The Billionaire's Fake Marriage (A Romance Collection Boxed Set)

by Amanda Horton

  “Shit!” she mumbled, navigating her way to the headstone bearing the inscription of her former boss’ name.

  The weeks prior to Katherine’s death were a blur. The farewell rites – attended by a bohemian set of friends, museum curators, local politicians and gallery owners – had ended hours before. Lane had kept her distance, not wanting to intrude, but was glad to get a chance to say her final goodbye.

  If Lane were totally honest, she desperately wanted to avoid running into Matthew Stromm, Katherine’s only son. The idea of seeing him again after 5 years made her cringe in embarrassment.

  "Bastard. Low-life mongrel…" she muttered in recollection.

  Her youth and naivety were the only excuses she could fall back on to avoid judging herself as a complete idiot. He had been instantly attracted to Lane’s young ingénue and made no secret of it. Lane had been mature even at a young age, but her foresight proved no match for Matthew’s charm.

  Forty-eight blissful hours spent in his arms had made her think it would be that way forever but when he left without a word, Lane realized that she had just been another notch on his belt.

  She had reported for work apathetic and listless, having spent the whole night crying. Katherine took her aside after a week and said, "Forget him, Lane. My son will only leave you heartbroken.”

  When Lane had realized Katherine was aware of the short-lived affair, she had initially felt embarrassed but the old woman treated her with kindness and compassion. When she first heard the news that Katherine was diagnosed with cancer, she had no idea how fast the disease would devour the strong-willed and handsome woman. She had barely been a shadow when Lane visited her in the hospital.

  Lane had gripped her hand tightly as Katherine strived for enthusiasm, telling her about a hefty sale of three of their paintings.

  “You’re doing a great job, Lane. Take care of the gallery for me. That is my life’s work,” Katherine had said in a papery voice.

  “Don’t worry about anything. Just get well so we can begin negotiation for the van Gogh.” Lane had said, optimistic about Katherine’s prognosis.

  Katherine died two days later. Her body had been cremated immediately and the ashes buried, leaving Lane wondering if it wasn’t all a dream. With Katherine’s passing, her own future was on the brink. All her well-laid plans were anchored on Stromm Gallery. With the curator gone, only one conclusion loomed: the Stromm estate would sell to the highest bidder and close shop.

  It was a bitter pill to swallow. Lane had put in six years of her life, only to see it all go so easily. With her mounting debts, college for Sarah would no longer be feasible. Lane felt defeated as she slumped on the headstone and cried for the woman who had been a mentor and friend.

  ***

  Two weeks later, Lane found herself ushered into the conference room of a downtown law firm. She glanced at the intimidating stacks of law books lining the wall. The letter had requested her presence and had been signed by James Dillard, Attorney at Law.

  Lane had spent the past two weeks tidying up the affairs of the gallery. She brought a copy of the sales revenue; she wanted to be ready for whatever Mr. Dillard would ask. She was vaguely familiar with the lawyer, having seen him in the past with Katherine.

  Since the letter arrived, she had been engaging in wishful thinking that Katherine might have left a painting or two in her name. If that were the case, she could sell them and fund Sarah's college tuition. She felt icky about entertaining such thoughts, but it gave her some hope.

  The door opened and Lane rose to greet the lawyer. Her smile turned to shock at the arrival of someone she had dreaded meeting again after all these years.

  Matthew Stromm.

  His presence was oppressive in the way that the room suddenly felt smaller when he entered. He raised a sardonic eyebrow upon seeing her there. His flippant attitude was well fitted with his wealth. Designer jeans coupled with a fine linen shirt tucked casually, a leather jacket slung carelessly over the shoulder, all screamed fashion icon. He was even more gorgeous than she last remembered.

  He threw the jacket onto the table and slouched down on a swivel chair. He ran a finger through his thick, luxurious, blond hair as his piercing blue eyes noted the look of discomfort on her face.

  “Black coffee, no cream, no sugar,” he said in a mellifluous voice.

  “What?” asked Lane, surprised. He had mistaken her for a secretary – he didn’t remember her at all.

  “I’m not a…” she had begun to sputter, when the door opened once more.

  “Lane, Matthew…I’m glad you’re both here. Have you guys introduced yourselves?” Dillard asked as he deposited a thick folder on the table. “Matthew, this is Lane Sheridan, Assistant Curator at the Stromm gallery. Lane, this is Matthew Stromm.”

  Matthew’s brows rose to the roof at the mention of her name. Lane remained stunned. Matthew reached over and offered a handshake.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Sheridan.”

  She didn’t think she would be able to wipe the smirk off his face. But did he even remember her? She wasn’t sure.

  “Mr. Stromm,” she addressed him formally. She would play his game the way she wanted.

  “I think we can drop the formalities, considering the terms of the will…” Dillard said, clearing his throat and looking uncomfortable. “Do you have any questions before we begin?”

  “Actually, I do,” Lane said, jumping in. “I’m wondering why I have been summoned here. I’m not family.” She sent a surreptitious glance in Matthew’s direction. “I actually brought all the legal papers concerning the gallery,” she added, sliding a folder to the lawyer’s direction. “So, if that’s all you need,” she declared, rising from her seat, “I will be on my way.”

  “Wait,” the lawyer commanded before she could gather her belongings. “Please stay. You are a part of this proceeding and you’ll soon understand why.”

  Matthew watched the exchange with a sardonic grin. “Thank you,” Dillard murmured, looking relieved that she had settled back into her seat.

  Lane twisted her body sideways to avoid seeing Matthew’s face and crossed her arms over her chest. Dillard cleared his throat and began.

  “As you are well aware, I am Katherine’s executor for her estate. The executor's main duty is to carry out the instructions and wishes of the deceased. Before Katherine passed away, we executed her final will and testament.”

  “Can we just get to the nitty-gritty of how much money I’m getting, without this legal mumbo jumbo?” a drawling voice, interrupted.

  The hair at the back of Lane’s neck rose. She controlled the urge to slap him down with a scathing remark. Couldn’t he wait a few more minutes before demanding everything that Katherine worked for all her life?

  “As you wish,” Dillard responded. “Katherine Stromm’s assets – including cars, real estate properties, jewelry and banknotes – are worth an estimated four billion dollars.”

  Lane gasped. Matthew froze, but Lane was sure his pupils dilated.

  “How long before everything is transferred to my name?” Matthew asked eagerly.

  Lane hated the sound of avarice in his voice.

  “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,” Dillard replied.

  “Every asset Katherine owned is legally tied to the Stromm Gallery. The will states that the collection must be kept safe and intact. To ensure that her wishes are carried out, let me quote her words,” Dillard said, then paused before continuing. “My son, Matthew Stromm, shall be married to my Assistant Curator, Lane Sheridan, within thirty days from the reading of this will. Both will stay within the union for a period of one year at least. If the marriage does not occur within thirty days, the collection shall be auctioned off and donated to charity.”

  “What?” Lane shrieked.

  “What the fuck” Matthew screamed, as he snatched the document from Dillard’s hand. A vein throbbed violently in his temple. “You,” he screamed at Lane, “did you have anything
to do with this?”

  “No, of course I didn’t!” Lane replied, bewilderment written all over her face.

  “The contents of the will were confidential and could only be opened after Katherine passed. Lane had no idea,” Dillard said, defending her.

  “She must have! Who would ever hatch such a grandiose scheme? She must have hypnotized my mom. They spent a lot of time together in that fucking gallery.”

  Lane had had as much as she could take. The obnoxious excuse for a human before her had accused her of being a devious, calculating schemer.

  “Listen, you fucking asshole. No infallible God should have given Katherine a son like you. If you think, for one minute, I have any interest in your fucking money, I don’t. Neither do I possess an iota of interest in you.” That last sentence was not entirely true but years of pent-up anger was now being unleashed.

  “She paid me well because I worked my ass off. That gallery was her passion and I’m sure someone else can honor her memory better than you, you profligate, arrogant asshole,” Lane wheezed in profound fury.

  She gathered her belongings ready to leave when Dillard called out, “Lane, please wait. You need to know something before you make up your mind. Katherine’s will states that, after a period of one year of being married to Matthew, you stand to inherit $1 million and a favorite painting of your choice.”

  “What?” she froze in her tracks, disbelief written all over her face.

  One million fucking dollars? She would never earn that much money, even if she worked three eight-hour shifts every single day for the rest of her life. But why would Katherine even consider Lane for this kind of arrangement?

  The money would absolutely solve all her financial woes – her debts paid off, college tuition for Sarah. She could maybe even get a new car and a small condo for her and her sister.

  Her eyes darted wildly back and forth between the other two occupants of the room. Dillard looked hopeful. Matthew was a display of belligerence.

  Matthew saw her hesitation and smirked. Lane interpreted the malicious grin as his way of saying he was right in his assumption about her. The message was loud and clear – when money spoke, everybody listened. You didn’t ignore it, even if it asked you to lick its ass.

  Her pride kicked in. In hindsight, she would probably regret her decision but right now she just wanted to hit him in the gut.

  “No amount of money in the world would ever convince me to marry that pompous ass,” she slammed the door hard behind herself and left.

  Lane wondered how long the feeling of satisfaction gained from seeing the shocked and incredulous look on Matthew Stromm’s face would last. She knew it would probably not be long, once her creditors came knocking.

  ***

  Lane’s anger subsided and she regretted her impulsive decision. She wanted to call James Dillard and tell him she had reconsidered but every time she thought of picking up the phone, she remembered the smug look on Matthew’s face. Her pride though had a bedfellow called guilt and it assailed her every time Sarah talked about college.

  It didn’t help that the staff of the Stromm gallery was on pins and needles as they awaited their fate. No one looked forward to being jobless. Her bank loan was past due and there were bills to pay.

  “I should have stayed,” she mused with regret, recalling the scene in Dillard’s office. It occurred to her that where Matthew Stromm was concerned, she either loved him or hated his guts.

  Matthew’s image popped in her mind and she re-remembered the striking blue eyes and well-defined nose that balanced his chiseled jaw. The broad shoulders tapered down to long, lean legs. She had even caught a glimpse of the lean, clean fingers.

  Lane was taken aback at the distinct image in her mind. She struggled to erase his memory. Her state of confusion was, therefore, natural when she received a call from Matthew.

  She was in the middle of a conference call with a Middle-Eastern client when her phone rang. She initially ignored the unfamiliar number, but after she had finished her business with the potential buyer, it rang again. She reached for the phone.

  “Hello, Lane Sheridan speaking.”

  There was a slight pause before a voice came through.

  "Lane, this is Matthew Stromm. I was wondering if we could talk?”

  Lane shivered at the way her name slid off his tongue.

  “Yes, Mr. Stromm. How can I help you?” she said, striving to put on her best professional voice. He was, after all, technically her boss now that Katherine was gone.

  “Please call me Matthew,” he insisted. “You used to.”

  The admission made her heart flutter. So he did remember her. There was no sign of provocation in his voice. He just sounded…pleasant.

  “Well, err-okay, Matthew. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to ask you out for coffee. Honestly, I prefer dinner but it’s really up to you. But please just give me a few minutes of your time.”

  Lane was stunned over the sudden invitation.

  “If this is about the gallery, please be assured everything is in order,” Lane stammered.

  “Yes, it’s about Stromm gallery. It’s too complicated to discuss over the phone. Would you consider having dinner with me tonight?” he asked, repeating the invitation.

  Lane was tempted to say that dinner was unnecessary, but he was right. He was finally being accountable to the legacy that his mother had built for decades of her life. With this thought her resentment came down a notch.

  “Alright, we can have dinner, Matthew,” she agreed with some degree of reservation.

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at 8 PM.”

  Lane stared at the cell after he hung up. She pinched herself a couple of times to make sure she hadn’t dreamt the whole conversation. She was suddenly nervous and sweaty.

  Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not a date. It’s a business meeting.

  Her agitation grew as the day passed. She wished she could go home, change into something more appropriate, but each time she reminded herself that it wasn’t a date. She decided to dismiss the rest of the staff early.

  Her stomach was all knotty as she waited by the curb fronting the gallery. A white Bentley convertible rounded the corner and slowed down. She didn’t need to be told it was Matthew.

  “Hi…” she said, greeting him guardedly as she slid onto its red leather seat.

  He flashed a smile that winded her. Reaching into the backseat, he handed her a bouquet of the most beautiful red roses she had ever seen.

  “What’s this for?” Lane asked, taken by surprise. Roses were one of her favorite flowers in the world.

  “That’s my way of apologizing for my behavior the other day. I know I was an ass. Please forgive me.”

  The apology was totally unexpected, just like the flowers. Lane was bowled over.

  "I wasn't at my best either," she confessed.

  “It was totally expected. I’m sure you think I’m such a cad. But let me reassure you; I can be really nice. Please give me another chance,” he begged.

  “Of course,” Lane squeaked as she lowered her defenses.

  “Good,” said Matthew, smiling happily as he started the car and asked if she had any food preferences.

  “You take the lead,” Lane requested. They drove for a couple of miles and came to a stop in front of a small café. Lane was surprised. She had expected him to choose some fancy restaurant.

  The place was cozy with red, gingham tablecloths and sprigs of fresh flowers in small vases. He assured her the steak was good and the salads fresh.

  From the flowers to the apology, to asking her where she wanted to eat, he was doing everything by the book, and he was a good listener, too. As the meal progressed, Lane found herself talking openly about Katherine and how she had taught her everything she knew.

  For his part, Matthew was open and honest about his life, admitting he had expensive tastes.

  “Duh, I knew that,” Lane teased.

  Matthew looked co
nfused.

  “The car?” said Lane, spelling it out for him.

  “Katherine bought that for my birthday, last year,” Matthew volunteered. He was having difficulty talking about her, but he added, “My mom and I had a very volatile relationship. That’s pretty obvious. Having over-achievers for parents and being an only child placed too much pressure on me. When Dad died, I thought I was finally free to pursue what I wanted.”

  He paused unsurely and then decided to come clean.

  “When I visited and met you five years ago, Katherine insisted I stay and help run the gallery. I was young and defiant. We had a violent argument. The idea that the control of my life just passed from Dad to her made me rebellious. I left in haste because I knew that Katherine would dictate my life the way she wanted.”

  Lane was struck by the admission.

  “I see,” she said softly.

  “I wanted to call you and explain. But you were close to her. She was the only family I had left and yet I couldn’t convince myself to return. The more we fought, the more determined I was to stay away.”

  “Family can either be a blessing or a curse,” Lane muttered, as his confession released some of her pain.

  She proceeded to tell him about losing both her parents. She swallowed hard as she mentioned her desire to give Sarah the best education she could provide.

  “I guess I have to tell her soon that college is out of the picture.”

  "Why?" Matthew asked.

  “I don’t think I’ll have a job for long,” she said, shrugging.

  “You mean about the gallery being auctioned?”

  The silence that followed was awkward. They both remembered the scene at the lawyer’s office. Matthew fidgeted. Lane looked away. He cleared his throat. Lane glanced back at him.

  “Lane, there’s a reason I asked you out to dinner. It’s about the gallery,” he said.

  “I’ll do all I can to help. I owe it to Katherine…”

  “I don’t want to auction it off, Lane.”

  Lane tensed up. She knew where this was going. They both knew.

  “B-but your mom’s will was very specific…”

  “I know,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I didn’t make a good impression when I left without an explanation. I was an asshole. But try to see the bigger picture. Everything Katherine owned is legally mine. Some people may think I don’t deserve it but you can’t argue the fact. It was manipulative to throw in the marriage idea and then dangle a million dollars in front of you to force you to do it. But think how all that money could solve your problems. Your sister’s education means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”