Mending Images With The Billionaire (Artists & Billionaires Book 4)

by Lorin Grace

  After changing, Abbie folded up the clothes and retrieved the wig from the garbage. She might need the outfit again. She pulled out her cell and texted Mandy.

  Up for a visit?

  — Only if you can smuggle in double-fudge chocolate. Mom is on a health-food kick.

  Done.

  The office phone rang.

  “Abbie Hastings.”

  “It’s Preston. I need your help. Can we meet?”

  Five minutes later she texted Mandy again.

  Sorry. Work calls. I’ll text you when I can come.

  — Better bring two pints.

  I’ll bring three. Tough client.

  He half expected her to still be in the disguise she had worn an hour ago or even in business attire. The jeans and layered T-shirts looked comfortable. Too bad her face said she felt otherwise about the meeting. “Thank you so much for meeting me on such short notice.”

  Abbie led him back to her office, leaving the door open, and handed him a bottled water.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again today. Did Yvette change her mind?”

  “Yes, when I insisted she return the ring. It was one of my grandmother’s favorites.” Begged, pleaded, cried, and tried every feminine wile she had. By the time she finished he was left disgusted and disturbed. Was this really the type of wife he wanted?

  “So I’m back on the job?”

  “Not exactly. I had to have security remove her from the guesthouse. She screamed profanities in three languages the entire way.” Only after he’d threatened to release the photos Abbie had taken did Yvette return the ring.

  Abbie leaned back in her chair. Preston recognized her posture—like father like daughter, and surprisingly intimidating on her, too. “So, if you don’t need me to guard your fiancée, what do you need?”

  Preston took a sip of water and wondered how she would react. “I need you to be my fiancée.”

  The chair squeaked as she sat up. “What?”

  “I need to catch the stalker. I’ve wasted the last three years of my life dating woman after woman only to have them scared away. I’ll be thirty-five next year, and according to my grandfather, it is time for me to take my place in the family, marry, and carry on the legacy. I can’t waste any more time, plus there are only two more women who fit the profile. Not that the profile worked with Yvette. Not sure how we missed that she wanted my money more than me.” His thought sounded more reasonable in his mind.

  Abbie held up her hand. “Whoa, you are telling me you profile the women you date?”

  “Of course. Health history, genetics, personality, financial information.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Did no one inform you this is the twenty-first century?”

  “It’s not much more than what the online dating sites do when making a twenty-first-century match.” It wasn’t like he’d profiled Abbie.

  “I’m no expert, but I am witness to several happy relationships between men of your tax bracket and the women they have fallen in love with. Women who probably don’t fit your profile.”

  He reached up to loosen his tie and discovered he wasn’t wearing one. “Daniel Crawford got lucky with Mandy.”

  “What about Kyle Evans? And Sean Cavanagh?” She folded her arms, challenging him.

  “The oil baron’s grandson? I’ve heard the marriage is pure folly. Father blames Deah Evans and all her hands-on charity work. Who is Sean Cavanagh?”

  “You may have read about him in the news. He inherited a fortune in investments his grandfather didn’t realize he owned.” She sat back again in the chair.

  “Oh, I did read about him—the organ repairman. He knows the Goodings of New York. The newbie doesn’t count. He wasn’t a billionaire when he fell in love. These are the exception rather than the rule.” Preston shook his head. The woman believed in love. He blamed the Hearthfire channel with all its hearts and flowers. Oddly, Abbie’s background check showed she’d never dated anyone seriously, but her brothers may be a factor, or maybe she suffered from a broken heart.

  She leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “But Sean Cavanagh officially proposed in March—after he inherited.”

  “I am not sure what your point is or what it has to do with our business. If I am to wed, the stalker must be caught. I’ve become a joke on social media. ‘#Prestoned’ is trending right now as a euphemism for being dumped.”

  She covered her mouth briefly before answering. “So me pretending to be your fiancée solves this how? When we catch the stalker, we are going to call off the wedding. And you will have been ‘Prestoned’ again.”

  She’d used air quotes. Zero in the sophistication category. This wouldn’t work. She didn’t even begin to fit the profile in looks or manners. Well, she was tall enough, and she had caught his eye at the New Year’s party. But the woman standing across from him barely resembled the lady in the deep -blue evening gown. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake.” Preston rose from his seat.

  Abbie rose as well and beat him to the door. “I am sorry. I should not have laughed at you. Why don’t you tell me what you had in mind?”

  “We start dating immediately. In a few days, I propose. I already had the Knickerbocker reserved for the wedding as Yvette loved the venue. New announcements can be printed. No one will know our engagement is anything but real. The stalker should have to act fast, which might cause him to make a mistake, and we catch him. End of story.”

  She moved around the desk and picked up a pad and pen. “Questions first. Are you dating me, Abbie Hastings, or am I taking on a disguise? If so, how much of a wardrobe allowance are you building into the contract?”

  “Either way I’ll take care of your wardrobe up to $100k. There will be events we need to be seen at, and there won’t be time for custom anything other than a wedding dress. I already have the designer on retainer for Yvette. He’ll work fast. But I am afraid you will need to meet with him the day after tomorrow to get started. Go get a spa treatment and makeover, too.”

  “Surely it won’t get up to the wedding, will it?” Abbie didn’t seem as comfortable in her chair as before.

  “I doubt it, but if you use a pseudonym, a fake name will help by invalidating the license. Plus, if the stalker realizes your true profession, he may not buy that our relationship is real.”

  “I’ll have to be Gale Henderson , then, since it’s my only other established alias. You will need to let Simon know again.” She pulled the end of her sandy-blonde ponytail around and twirled it. “Is Patrick Vonn one of your bodyguards?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “We have a history. Even if I dye my hair, he may realize who I am.”

  “I can get him reassigned, perhaps to my cousin, so he won’t be around too often. Anything else we need to discuss?”

  Abbie walked to the door. “Wait here, and I’ll ask my father. I understand it is traditional to ask a father’s permission for an engagement, even a fake one.”

  five

  “A makeover? Of all the nerve! He suggested a spa day and a makeover.” Abbie dug another scoop of cherry-chocolate ice cream out of her container.

  Mandy stuck her spoon in her pint of double fudge. “Did he offer you a spa day after this is over? That’s when you’re going to need it.”

  Candace’s voice came over the speaker on Abbie’s phone. “Maybe he meant it for your disguise. After all, a new hair color and some colored contacts could be considered a makeover.” Car noises littered the background, making it difficult to hear. “Hey, leaving Gary, Indiana, and traffic is picking up. Signing off. Zoe and I will see you two soon. Save us some ice cream!”

  Abbie pocketed her phone. “She could be right. I don’t think he is being deliberately offensive. Like the first day we met, when he told me I was average.”

&n
bsp; Mandy held her bulging belly and laughed. “Don’t make me laugh. Average? You are anything but average. What planet is he from?”

  Not sure how to answer the question, Abbie changed the subject. “I don’t want to change my hair so drastically I can’t find myself.” She pulled the end of her ponytail around to study her hair.

  “A raven black like Anne of Green Gables is out?” Mandy adjusted her pillow.

  “As I remember, the dye turned her hair green. Double out.”

  “Take out the hair band. Having your hair down changes your look considerably. You almost always have your hair up or back. With some brown contacts and strawberry highlights and lowlights, you’d get ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were . . .’ comments if you ran into someone you knew.”

  “I could go red. If I was a true ginger, do you think I would know if he had a soul to steal?” Abbie stood in front of Mandy’s mirror.

  “NO! Laughing! Daniel is ready to get a nurse for me. Mom is already here, and I don’t need to be babysat. Stop doing anything that forces my muscles to tighten.”

  “Sorry, but can laughing start contractions?”

  “I don’t think so, but I don’t like seeing Daniel scared. I have a feeling I might have to pay Alex to keep Daniel out of the delivery room if this keeps up.” Mandy rolled her eyes. “Keeping Mom in check is giving her something else to focus on. Especially when she gets going on the birthing rituals of various ancient cultures.”

  Mandy’s phone rang a tune by Savage Garden. Abbie had heard the ring tone enough over the last year. She stepped out while Mandy took her husband’s call, and scrolled through her missed texts. There was one from Zoe saying they’d found a traffic jam. Hardly surprising.

  Even Preston’s texts sounded stuffy.

  — Please contact me. There is a detail we forgot.

  Abbie reread the screen. Nope. He had been thorough.

  What did we forget?

  — When will you be moving in?

  When pigs fly. I wasn’t planning to.

  — But all my other girlfriends have either moved into the west wing or the guesthouse. They all beg to.

  Beg? So not happening.

  When this is over, I still need to live with myself. I don’t need people assuming something that wasn’t. I will stay where I am.

  — Where is that?

  I share a condo with Alex.

  — So there’s nothing odd with you living with a guy, just with me?

  He is my twin!

  — Not in your current identity.

  Abbie wished she could kick one of Alex’s sparring dummies. Fine. I’ll find an apartment or something.

  — It needs to be nice and have some type of security.

  Seriously? Like I’d take a project on the south end.

  Colin Ogilvy owned his building and the one where Daniel and Mandy had their penthouse, plus who knew what. Maybe he could help her get a short-term something. Or she could try Airbnb to find an upscale location. Even at $1k a day, she would make a nice sum on the job. It wasn’t like she would blow through the clothing budget in a month.

  Let me make some calls.

  — I’ll need to approve it.

  She longed to send him an eye-roll emoji. How was she supposed to get through a month-long engagement with this guy? She’d better find the stalker quickly, or she might need to hire a bodyguard to protect Preston from her.

  Give me a few hours. I have an idea.

  Also, I’ll get a different phone. You don’t want to have the two versions of me in one text thread.

  — Good idea. I should probably delete this conversation.

  A few snarky comments pulsed at the ends of her fingertips, but she set her phone down and walked to the other side of the room. Why had she agreed to this? Daniel had already paid her a four-month bonus so she could go to Araceli’s wedding and spend the entire summer backpacking in Canada. Besides, if Yvette was representative of the type of women Preston customarily dated, the stalker was doing him a favor.

  Her phone rang with Candace’s ringtone.

  “Hey, can you get us in? Mandy forgot to put us on today’s visitor’s list, and she isn’t answering.”

  “Give me a minute.” Abbie disconnected and called downstairs.

  The security member was new. “I am sorry, Miss Hastings, but Candace Wilson doesn’t match the photos on file. I can’t let her in.”

  “Her file states she has alopecia and is bald. Look at her face, not her hair, and if necessary, scan her fingerprint. It’s on file. Or, if you wish, I can come down myself.” Taking a bit of her temper out on a guard who didn’t know how to read would help.

  “Sorry, Miss Hastings. I’ll send them up.”

  “Thank you, and you owe the apology to Miss Wilson.”

  Candace and Zoe laughed as they exited the penthouse elevator. “What on earth did you say to the poor security guy? He stumbled all over himself apologizing.”

  The wig of the afternoon reminded Abbie of the ’60s hippies with tie-dyed hair. No wonder the guard was suspicious. “Where did you find your wig?”

  “It’s one of my old ones with some hair extensions. Zoe and I were a bit bored the other day. We brought extensions for each of you, too, for Araceli’s hen party.”

  Mandy called from the sunroom, where she lay on the daybed. “Party in here, please!”

  They joined Mandy, and each found a spot as Candace passed around the hair extensions. She gave a tiny set to Mandy as well. “I know you and baby-to-be can’t join us in person and your little one won’t even be hatched yet, but I couldn’t resist making a set for her, too.”

  “Oh my, these are so precious!” Mandy held up the tiny extensions. Mom claims I was born with a full head of hair. Abbie don’t let me forget these when we do the baby’s photo shoot.” She set them on the low table beside her. “By the way, Daniel said he would be here in an hour, with Colin, for dinner.”

  Abbie toyed with her phone. “Good. I need to talk to Colin. Preston asked me to move in with him. Which is not happening. So I need to find an upscale apartment I can crash in for a month. I’m hoping there is something in one of his buildings.”

  Zoe gasped. “He did what? Just what kind of a charade does he think you’ll do?”

  Abbie opened her phone to the text conversation and passed it around. Candace handed the phone back. “He did offer separate accommodations. But I wouldn’t let Alex read this.”

  “Are you saying he’s overprotective?” Abbie pocketed her phone.

  “Is Michelangelo Italian?” asked Candace.

  Everyone laughed. Mandy held up her hand. “No making me laugh.”

  Candace knelt in front of the daybed and hugged Mandy. “Sorry, we will try, but you know how impossible this will be.”

  “I know. Let’s work on Abbie’s new look. I have so many ideas.” Zoe opened her tablet.

  Fortunately, the next hour of laughter did not cause any contractions.

  Preston was impressed as his driver pulled into the underground garage of one of Chicago’s premiere high-rises. Abbie had managed to find a one-month rental in one of Colin Ogilvy’s buildings. It proved the axiom about it being who one knew that mattered. The doorman let Preston in and directed him to the elevator for the tenth-floor apartment.

  Preston knocked on the door. The woman who answered must be the Realtor. She was on the short side for a model, but her long, strawberry-blonde hair and soft-brown eyes would still get her many jobs. He wondered if she had ever considered the industry. He passed her and went into the furnished living area. The view of the lake was better than most.

  “I take it this meets your approval.”

  That voice. Preston turned to look at the woman again. “Abbie?” He told himself
to stop staring, but his eyes wouldn’t listen. Had he called her average? The woman in front of him was anything but average.

  “Gale Henderson. Glad to meet you.” Abbie extended her hand.

  It was her. Preston hoped he’d masked his shock. “I didn’t recognize you at first. My apologies.”

  “Well, that gives me hope. I didn’t want to go too extreme, but some contacts, hair color, and extensions seems to have worked.” She gathered her hair in a ponytail. “And if I need to be the real me, I’m only a ponytail and a pair of jeans away.”

  Preston cleared his throat. “Sorry for—” No matter what his next words were, he knew they would be wrong, so he stopped talking.

  “Sorry for . . . ?” She raised her eyebrows and waited.

  Stupid neckties. He needed to stop wearing them around any of the Hastings. None of his security team ever intimidated him. No one did. Just the Hastings. “Not recognizing you sooner.”

  Her lips thinned. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Soda? Since you’re here, we may as well plot out the next month.”

  “Water, please.” Preston took a seat on the couch.

  Abbie brought him a glass. “I forgot I needed to order groceries. By the time I was done with the personal shopper, I wasn’t even trying on the clothes she handed me. The last thing I wanted to do was do more shopping.” She sat in the chair opposite him. “I should tell you we have extra cameras installed inside the apartment in case your stalker makes it past security.”

  Preston read the threat between the lines. Anything he did, her father and brothers might see, so no forgetting this was a charade. “I assume Hastings oversees the security for this building?”

  She nodded and took a sip of her water. “It has certain advantages. If I use one of the biometric scanners now, my Gale Henderson ID photo shows up. The doorman and all security working this building have been advised I am to be addressed as Gale. Should we plan any get-togethers here with friends or your family? There will not be a problem. We should have something early on to give the stalker a chance to know where I live.”