The Billionaire Gets His Way (12 page)

She didn't.

Really.

Even if, for one brief moment at the party, when she'd been dancing with him, he'd made her feel things she'd never felt before. Even if, while making love…ah, she meant having sex…with him, she'd felt those things again, even more strongly. The kind of things that made a person feel…close…to another person. The kind of things that made a person
want
to be close to another person.

The kind of things Violet wasn't wired to feel.

Her gaze lit on the tray of food Gavin had put together that he had obviously intended to bring to her in bed before getting sidetracked by her work. No one had ever brought her breakfast in bed. Hell, no one had ever even prepared food for her. In all her foster and group homes, that responsibility had fallen to the kids. To teach them independence, her foster parents had always said. And sometimes, they'd even meant it. Would he have prepared a romantic feast like this for her had he known who she really was and where she really came from?

She laughed humorlessly at her own question. Of course not. He wouldn't even have made love…had sex…with her tonight if he'd known that. Hell, he probably thought coming from poverty was even worse than being a call girl. At least call girls moved in high society the way he did. At least they knew how to dress and talk and behave. Call girls didn't have to rent clothing from a boutique off Michigan Avenue. They didn't have to be taught to dance. They didn't have to be given lessons about art. Gavin would be infinitely more comfortable with Raven French than he would with Violet Tandy. It was Raven he had made love…had sex…with tonight, not Violet. Had he known her true origins, he wouldn't have had anything to do with her. No way would he let the
stink
of her
pollute
the life he had now.

So why should she let the stink of him pollute hers?

She knew what she needed to do to dislodge Gavin from her brain and from her—from everything else. It took less than fifteen minutes for Violet to wash her face and brush her teeth. Then she fired up her laptop and opened the file for the novel she was writing to follow up
High Heels and Champagne and Sex, Oh, My!
She'd hit a point where she wasn't sure what to write next, had gotten bogged down in a scene where her protagonist—a naive, small-town girl who was visiting the big city for the first time—needed to fall down on her luck. Violet hadn't been sure what form, exactly, that bad luck should take.

Now she knew. Oh, boy, did she know. Mason Gavin was about to take advantage of her in a big way, then toss her to the curb along with that kitten in the icy slush.

After cracking her knuckles, she began stroking the keys slowly, ordering her thoughts as she wrote. Gradually, her typing speed increased—as did her thoughts—and she began to write in earnest.

Write what you know,
she thought sardonically.
Just like Ernest Hemingway.

 

Less than thirty-six hours after being tossed out of Violet's apartment, Gavin sat at his desk looking over a file that had been specially couriered to him by a private investigator he used on a regular basis. It was an interesting mix of documents and reports, all of which were related by one cohesive thread: Violet Tandy. Had he done this before Saturday night, the file would have only bolstered his certainty that she was exactly what he'd thought her initially to be: a prostitute. Because all the information in front of him indicated she'd come from exactly the kind of environment that would push a woman to become just
that. An environment full of poverty and need, of loss and neglect.

She really had come from a world even worse than his own.

She was older than he'd suspected, nearly thirty, Chicago-born and -bred. After being abandoned as a young child—and he recalled now how she'd said she didn't know who her father was, a comment he'd shrugged off at the time—she'd been shuttled from one foster or group home to another. Almost a dozen by the time she turned eighteen, at which point the state had cut her loose to fend for herself, with no education, no training, no benefits, nothing. After that, with no one to rely on, she had been on her own. College had been understandably out of the question for the average student she had been in school, so she had worked at a number of menial jobs before penning her novel. As a hostess at a five-star restaurant, as a tailor's assistant at an exclusive Michigan Avenue menswear shop, in housekeeping at a luxury hotel. Places where she was exposed to the affluence of high society and the potential for her to meet rich men.

Had she wanted to become a call girl, she wouldn't have had any trouble finding clients, he was sure. Not coming from the sort of background she'd come from. Not having the access to potential clients that she'd had. Not looking the way she looked and being the way she was. No man in his right mind could have resisted her.

But she hadn't done that. She had worked honest jobs, some of them backbreaking, sometimes from sunup until sundown. She had planned. She had dreamed. And, using her wits and determination, she had pulled herself up from her meager beginnings to make those dreams a reality.

She was like him, Gavin thought. She'd started off with nothing and nobody and worked hard at whatever job she could find to survive—and succeed. She'd come up from
the streets to find herself in high society. Except that where she didn't seem in any way embarrassed by her beginnings, Gavin had done whatever he could to hide his.

But then, she didn't have a business reputation or any social status to protect, did she? She didn't move in the same worlds he regularly did or have to see the same people he did every day. Her lifestyle didn't depend on keeping her origins a secret. If his colleagues and acquaintances knew the truth about him, they'd never give him the respect or friendship they gave him now. Hell, they wouldn't give him the time of day. And without professional esteem or standing in the community, Gavin might as well be right back in the gutter where he started.

No way would he let that happen.

He understood now why she had been so angry Saturday night. When he'd said people from poverty counted for nothing, she'd thought he'd been talking about her. She'd thought he meant she was nothing. That she was meaningless. That associating with someone like her would… How had he put it? Oh, yeah. Would make the stink of his old life pollute the one he had now.

With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his big, executive chair and rested his head against its big, executive headrest. He remembered how she had talked about finding happiness in simple things and realized now that everything she'd listed had been ways she'd found happiness herself as a child. Which, he supposed, indicated she wasn't much like him, after all. Because he hadn't found happiness in anything when he was a kid.

It didn't matter, he told himself. He wouldn't be seeing her again. Even if he wanted to, she'd made clear that she didn't want him coming anywhere near her. And he shouldn't want to go near her. She was a symbol of everything he tried to keep out of his life these days. And even if she wasn't a
call girl, there were plenty of people who thought she was. He had proof he could take to his friends and colleagues that indicated otherwise, and, even if he couldn't convince them the book was a work of fiction, he could eventually convince them that he wasn't Ethan.

Yeah, he'd get right on that. Enlist the help of his P.I. to gather the same information Violet had had at her apartment and get it to the proper gossipmongers in society, blah blah blah. In a few months, it would have all blown over anyway, and he'd be back in everyone's good graces. Going to all the right parties. Landing all the right clients. Dating all the right women.

Inevitably, that made him think of Violet. Who wasn't the right woman at all. Who shouldn't have mattered. Certainly no more than any other woman he had bedded, regardless of that woman's station in society. It had always been easy for Gavin to forget women. Because none of them had ever been particularly memorable. Not the one—he couldn't remember her name now—who had been the heiress to an industrial empire. Not the one whose name had started with an M, maybe an N—W?—who was a former Miss Illinois. Not the one with the red hair—or had she been a blonde?—whose ancestors had come over on the
Mayflower.
He'd forgotten them within minutes of dropping them at their front doors. Or climbing out of their beds.

So why was he still thinking about Violet? Why did he need—want—so badly to see her again?

Maybe if she understood what he had to lose, he thought. Maybe if he showed her more of his life, she would understand. She'd seen his office, but so much of what he did was off-site. And few of his real friends had been at the party Saturday night. Of course, that was because he only had a few real friends, but still. Maybe if Violet saw more of how he actually lived, she'd realize how much he had to
lose and why it was so important to him to preserve that lifestyle. That was it. If she could just see what his life was really like, then she'd see why he was so adamant about protecting it. That was why he couldn't stop thinking about her. That was why he needed—wanted—so badly to see her again.

Now all he had to do was figure out how to do that without her slamming the door in his face.

A
little over a week after giving Gavin the heave-ho, Violet sat in a classroom in Northwestern's castle-like University Hall, listening to one of the professors introduce her as—she tried to contain her glee—a local bestselling
novelist.
The students in the class to whom she would be speaking were studying Contemporary American
Fiction,
and she was here today to discuss literary social criticism and the ways in which
fiction
and the
novelist
reflected the society and mores of the contemporary real world.

Ah. How refreshing. There would be no questions about sex toys. No questions about lingerie. No questions about fetishes. No, Violet was here to talk about literary social criticism. So she'd rented the most conservative outfit she could find at Talk of the Town, a black Chanel suit she'd accessorized with an onyx pendant and bracelet. Her black hair was wound into a chic chignon, and she'd deliberately kept the cosmetics to a minimum. She was here to be taken
seriously. She was here to be an auteur. And looking out at the fifty or so students who had come to hear her, she felt exactly like that.

She spoke at length with great confidence on her topic—she'd spent days preparing and rehearsing her talk—then opened the floor to invite questions from the students.

The first question was about sex toys.

The second question was about lingerie

The third question was about fetishes.

By the time the hour drew to a close, Violet had dropped her head into her hand and was pinching the bridge of her nose to ward off the vicious ache that had begun pounding at her forehead immediately after the question about necrophilia. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, she said, “I have time for one more question.”

“What are you doing after the lecture?”

Her head snapped up at the familiar baritone, and she saw Gavin standing in the far right corner of the room, near its entrance. He must have slipped in when she had her back to the crowd, probably when she was using the dry erase board to draw her hierarchy of gender authority or her timeline of the history of pay inequity. Fat lot of good either had done. No one had even taken any notes. Not until the necrophilia question, anyway, something that gave her more than a little pause about the next generation.

She looked from Gavin to the crowd between them. More than one person seemed interested in her reply. A couple seemed
too
interested.

“Um, I have an engagement,” she said. She turned quickly to the professor who had invited her to speak. “Dr. Besser, thank you so much for the opportunity to speak to your class today. It was so…” Blah blah blah blah blah.

With all the proper gratitudes and platitudes exchanged, Violet made her way to the exit that was on the other side
of the lecture hall from Gavin. But he anticipated the action and doubled his speed, walking out a few seconds behind her. She managed to maintain her lead for a full five seconds before she felt his hand slip easily over her shoulder and heard his softly uttered, “Violet, please. Wait up. I need…want…to talk to you.”

That odd solicitude she'd heard in his voice the night of the party was back, and, as it had that night, it melted something inside her that made her hesitate. She halted and faced him, shrugging the hand off her shoulder as she did, because it felt too good to have it there, conjuring too many memories of the night they'd spent together scarcely a week ago.

“What?” she asked, striving for petulance, but fearing she fell short, since what she actually felt was…

Well, maybe she better not try to identify that. Because whatever it was grew stronger when she looked at him. He was, as always, impeccably dressed in one of his dark power suits, this one charcoal with barely discernible pinstripes. His shirt was starched white, but his necktie was spattered with bits of blue that made his opalescent eyes look even deeper and more expressive—and sexier, dammit—than ever.

He said nothing at first, only gazed at her, scanning her features from her eyes to her mouth and back again. And looking as if maybe he were having the same kind of thoughts about her that she was about him, the kind that it was best not to think about.

Then, very softly, he said simply, “Hello.”

She expelled a single, weary sigh, then, reluctantly, replied, “Hi.”

Another moment passed in which the two of them only studied each other, until, finally, Violet broke the silence.

“What are you doing here, Gavin?”

“I came for you. To see you,” he hastily corrected himself. Then he further amended, “I mean, I was in the area and was hoping maybe you'd have time for lunch. I have a client here,” he hurried on. “He wants to sell part of his collection, so I came up to do the assessment myself. He's a very important person.” That last sentence seemed tacked on, as if to answer why the CEO of the company would perform the sort of task an underling—a seriously under underling—would normally do. Which, of course, had indeed been her next question. So, she asked what she thought was another good one instead.

“How did you know I was up here?”

He looked panicky for a moment. “I saw a notice in the paper about it.”

“The only notice that ran in the paper was in a special Women's Interest section that was in last weekend's edition. Call me crazy, but you don't seem like the type to read a special Women's Interest section.”

Finally, he smiled, that wry, charming, confident one that did funny things to her insides. “I'll have you know I am
very
interested in women.”

Even though he had obviously made the comment in jest, they both seemed to realize, as soon as he said it, that it held a lot more significance than that. Thankfully, however, he chose not to pursue the matter. Wisely, neither did Violet.

“Since my client doesn't live far from the Northwestern campus, I decided to leave a little early and see you speak.”

“Why?”

His wry, charming confidence seemed to falter some. “Like I said, I need…want…to talk to you.”

“Why?” she asked again.

He took his time responding, as if he wanted to rephrase whatever he had planned to say. Then he did it a second
time. Then a third. “I'd like a second chance to make a first impression.”

She almost laughed at that. As if a man like him could have any hope of changing a woman's memory of the first time she'd laid eyes on him. Especially since, right after laying eyes on him, he'd accused her of being a hooker. And a liar. She reminded herself not only of that, but of how he felt about people like her—people who had come from disadvantage and poverty. She reminded herself of all the things he'd said that night after the two of them made lo—ah, she meant after the two of them had sex. She was exactly the kind of person, the kind of thing, he wanted most to keep out of his life. Even if, after discovering she was the very thing he didn't want, he found it possible to overlook her past, he'd always be afraid of what his friends thought of her—and, by extension, of himself. He dated women who were like him—or, at least, what he aspired to be seen as: rich, privileged, untainted by the stink of poverty and need.

His image would
always
be more important to him than anything—anyone—else. He'd said as much himself.

“I'm not sure I have time for lunch,” she lied. “I have, um, something I have to do tonight in the city.” Like go home. Alone. Not that he had to know that part. Going home alone
was
something she had to do in the city. Every night. Since the one she'd spent with him. Always thinking about him and the night she'd spent with him whenever she was home alone.

“Come on,” he cajoled. “Your talk began too early for you to have had time to eat anything since breakfast. I know this great Mediterranean place between here and my client's house. My treat.”

How could he have known Mediterranean was her favorite fare?

“And they make a tabouli that's out of this world.”

How could he have known tabouli was her favorite Mediterranean fare? He wasn't playing fair. Okay, he was playing fare. Just not fair.

Um, what was the question?

Oh, right. How about lunch?

She told herself to say no, urged herself to stand firm. Her origins made her nothing in this man's eyes. To him, she would always be sullied and unwanted. He was stone on the inside and ice on the outside, everything she wasn't, and nothing she wanted in a man. It didn't matter how hot and molten he'd made her feel when they were together, didn't matter that she'd seen a chink in his character that night at the party that suggested that, somewhere inside him, there was still a place of warmth and good humor and decency. People with convictions as strong as his didn't change. And she wasn't going to change who she was, either.

She told herself again to say no. But she heard her traitorous voice—or something—instead say, “Okay.”

 

Violet had no idea how it happened—really, she didn't—but two hours later, she found herself sitting in the passenger seat of Gavin's plush Jaguar roadster, which was curling its way around the circular drive to the country estate of one Chatsworth Whitehall the…some Roman numeral. V maybe. She'd seen his name on the file that had been sitting in the passenger seat before she had folded herself into it. Why exactly she'd folded herself into his car was still a mystery. She'd had only one glass of wine with lunch—the tabouli really had been divine—so that couldn't have impaired her judgment.

The baklava they'd shared for dessert might have done it, though. She'd always been a sucker for baklava. And it had been while she was savoring an especially sweet mouthful
that Gavin had invited her to join him on his excursion through the Whitehall estate to survey the collection his company had been hired to evaluate. The rat. She should have known better than to listen to anything anyone asked her over baklava. That was fighting dirty.

Mr. Whitehall's home…mansion…estate…enormous frigging house…looked like something out of a movie, she decided as Gavin pulled the car to a halt between a burbling fountain full of satyr statuary and a columned front porch that was roughly the size of her entire apartment. A movie about royalty. Really ancient, really powerful royalty. The building was a towering Greek Revival that reigned over acres and acres of what must have been gorgeously manicured gardens in the warmer months, complete with what appeared to be a topiary maze to one side. Violet didn't realize how rapt was her attention on the place until the passenger door opened beside her, making her flinch in surprise.

When she looked up, she saw Gavin waiting for her to emerge, his magnificent self framed by the majestic house…and looking very much like he was one with it.

He extended a hand to help her out, and, automatically, she took it. The moment her bare skin made contact with his, however, she was deluged by memories of the last time their skin had been in contact, and heat fairly swamped her. But when she tried to snatch her hand back, Gavin tightened his grip and gave her a gentle tug, pulling her to standing until their bodies were nearly flush, something else that engulfed her with memories of that night.

Instinctively, she took a step in retreat, turning toward the house instead of Gavin. But that quelled her agitation not at all. Because it only hammered home how very different the two of them were, and how very lacking she was in his eyes. She would never fit in with his kind of society. Never.

“It's spectacular, isn't it?” he said, misconstruing her reaction to the place.

She nodded silently.

“The Whitehalls have been a part of Chicago society since before the Great Fire. Since then, their fortunes have multiplied every year. After nearly a hundred and fifty years, that's a lot of multiplying.”

“Yeah, no…kidding.”

She was able to bite off the expletive she might have uttered otherwise. Something about a place like this made profanity seem, well, profane. Not to mention it would have made even more starkly clear the differences in her station and this one. Gavin came into contact with people and places like this all the time. Had it not been for him, Violet would never be given entrée into this world. He was comfortable among wealth like this. She was not.

He really had come a long way from the Brooklyn docks. Funny, though, she was pretty sure she'd feel right at home there.

“Chatsworth won't be here,” he said, his use of his client's first name indicating they knew each other well, “but his housekeeper is expecting us.”

To Violet, the word
housekeeper
conjured a woman garbed in rubber gloves and ruffled apron, armed with spray bottles, buckets and mops. But the woman who met them at the door of Chatsworth Whitehall Roman Numeral's house wore a suit even more conservative than her own, along with diamond studs and a clearly expensive gold wristwatch. She had one of those Bluetooth phones stuck in one ear and an iPad tucked under one arm. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe ponytail, and smart black glasses perched on her nose. Violet was going to go out on a limb and guess she didn't wield too many feather dusters.

“Miranda,” Gavin greeted her warmly, indicating
he knew her well, too. He must get invited to play with Chatsworth on a regular basis. “It's always great to see you.”

“Mr. Mason,” she replied more formally. Guess she wasn't a part of the regular play group. “Mr. Whitehall has given me thorough instructions about your visit, and I've arranged for a good sampling of the pieces to be moved to the main salon for your convenience.”

Main salon, Violet echoed to herself. She wondered how many more salons there were. Looking at the house again, she decided there were probably at least eighty billion.

“I've also arranged for Billings to prepare a light lunch for you and your…” For the first time, she turned to look at Violet, and Violet was immediately, irrationally, grateful for her rented designer duds. “Your…associate…” Miranda finally continued, using one of those all-inclusive, could-mean-anything identifiers, “if you didn't have a chance for lunch on your way here.”