The Billionaire's Con
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The
Billionaire’s Con
by
Mackenzie Crowne
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Billionaire’s Con
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Mackenzie Crowne
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-952-0
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Mackenzie Crowne
“Light, sweet, and satisfying. I have read a lot of contemporary romance novels lately, but the heart-warming moments made all of the difference. The author uses creative phases like ‘Gastronomical Orgasm’ to bring humor to the story. I recommend this book to anyone looking to be lightly entertained.”
~Books, Books, and More Books
“At under 200 pages,
THE BILLIONAIRE'S CON
is pretty much the perfect length for a short story. There's enough action to keep things interesting and there aren't any lingering questions, which can sometimes happen with stories that are just too short. If you're looking for a quick, romantic read, I definitely recommend
THE BILLIONAIRE'S CON
by Mackenzie Crowne.”
~Books Etc.
Dedication
For Marylee. The strongest woman I know.
Love you, Mom.
Chapter One
“Palmer House was built by the town founders, Gabriel and Edith Palmer, in 1734. The new owners have been renovating the property for several months and plan to reopen a restaurant on the ground floor of the main house within the week.”
Trevor Bryce Christos, CEO of Ashford Holdings and Elizabeth Ashford’s right-hand man, tuned out the chatty real estate agent. He scanned the expansive, well-tended grounds, and was impressed with what he saw.
The main house sat high atop a long, climbing drive. Tucked back from the road and wearing a fresh coat of white paint, the landmark, Georgian-architecture home watched over the town of Palmerton, Massachusetts like a beloved dowager aunt. Four, weathered-brick chimneys rose from a newly shingled roof. More than a dozen mullioned windows sparkled in the morning sunlight.
Crisply sculpted shrubbery lined the grounds and drive, leading to the graceful portico covering the home's main entrance on the right side of the structure. The tang of freshly cut grass scented the air, and Trevor knew a number of country club greens keepers who would give their right arm to claim the perfect carpet of lawn, sloping toward the road.
An air of charming elegance and prosperity hung over the estate and had the slow burn of fury re-igniting in his gut. No one looking at what Megan Calhoun had accomplished would mistake her for an ordinary thief. The woman didn’t waste her time on small-time swindles, and she’d been very successful in her chosen career.
That was about to change.
“In addition to getting the restaurant ready to reopen for business, the new owners had some work done to the carriage house apartment.” Jill Carlson led Trevor down the gravel path to the converted carriage house. Classic rock-and-roll blasted through the open door as Trevor followed her inside.
She continued to speak, despite the blare, pitching her voice to a near yell while her eyes searched the room for the source of the music.
“Just some aesthetics, really. They’ve refinished the hardwood floors, painted the walls. That sort of thing.” The agent gave a wave of the hand. “And the fireplace has been updated to natural gas.”
A boom box sat on a counter in the tiny kitchen. She stepped to it, pressed a finger to the power button, and brought blessed silence to the apartment.
It didn’t last.
“Hey!” an angry, feminine voice objected, “I was listening to that!”
Jill yelped, spinning about, and slapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, Meggy! I didn’t know you were in here.”
Trevor followed Jill’s startled gaze—and had to lock his jaw to keep it from dropping open.
Holy hell!
Five feet above the floor, a tiny, annoyed blonde perched atop an ancient, wooden step-ladder. Her jean-clad behind braced against the top rung, she held a paint roller in one hand like a weapon. A glare marred the pixie-like features of her face.
Astonished at what he was seeing, he catalogued the woman’s hauntingly familiar visage. Shoulder length, honey blonde waves framed the sharp lines of her cheekbones and chin. Deep blue eyes, the color of a clear sky at dusk, dominated her face. Those stunning eyes appeared huge against the porcelain of her skin, and they didn’t falter under his regard. Irritation met his study with a boldness that sent a swift lash of awareness whipping across his midsection.
No wonder Elizabeth was so agitated. The woman was the image of her daughter, as if Anne hadn’t died at all, but had spent the last twenty seven years growing younger, and more beautiful. Now Trevor understood why Elizabeth insisted the mysterious Megan Calhoun was Anne’s granddaughter, Rachel’s daughter.
He, however, didn’t buy it. In his experience, true coincidence was a rarity, and Megan Calhoun’s arrival at Ashford Farm last week had been a damned big coincidence.
Worth three quarters of a billion dollars, Elizabeth might seem like a plump pigeon to a cunning con-artist like Megan Calhoun, but the Ashford matriarch had never been a pushover. Despite believing this woman was her long-lost great-granddaughter, she’d given Trevor three weeks to prove her wrong. He was here to do just that. He’d see the little thief behind bars in two.
****
“What are you doing in here, Meggy?” Jill moved to stand beside the stepladder. “And why are you painting?”
Meggy frowned at the intruders, ignoring Jill for the moment. Her gaze scanned the tall stranger. She noted his expensive suit and handsome face below a thick pelt of dark, auburn hair. Though very attractive, he had that stiff, life-is-serious-business look about him.
Lawyer
.
Meggy sighed at the waste and turned her frown to Jill.
“I needed
something
to keep my hands occupied until I can get back into the kitchen.”
Agitated as much with the delay as the mess, she flicked her hand holding the roller. A silken thread of paint danced through the air, leaving a drizzle of pale yellow across the faded denim of her favorite jeans.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Get back into the kitchen?” Jill placed her hands on her hips. “I thought the kitchen was up and running.”
Meggy hoisted her butt off the top of the ladder and slapped a hand to the wall when she lost her balance. From the corner of her eye, she saw the lawyer take a startled step forward. With a disgusted growl, she glared at the fresh slash of paint coating her hand, and clambered down the ladder backwards before he could reach her.
“We had a
leak
.” She jumped the last two steps to land on the floor, jamming the roller into the pan at the foot of the ladder. “The plumber is there now, dealing with the aftermath.” Reminded of the calamity in her kitchen, she turned a glower on the silent man and quirked a brow. “And you are?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Jill rolled her eyes at Meggy and made the introductions. “Meggy Calhoun, this is Trevor Bryce. He’s a writer who’s interested in renting the carriage house. Mr. Bryce, Meggy is one of the owners of Palmer House. She’s also the head chef.”
Meggy watched, fascinated, as the stiff lawyer vanished behind a wicked smile, a flash of white teeth, and dimples. There was
nothing
stiff about the penetrating gaze that met and held hers. The deep drawl of his voice, when he said hello, reminded her of the smooth slide of the aged whiskey found in Palmer House’s well-stocked bar.
She glanced at the hand he held out, and flipped up her own paint-smeared palm. “Sorry, I’m a mess.”
Laugh lines crinkled the tanned skin at the corner of his eyes, and the soft core of femininity within her sighed in appreciation. She’d always had a soft spot for the Greek god type. Looking at Trevor Bryce, she had a sudden craving for feta cheese and ouzo.
Dark auburn hair, cut short and styled with just a hint of curl in the thick mass, framed a strong face. The olive tone of his complexion spoke of Mediterranean ancestry and complimented the sharp slash of his nose, chiseled cut of high cheekbones, and squared chin. His pale eyes were gray, without a hint of blue. They simmered with quiet humor as he returned her study. His wide mouth, though smiling, hinted at just a touch of danger.
Danger? Where the hell had that come from?
Her gaze slid over the crisp cut of his lips once more.
Well hell, what was life without a little danger?
“A writer, huh?” She snatched the rag she’d thrown over one of the ladder’s rungs and scrubbed at the yellow streaks decorating her fingers and palm. Her gaze roamed over his lanky, six-foot frame. He wore a tailored suit that she knew, without seeing the label, would have put him back five grand, easy. “You don’t have that brooding look or starving artist quality I usually associate with writers.”
“I’m new to the culture.” Humor continued to dance in his eyes. “But I think I could manage a brood if I put my mind to it.”
Shades of the South echoed in his whiskey smooth voice. For the first time that morning, she grinned, enjoying the unexpected combination of sardonic wit and sex appeal. The rag dangled from her hand as she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Would I have read any of your work?”
“Highly doubtful.” He slowly shook his head. “Since I’m working on my first novel, the jury’s still out as to whether or not I have the right to call myself a writer.”
“Mr. Bryce is researching life in a small town,” Jill interjected. “A small,
New England
town in particular. Palmerton more than qualifies. Wouldn’t you say, Meggy?”
“Excruciatingly so.” Meggy had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing at Jill’s anxious scowl when her lips flattened into an unhappy line. The town’s only real estate agent was in full close-the-deal mode. No doubt conscious of the lack of a lease having been signed and a commission check having been written. Meggy decided to cut her some slack.
“You’ll find plenty of examples of small town characteristics in Palmerton, Mr. Bryce.” She winked at Jill and kicked up the Bostonian accent she’d been raised on. “And there are a number of people around town who will line up to ply you with small town yarns.”
“Trevor, please.” He grinned in reaction to her exaggerated pronunciation. A
killer
grin, Meggy noted. “And are you one of those purveyors of yarns, Miss Calhoun?”
“I’m Meggy,” she corrected, caught in the dazzle of white teeth and sparkling gray eyes. “And, no way.” She laughed. “I avoid the grapevine at every opportunity.”
“The grapevine?”
She sent Jill a thin smile. “The grapevine is Palmerton’s version of the information superhighway. It’s an organized effort.”
He shook his head, confusion puckering his brow
