The Billionaire Gets His Way (14 page)

What he'd wanted to tell Violet was that the two of them hadn't been alone all day because he was ashamed to be seen with her among his friends. The reason they'd been alone all day was because he would have spent the day alone anyway. The way he spent virtually every day alone. And virtually every night, too.

It dawned on him then, for the first time, that, until he met Violet, he'd been alone all the time.

V
iolet paused in front of a towering creekstone Victorian mansion nestled in the heart of the Gold Coast that had been converted a half century ago from a lush millionaire's home to a private club. Gavin's private club. The kind of private club it cost more to join than Violet had made in a year at any of her previous jobs. Or at all of her previous jobs combined, for that matter. And she asked herself what she was doing here.

So what if her phone had rung within moments of her settling in the backseat of a cab after leaving his penthouse last night? So what if, when she had declined to answer it, Gavin had left a message asking—no, pleading with her—to come to his club tonight to have dinner with him? So what if tonight happened to be a night when, he'd told her, every single member of the club would be there, not to mention a host of other people who were their guests, because the mayor of Chicago would be present for a fundraiser there?
So what if this was his way of trying to prove to her that he was more than willing to be seen with her in public, amid his large circle of friends?

“Just meet me at my club,” he'd begged before concluding the call the night before. “I'll call ahead and make sure you're on the list so no one will give you a problem. But please, Violet. Please come.”

He'd put her on the list, she echoed to herself now, her stomach knotting. That was the condition of her being able to see him. She would have to be put on a list because she wasn't a member of the club—of the society—to which he belonged. That should be enough right there to let her know how pointless an expedition this was going to be.

She'd told herself to ignore his request and stay home. But every time she'd replayed the message—and she'd replayed it several times—there had been something in his voice she couldn't quite dismiss, something that had prevented her from giving up on him just yet. She'd finally decided that, okay, she would be there at seven. But she would be going as herself this time.

That, she had decided, would be the test. Whether or not Gavin was comfortable introducing her to his friends, with her in-your-face lack of social graces, her down-to-earth personality and her off-the-rack discount wardrobe. If he could still be his upper crusty, blue-blooded self in the face of all that, and still treat her with the respect and consideration she deserved, then maybe there was hope. Maybe.

“Ready or not, Gavin,” she said to the building as she ascended the stairs, “here I come.”

True to her word, she hadn't bothered renting clothes for the evening and had even eschewed the faux party clothes she had worn when Gavin had blackmailed her into going to the Steepletons' party. Instead, she'd pulled out a pair of
plain black trousers and white man-style shirt that she'd had since college and paired them with black flats and simple silver hoop earrings.

Unfortunately, upon arriving at the club room he'd directed her to, she discovered she was dressed exactly like the wait staff. Gee, so maybe she belonged amid this society after all. Even if it was as a laborer.

The tuxedoed maître d' stationed at the entrance thought she was a laborer, too, because after one dismissive glance at her, he jutted a thumb to the left and barked, “Kitchen entrance is that way, honey. Show up late for your shift again, and I'll can you myself.”

“I'm not an employee,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. Which, she was surprised to discover, was quite a lot. “I'm a guest.”

The maître d' looked up at that, but still cast a dubious eye. “Whose guest?”

“Gavin Mason's.”

Now the maître d' snapped to attention and began rifling through the papers on the host stand before him. “Yes, miss. Of course, miss. I'm sorry, miss, your name again?”

Somehow, Violet refrained from rolling her eyes. Okay, she conceded, maybe there were things she could get used to in Gavin's world. Like having people who'd treated you like carpet lint suddenly realize you have value. Of course, this guy only thought she had value for the same reason Gavin thought people had value—because she had enough money to get into a place like this—but still. It was nice to be acknowledged.

“Violet Tandy,” she told the man.

It took him all of a nanosecond to find her. “Of course. Miss Tandy. Mr. Mason hasn't arrived. In fact, he called to say he hit some unexpected traffic but is on his way, and that I should show you to your table and open the Krug Grand
Cuvée that's chilling for the two of you there. Hilda,” he then barked over his shoulder in the same laborer-appropriate tone he had used before. “Hilda will take your coat, Miss Tandy.”

Violet had no idea what a cuvée was, but she knew
grand
was French for big, so—knowing Gavin—whatever a big cuvée was, it was bound to be expensive.

Oh, it was
champagne,
she discovered after surrendering her coat to a total stranger and following the maître d' to an intimate table for two near a crackling fireplace. And not all that big, really. Though all that gold on the label did indeed make it look very grand.

Her new best buddy opened the bottle with swift, deft artistry, but poured barely a mouthful into Violet's glass. Okay, she knew the stuff was expensive, but couldn't he do a little better than that?

“Um, could I have a little more, please?” she asked.

He looked at her as if a giant fish had just sprouted out of her forehead. “You should taste it before I pour a full glass, miss. To make sure it meets with your approval.”

Oh. Faux pas number one for the evening. “Gotcha,” she said, wrapping her hand around the bowl of the glass to lift it. At the maître d's discreet “Ahem,” however, she looked up to find him shaking his head imperceptibly. “The stem,” he whispered. “You should hold the glass by the stem, miss.”

Faux pas number two, Violet thought. And Gavin hadn't even arrived yet. It was going to be a long evening. “Um, thanks,” she said, genuinely grateful for the man's coaching. Obviously, he could still tell she wasn't a part of this crowd, but at least he wasn't looking down on her anymore and was trying to help her out.

She picked up the glass by its stem—score one for the laborer!—then lifted it to her mouth for a sip. Even though she wouldn't have known good champagne from bad grape
juice, she nodded her approval. Mostly because, even if it was bad, it tasted very good to her.

“Lovely,” she declared.

The maître d' smiled and tipped the bottle again, this time pouring a more generous portion.

“I'm sure Mr. Mason will be along any time now,” he told her. “But if you need anything else, Miss Tandy, please don't hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks,” she told him. “I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.”

Amazing how he could make that sound sincere, she thought as the maître d' strode to his post.

As she sipped her champagne and waited for Gavin, she stole a moment to take in her surroundings. Immediately, she was reminded of the Whitehall estate, because the club seemed to be striving to look like a smaller version of it. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany that had been polished to a satiny sheen, the ceiling was an ornate collection of gilded rosettes and wainscoting, and the carpet was an elegant design of jewel tones so rich and beautiful that it looked almost as if someone really had scattered rubies and emeralds and sapphires about.

The place was packed, too, with all manner of high society. A few tables away, Violet recognized the members of the group from the Gold Coast party she had attended with Gavin, the ones he'd said it was so important see the two of them together. They were as glittery and vivid as peacocks, making her feel like the same colorless mouse she had that night. So she scanned the rest of the crowd instead. But everyone there was dressed to the nines for the occasion, and all were laughing and chatting, smiling at and waving to each other as if they all knew each other well. Which they doubtless did.

And Gavin was one of them, the way he wanted most in the world to be. The way she would never be herself.

As if conjured by the thought, he appeared at the entrance to the club room, his black overcoat dotted with snowflakes, a few more melting like crystals in his dark hair. Something inside Violet melted a little then, too, just looking at him. He was so handsome. So sexy. And he had it in him to be a decent kind of guy, if only his priorities weren't so messed up. If only…

If only.
The two most dangerous words in the English language. Gavin Mason was what he was. He'd been years in the making. He wasn't going to change overnight. He might never change. Certainly in a place like this, surrounded by the kind of people he strove hardest to impress, he wasn't going to be the man she needed him to be. Tonight, more than ever, he would be the unyielding aristocrat who scorned all things plebian. Like her.

Why did he still want to see her?

As if that thought, too, had conjured some kind of connection between the two of them, he glanced over at the table and saw her. Immediately, his anxious expression smoothed, and he smiled, making another chunk of ice in Violet evaporate like steam. He started to walk toward her, then the maître d' must have reminded him of his coat, too, and Gavin halted to take it off and hand it to the harried Hilda. Then he started to make his way toward Violet once more. But he was halted as soon as he stepped into the room by a couple seated near the door who beckoned to him. With an apologetic look for Violet, he moved that way to greet them. But even from where she sat, she could tell he was impatient. And something about that warmed her inside even more.

Until she felt someone staring at her. Someone who wasn't Gavin. And it was that creepy kind of staring, too,
that made a person's skin prickle. When she glanced around, she saw a man leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the room amid a group of other people armed with cameras and microphones and such. Members of the media who were here to cover the event. The man was looking right at her, and when her gaze met his, he smiled at her in recognition. Creepy recognition, not wow-it's-so-great-to-see-you recognition. And she didn't recognize him at all. So she swiftly turned to see where Gavin was, and saw that he had been stopped by a second couple.

Hastily, Violet returned her attention to her champagne, enjoying a healthy quaff. Within seconds, however, the man who had been watching her was standing by the table, situating himself in such a way that she couldn't avoid looking at his crotch unless she looked up at his face. So, with a sigh of resignation, she looked up at his face. It was actually a fairly harmless-looking face, bland features beneath a crop of not-particularly-well-cut blond hair. Unlike the other men present—even the members of the media—he wore neither a tuxedo, nor a dark suit, but a pair of rumpled brown corduroys and an oatmeal-colored sweater.

“I know you,” he said when her gaze connected with his. He wagged a finger at her knowingly. “You're Raven French. The author of that call girl memoir.”

“It's not a memoir,” Violet said wearily. “It's a novel. I'm not—”

“Yeah, whatever. I've been trying to snag an interview with you for weeks, but you never call me back. Teddy Mullins,” he finally introduced himself, extending a hand to her that Violet had no desire to shake. “I write for
Chicago Fringe
magazine.”

The minute she heard that, Violet knew why she hadn't returned his calls, and now she
really
didn't want to shake
his hand.
Chicago Fringe
wasn't a magazine. It was the kind of publication that gave the tabloids a bad name.

“Um,” she hedged now, “I'm sorry, Mr. Mullins, but all interviews have to go through my publicist at Rockcastle Books.”

“The hell they do,” Mullins immediately countered. “A guy at the
Sun-Times
said they didn't have any trouble at all arranging an interview.”

“Through my publicist,” she told him pointedly. “And that was before there was such a huge demand on my time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm waiting for—”

She looked for Gavin again and saw him chatting with yet another group of people. But he was gazing at her, and his expression grew concerned when he saw her talking to someone she clearly didn't want to be talking to. Immediately, he excused himself and started toward her again. But, again, he was halted by another friend.

In the meantime, Teddy Mullins pulled out the chair across from Violet and seated himself comfortably in it. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a pen and pad of paper along with his cell phone, on which he pushed a few buttons, looked up again and said, “You don't mind if I record this interview, right?”

“Mr. Mullins,” she tried again, “if you'll call my publicist at Rockcastle—her name is Marie Osterman—she can set up a time that's mutually convenient for us, and I'll be happy to talk with you then.” Key word:
mutually.
No way was she going to have time to talk that coincided with his.

“Let's just cut to the chase,” was Mr. Mullins's reply.

What followed was a rapid-fire line of questioning that included more than a little profanity and rather a lot of sexual innuendo. Thankfully, he kept his voice low enough that no one at the neighboring tables could hear him. But
Violet could. And there was no way she was going to engage in any kind of dialogue. Still, she had no idea what to say or do that might shut him up. What was worse, the more she didn't answer his questions, the more they escalated to meanness and filth until he asked Violet, in the basest language known to humankind, whether or not she enjoyed having a particular body orifice penetrated during sex.

Which was right about the time Gavin showed up tableside.

And when he heard the question that Mullins had just asked, he grabbed the man by the back of his neck, jerked him out of the chair, and then shoved him hard enough to send him sprawling onto the floor.