The Billionaire Gets His Way (16 page)

“But I was still being me.”

“Yes, you were,” she agreed enthusiastically. “And I very much enjoyed meeting you.”

He stood, looping his arms around her waist. “Enough to want to maybe help make me an us instead of a me? I mean, it would mean you'd have to become an us instead of a me, too.”

She moved her hands to his nape and wove her fingers together. “I think we can still be a couple of mes and be an us, too.”

He smiled at that. “As long as we're a couple of something.”

He dipped his head to hers and kissed her lightly, gently, almost as if he were sealing a pact with her. But then, she was kind of sealing a pact with him, too.

“You really did mess up your social standing tonight, you know,” she said. “You might never be able to come back from a scene like that.”

“Sure, I will,” he told her.

“How? Because you have as much money as them?”

He smiled again. “Sweetheart, I have way more money than them. But that's not how.”

“Then how?”

“I'll do it by association.”

She nodded at that, a small thread of disappointment winding through her. She supposed he would never reach a point where he wasn't convinced that, in order to be respected, he had to move in the right social circles.

“By associating,” he said, “with the most amazing, most wonderful, most sought-after woman in town.”

The thread of disappointment suddenly unraveled. When he put it that way…

“I'm sorry for the things I said about…” He sighed. “About people like us. I'm sorry I was so narrow-minded and so bigoted and so…wrong. There's a lot to be said for coming from the wrong part of town. For one thing, it allows you to know what's really important.”

“Money and social standing?” she asked, fully aware he knew better than that.

He shook his head. “People who care about you for who you really are, in spite of everything else. People you can care about in return, in the very same way.”

“So you're saying you care about me, Gavin?” she asked, already knowing the answer to that, too.

“No, Violet. I'm saying I love you.”

The warmth inside her spread like a conflagration at that. “I love you, too.”

He pulled her close and kissed her again, a long, steady, deep-throated kiss that promised much more later.

“You know, in spite of everything,” he said as he pulled back, “I confess that, even when I was threatening to sue you, part of me wouldn't have minded being chapter twenty-eight in your book.”

“Oh, really?”

“In fact, I have to confess that, even now, there's still a part of me that wouldn't mind being chapter twenty-eight. Not being Roxanne's—or even Raven French's—chapter twenty-eight. But maybe being Violet Tandy's chapter twenty-eight.”

He brushed his lips lightly over her temple, and something buzzed hard in her belly.

“Or,” he continued softly, “even Violet Tandy's chapters one through twenty-seven.”

Now he dragged his mouth lightly over her cheek.

“And her prologue.”

A kiss to her jaw.

“And her table of contents.”

A kiss to her nose.

“All her indices and appendices.”

Now he moved his mouth to the sensitive column of her throat.

“All her citations.”

Kiss.

“Her foreword and afterword.”

Kiss. Kiss.

“Her headers and footers.”

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

“Hell, I wouldn't even mind being her epilogue.”

By now, Violet's pulse was raging faster and hotter than a nuclear warhead. “But being my epilogue,” she managed to say breathlessly, “would mean being with me at the very end of my story. That you'd be my happily ever after. And that I'd be yours.”

“Well, if you must…”

He leaned toward her again, pressing his mouth to her neck once more, and covering her breast completely with his hand. She gasped at the forwardness and immediacy of the intimate contact, but lifted her hands to his hair again, threading them through the thick mass to pull his head closer still.

“Which means,” he murmured against her throat as he massaged her tender flesh, “that it's time to get started on chapter twenty-nine.”

She pressed her mouth to his temple this time, then dragged it down along his jaw, covering his mouth with hers hungrily, needfully, passionately. “Don't you want to eat something first?” she asked as she tore her lips from his. “I mean, we missed dinner.”

“Oh, believe me, I plan to eat something.” He moved his mouth to her ear and told her exactly what was on his menu in earthy—and in no uncertain—terms. Then he carried her back into her bedroom so they could get right to work on their next chapter.

To say nothing of their happy ending.

V
iolet nestled more deeply into her pillow, savoring the softness of the vanilla-scented sheets and the thrum of a purr near her ear. Desdemona, the one-eyed Siamese cat she'd rescued from the Evanston animal shelter where she volunteered three days a week, made it a habit to curl herself around Violet's head when she slept, while three-legged Edgar and schizophrenic Pippin, the two tabbies, snored happily at the foot of the bed. Norton the asthmatic Basset hound huffed on the floor beside the bed, where the blind Greyhound Betsy whined good-naturedly by his side. It was a chorus to which Violet awoke every morning, and to her, it was the most beautiful symphony in the world.

Warm sunlight filtered through the lace curtains that covered the window above the bed, but she didn't want to open her eyes just yet. It was Sunday morning, the one day of the week when she could sleep as late as she wanted. And with Gavin lying in bed beside her—nuzzling her from head
to toe—as he had been on so many mornings lately, it was a safe bet she wouldn't be getting up any time soon. Even in his sleep, his arm was roped across her waist and his head was bent to hers. She could scarcely believe eight months had passed since he'd stormed into her book signing in the city. In some ways, it felt as if no time at all had passed. In other ways…

Well. In other ways, she felt as if it had been a lifetime since last October.

What a difference eight months could make. When she had met Gavin, the weather had been cold and bitter, the unforgiving wind whipping off Lake Superior like an angry CEO hell-bent on suing someone he wrongly thought was defaming him. But now, on the cusp of July, the days and nights were mild enough to sleep with the windows open. Ten months ago, she'd had to walk up five flights of steps to reach her tiny urban apartment. But thanks to the combination of book advances and royalties—not to mention a movie option on
High Heels
—Violet had been able to make a down-payment on a snug little cottage in Evanston.

A cottage that had white clapboard and black shutters and a picket fence encircling its front yard. One where wisteria and morning glory grew lush and fragrant beneath their canopy of sugar maple and oak. One whose kitchen was so often filled with the aroma of cheerful pastries. One with a white wicker swing on the front porch where Violet both read and wrote during the day, and where she and Gavin spent lazy evenings counting fireflies and stars.

Who would have ever thought a man like him could engage in such pointless, whimsical activities? But then, she thought further, there had been times when she was a kid when she wouldn't have thought she would enjoy such things, either.

She'd spent virtually her entire life planning this little house in the 'burbs. She'd designed it down to the last cobblestone in the garden. And now it was hers. The only dream she'd ever dared to dream in her life had actually come true.

Okay, the only dream she'd ever dared to dream when she was a child. There was another dream she'd begun to entertain fairly recently—about eight months ago, in fact—that she would love to see come true, too. But unlike the house in the 'burbs, that dream wasn't entirely up to her to see fulfilled. Oh, she could do her best on her part, but when a dream included someone other than oneself—especially when that someone else was a man like Gavin—there was only so much one could do to make it come true.

As if she'd spoken the thought aloud, Gavin stirred in his sleep, the arm on her waist flexing, the legs entwined with hers curling inward to bring her closer. Violet loved those few moments when he was between sleep and consciousness, because he was so relaxed and peaceful, so much more himself than he was during the workday. Although, she had to admit, even the CEO Gavin had mellowed considerably since last fall. It had taken months for the gossip about his altercation with Mullins to quiet down, but he had been bothered by none of it.

In fact, when his adversaries in the business world heard about it, Gavin had suddenly found himself with far fewer adversaries in the business world. And he would be featured in next month's issue of
Fortune
magazine with an article about how a savvy kid from the Brooklyn docks had parlayed his street-smarts, integrity and grit into a multi-billion-dollar corporation.

In fact, his social status had been elevated in a lot of ways once people found out about his origins. People called him more admirable, more likeable, more
real
than he'd been
before. The same had held true for Violet, once it became more obvious to the public at large that she wasn't Raven French, or Roxanne, or anyone else fictional. And, too, she'd discovered that being the author of pot-boiling bestsellers had its own sort of cachet that allowed her to move freely in society. She was as sought-after a party guest as Gavin was. In fact, the two of them together had become quite the power couple on the Gold Coast scene.

The two of them together,
she echoed to herself. There was her dream again. Funny how much it had been popping into her head the past few weeks.

Gavin's hand splayed open over her belly, and he sighed softly by her ear, bringing her thoughts out of the future and back to the present—for now. He nuzzled her hair and kissed her ear, then rolled her onto her back to face him.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice low and sleep-husky.

“It is a good morning, isn't it?”

He smiled and dipped his head, brushing his lips lightly over hers. “Any morning waking up next to you is a good morning,” he told her.

She smiled back. “Then you've been having a lot of good mornings lately.”

“Yes, I have.”

Because they had been waking up together a lot lately, either here in her house or at Gavin's condo in town. It hadn't always been that way. At first, they'd danced around the overnight thing and had only spent entire nights together when they'd gone out somewhere and stayed too late to make separate trips home convenient. Since Violet had bought the house, however, overnights had become more commonplace, and almost always happened here. It was as if her act of home ownership had sparked something in
both of them that drove them closer together. Toward her lifestyle, though. Not his.

That was probably significant, she thought, not for the first time. But she was afraid to think too much further than that.

Gavin levered himself up on one elbow, propping his head in one hand. “So, what do you want to do today?”

Violet thought for a moment, then said, “Nothing. In fact, I want to spend the entire week doing nothing.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “Can you take the week off so you can do nothing with me?”

He shook his head. “'Fraid not. We have a major collection coming in from Italy this week, and I need to be involved. But why do you want to do nothing this week? You have a book coming out on Tuesday.”

“That's exactly why I want to do nothing,” she told him. “I have a tradition of hiding out for the entirety of the week whenever I have a book out.”

“How can that be a tradition?” he asked. “Before this one, you'd only ever had one book published.”

“Yeah, but I hid out the first week of sale for
High Heels
because I was so wigged out by the thought of having a book out there in the world, and look how well it sold. Coincidence? I think not. Therefore, I have to make sure that, for the rest of my life, whenever I have a book out, I need to disappear for the first week of sale.” She thought for a moment. “And I also need to wear red socks the first day of sale, since I wore red socks the first day of sale for
High Heels.
” She thought some more. “And also eat beef Stroganoff for dinner that day, since that was what I ate for dinner the first day of sale for
High Heels.
”

He was grinning at her again. “Is that all?”

“Let me think.” She did for a few minutes more, then ticked off the other things she remembered doing the first
week of sale for
High Heels,
including getting her hair cut at Misha's Salon in Wicker Park, buying organic mangoes at Earth Star Foods, going to the Field Museum and renting a nice outfit from Talk of the Town off Michigan Avenue.

“You don't have to rent clothes anymore,” Gavin pointed out when she was finished. “You're the author of pot-boiling bestsellers making money hand over fist.”

“Doesn't matter,” she told him. “I have to make sure I do everything the same way every time a new book comes out in order to ensure its success. Including hiding out.”

He shook his head at that. “You're a terrible business-woman, you know that? You're supposed to get out there as soon as a book hits the shelves and get in some face time. Glad-hand the booksellers and jobbers and autograph the stock. Make sure they have your backlist on shelves with the new title and have you face-out on an endcap. You can't do any of that if you're hiding out.”

“Signing stock?” she echoed, grinning. “Jobbers? Backlist? Face out? Endcap? That's writerspeak. Where did you hear all that?”

He shrugged, but there was something a little self-conscious in the gesture. “I've been doing some research. Reading articles and checking out some websites.”

Her grin broadened. “And why would you do that?”

“I figure you did a lot of research on me and my work life when you wrote that first book, even if it was inadvertent. I need to be as well informed about you and yours.”

“Why?” she asked playfully. “Are you planning to write a book about me?”

He shook his head. “No. You planning to write one about me?”

“Not a chance. I'm not sharing you with anybody, ever again.”

She hadn't meant to speak that frankly. Even after eight
months of exclusivity, neither of them had ever talked about exclusivity. Neither had discussed plans for the future. Yes, Violet loved Gavin, and she'd grown accustomed enough to the feeling that it no longer frightened her. Losing Gavin was scary, not loving him. But in eight months, she hadn't really even feared that.

Until now.

Because now she had let slip something that, if he paid too close attention, would let him know how she felt. How much he'd come to mean to her. How much he'd become a part of her life. How she couldn't envision living that life without him.

So she hurried on, “Besides, I'm nearly finished with the new book, and there's no room in it for a grumpy, if disarmingly handsome, curmudgeon.” She deliberately miscast him in such a way—he hadn't been grumpy for months—in the hopes that he would seize on that for objection and completely not hear the part about her not sharing him with anyone, ever again.

He eyed her warily for a moment, and in that moment, she held her breath.
Grumpy curmudgeon,
she willed him to say.
Forget about…that other thing I said.

But he said nothing at all, only watched her silently some more.

Grumpy curmudgeon,
she thought again.
Grumpy. Curmudgeon.

Her thoughts strayed off, however, as she gazed at him. The shadows of the lace curtains dappled sunlight on his broad shoulders and mingled with the dark hair scattered across his brawny chest. They'd spent enough time on the beach this summer that a luscious, dusky bronze limned every elegant camber of muscle. His dark hair was rumpled from both sleep and their lovemaking, a thick shaft spilling onto his forehead over eyes made even bluer by
the cornflower-spattered sheets. Only a man completely confident of his masculinity could look so…so…so… She bit back an involuntary sigh that erupted from a hot place deep in the pit of her belly. So incredibly
manly
…tangled up in flowered sheets the way Gavin was.

Still studying her intently, he finally said, very quietly, “You don't want to share me with anyone? Not ever again?”

Damn. So much for grumpy curmudgeon.

She made herself be honest. “No. I don't.”

She held her breath again as she waited to see how he would reply. There was another long silence punctuated by his intense scrutiny. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Good. I don't want to share you with anyone ever again, either.”

Something in Violet took flight at that. “Really?”

“That can't come as a surprise to you. Can it?”

Really, she supposed it didn't. Still, she felt incredibly lucky at the moment. There was something about having one's hopes confirmed that made a person feel lighter than air. “No, I don't guess it does. It's just strange to actually talk about…”

“What?” he asked when she trailed off without finishing.

She expelled a restless sound. “About…the future,” she finally said. “A future that includes something besides this house. I've never really thought about a future beyond that. About a future with…” She smiled. “With someone else in it.”

He smiled back. “Well, do you realize that if we start mentioning this future together in public, it could make people talk. You know how Chicagoans love to gossip. Especially the social circles we travel in.”

“I do,” she said. “But there's a way to get around that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Move away from Chicago.”

He arched his dark eyebrows at that. “You trying to get rid of me now? I thought we had a future together.”

“I didn't say that,” she told him. “I meant you could live somewhere outside Chicago. Somewhere like… Oh, I don't know… Here.”

“Here in Evanston?”

“Here in this house. With me.”

Wow. She really hadn't planned to put that out there like that. Not so soon, even if they were talking about the future. Still, now that it
was
out there, she kind of liked the way it sounded. She hoped Gavin would, too. A cozy cottage in the 'burbs wasn't exactly his idea of high society. What would his friends say about such small square footage?