The Mysterious Billionaire (The Ashford Legacy #2)

Chapter One

Maddie

“You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” Brielle points out as our Mercedes pulls up on the Auckland waterfront.

I sigh. Of course I have. I’m already regretting wearing it. I should have stuck to lip balm. I fish a compact out of my purse. “Give me two seconds,” I tell James, our driver.

“Take your time,” he replies, watching me in his rear-view mirror with amusement. “We’re only an hour late,” he adds. He’s in his sixties and has worked for the Rutherford family for decades, so he loves to tease me like a favorite uncle.

“It’s a miracle we’re here at all,” my sister states. “I thought you were never going to come out of the bathroom.”

“It takes time to craft perfection,” I mumble.

She spent the last hour making me repeat positive affirmations in the mirror, but I don’t tell James that.

Instead, I bare my teeth at the compact like an MMA fighter facing an opponent and scrub the lipstick off them.

It’s fuchsia pink, the same shade as my very expensive designer ballgown.

“You look so different with dark hair,” James says. “I barely recognize you.”

“That was sort of the plan,” I admit. I adjust the Venetian-style mask I’m wearing and make sure my wig is straight, then open the door and get out.

After thanking James, I walk around the car, my fingertips brushing the Merc for balance.

My Christian Louboutin sandals are gorgeous, but I’m more at home in rubber boots than four-inch-high heels.

“Well, you’ve certainly achieved your aim.

” Brielle joins me, and we walk up the steps to the front of the hotel.

“Nobody’s going to recognize the quiet little mouse tonight.

” She spots someone she knows and waves before bending to kiss the air by my cheek.

“Have fun, sweetie. Make the most of your disguise.” She winks at me from behind her mask and swans off toward her target.

I stay where I am for a moment, feeling as if I’ve walked through a field of nettles. I know she didn’t mean to insult me, but her words sting all the same, coming so close to Peter’s crushing humiliation.

Tears jab my eyes like needles, but I blink them away and lift my chin.

I don’t care that he dumped me the night before the most prestigious Christmas ball in the country; I’d rather go stag than be with someone who doesn’t appreciate my stunning beauty, my razor-sharp wit, and my inevitable ability to make a fool of myself.

As if to prove my point, I catch the toe of my sandal on the top step, stumble, and almost fall flat on my face.

“Fuck!” I yell the word and receive a disapproving tut from an elderly woman with a black-spotted wrap that makes her look like Cruella De Vil. Nearby, a couple of young socialites and their partners snigger at my misfortune.

More needles jab my eyes. I stand at the top of the steps, staring at the view in front of me, my chest heaving.

The large doors stand open, revealing the dazzling ballroom within.

A huge Christmas tree sparkles in one corner, and disco balls throw sequins of light across the dance floor.

Women in jeweled ballgowns and men in black tie mingle while they sip champagne. It’s all very elegant and refined.

What the hell am I doing here?

I have no idea who anyone is because they’re all wearing masks. I’m going to have to walk up to people and start a conversation, something that is most definitely not in my wheelhouse. Oh God. Why did I think I was going to be able to do this?

My vision blurs. Maybe, if I’m quick, I can catch James before he gets too far. I turn—and walk straight into a brick wall.

Well, it’s not actually a brick wall, but the man is as tall and immovable as one. I stumble back and almost fall, but he slides an arm around my waist and says, “Whoa, careful. That’s the second time you’ve almost taken a tumble.”

I flush as I realize he caught my first faux pas and presumably the expletive that followed. “It takes natural talent to lose your footing twice in the space of thirty seconds,” I joke to cover my emotion.

“Imagine what you could achieve with training,” he teases, releasing me once I’m steady on my feet.

I touch my hand to my wig, hoping it hasn’t slipped. “I’m aiming for a bronze at the next Olympics.”

He laughs, revealing incisors a little longer than the rest of his straight, white teeth. Ohhh shit, even though he’s wearing a mask, I know that wolfish grin. It’s Caesar Ashford.

His father, Edward, runs Ashford AgriTech, a massive multinational company worth billions of dollars. I know this because my grandfather, Tom Rutherford, approached Edward this morning with an offer to acquire the company.

Caesar is Edward’s eldest son and heir. Does he know about Grandpa’s offer yet?

“Only a bronze?” he teases, offering me his arm.

“Well, I don’t want to set my sights too high…

” I swallow hard and look away, hoping to see the Merc.

I should continue with my plan to leave.

Caesar is well-known, but I stay out of the limelight.

He won’t recognize me, but if I let my identity slip, and he does know about the offer, I can’t imagine he’s going to be happy to see me.

“Planning a quick getaway?” he asks softly. “But you’ve only just arrived.”

I return my gaze to him. He’s very tall, a good eight inches taller than me, even though I’m wearing heels.

He’s wearing a black tuxedo that’s definitely bespoke, British cut, structured, and annoyingly perfect, the kind of tailoring that suggests discipline, control, and a baffling ability to say no to dessert.

He’s the most handsome guy I’m likely to meet here tonight.

And his cologne smells amazing. Unfortunately, I don’t have the ability to say no to dessert because my willpower is close to zero, which is why, when he gestures with his elbow again, I find myself unable to stop slipping my hand through and holding onto his upper arm.

It’s just so I can steady myself in the heels, I tell myself as he leads me toward the doors. I fight the urge to squeeze his biceps and fail. God, he’s rock hard.

I am not going to think about what other parts of his body might be firm and impressive.

Holding my phone out, I let the guy on the door scan my ticket, and Caesar leads me inside.

“Why don’t I get you a drink?” he asks. “Champagne? Or would you prefer something a little stronger?”

I stop walking, my heart thudding at the sight of so many people. I’d hoped wearing my disguise would be like hiding in a suit of armor, but Brielle was right—the color is drawing everyone’s gaze.

He scans the room and stares to the left at a display of children’s artwork that’s up for auction tonight.

A group of people is standing in front of it while a young woman with an emerald dress and striking red hair talks and gestures at the paintings.

He backs away like a rhino who’s spotted a poacher in the bushes.

“Let’s go through to the bar. It’s quieter there. ”

I let him lead me to the right, along the edge of the ballroom.

Occasionally he says a few words to people as he passes, and I remember he’s the patron of the Ashford Foundation, the host of the ball.

He’s charismatic, warm, and effortless as he greets people, remembering their names as he promises to catch up later.

“You’re Mr. Popular,” I state, a little jealous of the way he’s so relaxed.

He chuckles as we reach the bar and gestures for me to precede him. I walk carefully through the tables, making my way to the left side, where it’s quieter. Once we get there, I breathe easier, glad to have arrived without another ass-over-tit mishap.

“What can I get you?” He leans on the bar beside me.

“A Cosmopolitan, please.” I probably shouldn’t because I know alcohol can have a detrimental effect when mixed with adrenalin, but I desperately need some Dutch courage.

He gestures at the bartender, who comes straight over even though I’m sure there were others who were waiting before us, and orders my Cosmo and a Glenlivet on the rocks for himself. Then he turns to face me, fingers linked, one elbow on the bar.

“Don’t let me keep you from your friends,” I say. “Clearly, you have more important places to be.”

He looks to his left, across the bar and the ballroom beyond.

The upper half of his face is hidden behind his mask, but I can see his dark hair, which is cut in a sharp fade.

A few lighter strands are visible in it like seams of silver running through stone.

I’m not sure how old he is, early thirties, I think, but he’s obviously going to inherit his father’s silver hair.

“Trying to avoid someone?” I ask, watching him scan the room again.

His gaze comes back to me. “I’m supposed to be meeting dignitaries.” He smiles. “But I’d much rather talk to you.” He turns as the bartender comes back with our drinks and nods his thanks. I note that the bartender doesn’t ask him for payment.

Caesar passes mine to me and lifts his glass. “What shall we toast to?”

“To having two left feet.”

He laughs. “To having two left feet.”

We clink glasses, then have a mouthful of our drinks.

“So are you naturally clumsy,” he asks, “or is this a special occasion?”

“Oh, definitely naturally clumsy. I knocked both my front teeth out when I was fourteen riding my bike into a wall.”

His eyes widen behind the mask. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. And when I was eighteen, at a theater production—of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, funnily enough—I went to the loo halfway through the first act and fell down the stairs on my way back to my seat. They had to halt the play while the paramedics carried me out on a stretcher.”

He tries not to laugh, and fails. “So you definitely have a natural talent.”

“Oh yeah. My family refuses to be seen with me in public because they know I’m going to show them up somehow.”