The Billionaire's Con Read online

  The sombrero went flying when Meggy whipped around. She snatched the jeweler’s box from Cara’s fingers.

  “The wicker hat is from me.” Cara pointed to the box. “That’s from Finn.”

  Meggy lifted the lid. Her breath caught as sunlight flashed off the bluish-purple stone in the dazzling pendant.

  “Oh, Cara.” She sucked air, dazzled by the beauty of it. “I was just kidding.” Cara’s smile was soft as Meggy lifted the silver and tanzanite necklace from its satin bed, and held it up to the light. “It’s too much.”

  “I told Finn you’d say that.” Cara took the necklace to clasp it at the back of Meggy’s neck. “But he insisted. He dragged me all over Mexico looking for it.”

  “I appreciate the effort.” Meggy grinned and fingered the beautiful bauble. “Thank him for me, Cara. And tell him I’m keeping it, even though it had to be wicked expensive, because I deserve it.”

  Cara laughed, but her face remained serious. “Yes, you do.”

  The tendons in her throat tightened, and she waved her hand in front of her face. She spun. “Okay, cut it out before you make me cry.” She nodded toward the canvas in the corner, all bold colors and sultry slashes. “I don’t have to ask if you enjoyed the honeymoon. What will you call it when it’s done? Satisfied Woman?”

  Cara shrugged, eyeing the canvas. “What can I say? My groom knows his stuff.” Utter happiness sparkled in her eyes, even as wistfulness drew out her sigh. “As far as being satisfied, my memories will have to sustain me for tonight. Finn’s out of town.”

  “Suck it up, Mrs. Finnegan.” She attempted to tease her friend out of her doldrums. “You’ll just have to rough it like the rest of us women who aren’t having newlywed sex with the town stud.”

  “Jealousy is an ugly emotion,” Cara countered in a sweet voice. “It’ll give you wrinkles.”

  “There’s always Botox.” She grinned at Cara’s chuckle. “Of course I’m jealous. The closest I’ve come to a meaningful relationship lately is when old man Watson winked at me in the hardware store last week.”

  The memory of Trevor Bryce’s gray eyes and sexy, dimpled smile flashed through her mind, and a lovely little shimmer of pleasure tightened her belly. She shook the vision clear.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway. Palmer House is taking all my energy these days. I’m too busy to worry over my non-existent love life.” Her gaze strayed to the purse on the couch where her birth mother’s letter waited. She scowled, grumbling, “Or anything else.”

  “What’s wrong?” Cara’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a problem at Palmer House?”

  Meggy shook her head. “There was a plumbing issue, but it’s been handled.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she blew out a breath. She knew she looked guilty when her eyes opened to meet Cara’s watchful gaze. “Remember when I mentioned that I was thinking about asking Mom and Dad about my birth parents?”

  “You talked to them about your adoption?”

  Meggy nodded.

  “And?”

  “And I wish I hadn’t.”

  Cara’s brow furrowed in concern. “Were they upset that you have questions?”

  “No.” She scooped her purse from the couch and rummaged through it. “No, they were fine with it. Better than fine, actually. They were great. Dad gave me the documents from the adoption, and they told me everything they knew. Which wasn’t much. There was no information about my birth father, but my birth mother’s name is Rachel Hadley.” She pulled the envelope from her purse and held it out. “And then there was this.”

  Cara took the envelope. “What is it?”

  “A letter. Rachel Hadley mailed it to my parents four years ago. She asked that they give it to me if I ever had questions about where I came from.” She gestured at the letter. “Go ahead. Read it.”

  Cara pulled the single folded page from the envelope and lowered to the couch.

  There was no reason to join Cara as she read, she knew the words by heart. There were precious few of them, and none that answered the nagging question of why Rachel had given her up. Neither did they give her any hope of ever finding her birth mother. Instead, the short missive had the tone of finality, as if Rachel were tying up a loose end. But as loose ends went, Rachel’s letter delivered a bombshell.

  “Holy crap!” Cara looked up to meet her gaze.

  “Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too.” She crossed her arms under her breasts.

  “Elizabeth Ashford is your biological great-grandmother?” Cara looked stunned.

  As stunned as she’d been when she found out.

  “Elizabeth Ashford of the Martha’s Vineyard Ashfords?”

  “The very same.”

  “Holy crap,” Cara repeated.

  “Tell me about it. You should see her house, Cara. It’s a frigging mansion.”

  “You’ve met her already? What’s she like? What did she say when you introduced yourself? Did she know about you?”

  She jammed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. “Since I haven’t actually met her yet, I can’t answer any of those questions.”

  “Wait. What? I thought you said you went to her house.”

  “I did. I just didn’t meet her.” She dropped her arms and moved to join Cara on the couch, slouching back against the pillows.

  “You’ve lost me,” Cara’s eyebrows dipped.

  “I asked Justin to check her out for me.” She exhaled an audible sigh. Justin Cooper remained her friend long after their short romance ended three years earlier. As a cop, he had access to information others didn’t, and he hadn’t hesitated when she asked him for information on the wealthy real estate matriarch. “One of the things he found out,” she added with a guilty grimace, “was that Elizabeth Ashford was in the process of looking to hire a chef for her estate on the Vineyard.”

  “Oh, Meggy,” Cara groaned. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “Okay, but I’d be lying.” She scoffed at Cara’s pained expression. “Oh, come on. How could you expect me to learn something like that and not take advantage of the situation? Talk about serendipity. I applied for the job, and a couple of days later, the housekeeper called me for an interview.”

  Cara snorted, half laugh, half groan. “You actually went through with the interview?”

  “How else was I going to get inside? I’d already come all that way, and I couldn’t exactly tell them I wasn’t really interested in the job, just a chance to look around. Anyway, I almost chickened out once I’d seen the place, but I couldn’t, you know? So, I let them know I was there. A bodyguard met me at the door.”

  “A bodyguard?”

  “Yeah. Well, he didn’t introduce himself as the bodyguard or anything, but I could tell that’s what he was. He was huge, and he had this wicked-looking scar across one eyebrow.” She made a slashing motion to emphasize her words. “He stood there staring with these arms, as thick as hams, crossed over his chest in one of those moves guys make when they want to intimidate someone. He had the move down pat, believe me. I didn’t think he was going to let me in.”

  “But he did?”

  “The housekeeper did. She thought I was a lunatic, I’m sure. I told her I’d only come to let her know I wouldn’t be available for the job. The interview lasted about five seconds.”

  “Sometimes you scare me, Meggy.”

  “Sometimes I scare myself.” They shared a grin.

  “Why didn’t you just explain who you were and ask to meet your great-grandmother?”

  She frowned, tugging on the hem of her shirt. “I was scared.”

  “Scared?” Cara gaped at her. “Meggy Calhoun, the Palmerton pit bull, was too scared to meet with a little old lady?” She snorted an exaggerated sniff. “Right.”

  Meggy narrowed her eyes at her friend. The nickname was warranted, and normally hearing it gave her a laugh, but her natural assertiveness had deserted her completely with one look at the Ashford Estate. Though she’d forced herself to go inside, she’d run like a coward a
t the first opportunity. It was embarrassing. And worse, she knew she’d do it again in a heartbeat.

  “I stood there, looking around that house. You should have seen it, Cara. The artwork in one room alone could fund several third-world countries for years. Why would anyone walk away from all of that? What kind of woman is Elizabeth Ashford that her own granddaughter didn’t want anything to do with her, that she chose to give me up rather than go to her grandmother for help?”

  She didn’t give Cara a chance to answer. “The Ashfords have the kind of money you only read about. Does that kind of wealth warp people? Elizabeth Ashford isn’t just going to accept me with open arms if I show up on her doorstep. Do I really want to put myself in a position where I’m forced to defend myself, when if I do nothing at all, I won’t have to?”

  With a sigh, she sat forward to rest her elbows on her knees. She glanced over her shoulder at Cara. “Anyway, I have too much at stake right now, too many other things to think about. Palmer House has to be my only focus. It’s too important to me not to give it my full attention. When things calm down...” She shrugged. “I’ll deal with Elizabeth Ashford then.”

  Chapter Three

  Trevor let himself inside his Beacon Street penthouse and shrugged out of his suit jacket. He tossed the keys to the carriage house onto the entry table as he passed. His briefcase joined his jacket on the couch as he kicked off his shoes. In stocking feet, he padded into the kitchen to grab a beer from the refrigerator before heading to the couch.

  He’d signed a six-month lease on the studio apartment, much to Jill Carlson’s disappointment. She’d been pushing for a full year. The best he’d been able to offer was the possibility he may extend it at a later date. It wasn’t going to happen, but she didn’t need to know that. She’d taken what she could get.

  The two-bedroom apartment on the grounds of Palmer House couldn’t have been more perfect for his needs. He had little interest in the amenities of the converted garage. With any luck, he wouldn’t be there long enough to unpack.

  The rent hadn’t been cheap. The ladies of Palmer House had set a high price for the pleasure of renting the small apartment. Subsidizing their income until the restaurant took off, Jill said. Just the cost of doing business, Trevor reminded himself.

  He propped his feet on the etched-stone coffee table, ignoring the briefcase full of files while he sipped at his beer. There was no point in trying to work, not when a tiny woman with a cap of blonde waves and crystal blue eyes kept drifting through his thoughts—a woman he planned to destroy to keep Elizabeth from being hurt, yet again.

  Though there was no blood connection between him and the Ashford matriarch, Elizabeth was family. He’d do whatever it took to protect her. It had been Elizabeth with whom he’d felt an instant connection when his widowed father married her daughter, Anne, when Trevor was eight. That connection grew to love less than a year later, when his father and Anne were killed by a drunk driver, and Trevor was left orphaned. Elizabeth won his undying love and gratitude with her announcement that he belonged to her now.

  At the time, he’d been too young, and too grief stricken, to understand the true scope of Elizabeth’s grief. A grief compounded when Anne’s daughter, eighteen-year-old Rachel, walked away from Ashford Farm, never to be heard from again. Elizabeth’s love eventually healed his own sense of loss, but years passed before he came to understand just how much she still suffered over the loss of Anne and Rachel.

  Elizabeth spent a fortune over the years, searching for any word of Rachel, without success. It was as if his step-sister had vanished. Then, five years ago, a young woman bearing a strong resemblance to Rachel showed up at the farm, claiming to be her daughter. Elizabeth had been ecstatic.

  Only when the idea of a DNA test had been introduced was the truth exposed. The woman disappeared as quickly as she had appeared. The experience left Elizabeth devastated, and still had the ability to make Trevor’s blood boil.

  He wasn’t about to see the situation repeated. Megan Calhoun hadn’t made any type of claim, hadn’t requested to meet Elizabeth. She’d stayed less than five minutes, and yet, her visit lasted long enough for Elizabeth to see her.

  He yanked at the knot of his tie and slipped the top button of his dress shirt, loosening the constriction at his throat. Her excuse of wanting to turn down the chef’s position in person was laughable. Now that he’d seen the setup at Palmer House, he was even more convinced she hadn’t come to the farm because of any position. She already had one.

  No, Megan Calhoun had gone to Ashford Farm to get a look at the place and had scored the accidental bonus of having her remarkable resemblance to Anne noted. He’d bet money on it.

  He had to hand it to her, her cover was good. He hadn’t found a whiff of corruption in her background. Everything he’d discovered so far corroborated the image she projected of a small town girl from a loving home. He’d found no record of an adoption, which would have at least opened the door to the possibility that Rachel could have been her birth mother.

  Still, there was always the possibility of a private adoption. If that were the case, he’d need to dig a little deeper to find a record. He didn’t expect to find any such record, however, and it would be interesting to see how she explained away loving parents when she made her claim.

  She was ambitious enough to start up a business in an industry that saw most of its daring entrepreneurs fail within the first year. And owning and operating Palmer House was no small ambition. The property carried a hefty mortgage, incentive enough to have a smart woman looking for other means of funding.

  He rubbed a palm over his jaw. The partnership of Palmer House interested him. Megan, Meggy, he corrected himself, was one of three equal partners in the venture with sisters Shannon and Cara O’Shea. By all accounts, Shannon looked to be what she appeared—a single mom, struggling to get by, who just happened to have some expertise in the field of restaurant management. Unlike Meggy and Cara, however, her name wasn’t on the mortgage.

  The third partner, Cara O’Shea Finnegan was the new bride of ex-pro quarterback, Michael Finnegan, and was a successful artist in her own right. Finn was said to have the Midas touch when it came to business investments, and was worth millions. His artist wife raked in the cash with each pricey canvas sold.

  On the surface, the Finnegans had too much to lose by involving themselves in an illegal scam, even one worth millions. Could Meggy Calhoun have conned the football star and his artist wife, the way she was planning to con Elizabeth?

  A simple DNA test would settle the matter with a minimum of fuss, but he was holding that option in reserve. She’d yet to play her hand and he needed her to if he was going to prosecute her to the fullest extent of the law.

  In the meantime, his ruse as a writer doing research would allow him to move around the edges of her life without suspicion. As far as anyone knew, Trevor Bryce had come to town to do research for a book. Any questions he asked would be chalked up to literary curiosity.

  He dropped his head against the couch back with a satisfied grunt. If his questions about a certain, petite blonde appeared a little too personal? Well, what red-blooded man wouldn’t want to know more about a woman who looked like Meggy Calhoun?

  ****

  “That’s our new tenant?”

  Meggy laughed at her friend’s excited reaction.

  Whereas Cara was tall and dark, her sisters, Shan and Erin, were both petite, strawberry-blondes. All three shared the same piercing, green eyes. Just now, Shan’s sparkling, green gaze was incredulous. They shared a grin. Their shoulders bumped as they leaned closer to the window to enjoy the sight of Trevor Bryce unloading a black Mercedes in the driveway below.

  She sighed, watching him carry a large box up the pathway to the carriage house door.

  He bent to set the box on the stoop, straightened, and shoved a hand into the pocket of worn jeans to pull out a key.

  “Don’t you just love when life works out so nicely?” She sh
ot Shan a grin. “A monthly rent check with a butt you can bounce a quarter off.”

  Shan’s breath barked out in a shocked cough.

  “Oh, come on, Shan. Look at him.” She leaned closer to the window until her nose was all but pressed to the glass. “If you tell me you’re not swallowing back drool, we’re using his first check to get you some professional help.”

  “God, Meggy.” Shan laughed. “You’re like a female construction worker.”

  Her gaze never left the man on the pathway below. God, he was glorious. “No, if I were a female construction worker, I’d open this window and call out lewd comments, instead of just admiring from afar.”

  Shan snickered.

  Meggy stepped back from the window when Trevor disappeared behind the carriage house door. “So, what’s on your agenda this morning?”

  Hot coffee warmed her as she leaned against the counter sipping while Shan outlined her busy morning. Although they minded each other’s privacy in their individual living spaces, they’d gotten into the habit of catching up on the day’s business over coffee or iced-tea in Shan’s second floor kitchen. The routine reminded her of when they’d been kids. She’d spent many an hour in the O’Shea kitchen with Cara and her sisters. It was there she’d learned her love of the culinary arts.

  “What are you doing up this early? I thought you’d sleep in today so you’d be fresh for tonight.” Shan pressed a hand to her stomach. “I can’t believe tonight’s the night. I’m a bundle of nerves.”

  She was too excited to be nervous. Or was it her nerves that had her so excited she thought she’d never breathe at a normal rate again? The renovations had taken time, and the waiting had been excruciating. Now, at long last, they were finally ready. Palmer House would officially reopen tonight, and her dream of running her own kitchen would be a reality.

  “I’m headed into Boston, to the fish market.” A glance at the clock had her dumping the dregs of coffee from her mug. “And I’d better get going before there’s nothing left and we end up having to serve frozen fish sticks to Wallis.”