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

by Lorin Grace

  Abbie extended her hand. “Mr. Harmon, nice to meet you.”

  It took him a beat too long to return the gesture. “Ms. Hastings, I assume.”

  “Or you can call me Abbie. Come on back to the conference room, and we can discuss what you need.” Abbie led him through the office to a conference room with a clear glass wall facing the cubicles lining the center of the room. Most were vacant as their occupants rarely had need to step inside the office. “Would you like a water or soda?”

  At the shake of his head, she closed the conference room door and indicated for him to take a seat. Of course, he took the chair at the head of the table. Abbie bit back her frustration. Her father had told her Mr. Harmon had been surprised he’d recommended a female for the job. It wasn’t the first time a client thought she would not be able to be a bodyguard due to her gender. During her three years with the Secret Service, she’d run into gender bias quite often. Abbie took a seat between the table and the window with a view of Lake Michigan, which also gave her a view of the conference room door and outer office.

  “Mr. Harmon—”

  “Preston, please.”

  “Okay. Preston. I have been given the notes from yesterday’s meeting, the list of former girlfriends and known persons of interest you emailed my father yesterday, as well as the threatening poem Yvette received.” She continued at his slight nod. “As you predicted, the only fingerprints we could find belonged to your girlfriend. I reviewed some of her social media and video blog posts, and I agree placing me as a special wedding photographer should work well. I will also have access to Yvette in places the male bodyguard you wanted to hire could not go, such as dress fittings, bridal showers, and the hen party.”

  Mr. Harmon leaned forward. “I hadn’t thought of those things yesterday when I spoke with your father. But you have a good point. You’ll pardon me for saying you are not what I expected.”

  “Do I want to know what you expected?”

  Preston smiled, his perfectly straight white teeth probably the result of aligners and veneers. “I’ve seen your brothers on the job, and I expected you to be more—”

  “Muscular?”

  “That isn’t how I was going to term it. You look so average.”

  Abbie paused a minute before answering. “My averageness is what allows me to blend in. I assure you, Mr. Harmon—”

  “Preston.”

  “As I was saying, you have seen me on the job on several occasions. However, I normally blend in as much as possible. I can name at least six events in the last five months where we were both in attendance.”

  Preston’s brows furrowed as he studied Abbie. She tried to appear relaxed, but his intense scrutiny unnerved her. “You wore your hair down at Daniel Crawford’s New Year’s party, didn’t you? I noticed you with one of the bodyguards, but I assumed you were trying to flirt with him. Some bodyguards are too irresistible to certain types of women.”

  “I’m sure my twin will love to hear that one. My goal today is to look, as you say, perfectly ‘average.’ But I am not. At the moment I am carrying more than one weapon. In hand-to-hand fighting, I have bested my brothers in sparring rounds. Last year I took down a football coach nearly three times my size in a particularly satisfying moment. She knew she sounded a bit snarky, but she didn’t appreciate his calling her average. She may not be a six-foot, size-zero model, but at five nine she wasn’t out of modeling-height range and had once passed as a model for a job.

  “I think you will do quite nicely. I apologize if I offended you. Shall we discuss the details?”

  She resisted the urge to toss him out of the room. Instead, she would prove herself to another male chauvinist.

  Preston pulled up his calendar on his phone. “This is my Yvette calendar. I’ll share it with you. Will the email on your business card work?”

  Abbie nodded and pulled out her phone. It beeped, and she opened the calendar.

  “I am planning on proposing tomorrow. She is somewhat expecting me to or hinting I should. I have been debating about introducing you before the proposal, but I’d rather not have her reaction staged. If you could be there, perhaps taking a few photos from a distance, you can show her what photos you took when I introduce you as a bridal gift.”

  “What about your security team? Won’t you have someone somewhere nearby? They could get suspicious if I’m taking photos.”

  “Oh, you are right. I better let them know I hired a photographer. That will be tricky. Simon Dermot will insist on a background check.”

  Abbie shared his scowl. “I suppose my name will raise eyebrows as well as lead to questions. So I will need to work under a pseudonym. I have a couple: Gale Henderson and Gaileen Harris. Either should pass a basic background check. How in depth do you think they will dig?”

  “Considering the threats to my past girlfriends, I would expect them to do a fairly thorough search.”

  Abbie bit her lip. “Sadly, we are not the FBI or CIA. I doubt my false identities can withstand heavy scrutiny. I think “Gaileen” sounds more like an up-and-coming photographer.”

  “Do you know if any of Simon’s team would recognize you?” Preston twirled his pen, a nervous habit he’d acquired as a boy.

  “Considering I’ve worked the same events as many of them, I’d be surprised if someone didn’t recognize me.” Abbie wrote a note on the pad in front of her. “Is there anybody you can trust on your security team?”

  “I’ll have to bring Simon Dermot in on this. He’s worked for my father for thirty-five years, and I think he’s getting ulcers over the stalker. I trust him. If he signs off on your background check, no one will question it. But how are you going to prevent other people from recognizing you?”

  “That is for me to worry about. If you don’t have anything else, I’ll see you tomorrow at three.” Abbie stood and extended her hand again. Preston followed her lead.

  He left the office, his hand still slightly paralyzed from the firm handshake he’d received. Abbie Hastings wasn’t what he’d envisioned at all, but she might work.

  three

  The wig itched. Abbie wished she’d had time to drive down and peruse Candace’s collection. The short-cropped hair with bleached ends not only stuck out in all directions but poked her in the scalp as well. But with an hour before the proposal, she didn’t have time to change her appearance. She’d already sent a current photo of Gaileen to Preston to share with Simon Dermot. She’d opted for a subdued, artsy look. The temporary tattoo would be a bit of a pain to keep reapplying in the same spot along her collarbone, but it was better than a nose piercing. The round eyeglasses caused sweat to drip down her nose. She thought about discarding the wig, but the risk of a member of Simon Dermot’s security team recognizing her was too high.

  She walked around the park again, her earlier texts with Preston indicating he intended to propose on the south side of the fountain. Not the best for three-o’clock lighting. From a bench about fifteen feet away, she could pretend to read while she photographed the happy moment. At twenty till, she spotted two of Simon’s team walking the perimeter. They must not be thrilled with this location either—far too much pedestrian access. One guard approached her, paused, then looked at his phone and back at her before walking away. He must’ve gotten the memo stating she worked for Preston.

  The other guard circled the other side of the fountain. He had a familiar swagger to his step. No. Of all people, he would recognize her instantly. She had forgotten Dermot Security had hired Patrick. They’d dated briefly in high school, until Abbie’s brothers had unceremoniously interrupted their first kiss and put Patrick in a headlock. Over the last few years, they had run into each other at events. On the few occasions they’d spoken, he’d asked if her brothers thought she was old enough to take care of herself yet. She’d made the mistake of mentioning it to Alex. The las
t time she’d run into Patrick was at the Crawford’s New Year’s party when he’d passed her in the hallway and made a suggestive comment. Before she could take care of the situation, Alex had gone all He-Man and backed Patrick into a corner. No fists were thrown, only words, the brief altercation ending with Patrick walking away. She doubted her brother had caught the last snide remark: “It’s not like you’re worth protecting anyway. No man wants a woman who is tougher than he is.”

  If Patrick worked as one of Preston’s regulars, she would need to get Preston to alter the schedule. Thankfully, Patrick took no interest in her, circling the fountain once before heading north. He returned a few minutes later with a floral box under his arm. At the sound of approaching laughter, Patrick set the box on the fountain’s edge and retreated into the shadows of the trees on the far side.

  Abbie checked her cameras through the monitor on her tablet. She had set up two high-resolution hidden cameras to capture the occasion on video. Her secondhand Canon lay concealed in her half-open backpack, ready for the right moment.

  Preston hadn’t worn a suit, but the button down with rolled-up sleeves failed to convey the casual tone he had probably been shooting for. Yvette’s high heels clicked on the stone walkway as she approached the fountain. Abbie had never understood the point of wearing heels with jeans.

  Only snatches of their conversation were audible over the water splashing from the carved statues.

  When Preston went to one knee, Abbie pulled out her Canon and started taking stills.

  A ring was presented, the stone caught the light, and Yvette made the requisite squeal of delight. Abbie glanced at the video feed. Perfect.

  The kiss was Hollywood-film worthy. When it ended, Preston signaled for Abbie to join them.

  Yvette pouted. “Pressy, you should have warned me. I didn’t get the proposal on video or photos.”

  “Dear heart, you did. May I introduce your engagement gift? This is Gaileen. She caught it all. For the next month, she will be on hand to document everything.”

  “You got me my own photographer?” Yvette’s squeal outdid the one she’d emitted upon seeing the ring. “Oh, Pressy, you are the best!” This kiss was uncomfortably intimate and ended with Preston pulling away. Abbie photographed the moment.

  Preston handed the floral box to Yvette, who, playing to the camera, opened it with a flourish. A tiny piece of Abbie felt sorry for Preston, but then, Yvette fit the trophy bride stereotype. Maybe it was what he wanted.

  Abbie got a couple of shots in before Yvette pulled the bouquet out of the box. “Pressy, you should have gotten roses. But these do smell—”

  The flowers flew toward the camera as Yvette shrieked.

  “SPIDERS!”

  Both security guards materialized before Yvette’s scream ended and she landed on her backside in the fountain. Seeing things were under control, Abbie kept her cover and shot more photos.

  Whipping her wet hair out of her face, Yvette flung expletives and water droplets with each splash. Preston involuntarily took a step back. She had never spoken to him like this.

  “I hate spiders, you stupid jerk! Where did you get these from? The corner convenience store? One of your budgeting initiatives?” Yvette begrudgingly accepted Patrick’s hand and stood, the water streaming off her, her silk blouse clinging to her impossibly shapely form. Onlookers attracted by her shrieks watched the spectacle from behind raised phones. Yvette turned her ire on Abbie. “Stop! Taking! Photographs! If so much as one photo is posted online, I’ll sue your spiky hairdo until you’re bald!”

  Abbie knelt by the flowers and took a few photos until one of Preston’s bodyguards tapped her on the shoulder. “She told you to stop.”

  “I thought you might like a couple of shots as evidence before all the spiders ran away.”

  Yvette pointed. “See? Spiders. YOU. KNOW. I. HATE. SPIDERS!”

  The guard grunted and resumed his position, trying to shield Yvette and Preston from the crowd’s view.

  Preston pasted on what he hoped resembled an enduring smile. “Dear heart, let’s go someplace more private to discuss this.”

  “There is nothing to discuss. Notes, a black rose, death threats, and now spiders! I don’t care what Mama says. You are not worth it. You are a terrible kisser, and I would probably die of boredom on our wedding night! I don’t care how many millions or billions you have in the bank. Just look at me!”

  Preston tried not to. With mascara running down her face and the rest of her makeup melting under her wilted hair, she was not a pretty sight. And her voice! He had no idea she could reach such shrill notes. His cousin had been right. Again. Yvette wasn’t suitable for the job of wife. She lacked a certain depth that he hoped for.

  A flash from a phone camera caught her attention, and Yvette whirled. “Lose the camera! Now!”

  But her words were useless against the dozen phones aimed in her direction. Yvette turned to Patrick. “Give me your coat!” He shrugged out of his jacket, and she tented herself with it.

  “Get me out of here!” she screamed, then stomped off with the bodyguard in tow.

  As Preston watched them leave, he knew he should feel something at her rejection. But the words she had thrown at him had extinguished any feelings of warmth he’d held for her. He’d never loved her. Love had little place in marriages like his. An empire could be built with the right woman by your side. Obviously, Yvette was not that woman. The onlookers disbanded with the drama.

  Abbie held out the floral box. “I took the liberty of boxing them back up. Some of the spiders are gone, but I believe all of them are of a common household variety, newly hatched.”

  His other bodyguard took the box from her. “Thank you, miss. Since Mr. Harmon has no further need of your services, his secretary will pay your fee as soon as you hand over the original files you took today to Dermot Security.” The guard handed her a card.

  “No, give the cards directly to me now. Then there is no need for you to travel across town.” Preston held out his hand.

  Abbie ejected the card from her Canon and set it in his palm. Her gum snapped as she talked. “Whatevs. Gimme a minute to get the other two cameras.”

  “Two cameras?”

  Abbie sauntered over to a decorative light post, reached up, and removed a small box from the side. She shook her head at his bodyguard, who followed her, every part of her oozing attitude. If Preston hadn’t met her in the office yesterday, he would have never guessed she was the same woman. No wonder she claimed to have been in the same room when he hadn’t known it. Abbie retrieved another box from a tree, then walked to the bench where her backpack sat. Preston was impressed the bag was still there. One didn’t leave bags lying around on benches in Chicago, even in the nicer areas, and expect the bag to not be lifted.

  His bodyguard seemed to be arguing with her. Preston approached them.

  “No way, dude. Mr. Harmon said to give them to him.” She unlocked a retractable cord chaining her backpack to the bench. He recognized the brand. No one would have been able to unzip the bag unless their fingerprint triggered the bio lock.

  “Nice bag.”

  “Ya, too bad I lost this gig. I needed the money for the last payment.” Her gum snapped again. Abbie opened the cameras and removed the disks. “Here ya go. Your rent-a-cop wanted them, but I told him they were only for you.”

  “Thank you, miss,” Rats. What name had she said?

  “Gaileen Harris. Make sure your accountant spells it right on my check.” G-A-I-L-double E-N.” She walked off, the second woman in less than ten minutes to do so. Oddly, he felt more of a loss at Abbie’s exit.

  four

  The elevator doors swooshed open, and Abbie strode past her oldest brother, who waited in the Hastings Security lobby.

  “Abbie?” He followed her down
the hall to her office.

  “Hey, Adam.” She took off the glasses, hoping he would not detain her since she was in a hurry to get the rest of the disguise off as well.

  “What on earth are you wearing?”

  She yanked off her wig, removed the netting cap and bobby pins under it, freeing her hair. Relief. How did Candace wear these things every day? She tossed the wig in the garbage. “Worst wig ever! I was undercover for a job, but I believe it ended prematurely.”

  “Dad said you had a month-long gig for Preston Harmon.” Adam sat down in one of the chairs and put his feet on her desk.

  Abbie reached over and knocked his feet off. “Did. Just as well the job ended. Patrick Vonn is one of his bodyguards. I don’t think I could go a whole month without punching him.”

  Adam started out of the chair. “He didn’t say anything, did he?”

  “Down, brother. He didn’t recognize me.” Abbie opened an alcohol wipe and started to scrub at the tattoo.

  “Well, it took me a moment, squirt.”

  She aimed the used wipe at his head. It fell short.

  “You throw like a girl.”

  Abbie finished removing the temporary tatt, then used a facial wipe on the heavy eye makeup. “I am a girl who wants to get back into my own clothes, so I’d appreciate it if you went someplace else.”

  “Fine. Will you be at dinner Sunday? Been missing you with all the time you and Alex have spent in Indiana lately.”

  “Sure, now get out.” She missed mom’s cooking too.