Newport Billionaires Box Set

by Amy DeLuca

  He turned to the blonde, whose identity had finally popped into Kristal’s shock-numbed mind—she was the daughter of one of her father’s law partners. The girl was several years younger than Kristal, barely out of college.

  “Laurelynn, would you mind giving us a few minutes, honey?” His voice was gentle and low. “I’ll be right down. Promise—this’ll be quick.”

  Harry squeezed her hand, and she left, glancing back over her shoulder at Kristal suspiciously before disappearing into the dim hallway.

  “Why don’t we sit?” Harry gestured toward a pair of chairs in one corner of the room.

  Kristal shook her head tightly, trying with all her strength to keep the tremor currently vibrating in her stomach from reaching her fingers. As stiff as she felt, inside and out, she doubted she’d be able to bend her knees enough to utilize a chair.

  “No. Just say it.”

  He inhaled then let out a loud breath. “Fine. I’m in love with Laurelynn. Now you know.” He huffed a laugh. Actually smiled. “It’s kind of a relief to say it out loud.”

  Kristal’s teeth ground together to suppress a scream. “How long?”

  “Well, it’s hard to say. My feelings for you have been dwindling for some time…”

  “No! How long have you been seeing that… that… girl?”

  “She’s not a girl—she’s legal. Laurelynn and I have been together for, what is it? Three weeks now.”

  “So basically you hooked up right after my dad’s stroke.” The bitterness leached from Kristal’s soul into her voice. “Why? Why would you cheat? Why didn’t you just… break up with me? Why go behind my back?”

  His expression was infuriatingly sympathetic. “I wanted to tell you, but your father had just suffered a stroke. I didn’t think it would be a good time.”

  “But you did think it would be a good time to come to a party hosted by my family and hook up with her in an upstairs bedroom? Right under my nose.”

  He shook his head, a condescending smile decorating his lips. “Listen, I didn’t mean for you to find out this way. I’m sorry for that.”

  “But not for cheating on me for the past month.”

  “Three weeks,” he corrected.

  If she hadn’t known the value of the antique lamps and statuary in this room, Kristal would have lifted something heavy and hurled it at his head.

  “Get out.”

  “Babe…” He took a step toward her, his hands raised in front of him in a calming manner. “You had to have known it wasn’t working. When was the last time we even kissed?”

  “I’m sorry if I haven’t been attentive to your needs, babe. As you said, my father just had a massive stroke.”

  “He didn’t ‘just’ have it—it’s been a month. You’ve got to move past it—get on with your life.”

  Now Kristal did move toward the nearby dresser, lifting a solid cut-glass clock and testing its weight in her hands. Her voice was quiet but deadly serious. “Get. Out.”

  Harry eyed the clock. His gaze moved up to take in Kristal’s expression. Whatever he saw there must have convinced him the conversation was over. He left.

  Sagging from a sudden release of tension, she set the clock down in its place on the dresser and turned to go back into the bathroom on shaky legs.

  She shut the door behind her and climbed into the enormous white clawfoot tub, sliding her back against its smooth, cold surface until she was sitting.

  And then she cried.

  For her dad. For her relationship—which had apparently ended weeks ago.

  She cried out of self-pity and out of shame and embarrassment over what had transpired with Hunter only moments before Harry had dropped his ugly truth-bomb and shattered her faith in men along with her illusions.

  Kristal’s only consolation in this whole twisted situation was that there was no way things could possibly get worse.

  Three

  Mirror mirror

  Four months later

  Kristal’s boots sank into the deep snowdrifts, her breath fogging the air in front of her as she trudged across the lawn of Rosecliff, her favorite of Newport’s beautiful Gilded Age mansions.

  It was a perfect afternoon—cold, obviously, but she was dressed for it. The sun was shining, the skies blue and clear, the pre-sunset light, perfect.

  Her camera bag bounced against her side as she got into position in front of the property’s iconic circular fountain and located the perfect postcard angle.

  Rosecliff, which was modeled on the Grand Trianon of Versailles, rose from the wintry landscape like a spectacular snow-castle, its white glazed terra cotta exterior contributing to the illusion the grand house was liable to melt along with the snow when warmer climes prevailed.

  It hosted gorgeous weddings year-round, and Kristal had always fancied the idea of having her own wedding reception there someday.

  Today, she wanted to capture the spectacular beauty of the home and its meticulously landscaped grounds while the snowfall was fresh and perfect, the natural lighting diffused and warm. It was exactly the kind of shot that would go quickly at the downtown gallery where she sold most of her work to its owner, Toni, her best customer over the past several years.

  The shop was located in Bowen’s Wharf and got steady foot traffic from Newport tourists, many of them seeking a framed photographic memento of their visit to the City by the Sea.

  Toni had asked Kristal for some new photographs several weeks ago, but she was just starting to get to the point where she felt like working again. Her father’s death had sapped her energy, her spirit, and any ability or desire she’d felt to be creative.

  As she’d walked down Bellevue Avenue to get to Rosecliff, the memories had swarmed her like moths around a late night lamp post—her father chasing her through the snow or pulling her on the sled as a child, pushing her on the swing hung from the massive European beech tree in their yard.

  For the first time since he’d been rushed to the hospital with a second stroke, Kristal thought of her dad without crying.

  She actually felt quite inspired today. He’d been the one who’d always encouraged her photography, and like her, he’d loved the winter shots best.

  While Harry had always referred to Kristal’s photography work as her “hobby,” her father had praised her talent.

  “Keep at it, pumpkin,” he’d said. “You’re an artist. You’ve got something special, and you’ll find your audience in time.”

  That time hadn’t come—her photography hadn’t earned much money—not yet. But it made Kristal happy to know there were people out there who were enjoying her work and taking a piece of her beautiful hometown with them when they went back to whatever parts of the world they’d come from.

  Late afternoon sunlight fell on the elegant home’s arched windows, ionic pilasters, and balustraded roofline, causing it to glow. They didn’t call this the golden hour for nothing.

  Peering through the viewfinder, Kristal clicked off several shots of the mansion then shifted a few steps to one side then the other, capturing a variety of angles.

  Newport had many more visitors in summer than in winter, but in Kristal’s opinion, this was its most beautiful season—her favorite time to take photographs.

  She checked the LCD screen to see what she’d gotten, and her heart hummed with satisfaction. Even in thumbnail, the images sparkled with promise.

  Though there was some skill, training, and practice involved, she had to give the subject and the season their due credit. The newly fallen snow lent a sense of magic to everything it touched.

  In fact, after photographing the mansion itself, she was drawn to a tree on the property.

  Its bare branches looked like they’d been frosted by fairies, and the twiggy ends held plump puffs of snow that resembled mature cotton ready for harvesting.

  Pointing the lens, Kristal zoomed in and captured several tight shots then got some wider shots of the majestic tree. The reddish-gold sunset gave the illusion the t
ree was illuminated from within. These images she might keep for herself.

  Daddy would have loved them.

  Once it got too dark to continue, she walked home, engulfed in a feeling of pleasure and pride in work well done.

  Toni would be happy, Kristal would earn some money, and maybe, just maybe, one of her new shots would be worthy of submitting to the International Photography Awards.

  There was a cash prize involved in the competition, but more importantly, the winning entries received international exposure and an exhibit in New York City prior to the annual awards ceremony.

  An honor like that could make a photographer’s career, putting them on the map, certifying them as an artist worth taking note of. It would certainly drive up her asking price per photo at the gallery.

  Kristal had been outdoors for a while and was thoroughly chilled by the time she headed for home.

  The Bellevue Avenue house she’d grown up in was large but less formal than its elegant Gilded Age neighbors, the massive stone palaces Newport was known for. Her father had commissioned an architect to build their home in a classic style that would fit in but be more comfortable for everyday living and much more approachable than those stately museums.

  In spite of their fortune, her parents had been very grounded and enjoyed simply being together more than anything money could buy.

  Kristal had never understood how the same man who’d been in love with her down-to-earth mother had also been attracted to material-girl Margot, making her his second wife a year after his first had passed away.

  Perhaps he’d just been lonely, and remarrying had eased the longing for his late wife.

  Kristal could certainly understand that. Even after all these years, she missed her mom fiercely.

  She felt closest to her when working in the offices of the Newport Art Preservation Guild, an organization her mother had founded to maintain and preserve works of public art so they could be enjoyed by future generations.

  Caroline Bianco had considered it her life’s work, her calling, and had specified in her will that Kristal should take over running the guild when she came of age. As soon as she’d finished school, Kristal had begun working there full-time.

  Since money hadn’t been an issue, Kristal had never taken a salary.

  Sharing her mother’s love of fine arts, she’d never minded the long unpaid hours. And Kristal’s father had been delighted to see her carrying on her mother’s legacy, assuring Kristal that a trust fund would provide for her future and that her unsalaried work at the foundation and her photography pursuits were the most important things she could be doing with her time.

  But she didn’t intend to rely solely on her inheritance forever. No, she wanted to turn her photography into a successful, lucrative career, to earn the faith her dad had always had in her talent, and she wouldn’t stop until she’d made him proud.

  His favorite room had always been the cozy den with its overflowing bookshelves and comfy furniture and oversized fireplace.

  That was where Kristal headed now, wanting to feel close to him and planning to toast herself in front of the fire until all her extremities were thawed and tingly warm. She was looking forward to a cup of hot tea, a good book, and maybe even a fireside nap.

  Margot’s car wasn’t in the drive, which meant she was out as usual. It was Friday evening, but she was rarely at home these days, no matter what time or day of the week. Which was fine with Kristal. Now that Daddy was gone, Margot had basically stopped bothering with civility.

  It wasn’t so bad. Kristal spent most of her time away from home, anyway, working either at the guild or doing her photography.

  When she was home, she used very little of the mansion—just her bedroom, bath, and the snug sanctuary of the den, processing her grief one day at a time.

  Entering it, she stopped short, surprised to find Margot there.

  The older woman was gazing into the mirror above a console table on one wall, poking at her forehead and cheeks. Based on her frown, there would be another cosmetic procedure in the near future.

  She spun to face Kristal, seeming embarrassed to have been caught in self-examination.

  “Oh—you’re back. We need to talk, and now we don’t have much time, thanks to all your wandering and nature-worship.” She cast a disapproving glance at Kristal’s camera bag.

  Ooookay then. Don’t let her provoke you. Be nice.

  Margot was dressed to go out in a sleek St. John metallic knit gown that appeared to be melted onto her body.

  “I’ll be here all night,” Kristal said. “Where are you going? Where’s your car?”

  “There’s no time to get into it. My date will be here to pick me up in fifteen minutes, which doesn’t give us very long to discuss what’s going on.”

  Kristal’s lungs went flat. She struggled to draw enough air to speak. “You’re going on a date? Daddy just died.”

  Margot rolled her eyes. “It’s been two months, and if you were smart, you’d be doing the same thing. Believe me, a rich husband solves a lot of problems.”

  “I don’t have any problems big enough to marry someone for their money.”

  Her stepmother smirked. “We’ll see how high and mighty you are next week when the bank forecloses, and your car is repossessed, and you’ve got to pay your own way with your little pictures.”

  Kristal’s breathing problems worsened considerably. “Forecloses? What are you talking about?”

  “The house. We can’t afford it. The movers are coming Monday to remove my personal things, the things that aren’t being auctioned off. I advise you to spend the evening packing yours.”

  Kristal staggered backward and fell into a chair. This couldn’t be happening. The house where she’d grown up, the home her father had built for her mother, the place that held all her memories of them—gone? In a week?

  “But… that isn’t possible. Daddy made a fortune over his career. And he had life insurance. The mortgage wasn’t even that far from being paid off, was it?”

  Margot lifted a shoulder in a delicate shrug. “Fortunes come and go. Your father enjoyed the finer things.”

  Kristal’s insides ignited. Margot was the one with the insatiable lust for material things. How many times had Daddy told Kristal he and her mom were basically broke during the early years of their marriage and had been blissfully happy?

  “Our lifestyle was expensive,” Margot continued in a blasé tone. “We took out a second mortgage last year… and then, after his stroke… well, I’ve never been very good at the whole ‘financial’ thing.”

  She curled her fingers into air quotes as she said the word “financial” and then waved her hands through the air as if fanning away an unpleasant odor.

  “You didn’t pay the mortgage—mortgages,” Kristal said. It was a statement, not a question.

  That was the only way the bank would have foreclosed. The household bills had gone unpaid since her father’s first stroke. And Kristal had known nothing about it.

  A tide of nausea rocked her off balance, causing her to grip the back of a nearby armchair for support.

  “What about savings?” she asked. “What about all the money that went to you when he died?”

  As his wife, Margot had inherited half of Richard Bianco’s estate. The other half had been put into a trust for Kristal, accessible to her when she turned thirty-five.

  Her father, who was a self-made man, had set it up with her mother that way when Kristal was very young, determined not to cripple their only child’s ambition and desire to succeed with a ready-made cushion in life.

  Her mother had died when Kristal was only nine, but her father had told her over the years how pleased he was that his daughter hadn’t turned into one of those entitled rich kids who expected everything to be handed to them.

  Truth be told, Kristal had never been interested in expensive cars, or designer shoes and clothes, or exotic travel. Her needs were pretty simple—a camera, a roof over her head.


  Apparently the latter of those would be taken away within days.

  “The money is gone,” Margot said flatly. “With no new income coming in, taxes and maintenance expenses ate it up very quickly, not to mention our living expenses.”

  Shopping, Kristal thought as a dull headache began to form behind her eyes.

  “I spent what was left on a yacht, so I’d at least have somewhere to lay my head at night,” Margot explained.

  “You bought a yacht?” Kristal gasped. “Knowing the money was running out?”

  “Just a small one. You know I’ve always loved travel, and I have to have somewhere to live,” Margot said. “I need something to call my own, something no one can take away from me. I earned that money—all those years with Richard, raising his child.”

  She flipped one hand at Kristal in an irritated gesture. “You’re young and healthy. Your whole life is ahead of you. You’ll be fine, a pretty girl like you. You can even get a job if you want one.”

  Grabbing her evening bag from the table, Margot walked toward the door, adding, “My opportunities are limited. I’ve only got a few years left to find someone new. So, as much as it pains me to say it, darling, you’re on your own.”

  There was no discernable pain in Margot’s tone or on her unlined, youthful face.

  And why would Kristal expect it? Her stepmother had made minimal effort to act interested in her welfare when her father was alive. Now she had zero motivation to even pretend.

  Well, what she’d said was right. Kristal was young. She did have her whole life ahead of her, and she could get a job—one that paid.

  She wasn’t sure where. She had a fine arts degree in photography—had even stayed in school and gotten a masters—but some of her friends from college had told her that even an MFA was essentially worthless in today’s marketplace.

  Most of them were working in completely unrelated fields from their majors, some in jobs that didn’t require a college degree at all.

  Sadly, a lot of them were no longer even doing photography anymore because the demands of “real life” had superseded their passion for the art.