To Catch a Billionaire

by Dana Stone

  To Catch a Billionaire

  Dana Stone

  Copyright © 2013 by Dana Stone

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author, or as expressly permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Fantasia Frog

  Formatting by Hale Author Services

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About Author Dana Stone

  Dedication

  To Paula Scully, who’s never ending

  encouragement has kept me writing.

  Thanks, my friend.

  Chapter 1

  RAIN PELTED THE ground. It beat down on her fast and furious as she hurried up the road. Soaked to her skin, Erin swore under her breath. Why had she believed the repairman when he said the car was now in tip-top shape? What the hell was she thinking by trusting that he’d done his job correctly? To make things worse, her cellphone was deader than dead. Not that it mattered. There was no one to rescue her anyway.

  Angered by her stupidity, Erin slogged up the driveway in full temper. The drive home from the gallery had been fine until the dashboard lights faltered. That was an instant before the car threw a seizure and abruptly died. She’d contact the repairman and give him a piece of her mind. The miserable twit.

  She stamped up the front stairs and reached the door when it flew open. Mrs. Hardy ushered her inside as a clap of thunder rolled over the hills.

  “My dear girl, you’re drenched,” Mrs. Hardy exclaimed. “At least you’re home now. I was so worried. I’ve been watching for you. Come inside, before you catch pneumonia. Go get changed and come into the kitchen, I’ll have a nice hot cup of tea for you,” Mrs. Hardy ordered as she draped a heavy knit shawl around Erin’s shoulders.

  Mollified by the care given to her by the woman who’d been with the Cameron family for more than twenty years, Erin’s temper abated.

  “It’s cold for early June. Of course my car broke down a quarter mile from here and I had to walk. Then the rain started. I hurried as fast as I could, but by the time I reached the gates I was sopping wet,” Erin complained as she peeled off the dripping coat and handed it to Mrs. Hardy. Glancing down at her Kate Spade shoes, she saw they were ruined. The only part of the outfit that had survived the ravages of Mother Nature was her handbag. Even her suit was drenched beneath her coat.

  “Miss Erin, you know the weather is unpredictable at this time of year, especially so near the coast,” Mrs. Hardy said. She hung the coat to dry and followed Erin upstairs to her bedroom. While Erin showered Mrs. Hardy took the dripping clothes away to dry them. After Erin donned a robe, she took the back stairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Hardy’s eyes lit up when Erin entered the room and she motioned toward the table set for supper.

  Dry and warm, Erin slipped into the seat across from Mrs. Hardy’s place setting. A steaming cup of Earl Grey awaited her. Most evenings the two of them dined together as family. No fancy dining room with a table that seemed to stretch for miles and certainly no company to entertain. Guests were rarely invited to Cameron House. Not since her parents had passed away, that is.

  “There was a call for you earlier,” Mrs. Hardy remarked while she ladled supper onto Erin’s plate. “Tristan Forsyth will call on you at the gallery tomorrow. He said he wishes to speak with you face to face. I told him you’d be unavailable, but he was quite adamant.” Mrs. Hardy passed Erin a serving of steaming hot chicken pot pie.

  “He insisted, did he?” Erin remarked in her husky voice followed by a throaty laugh. “I’m sure he thinks he can waltz into my gallery and order me around like he does his little minions in Scotland, Spain and other parts of the world.” She snorted. “He’s in for a rude awakening now that he’s on American soil.”

  Mrs. Hardy pointed to the food on Erin’s plate and said, “Eat your dinner before it gets cold, Miss Erin. I made strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert.”

  With enthusiasm, Erin wolfed down the delicious fare while she wondered if she could best the man who thought he could take over her business. There was no time like the present to find out. Erin had been happy to send others like him packing, and Tristan Forsyth wouldn’t be any different.

  Interested to see how he’d approach her with an offer, she chuckled, finished her meal and sipped the tea as she waited for pie.

  Her eyes twinkling, Mrs. Hardy asked, “Will Cam be handling Mr. Forsyth?”

  Erin dipped her head in assent as she gobbled the scrumptious dessert. She’d swallowed a mouthful and then said, “She’ll give Mr. Tristan Forsyth just what he has coming to him. Make no mistake about it, Mrs. Hardy – we’ll win out. People who think they can buy my gallery for a mere pittance are quick to find out they can’t. Cam will make short work of him.”

  “I read a more recent newspaper article about him than the last one we had. From the way he answered the interviewer’s questions, I’d say Mr. Forsyth is a bit of a rake. He’s a handsome fellow too,” Mrs. Hardy remarked with an unreadable expression on her face.

  Erin had also seen pictures and agreed, but wasn’t about to admit that. It wouldn’t be the first time the woman had played matchmaker when she thought a man met the standards she alone had set for Erin’s love life.

  “Mr. Forsyth is filthy rich, wealthier than filthy rich, and enjoys persuading others to sell to him when they should know better. He owns famous galleries all over the world and exhibits what’s hot in the latest and greatest artwork available. By all accounts, he’s just plain arrogant.” Erin grimaced as she considered how her alter ego, Cam, would handle him.

  When Erin returned to Greenwich, Connecticut, straight from studying at Oxford University, she’d found her father in the last stages of cancer. His death had sent her reeling. The media had hounded her for months in hope of an inside look into the lives of the Cameron family, and Erin in particular as the new owner and administrator of Cameron Gallery. Appalled by their constant attention, Erin had refused to leave the house and invented Cam Boucher, her newfound assistant, who had become the mouthpiece and manager of the gallery.

  An only child of artistically inclined parents, Erin had learned the gallery business from the ground up. At kindergarten age, she’d wander the rooms, watched over by her father and management, knowing she’d found her calling. Erin’s relentless questions, one after another, had delighted her father. She’d wanted to learn the process behind setting up art exhibits and gauging authenticity of individual pieces, and he’d taught her. Erin had confidence in the best way to present artists at openings, along with procedures for ultimate promotion of their work. Erin had insisted she accompany her father when he’d met with famed, worldwide gallery promoters, and she’d absorbed a great deal.

  “Your father would be proud of the way you represent the gallery, Miss Erin. Your mother, well, she’d want you to marry, have children and taste that side of life,” Mrs. Hardy said wistfully.

  “I’m enjoying my life, more than ever. As Cam, I handle the business end of things and as myself, I show up for gallery openings and such. This way, Cam is aware of what’
s happening in the day to day business, while I only have to wine, dine and smile at people like Tristan Forsyth, whom I could care less about.” Erin plucked her napkin from her lap and began to clear their place settings.

  “Here, here, let me do that. I’ll take this away while you catch up on Mr. Forsyth’s latest interview,” Mrs. Hardy insisted, her short, gray-haired curls bobbing all over the place.

  “Besides,” she said with a chuckle, “Cam will need to be on her toes tomorrow if she’s going to take this man on.” Mrs. Hardy stacked the dishes and gathered the remaining food.

  On her way toward the door, Erin glanced back and asked, “What time did he say he was coming to the office? Meredith never mentioned anything about him when I was there earlier.”

  Mrs. Hardy lifted a shoulder, “Mr. Forsyth wasn’t specific. He said he’d drop in later in the day. Maybe he wants to catch you off guard.”

  “Mm, I’m sure,” she remarked and left Mrs. Hardy busily loading the dishwasher. As a housekeeper, there was no one better. As a longtime family friend and confidant, Erin couldn’t have asked for more. In the beginning Mrs. Hardy had encouraged Erin to keep Cam’s character in place, which was a surprise in itself. As of late, she’d advised Erin to drop the charade and take her rightful place as director of the gallery, stating it was in her best interest to do so. When she’d asked Mrs. Hardy why she should consider her advice, Mrs. Hardy had mentioned Erin needed to move on from her father’s death and take full responsibility for the business. The woman might be on the right track. Disguising herself and becoming Cam every day had turned into drudgery instead of the fun it was in the beginning. She’d enjoyed fooling the media, and not having sympathy from the help destroy her confidence in running Cameron’s had been most beneficial.

  Thoughtfully, Erin climbed the stairs and idly wandered toward her bedroom. Bold-colored drapes and bedding accentuated the softer hues of hard wood flooring and warm oak furniture. She lounged on the bottom of her bed and considered the upcoming challenge Forsyth presented.

  Mesmerized by his green-eyed handsomeness in magazine articles presented to her by Mrs. Hardy, Erin remembered how his chiseled good looks had caught her immediate attention. The shape of his lips made her appreciate him even more. She’d absorbed every detail of his features. Tristan Forsyth was just too good looking and rich, for his own good. That hadn’t stopped the rush of excitement when she’d studied his photo and read about his life. He’d be a challenge, and by the reaction she’d had to his photo, the man would be a sensual and dangerous adversary if she weren’t careful.

  What caused him to want the Cameron Gallery so badly? Why would he, an international gallery owner, want hers? By modern standards, her gallery was successful. She wasn’t desperate for money, though there was the poor return her recent investments produced. Erin’s finances hadn’t been an issue until the stock market took a nosedive a few months earlier. The market hadn’t fully recovered and neither had her portfolio. Unwilling to lose everything her family had worked for all their lives, she was now frugal with her investments and spending.

  Settled in a soft wingback chair, Erin left a scathing message for the car repairman on his answering machine before she considered the fact that Meredith Blane, the gallery’s receptionist, had failed to mention Mr. Forsyth in their last conversation. Why hadn’t she told Erin he’d be stopping in? They’d spoken of present exhibits, new ones posted on the schedule, and Erin’s other responsibilities. Not a word had been said about Forsyth.

  When Meredith answered Erin’s direct question concerning upcoming appointments for her or Cam, she’d wondered if the woman had held something back. Had Meredith joined forces with Forsyth in his efforts to take over her business? If that were the case, Meredith would soon find she no longer had a job at the Cameron Gallery, or in any other.

  Erin’s head ached. Massaging her temples with her fingertips, she began to relax. In doing so, it occurred to her that she might be jumping to the wrong conclusions.

  Loyalty from her staff was of paramount importance to Erin. Using Cam as a cover, when it came to finding out what happened behind gallery doors, she remained abreast of what the gallery and its staff required. A regular owner might not truly know what their employees were up to, and that was unacceptable. The television program, Undercover Boss, was a great example. She giggled at the thought of how those employers were surprised to find the good, the bad and the ugly that was going on under their very noses. Thanks to Cam, there was little Erin wasn’t aware of.

  The morning had started with Erin leaving the reception area to meet with William Stockton, her exhibit installation expert. He’d given her a rundown on upcoming exhibits and what she should know. The area with tightest security held extremely expensive and irreplaceable works. She’d been educated about those by her father. He’d explained who each artist was and their specialty. She’d asked about Gaugin, Renoir and Vermeil. Her father said they were long dead and buried. That’s when Erin had nicknamed the section the ‘dead and buried wing.’ Stockton and others had admonished her on more than one occasion when she’d referred to that well-guarded gallery section as such.

  Together, she and Stockton had strolled past seascapes, on through the watercolor section, and into the twentieth century wing before reaching the security guard who watched over famous paintings done by the old masters. The artwork in the ‘dead and buried wing’ changed every few months as work became available for showing or had to be returned. These works often came from private collections or were on loan from other museums.

  Her thoughts of how she’d come to know the business from the bottom up were replaced by those of future exhibits. Despite tight financials, everything was in place for the next six months. Beautiful exhibits that her father would be proud to have in the Cameron Gallery. These thoughts too, Erin pushed aside as Tristan Forsyth’s handsome face came to mind.

  She drew her laptop onto her knees and tapped the ‘open’ screen. In seconds, she’d scrolled through whatever could be found on the man. She read it all and then visited the Forsyth website with its grandiose online gallery showing who was being exhibited where, and when. She even found a link to a recorded interview. She clicked the play arrow and watched the way Tristan carried himself, his mannerisms and oh, those green eyes. Rich as emeralds... She took a deep breath and felt her lower parts warm each time he stared into the camera, as if he looked directly at her. His magnetism came through the lens and grabbed her where it counted. She decided Cam would have to be on guard to avoid falling victim to his charms and wit.

  * * *

  The full-length mirror reflected her outfit, makeup and wig. The familiar image gave Erin the confidence she depended on to meet the day’s events. Not only would she embark on a mission to save her gallery from what was likely to be a hostile takeover, she’d also meet the man who she’d heard would do anything to wrest it from her once he decided he wanted it.

  Long, sun-streaked, ash blond waves surrounded Erin’s oval face. The look was a drastic change from her shoulder-length, dark-haired real self, which made it all the easier for Erin to hide her true identity. Tinted lenses turned her light purple eyes to a warm brown. A pair of tortoise-shell rimmed glasses completed the look. Two sports bras bound her breasts for a flatter appearance, covered by specially designed blouses she’d had tailored for the disguise.

  Shoes, a favorite to shop for, weren’t in Erin’s style. These were important to Cam’s overall costume and were flat and ugly. No Kate Spades for Cam. Erin slipped her feet into the shoes and viewed her attire. The plain pantsuit nicely denied her attributes. Inexpensive flat-soled loafers left her looking shorter than her five-foot-four inches, and the authentic hair wig finished the look perfectly.

  Yep, she was ready for Mr. Tristan Forsyth. A throaty chuckle set Cam’s day off to a grand start.

  “I’m leaving now, Mrs. Hardy. I’ll catch breakfast at Starbucks on my way to work,” Erin called as she crossed the foyer.


  Mrs. Hardy popped around the corner, a dust cloth in one hand and furniture polish in the other. “You say that every morning. I do wish you’d consider ridding yourself of Cam and operate your fathers business as you should. There’s no need for a disguise anymore. You’ve come a long way in handling your father’s death and the troubling effect it had on you. It’s time to reclaim the total you... I wish you’d try.” Mrs. Hardy sighed lightly and asked, “Will I see you for supper, or do you plan to wine and dine with Mr. Forsyth?”

  “I’m not sure what time I’ll get back. Don’t wait for me just in case I’m late. Please save last night’s leftovers for me, though. As for Cam, well, maybe after Mr. Forsyth is out of our lives, I’ll dump her and confess to the staff.”

  Mrs. Hardy nodded her approval. “George Flint called from the garage. He picked up your car and will fix it properly today. He was quite apologetic.”

  “I called him last night. He’s not going to like me very much when I refuse to pay him twice for repairs he said he’d made the first time.”

  “Now that your tempers has cooled off, I know you’ll be kind. You always are,” Mrs. Hardy said as she watched Erin – as Cam – leave the house and scoot toward the garage that housed a Volkswagen Jetta and a variety of fast, expensive, powerful cars.

  Cam drove past the cast iron gates onto the less traveled road that went past the Cameron estate. The quick drive into town was no longer than if she lived on the outskirts of Greenwich instead of a few miles from the distant entrance to the Connecticut highway.

  Singing to rock music, she pulled into the Starbucks parking lot on the outskirts of the city. A Jaguar XJ slid into the slot next to hers and idled there. With her sunglasses hiding her eyes and her interest, Cam glanced at the expensive sports car. The beauty of its lines and the powerful hum of the engine thrilled her. For Erin, cars were as important as an accessory, as handbags and shoes.

  Inside the coffee shop, Cam waited for her usual latte and ordered a carrot cake muffin. She paid for the purchase and turned to leave, stumbling back as she plowed into the man behind her in the line. Close behind her. Too close.