The Billionaire Gets His Way (15 page)

And then he roared down at the man, “What the—” he spat out an expletive that more than rivaled Teddy's bountiful vocabulary, sounding every bit at home with it “—did you just say to her?”

Which was when every eye in the room turned to see what was happening.

“How dare you speak to her that way,” Gavin continued, his voice gritty and thready and touched with a hint of an accent that was redolent of the Brooklyn docks. “Apologize to the lady. Now.”

Teddy Mullins laughed at that. “Lady?” he echoed. “Dude. Do you even know who you're having dinner with here? She's a who—”

Before Teddy could even finish the ripe comment, Gavin bent down, grabbed him by his collar, pulled him to his feet, and then punched him in the jaw hard enough to send him to the floor again.

A murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd. The women recoiled, the men shook their heads, and nobody, but nobody, came to anyone's aid. The people with whom Gavin had only moments ago been sharing pleasantries,
now looked at him as if he were a complete stranger. Worse, every member of the media who had been lolling about on the other side of the room had sprung into action at the fracas and were now filming and photographing every physical blow and verbal exchange.

G
avin seemed to realize the mood of the crowd then, Violet noted, because he glanced up from the man on the floor, whose mouth he had bloodied, at the hands he had curled into fists. With no small effort, he forced them open and looked at Violet.

At Violet.
Not at the crowd. It was her reaction he was worried about. Not his friends'. Even after he did finally look around at his friends—and at the media recording his every action—it was Violet to whom he returned his attention, Violet whose response he was clearly most worried about.

Before either of them had a chance to say a word, however, Teddy Mullins was scrambling from the floor, and charging at Gavin. What followed could have been called a barroom brawl, but the fighting was too wild and unrefined to be considered such. So was the language, for that matter. The moment Teddy lunged for Gavin, Gavin turned into the streetwise bruiser he must have been in
his youth, fighting as hard and as dirty as the other man, hurling epithets that would curl a dockworker's hair, his normally refined baritone moving closer and closer back to his Brooklyn roots with every passing word.

Violet stared openmouthed at the scene, having no idea what to do. Everything had happened so fast, and Gavin's response was so startling, she didn't know how to react. One minute, he had been the elegant, mannerly blueblood he enjoyed being, and the next, he was a brawler fighting for his survival.

But then she realized that wasn't it at all. He wasn't fighting for his survival. Had he been fighting for his survival, he would have been the picture of civility as he ushered Violet away from the table, then located the maître d' to politely request that Mr. Mullins be evicted from the premises forthwith. Had he been fighting for his survival, Gavin would have done anything to avoid a fight—especially a ruckus like this—because fighting was much too unseemly an activity among friends like his. And he sure as hell wouldn't have used profanity. Especially socially unacceptable profanity like that.

What he was doing was fighting for Violet. For her honor. And he didn't care that his civil, polite, socially acceptable friends saw him reverting to his street fighting ways to do it, or that the entire thing was being filmed for what would doubtless be the lead story on every eleven o'clock newscast in the city.

Mullins was on the floor again, bleeding even more than before, and Gavin was doubling his fist to hit him again, when Violet finally found the presence of mind to cry out, “Gavin, stop!”

He halted before hitting the other man again and turned to look at her.

“Stop,” she said again, more softly. “He isn't worth it.”

“The hell he isn't,” Gavin countered. “You heard what he called you.”

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “He's scum. And scum doesn't count for anything in this world.”

He said nothing for a moment, then nodded his head. Then he loosed Mullins's sweater and stood.

Unbelievable, Violet thought. Where Mullins was gasping for breath, Gavin was barely breathing hard. Guess you could take the boy out of the street fights, but you couldn't take the street fighter out of the boy.

Mullins, showing intelligence for the first time that evening, pushed himself up and, with one final, threatening look at Gavin, turned and made his way back to the side of the room—or beneath the trash heap…whatever—whence he had come. Gavin was bleeding, too, Violet noted, from a cut on his cheek, and his knuckles were smeared with what was either his or the other man's blood. One of his jacket sleeves was torn from the shoulder, and his necktie and collar were askew. His hair, usually so chic and flawless, stuck up on his head from where Mullins had grasped fistfuls of it during the scuffle. Gavin was oblivious to all of it. His only concern, it seemed, was Violet.

By now, everyone in the room was silent, their attention split between Gavin and Mullins—who looked ten times worse than Gavin, Violet thought, taking socially unacceptable satisfaction in the realization. The faces of the crowd, however, didn't seem to be akin to her own. Their expressions indicated their revulsion that such an ugly altercation had occurred in their rarefied midst. But Gavin didn't seem to notice any of them. He was too busy looking at Violet.

“I'm sorry,” he told her.

The apology surprised her. She would have thought he would be apologizing to the crowd instead. “For what?
Defending my honor? You don't have to apologize for that.”

He shook his head. “Your honor doesn't need defending. You're the most honorable person I know.”

Meaning he thought she was more honorable than anyone else in the room, she thought. Something he'd just announced to the entire room. The entire room of people who, until now, he had indicated were more important than anyone else in the world.

“I'm sorry,” he continued, “for not being here when that…that…” He looked over at Mullins on the other side of the room and shouted loud enough for the man—and everyone else—to hear, another ripe expletive, something that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. Which he didn't seem to notice. “…sat down. I promise you, Violet, no one like him will ever bother you again. Because anyone who tries, I'll—”

Again he raised his voice for Teddy to hear. It was thick with Brooklyn now, making the unseemly threats he called across the room sound even more menacing. Violet tried not to swoon at how well he was defending her honor. Even if the crowd did gasp even louder.

Gavin was finishing up when the maître d', who must have slipped out for a smoke during the melee, broke through the crowd and surveyed the damage.

“I'll take care of everything, Lionel,” Gavin told the man before he could say a word. The Brooklyn seemed to be retreating, but it was still there. Enough to be unbelievably charming. And sexy. “Any damage to the premises, I'll cover it.”

“Damage to the premises is the least of my worries, Mr. Mason,” Lionel replied politely but firmly. “Nothing like this has ever happened at the club before. This is insupportable.”

For the first time, Gavin seemed to realize the enormity of what had happened. He'd broken every rule he ever set for himself, had exposed himself to the elite he coveted as one of society's most common denominators. He had completely shattered everything he'd spent years building, had decimated the image he had worked so strenuously to cultivate and protect. In one rash moment, he had ceased to be Gavin Mason, VIP, and turned into some guy off the street who'd started a fight in an exclusive club and used a lot of bad words to boot.

“This is the sort of thing that could lead to revocation of membership,” Lionel added.

Strangely, however, the maître d' didn't sound as if he were making a threat. He sounded as if he would regret it if something like that happened to Gavin.

Violet turned to Gavin, knowing what Lionel had suggested would be the worst kind of punishment he could sustain. Banishment. From the friends and society that meant more to him than anything, and from whom he had worked so hard for so long to keep his real self a secret.

“Well, if that's what the board decides,” Gavin said, “I guess I'll just have to live with it.”

Violet's mouth dropped open at that. But Gavin only smiled at her and tucked her arm through his own. “We can find our own way out, Lionel. Thanks.”

She let him lead her through the club, both of them remaining silent as he collected their coats and helped her into hers before shrugging on his own. They continued in silence until they were on the street, well clear of the club. Finally, though, as if by mutual consent, they halted, just outside the milky halo of a streetlamp. The snow had lightened, but still fell in wisps of lacy white, giving the moment an otherworldly sort of feel. Or maybe it was being with Gavin that was doing that. The last several moments
had taken them both beyond the worlds they'd grown accustomed to.

For a long time, he only studied her face as if seeing it for the first time. She looked at the cut on his cheek, thinking maybe she was seeing him—the real him—for the first time, too. She opened her purse and withdrew a tissue, then lifted it gently to the wound. Gavin winced a little when she touched him, but he didn't pull away.

“You're bleeding,” she said unnecessarily. “We should get you to a doctor.”

“It's nothing,” he told her. Impatiently, he took the tissue in his own hand and shooed hers away. He patted the cut with much less care than she had shown, something that made it start bleeding harder.

“You might need stitches,” she told him.

“No, I—”

He seemed to realize about the same time Violet did that they'd played out a scene similar to this one not long ago, at her apartment, with their situations reversed. But all he said was, “I don't need stitches. It's not that bad.”

“You should still put something on it,” she told him.

“It's not necessary.”

Feeling responsible for the injury somehow, Violet said, “Look, my place is closer than yours. I have some antiseptic and Band-Aids. At least let me put something on it to be sure infection doesn't set in.” And then, not quite able to help herself, she grinned. “I don't want you suing me for being the cause of some heinous wound that will leave you scarred for life. I've had enough grief from your legal department to last me a lifetime.”

He made a face at that, but said nothing. Instead, he only touched the tissue to his cheek again, holding it in place this time. Violet took his free hand in hers and tugged him to the curb, then hailed a taxi parked on the opposite side. The
cab ride to her place, too, was spent in silence, but neither of them released the other's hand. Violet couldn't remember the last time she'd held hands with a man. Maybe she never had. Holding hands was an affectionate gesture, something two people did when they cared about each other in a way that went beyond the sexual. She wasn't sure she had ever had a relationship like that with any member of the opposite sex. One that included both desire and affection.

She didn't ask herself why Gavin continued to hold her hand, too. Probably some misplaced leftover chivalry from the club—something about which she was still thinking and remained confused. Nevertheless, they left their fingers entwined even as they climbed the five flights of steps to her apartment. The only reason Violet finally—reluctantly—released him was because she had to retrieve her key.

Inside the apartment, she tossed her purse and coat onto the sofa, then told Gavin to follow her into the bathroom. There was barely enough room for both of them to squeeze inside, but she directed him to sit on the commode lid while she rummaged through the medicine cabinet for a half-empty tube of antibiotic cream and a wilted Band-Aid. Upon opening that last, she realized it was a pink Hello Kitty Band-Aid—well, they'd been on sale the last time she went to the grocery store—and when she held it up to show Gavin, he chuckled once and shook his head.

“That's okay. The antibiotic cream should be fine by itself,” he said.

“But—”

“No, Violet,” he stated decisively. “No pink Band-Aids.”

She sniffed indignantly. “Fine. If you'd rather risk infection than be man enough to wear a Hello Kitty Band-Aid, it's no skin off my nose.”

“Violet, no man is man enough to wear a Hello Kitty Band-Aid.”

“I bet Chuck Norris is.”

“I bet not.”

“Fine,” she repeated, a bit more petulantly. “It's stopped bleeding anyway.”

She wet a clean washcloth and gently wiped away a smudge of dried blood, then dabbed a dot of antibiotic onto her fingertip. Lightly, she wiped the ointment over the wound. As she was dragging her thumb over the ridge of his cheekbone to swipe away the last of the excess, she felt his hands settle lightly on her hips, and she abruptly stilled. Her heart rate tripled at the simple touch, and her breath caught in her throat, and heat flared up from deep in her belly to warm her entire body.

“What…what are you doing?” she asked a little breathlessly.

He didn't say anything for a moment, then, very quietly, he told her, “I was beginning to get a little light-headed.”

Oh, good. Then it wasn't only her.

“I just…” he continued, “I need to hold on to something for a minute. Until I get my bearings.”

She dropped a hand to his hair, threading her fingers through his silky tresses. To straighten the mess Mullins had made, she told herself. That was the only reason. But he glanced up at her touch, his blue eyes looking deeper and more troubled than she'd ever seen them.

“I guess that's understandable after what happened,” she said softly. “Your entire world was turned upside down tonight. That's bound to make a person feel flummoxed.”

“No, that's not it,” he told her. “What happened at the club tonight…” He shook his head. “I don't even want to talk about what happened at the club tonight.”

No, he was probably already looking toward the future,
trying to figure out how he was going to rebuild his credibility in his social circle again.

“That isn't important,” he said.

Waitaminnit. Not important?
How could he say that wasn't important? It had destroyed everything he wanted most desperately to preserve.

“I want to talk about what is important, Violet,” he hurried on. “It's why I invited you to the club tonight. I want to talk about us.”

“Us?”
she echoed, even more confused now. “But, Gavin, there is no
us.
”

He braved a small grin. “I know. That's what I want to talk about. Creating an us. I was hoping maybe you'd like to be an
us,
too. Because I'm tired of being
me.
” He lifted one shoulder and let it drop, his grin growing broader. “In more ways than one.”

Now Violet smiled. “Well, you were certainly someone else tonight,” she said, dropping her hands to his shoulders.