Page 67 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

The sun had long since set when I finally considered packing it in for the day. Just when I was about to tell my assistant to hold my calls, the door to my office swung open and Jack sauntered in.

I could tell right away from her shit-eating grin she’d struck gold on the portrait search. But Jack had to be Jack. She plopped down on the sofa in my office and stretched languidly like a cat.

“Hey, boss man. How was Paris?”

I hadn’t told anyone I was going to Paris, but I wasn’t about to rise to the bait and ask Jack how she knew.

“It was a blast. I’ve been there before, but I’d never really gotten to see the sights. I was always too busy working.”

“Well, while you were eating croissants and drinking wine, I was busting my cute little ass on your behest.”

“Did one of the feelers you put out finally bear some fruit?”

“Hell no! I resorted to doing leg work. I figured that if the painting had gone up on exhibit once, it would probably do so again at some point. So I went through each individual gallery one by one, until I struck dirt. I know exactly where the portrait is.”

I sat up straight. “Jack, enough with the theatrics.”

“Wait for it,” she said, holding up her finger. “A good dramatic pause is worth its weight in gold.”

“Jack.”

“The portrait is at the Schrauth Gallery.”

“Never heard of it.”

“That’s because it literally just opened up. Hasn’t had an official exhibition yet, but I’ve never met a lock I couldn’t crack.”

“So you broke in.”

“I didn’t break anything. Didn’t steal anything, either. I just verified the portrait was there, and got back out.”

“I don’t suppose that you found out who owns it did you?”

“It’s a safe bet the person who owns it is the same one exhibiting it.” Jack checked her notes. “M. Scott.”

The blood froze in my veins. “Megan Scott?”

“Dunno. Could be.” She shrugged. “Anyway, it was one of the only pics in that exhibit NOT for sale.”

I was dumbstruck. The owner of my grandfather’s portrait, the one I’d been chasing all over town—turned out to be my own girlfriend.

I wondered why she had a portrait of my grandfather. I also wondered why it wasn’t for sale. The only thing I could come up with was that she didn’t actually own it. Maybe she was holding it for someone else? I couldn’t be sure.

I could have called right then and there. I could have asked Megan about it. But I was terrified that she would think I was only dating her in order to get my hands on the painting. Would she believe it had been a coincidence? Or would our romance end with a whimper rather than a bang?

“You just got real thoughtful, boss man. Penny for your thoughts?”

I shook my head. “Do you know the name of the gallery owner?”

“I do. Brian Livingston Shcrauth. College dropout, drew an online comic strip called the Remster Family for a hiccup before ‘retiring’ to focus on his music and acting career.”

“He’s a musician and an actor?”

She tilted her head back and laughed. “Absolutely not. Not even community theater. Not even singing in his church choir. What you’ve got is a guy with major delusions of grandeur. I mean, to read the guy’s bio he’s basically God’s gift. I think he thinks he’s funny, but all his material is recycled from somewhere else.”

“Do you think this idiot could help me convince her to sell?”

“I don’t see why not. I think they know each other. He might be part of her circle.”

---