty diapers. She wrinkled her nose and went in search of Naomi.

  Sarah found her in the back bedroom, walking up and down, holding the baby and making small, helpless soothing noises. It didn’t help. Naomi’s stringy hair stuck out from her head in a tangled mess. The dark circles under her eyes were even more pronounced than her husband’s. Sarah stepped forward and held out her arms. Naomi handed over the baby and collapsed into a chair as if her strings had been cut.

  Sarah pressed her cheek against the little forehead. No fever, thank goodness. She smoothed his damp little curls and whispered, her voice like a soft veil shimmering in the dim room, “Hush, sweetie, it’s all right… Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry… go to sleep, my little baby… Shhhh…”

  The crying decreased in volume until it was soothed into silence. Sarah held the baby for a few minutes and gently laid him down in his crib. Naomi was asleep in her chair.

  Sarah shut the door behind her, careful to keep the knob turned until the door closed so she could avoid the click of the latch. She went to talk to Tom. He was sitting in front of the TV with the sound off, a beer in his hand, staring unseeingly at a commercial for a cleaning appliance of some kind.

  “Looks like you all could use one of those here. This place is a mess,” Sarah said quietly.

  “Huh?�
�� Tom’s eyes were dull; the whites had a red tinge to them.

  “Tom, listen to me. This place stinks. I know it’s hard right now, but you’ll feel better when it’s cleaned up.”

  “I wanna help.” Arabella had come in, thankfully leaving You outside in the yard.

  “Thank you, Arabella dear. Why don’t you gather up those dirty dishes and set them to soak in the sink. Tom, you take out the trash.”

  Sarah opened the curtains and looked around the room. Every surface was covered with dust: dust dancing in the sunlight coming through the window, dust making her nose itch. She sighed and got to work.

  When they were finished, the house was clean and smelled fresh. In addition, it looked like Tom had finally come out of his funk. His eyes were brighter and he seemed embarrassed to appear in front of Sarah in such a state. He kept rubbing his unshaven jaw, and when they were done he excused himself. Sarah heard the shower running soon afterward.

  She gave Arabella a hug and a kiss. “You’ve been so helpful, my dear. I’m sure your parents are very proud of you.” She smiled at the little girl. “I’ll make us all some tea.”

  Naomi joined her in the kitchen while Sarah was pouring hot water over the large-size Luzianne iced-tea bags. Naomi pulled out the tea pitcher and poured syrup in the bottom. She set it beside the teapot on the counter.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Miz Abbot. We were that desperate. Little Mikey’d been crying for days.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, dear. I’m glad to help. Now, tell me—when did Tom lose his job at the hardware store?”

  “It’s not his fault! They been getting fewer customers since that Shopmart opened up yonder, and they had to let somebody go. Tom’s the one been there the shortest time, so they picked him.”

  Sarah sighed. “I’ll ask around and see what I can find. And I’ve got so many zucchinis, green beans, and tomatoes I don’t know what to do with them. You’d be doing me a favor if you took some off my hands.” She poured the tea concentrate into the pitcher, added cold water and ice cubes, and stirred vigorously with a long spoon.

  “I’ll make you up some chamomile and lavender tea for Mikey. Pour some boiling water in a bowl, add a handful of the tea and let it steep for fifteen minutes. Then strain out the flowers and mix the tea in his bathwater. That will help him sleep. I’ll give you an aloe for his diaper rash, too.”

  “I surely do appreciate it, Miz Abbot.” Naomi took out some glasses and together they brought it all back into the living room.

  The Jenkins family looked much better now, in the bright clean room, sipping their iced tea. Tom was freshly shaven and smelled of soap. Naomi’s shirt still had spit-up stains on the shoulder, but she had brushed her hair and put it up into a neat ponytail. Even You the dog, who had found his way back into the house, was lying peacefully at Arabella’s feet.

  Sarah looked at them and smiled. “I want you all to take heart. Things may seem dark right now, but keep your chins up. It will get better—I just know it.”

  Chapter 2

  The young man with the bristly moustache was sweating in his brown suit. Inside Braxton Industries’ corporate offices it was cool and comfortable; outside on the sidewalk the New York City summer heat struck like a brass hammer.

  Maybe the man had recently come in from a brisk walk, Westley thought. That would explain the patches of perspiration under his arms. There might also be a reasonable explanation for the lines of fear on his pale face, but that seemed less likely. Westley made a mental note of the young man’s name and detoured into the head of security’s office.

  The door wasn’t labeled—the security section did its best to blend in with the rest of the building. Its personnel wore business suits, not uniforms, and many of the higher-ups came from an intelligence background.

  “Jeff, what do you know about Brian Pearson? I don’t think I’ve seen him around before,” Westley said.

  “He’s only been working here a couple of months. I’ll bring up his file.” Jeff Leonard, the chief security officer, was tall and lanky, with floppy blond hair and narrow blue eyes. He’d started out as an Army Ranger and had moved on to something hush-hush at the State Department before coming to work for Braxton Industries.

  “Everything checks out. He was an accountant at Apex Chemicals before he came to us. Laurie at HR had an off-the-record chat with his supervisor, who said they’d never had any trouble with him. He’s not brilliant, but a solid worker. No complaints. No criminal record. Not deep in debt and no bad habits we could find—and we looked.”

  Jeff scrolled down on the laptop that displayed Pearson’s information, “From his Facebook feed he supports the Phillies, poor bastard.”

  “Even so. Keep an eye on him, but discreetly. I have a feeling he might try something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Westley Braxton of Braxton Industries finished signing his memos and set his pen down on the leather surface of his antique Georgian desk. His long, sensitive fingers caressed the wood briefly. The high-quality craftsmanship was a touchstone in a rapidly changing world.

  He walked to his window and looked out over New York. The city lights looked almost fairytale-like in the gloom. From this high up you couldn’t see the struggles taking place down there.

  Westley thought he knew a bit about struggle: he had worked hard to bring his company up from a simple car-battery manufacturer to the global empire it was today.

  His assistant, Jeannette Phillips, glided into his office. Her tall, slim figure was dressed in a business suit that wouldn’t look out of place at a gallery opening on the Upper East Side, or a night at the Metropolitan Opera.

  “Special Agent Chambers is on the line.” She raised her arched brows and waited for instructions.

  “I’ll take it at my desk, thank you.” Westley sat down to speak to the FBI agent. “Good evening, Ben. Have you managed to get any information out of our young miscreant yet?”

  “Not yet, but we’ll keep at it. He’s more scared of whoever turned him than he is of us. I don’t blame him. I’ve got my best people on the job, though. He’ll crack eventually.”

  The young man with the sad moustache had been trying to smuggle confidential files out of the building. The new employee had seemed perfect on paper, but their antagonists had deep pockets and could be very persuasive.

  Several months ago, economic spies had done their best to steal Braxton Industries’ new hydrogen-production process. The process, invented by Dr. Johnson (now head of Braxton Industries’ Solar and Clean Energy Division), used sunlight and a proprietary catalyst to extract hydrogen from water.

  It was a breakthrough in sustainable energy. What’s more, it was relatively cheap and safe. Braxton Industries had purchased the patents to Dr. Johnson’s innovations and planned to manufacture hydrogen-powered fuel cells. With the eventual refinement of the technology, hydrogen might replace fossil fuels for all of the world’s energy needs.

  It was a big enough jackpot to tempt a horde of thieves, and they were lining up to get at it. Braxton Industries was guarded well and locked up tight. Westley worked closely with Special Agent Ben Chambers, the counterintelligence Strategic Partnership Coordinator for the FBI’s New York office, to make sure it stayed that way.

  “We’ll always need to be on our guard against them now, won’t we?” Westley said. “The factories, when they’re built, will require even tighter security.”

  “I’m afraid the threat is persistent and inexhaustible, sir,” Ben said. “There are plenty of people eager to acquire the Johnson process. The potential rewards are immense.”

  “I’ll have to think of ways to forestall some of the risk. Thank you for keeping me informed.”

  “Just doing my job, sir. You have a good evening.”

  Jeannette was at the door again. “Do you need anything else, Mr. Braxton?”

  “No, Jeannette. Thank you for staying late. Have one of the company cars take you home.”

  Westley sat
in the back seat of his own car, lost in thought. “Clayton,” he asked his chauffeur, “if you wanted to keep a factory secure, how would you go about it?”

  Westley liked to get his employees’ input. Their insights were often useful, and sometimes surprised him with their creativity. He knew he had lived in the rarefied world of the super-rich for too many years to have a clear view of everyday life.

  “Well, sir,” Clayton said, “I grew up in a small town, and everyone knew everything about everybody. If a strange car drove through town, we’d talk about it for days.”

  He slowed the black Rolls-Royce Wraith to a stop at a red light. “Seems like, if you built your factory in a small town, you’d have whole troops of gossips and busybodies acting as your eyes and ears. You’d have to get them on your side—which might be hard if your grandfather didn’t know their grandfather—but if anyone can find a way, it’s you, sir.”

  “Clayton, that is a very interesting idea. You’ve given me something to think about.”

  Westley made the journey up the mahogany-lined elevator to his penthouse while deep in thought. His housekeeper had set out a tray with a glass and a bottle of the Royal Brackla 16 Year Old, ready for his arrival. She would have left dinner in the refrigerator waiting for him. She didn’t live in, though—Westley liked his privacy.

  He took off his tie, hung up his jacket, and stretched his shoulders, interlacing his fingers and pressing his hands up over his head. He heard his back crack and felt his muscles relax as some of the day’s stress melted away. He crossed the room and poured himself a glass. His shoulders relaxed as the smooth single malt slid down his throat and warmed his stomach.

  His apartment was large and furnished with eighteenth-century Georgian antiques that served as a pleasing contrast to the bright paintings on the walls. Westley had one of Van Gogh’s early works, as well as a Cassatt of a man and a woman on a boat that he valued for its bold composition. The bulk of his collection was made up of modern paintings his niece, an art gallery manager, had discovered for him.