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The Billionaire
Gets His Way
Elizabeth Bevarly
The Sarantos
Secret
Olivia Gates

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Billionaire Gets His Way

“Actually, it’s you who owes me,” Gavin said. “And I’m here to give you a chance to make good on the debt.”

Oh, Violet didn’t like the sound of that at all. “I beg your pardon? You want me to go to this fundraiser with you?” she asked incredulously.

“No, I don’t want that,” he told her. “But I don’t have much choice. No other woman in town will be seen with me, thanks to you. And going to this thing alone would only illustrate that fact to everyone there.”

“Well, sorry, but I already have plans for the evening,” she said. “Maybe next time you could call first. Surely if you can figure out where I live, you can locate my phone number. Both are unlisted, after all.”

“I don’t think you understand, Ms Tandy,” he said. “You seem to think you have a choice in the matter. Like me, you don’t. You owe me,” he said again. “And I’m not leaving until you pay up.”

About the Author

ELIZABETH BEVARLY is a New York Times bestselling, RITA® Award-nominated author of more than sixty books and novellas, and she recently celebrated the twentieth anniversary of seeing her first book in print! Before writing, she worked in a variety of jobs, from retail to restaurant work to editorial assistant (never let anyone tell you a degree in English makes you unemployable), but now she happily makes her living writing full-time. She’s lived in places as varied as San Juan, Puerto Rico and Haddonfield, New Jersey, but now makes her home in her native Kentucky with her husband and son and two cats of questionable sanity. (But then, aren’t they all?)

Dear Reader,

When I read an article in my local paper about how women are beginning to rent high-end fashion for special occasions instead of buying it, I was intrigued. Women haven’t traditionally been big renters of clothing. Women traditionally want to own their clothing—especially high-end fashion. (Okay, okay. If they’re like me, they want to own it for the lowest possible price, but that’s beside the point. It’s also part of the fun. But I digress.) I figured women renting expensive clothing and jewelry must have an interesting reason for doing so. I also figured such women must have some interesting stories to tell.

Violet Tandy is the first of three women who will visit my fictional Chicago boutique, Talk of the Town, to rent expensive clothing she can’t afford to buy. And her reason is certainly innocent enough. What isn’t innocent is Gavin Mason’s reaction to her in those rented duds. And boy, does that guy know how to make sparks fly …

Happy reading!

Elizabeth Bevarly

One

All Violet Tandy had ever wanted out of life was a place to call home. A home of her own, not a foster home like the myriad ones where she grew up. The kind of home people had in old movies, with white clapboard and black shutters and full-grown sugar maples canopying the front yard. And a picket fence. Had to have a picket fence. And a broad front porch with a wicker swing where she could reread all the books she’d loved as a child—Jane Eyre and Judy Blume, Lassie Come Home and Louisa May Alcott. Only she’d own the books and not have to return them to the library every week.

Roses and lilac bushes would grow lush and fragrant around the perimeter of her house, morning glory would zigzag up the chimney and wisteria would drip from the eaves of the back porch. She would crochet wispy sweaters and bake cheerful pastries to support herself. She would live and let live and be content with her solitary existence. And she would never, ever harm another living soul. Yep, a tranquil, unsullied life in a comfy, uncluttered cottage all to herself was the only thing Violet Tandy had ever wanted.

Which was why she wrote a memoir about being a high-priced, high-society call girl.

Not that Violet had ever actually been a call girl, high-priced, high-society or otherwise. And not that her memoir was actually a memoir—it was a novel written to read like one, a trend she had noticed was becoming more and more popular with readers these days, herself included. Gracie Ledbetter, her editor at Rockcastle Books, had been so swept away by the story, that when she called Violet to make an offer on the book, she had admitted that if she didn’t know better, she would have thought Violet actually was a call girl, and that her novel—and that was how Gracie had said it, as if she were italicizing it—was actually a novelization—again with the italics—of her real life experiences.

In fact, now that Violet thought about it, Gracie continued to do that—speak of the novel in italics, as if she’d never quite been convinced that the book was complete fiction. Even now, a year after Violet had signed the contract on the completed manuscript and a few weeks after the book’s debut, Gracie still asked things like, “Does the Princess Suite at the Chicago Ambassador Hotel really make you feel like a princess when you’re lying on the bed staring up at the castle mural on the ceiling?”

Well, how would Violet know? The only reason she’d even seen the Princess Suite at the Ambassador was because she’d worked there as a housekeeper and had changed the sheets on the bed. Whenever she reminded Gracie of that, however, her editor would reply, “Oh, riiight. Of cooourse. You worked there as a housekeeper. Not as a … you know,” in a way that wasn’t quite as convincing as Violet would have liked.

And once, Gracie had asked if the croque monsieur with truffle sauce at Chez Alain really could fill up a person for three days as the review of the five-star restaurant had claimed.

Well, how would Violet know? The only reason she’d even tasted the croque monsieur with truffle sauce at Chez Alain was because she’d worked there as a hostess, and all the employees had had a bite or two of new dishes every time the menu changed. Whenever she reminded Gracie of that, however, her editor would reply, “Oh, riiight. Of cooourse. You worked there as a hostess. Not as a … you know,” in a way that wasn’t quite as convincing as Violet would have liked.

No matter. She was certain that the reason Gracie asked such questions was simply because she got so carried away by the—quite fictional—prose. With any luck, the reading public would react similarly, and the book would soar to the top of the New York Times bestseller list, something that would earn Violet enough money to buy the snug little Norman Rockwell house in the Chicago suburbs that she’d always dreamed about.

Her initial advance for the book had actually been rather modest, but thanks to the reaction Gracie’s executive editor had had to the revisions on the manuscript, they’d bumped up its initial print run, changed the title to High Heels and Champagne and Sex, Oh, My! and convinced Violet to take a pen name that sounded a lot racier than her own: Raven French. Although Violet had been hesitant about that last, she’d conceded, and the combination had worked brilliantly. Its first week of sale, High Heels had debuted at number twenty-nine on the list and gone back for a second printing. Then it jumped another four places the following week. Now it was poised to enter the top fifteen and, having gone back to print for a third time, would doubtless climb higher still in the weeks to come.

Which was how Violet-Tandy-slash-Raven-French came to be sitting behind a table stacked with copies of her book at a packed bookstore on Michigan Avenue one sunny afternoon in October. And how she came to be staring into the most extraordinary pair of blue eyes she had ever seen that belonged to one of the most gorgeous men she had ever beheld. He was sitting in the back row and hadn’t taken those blue eyes off her once since seating himself. And his scrutiny, although not exactly unwelcome since he was, in case she hadn’t mentioned it, gorgeous, was beginning to make Violet feel a tad squirmy.

He was just so … intense. So … overwhelming. So … gorgeous. And God, so big. Even though he was sitting, he was head and shoulders taller than all of the women—taller than even the handful of men—who were present, and his shoulders completely eclipsed the chair back. His hair seemed even blacker than her own, but where she’d let hers grow past her shoulders, his was cut short by an expert’s hand. And those eyes. Pale, nearly translucent blue, startling in their clarity and framed by sweeping, dark lashes. Although it was Saturday, he was dressed in a dark suit, something else that made him stand out from the otherwise laid-back crowd.

Even Violet-slash-Raven wore a casual outfit, picked out by the publicist Rockcastle Books had assigned to her. Marie had advised the fashion-challenged Violet on every aspect of her authorial self. Today, she wore a pair of black trousers and three-quarter-sleeve black top with a deep V neckline, coupled with more-strap-than-shoe stilettos. All were, of course, from the finest couturiers, since Violet Tandy … ah, she meant Raven French … needed to look like the wildly successful author she was supposed to be.

Of course, Violet couldn’t afford the expensive labels Raven needed on the rather modest advance for her book. Fortunately, Marie had pointed her toward a boutique off Michigan Avenue that specialized in the short-term rental of haute couture and expensive jewelry for Chicago women who wanted to pretend they were members of the high society that was normally denied them.

For her outfit today, Violet … or, rather, Raven … had opted for clothes by Prada and shoes by Stuart Weitzman. To complement both, Marie had chosen a dazzling Ritani jewelry set—a pendant, earrings and bracelet fashioned of exquisite diamonds and amethysts that matched the eyes that had given Violet her nickname.

Her real name, regrettably, was Candy. Candy Tandy. It was only one of the indignities her mother had bestowed upon her before the final one of abandoning her at the age of three in a discount store with a note pinned to her Smurfette sweatshirt describing her as a problem child that no one would ever be able to love.

But that, along with everything else that had happened in the past twenty-nine years, was the past. These days, Violet thought only about the future. A future in her wisteria-laden house where she would take in strays of all kinds—canine, feline, equine, bovine, she didn’t care. She might even become a foster parent herself someday. But only if she could guarantee that the children in her care would stay in her care and never be shuttled from one place to another, as she’d been. They’d be able to make friends who wouldn’t be taken from them, the way hers had inevitably been, and they’d make emotional connections to other people that went beyond superficial, the way she’d never been able to do.

For some reason, that drew her attention back to the blue-eyed man in the back row. He was still staring at her. Intensely. Overwhelmingly. Gorgeously. He was in no way the kind of person Violet had expected would read her novel. In fact, he seemed more like the kind of person who might have shown up in the book as a character—perhaps one of her fictional heroine’s many fictional clients. Each was an amalgam of men Violet had modeled after the clients and patrons of her former places of employment. Rich men. Successful men. Powerful men. Men who cared more about their images, their reputations and their status in both business and society than anything else—anyone else.

Somehow she managed to tug her gaze free of the man in the back row and drive it across the other people who had come to hear her speak about her book before having their copies signed. Mostly female, these were her real readers. Women who were fascinated by the idea of sex for sale and by female protagonists who were in charge of their own sexuality. Who used their sexuality, the most powerful weapon they possessed, to get whatever they wanted. Who enjoyed no-strings-attached encounters with powerful men who paid exorbitant amounts of money to have women do things to them—and to do things to the women in return—that many would never even consider doing or having done to them during regular lovemaking with their usual partners.

Frankly, Violet wasn’t sure she got that. Not that she was so worldly in her own encounters. Certainly she’d had boyfriends from the time she was old enough to want one, and she’d lost her virginity when she was a teenager. But she’d never quite understood the fascination with sex that most people had. The men with whom she’d been involved hadn’t been all that special—or made her feel all that special. Which, she supposed, was why there hadn’t been all that many. The way she saw it, sex was a normal physical need, like eating or sleeping or bathing. Except needed a lot less often.

A college-aged woman who worked for the bookstore announced it was time to begin, bringing Violet’s attention to the matter at hand. Namely, the gorgeous, overwhelming man in the back row.

No! she immediately corrected herself. To the talk she was supposed to give to the gorgeous, overwhelming man in the back row.

No! she corrected herself again. To everyone who had come to buy her book today—she did a quick count, multiplying the number of seats across by the number of rows deep, adding another fifteen for the people standing and figured the total to be … carry the six, add the eight … around fifty-two—people who had come to buy her book today. Wow.

Ka-ching. She could smell the wisteria already.

She spoke for twenty minutes, having chosen as her topic the aforementioned philosophy of women in charge of their own sexuality and the appeal of having sex without the hindrance of emotion to muck things up. She followed up with the conundrum of how something so physical could even be tied to something so emotional—like love, of all things—in the first place.

She avoided talking about her own life experiences since, one, she was something of a private person in that regard and, two, she really didn’t think anyone would be interested in her poor-poor-pitiful-me background. Instead, she focused on the motivation, goals and journey of Roxanne, her book’s protagonist. She talked about how each of the men who became Roxanne’s clients symbolized some aspect of the human condition, and how her heroine’s submission to each represented another milestone in her personal growth.

Oh, God, she was good.

In fact, Violet … she meant Raven … had organized the book so that each chapter after the first—in which Roxanne was hired by a Chicago madam named Isabella, who herself personified society’s obsession with using sex to promote consumerism—was subtitled by the name of one of the character’s many clients. There was introverted Michael, who represented Roxanne’s need to let go of her inhibitions. And uncompromising William who showed her how following the rules wasn’t always a bad thing. Studious Nathaniel kindled her quest for knowledge, while carefree Jack helped her recognize her capacity to feel joy. And all of them—it went without saying—were lovers of Olympian caliber who gave Roxanne mind-blowing orgasms along the way.

The book culminated in the final chapter, Ethan. Ethan was the idealized notion of the perfect man, the one who fulfilled Roxanne in ways none of the others had managed alone, and who carried her to both sexual and emotional heights that. Well, that didn’t exist, quite frankly. Talk about a work of fiction. Ethan was ultra-masculine in every way, but could still respect a woman for all her strengths, desires and independence.

Yeah, like that was ever gonna happen in real life.

After finishing with her talk, Violet-Raven opened the floor to questions, and a dozen hands shot up. Not from the man in the back, though, she noted, in spite of the fact that he continued to study her with even more intensity than before. In fact, his intensity seemed to have turned into something akin to anger, because those amazing blue eyes narrowed now when he looked at her, and that full, luscious mouth turned down at the corners. She had no idea why he would react in such a way to a talk she’d thought was pretty danged insightful, so she turned her attention to the woman sitting next to him, an owner of one of the hands in the air.

“You there,” she said with a smile as she pointed to the white-haired, apple-cheeked woman in her seventies or eighties.

The woman smiled as she stood, the sort of smile that made Violet feel warm and wistful inside, because she looked like the grandmother Violet had always fantasized about having when she was a child. Someone who would bake cookies and darn socks and say, “Oh, my stars,” and wear sweaters with horse appliqués.

“Is it true,” the woman said in a sweet, gentle voice, “that you’re the one who invented the sexual position called the ‘centerfold spread?’”

Oh, my stars, Violet thought, struggling to keep a straight face. Clearly the woman’s years were so advanced that she’d confused Violet-Raven as the heroine of the book, not its author.

“Um, no,” she said. “That wasn’t me. It was my book’s protagonist, Roxanne.”

Nana’s eyebrows knit in a sign of clear confusion. “But I thought you were Roxanne.”

“No, ma’am,” Violet told her. “I’m, uh, Raven.”

“But didn’t you write the book?”

“Yes, but—”

“And the book is a memoir about a call girl.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you’re the one who invented the position.”

“No, I—”

“What I’d like to know,” a woman with dark hair who was hipping a baby interrupted, “is exactly how the crème de menthe thing works. Now, did you drink that before performing oral sex on your customers, or was it meant for external use only?”

Violet was vaguely horrified by the personal pronoun used in the question. She’d read about the crème de menthe thing in a magazine. She’d never actually tried it. Why did the young woman assume otherwise?

“Actually, I never—”

But before she could even complete her reply, another woman, this one a college-aged blonde with little black glasses, stood and said, “My boyfriend and I are going to be spending the summer in Italy. Could you talk more about that sex club Francesco took you to in Milan?”

Violet opened her mouth to reply to that, but not a single word emerged. She was beginning to sense a pattern here. Everyone who had asked a question thought she was her fictional character Roxanne. They didn’t seem to realize the book was fiction. Even though the story read like a memoir, the blurb on the cover flap made clear the work was a novel. The reviews had all been in the fiction section of whatever periodical was doing the reviewing. Not to mention the fact that Roxanne’s adventures were so over-the-top, no one could possibly believe they had actually happened to anyone.

Could they?

The sex club/Francesco query evidently reminded a lot of people of questions they wanted to ask, because in the scant moment of Violet’s silence, the crowd erupted into what felt like hundreds of questions. Did Violet really have sex with Sebastian on the roller coaster at Knott’s Berry Farm? What was her real reason for not doing that porno Kevin wanted her to do? Where did she purchase those crotchless panties with the whistle sewn on them that Terrence had liked so much?

On and on it went until the crowd bordered on chaotic. That was when the young woman from the bookstore stepped in and, in a very effective crowd control voice, indicated that the question-and-answer segment had now concluded, and Ms. French would be happy to sign her book, and would everyone please line up in an orderly fashion who wished to have their copy of High Heels and Champagne and Sex, Oh, My! autographed.

Not everyone who had attended the signing got in line, but many did. And although most of those wanted to chat with Violet for a few moments about the book, the bookstore clerk thankfully kept the line moving so that Violet was spared having to hear too many more questions about Roxanne’s exploits being her own. By the time she signed the last available copy—and my, but the fragrance of the roses was mingling with the wisteria at the sight of the empty table—she was battling writer’s cramp and on the verge of exhaustion.

Unfortunately, as she was capping her Sharpie and envisioning her return to her apartment to don her grubbiest jeans and T-shirt and pop in a DVD of Casablanca, someone slammed another copy of the book down on the table in front of her. Hard. Startled, Violet glanced up and found herself gazing into incredible, nearly translucent blue eyes. Blue eyes that had now traveled miles beyond intense, and kilometers beyond anger, to debark at fury central.

“Um, hello,” she managed to say. “I, ah … I’m sorry. I didn’t see you standing there.”

The fact that she had overlooked him—as impossible as that seemed even to her—made him narrow his eyes even more angrily. But he said nothing, only shoved the book across the table toward her. Hard.

Somehow she tore her gaze away from his and forced it to the book, which, she told herself, should have way more importance to her anyway. But her attention fell instead on the hand that had splayed open atop it, obscuring the cover art of black patent stilettos, champagne effervescing in a slender flute and red lace panties and bra tossed carelessly between them. It was a large, masculine hand whose thumb, by its placement, seemed to caress the red lace of the lingerie. A very large and masculine hand, in spite of the elegantly wrought ring that wrapped its third finger, gold inlaid with onyx, that might or might not be a wedding band, since the hand happened to be his left one. But the hand didn’t move from the book, making it impossible for Violet to sign it, so she looked at him again. He stared at her with unmistakable hostility, and her confusion mounted.

She tried to remember if she’d met him somewhere before and unwittingly done something to generate such a reaction. Had she accidentally botched his reservations at Chez Alain or overlooked a smudge in his bathtub at the Ambassador Hotel? Had she messed up the hem of his trousers when she’d been a seamstress at Essex Tailors or sent home the wrong cuff links from the tony men’s shop where she’d been a salesclerk? Absolutely not, she immediately decided. Not only had she never made such mistakes at her previous jobs, but she would definitely remember eyes like those and a man like him.

Since he evidently didn’t want his book signed, she asked, as politely as she could, “Did, um, did you have a question?”

For a moment, he said nothing, but his expression changed, easing up infinitesimally. He looked at Violet almost as if he were the one trying to remember if he’d ever met her before, and what he might have unwittingly done to her. Which she found laughable in the extreme, since a man like him never did anything unwittingly.

Finally, he dropped his gaze to the book and removed his hand from its cover so that he could flip it open. He turned to a page toward the back that he had marked with a strip of what looked like paisley silk ripped brutally from some unsuspecting garment. Then he shoved the book toward Violet and thrust his finger at the heading.

“Chapter twenty-eight,” he said.

That was it. No question, no observation, just the number of the final chapter of the book, the one headed “Ethan.” Which of all the male characters Violet had written about in High Heels, was the one her readers had responded to most. He was the one who was cited in all the reviews the book had received so far, the one who was whispered breathlessly about by talk show hosts who had hyped the book on TV. He was the culmination of all things strong, masculine, confident and rich. When he moved in his worlds of business and society, he was ruthless, arrogant and overbearing. Although his couplings with Roxanne had been earthy, powerful and raw, there had been a tenderness inside him that almost—almost—made her heroine fall head over heels in love.

Which was yet another example of how fictional the book was, and how Violet couldn’t possibly have written it from personal experience. No way would she ever fall in love. She lacked the capacity for such an emotion. She’d learned before she was a teenager not to get too emotionally invested in anyone, because, inevitably, she would be separated from them somehow. Either she’d be moved to a new foster home, or her new friend would be. Sometimes it was the foster parents themselves she lost, either to illness or economics or caprice.

No way was she ever going to risk actually falling in love with someone.

“Yes?” Violet asked the man. “Did you have a question about chapter twenty-eight? About Ethan?”

“Not a question,” he said. “A demand.”

“What kind of—”

“I demand a retraction,” he stated without letting her finish.

Okay, now Violet was really confused. “A retraction?” she echoed. “What for? Why would I need to print a retraction? The book is—”

“Malicious, defamatory and untrue,” he finished for her. “Especially chapter twenty-eight.”

Well, of course the book was untrue, she thought indignantly. It was a novel. Duh. Why did people keep thinking it was an actual memoir? Violet must be a better writer than she’d realized. Still, the rest of his accusation was ridiculous. Novels couldn’t be malicious or defamatory, thanks to that untrue business. So his demand for a retraction was likewise ridiculous.

Nevertheless, she hesitated before replying, not wanting to upset this guy any more by insulting his alleged intelligence. Carefully, she began, “I’m sorry if you didn’t enjoy the book, Mr….?”

Instead of giving her his name, he glared at her some more and said, “My enjoyment of it—or lack thereof—is immaterial. However, I do know for a fact that chapter twenty-eight is libelous and demands a retraction. Just because you changed the man’s name to Ethan—”

“Changed his name?” Violet echoed. “I didn’t change anyone’s name. I didn’t have to. Ethan is a fabrication. The book is a—”

“You can’t disguise a man’s identity simply by changing his name, Ms. French,” the man continued relentlessly, as if she hadn’t spoken. “You described Ethan’s coloring, his profession, his office, his home, his hobbies, his interests, his physique, his … technique … Everything. In precise, correct, detail.” At this, he snatched up the scrap of silk with which he’d marked the page. “You even identified the manufacturer of his underwear.”

Violet shook her head in mystification. She couldn’t decide whether her interrogator was simply a little misguided or a raging loony. She turned to the bookstore clerk, hoping she’d take matters into hand now as she had with the overly enthusiastic crowd earlier. But the young woman was staring at the dark-haired man in openmouthed silence, evidently even more overwhelmed by him than Violet.

So Violet turned back to her, ah, reader, still not sure what to say. Maybe if she played along with him for a minute, disregarding, for now, whether the book was a work of fiction or nonfiction, she could talk him down from whatever ledge he was standing on.

Cautiously, she ventured, “Um, a lot of men wear paisley silk boxers, Mr….”

Still, he didn’t give her the name she’d not-so-subtly requested. Instead, he shook the scrap of silk at her and replied, “Not imported from an exclusive, little-known shop in Alsace for whom this design is completely unique.”

Oh, really? Violet thought. Well, she’d read about the place in Esquire magazine—guess it wasn’t as little known as he realized—and how they employed their own weavers and designers, and probably even their own worms, so that their garments were each utterly luxurious and completely one-of-a-kind. And also outrageously expensive, which was why she’d written that Ethan wore them.

Violet sighed with resignation. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say. Ethan is a character in my novel. The story is fiction. Roxanne isn’t real. Ethan isn’t real. If I described him in a way that resembles someone who actually exists, I assure you it was nothing more than serendipity. There are a lot of men out there who work and play and live the way the characters in my book do.”

“You and your publisher may be marketing the book as a novel, but there’s no question in anyone’s mind that the work is based—and in no way loosely—on your actual experiences as a call girl.”

“What?” Violet exclaimed. “That’s not true! I’ve never—”

“There’s also no question in anyone’s mind about Ethan. You’ve described the man so explicitly and perfectly that everyone in Chicago knows who he is.”

Violet spared a moment to be proud of herself for writing such great prose that she’d brought a character to life—almost literally—for so many of her readers. Then she remembered that this guy had just accused her of being a prostitute, and she got mad all over again. Unfortunately, before she could express that outrage, her assailant spewed more of his own.

“And if you don’t print a retraction to this … this …” He thumped the book contemptuously. “This piece of trash—”

“Hey!” Violet objected. “It’s not trash! It got a starred review in Publishers Weekly!”

“—then I assure you that Ethan is going to sue you for every nickel you receive from its sales.”

“It’s fiction!” she said again. “No one can sue me for anything.”

“Not only that, but Ethan will make certain you never make another nickel in your life, because he will sue you for so much money, your great-grandchildren will be paying his.”

Okay, that did it. When people started threatening her nonexistent family, Violet really got mad. She stood with enough force to make the bookstore clerk squeak like a mouse. Then she straightened to her full five-foot-eight, which was made nearly six feet in the three-inch heels she was wearing. Then she leaned forward and crowded the man’s space as much as she could, narrowing her eyes at him menacingly.

Even at that, however, Mr. Paisley Pants still towered over her. And he looked way more menacingly back at her.

“Oh, and what are you? Ethan’s fictional lawyer?”

He slapped down a business card on the table beside the book, but Violet didn’t bother to look at it. She didn’t care who he was. She wasn’t about to print a retraction for something that wasn’t even real.

“No,” the man said. “I’m not Ethan’s lawyer. I’m Ethan. And I have never had to pay a woman—especially one like you, Ms. French—for sex.”

Two

By the time Gavin Mason slammed the door of his Michigan Avenue office behind himself, his anger had diminished not at all. It hadn’t helped that, barely halfway through the seven-block walk from the bookstore, the sky had opened up and dumped sheets of cold October rain on him. Thankfully, since it was Saturday, there was no one around to see him looking so disheveled. Or to see him hurl the copy of High Heels and Champagne and Sex, Oh, My! across the room with all his might. The hardcover slammed against the wall opposite with enough force to rattle a trio of framed degrees hanging there. Then it toppled onto a pair of hand-blown, and not inexpensive, vases when it fell onto the credenza beneath.

He’d hoped his walk—either to the bookstore or back—would purge some of the rage he’d been harboring for the past week, ever since catching wind of the gossip that had been circling in both professional and social circles of Chicago. And he’d hoped he might find satisfaction in meeting face to face with that … that … that lying, scheming harridan whose blistering potboiler was burning up the bestseller list faster than it was shooting his life down in flames. Seizing control of the situation was the way Gavin handled every situation. He always took matters into his own hands, and he didn’t let go until he felt like it.

But neither the walk nor his confrontation with Raven French had dispelled even the smallest iota of his anger. In fact, seeing her at the book signing, looking so carefree and confident and beautiful—dammit—had only compounded his resentment. Who the hell did she think she was, bolstering herself through the defamation of others? How could she be benefiting financially and enjoying herself by destroying other people’s lives?

By destroying his life?

As he folded himself into the big, leather executive chair behind his big, mahogany executive desk, Gavin noted a light flashing on his personal office line. He had two messages. Although he was fairly certain he already knew what they were about—since virtually every call he’d received on his personal line this week had been about the same thing—he punched the button to replay them anyway.

Beep. “Darling,” a familiar voice greeted him. But where the voice, which belonged to a woman named Desiree, was usually scorching with sexual promise, on the recording it was cold enough to chill magma. “I suddenly find myself facing a dilemma about tonight. I can either attend the Bellamys’ party with you, which would mean sipping champagne and nibbling foie gras and rubbing shoulders with Gold Coast glitterati, or I can babysit my sister’s horrible twins and spend the evening being kicked in the shins, picking food from my hair and being called a poopyhead. Guess which one I’d rather do?”

Under normal circumstances, that would have been an easy one for Gavin. Considering the way his life had been the past week, however, he wasn’t going to go out on any limbs. Sure enough, it was about then that the rest of Desiree’s message kicked in, making things crystal clear. She started with a particularly ripe expletive, segued into a thinly veiled threat of a lawsuit because her health may have been compromised by his consorting with prostitutes, and ended with several suggestions about what he should do with a number of his body parts, at least ninety percent of which were anatomically impossible. That message was followed by another, this time from a woman named Marta, with whom he was supposed to attend a pretty major fundraiser the following Friday night. Suffice it to say that she was cancelling, too, but her reason for doing so made Desiree’s tirade sound like a children’s recital of Mother Goose rhymes.

Gavin debated briefly whether or not he should call both women to reassure Desiree that her health couldn’t have possibly been compromised—well, not her physical health anyway—because he’d always practiced safe sex, and, oh, yeah, he’d never been with a prostitute, and to tell Marta that the thing she’d said about his family jewels had really been uncalled for. Then he decided that doing that would probably only exacerbate an already volatile situation.

He bit back another oath as he deleted both messages and tried not to think about what he’d become in Chicago thanks to everyone’s assumption that he was chapter twenty-eight in a call girl’s memoir. He was a mockery in society, a pariah among women and a joke at work—and it wasn’t good for the CEO of his own import-export company to be a joke. Although each condition posed its own set of problems, it was that last, of course, that bothered Gavin the most. He’d never much cared about his social standing—unless it affected his ability to do business, and being a mockery certainly wasn’t good for that. As for women, he wasn’t picky and could always find more to replace the ones who disappeared.

At least, he had been able to do that before. Now that rumors were circulating that he’d been using the services of a prostitute, and now that he was being ridiculed at every opportunity, the normally teeming pool of willing women was emptying fast. And, hell, he hadn’t even been using the services of a prostitute. Of course, now that the pool of willing women was emptying, he might very well be reduced to such a practice.

Irony, thy name is Raven French.

Not that there weren’t a host of other names he could call her. Not that there weren’t a host of other names he had already called her….

Gavin expelled a long, irritated breath. He grabbed his perfectly knotted necktie with both fists and wrestled out the perfect Windsor knot he’d completed effortlessly that morning. He shrugged off his jacket, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and the cuffs of his sleeves, and rolled the latter to his elbows.

Work. That was what he needed. To work and to sue the pants off Raven French. Not that that was what it took to get Raven French out of her pants. Hell, she’d do that for anyone. Provided the price was right.

Inescapably, his mind wandered to the book signing, and he was reminded of how surprised he’d been when he first saw her. He had expected her to be brash and harsh, both in looks and demeanor, with too much makeup and too stylized hair and a voice strained by too many cigarettes, too much drink and too many late nights working. But except for the clingy clothes and mile-high heels, she hadn’t looked like a call girl at all. In fact, she’d looked kind of … pretty. Kind of … sweet. Kind of … wholesome. And her eyes. She’d had the most extraordinary eyes he’d ever seen. Not just the color, but the clarity. The expression. The …

Damn. There was no other word for it. The honesty. Raven French had honest eyes.

All a part of the act, he told himself. Like the wholesome, sweet prettiness. It made sense that a woman who looked like that would be able to make a killing as a hooker. There were plenty of men who would pay top dollar for a woman who looked like the homecoming queen when the lights were on and performed like the class bad girl when the lights were off. Not that Gavin was one of those men. He liked women who performed and looked like the class bad girl. Women who had big hair and full lips and enormous breasts spilling from their too-small confinement.

Women who were a lot like call girls, now that he thought about it. Hmm. Evidently, irony went by more than one name.

He pushed the thought away. In fact, he pushed all thoughts of Raven French away. For now. He’d thrown down the gauntlet along with his card at the bookstore. And if his intentions hadn’t been made clear enough to Ms. French then, they’d become crystal clear on Monday when his attorney contacted her publisher. Really, Gavin hadn’t needed to go to the book signing this afternoon. In fact, his legal department had cautioned him not to. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d wanted to look Raven French in the eye. He’d wanted to see his adversary up close. He’d wanted to make it personal.

Because it was personal. Which made the battle different from Gavin’s usual conflicts, and his adversary different from his usual nemeses. What Raven French had done to him and his reputation was reprehensible and indefensible. It was bad enough that she’d painted him as a man who would flout both the law and morality—never mind that he’d done both of those things on more than one occasion; he’d never been caught doing them. But, worse, she’d revealed things about him that he’d never told anyone. That he’d never intended to tell anyone. How she knew those things about him when she’d never met him before was beyond him. But now everyone else knew them, too.

He pushed the thought away again. He’d come into the office to work, something guaranteed to take his mind off Raven French and her expletive-deleted book. And off her extraordinary eyes. And her surprisingly sweet smile. And the way her black hair had tossed back bits of silver under the lights of the bookstore….

By Monday afternoon, Violet’s anger was still sizzling, in spite of the passage of nearly two days since I’m-not-Ethan’s-lawyer-I’m-Ethan had slapped down his business card and whipped up her resentment. They were two days she’d spent trying to brush off his threat of a lawsuit as ludicrous and unfounded—which it was—and trying to brush him off as ridiculous and harmless—which he was not.

And that, she supposed, was the problem. Her editor Gracie had called Violet that very morning to tell her his attorneys had been in touch with the publisher’s attorneys, and they’d made thinly veiled threats about the material presented in the final chapter of her book. They hadn’t sent anything on paper—yet—or even in email—yet—but they’d made clear they were revving up for the possibility if Rockcastle didn’t do something quickly to address the defamation and slander contained therein.

Clearly, even if Not-Ethan’s lawsuit was frivolous, the man himself wasn’t. Even if the outcome of any legal proceedings would leave Violet cleared of wrongdoing, he could still proceed with his threat to sue her and her publisher. At best, he could ensure she would have to endure legal expenses she couldn’t afford—although her book was selling well, that was money she wouldn’t collect until she received her first royalty statement next year, and until then, she had to subsist on her modest advance. Not to mention this was the sort of thing that could drag on for a very long time, something that could potentially drain everything she made anyway.

And at worst, Mr. Paisley Silk Shorts could conceivably find a judge who was sympathetic enough about his charges to put a halt to the presses and book promotion until the legal battle could be settled. And considering the capriciousness of the reading public—out of sight, out of mind and all that—such a freeze of sales could spell the death knell of her career just when it was starting to take off. What publisher was going to want to stay with a writer who landed herself in legal trouble the first time out of the gate?

Now, as she stood across the street from a steel-and-glass Michigan Avenue high-rise, Violet withdrew the business card from the pocket of her most recently rented designer duds—a crimson-colored Ellen Tracy suit over an ivory shell that, together, retailed for more than a family of five consumed in groceries for a month. Already the man was costing her money she hadn’t planned—nor could afford—to spend by necessitating another visit to Talk of the Town for clothing rental. Had she shown up here wearing something of her own, she never could have convinced him she was the successful novelist she was struggling to be—with no help from him, thankyouverymuch. No, had she shown up in something of her own, the only thing she would have convinced him of was that she was struggling, period.

Gavin Mason, she read from the heavy vellum business card. That was I’m-Not-Ethan’s name. The only other bit of information on the card had to do with something called GMT, Inc., followed by the posh Michigan Avenue address directly across the street. Evidently, Gavin Mason was somebody so important at the company that he didn’t need to include his position or email address on his business card.

Gee, Violet was going to go out on a limb and bet that GMT didn’t stand for Greenwich Mean Time in this case, and probably stood for Gavin Mason Something-that-starts-with-a-T. Training her gaze up, up, up the massive building—since the address on the card indicated GMT, Inc. was on the thirty-third floor—she flipped the scrap of paper back and forth and back again. Technologies? she wondered. Telecommunications? Transnational?

Trouble, she finally decided. Definitely with a capital T. And that rhymed with P. And that stood for—

“Pooh,” she said softly under her breath, forcing her feet to move her in the direction of the crosswalk. Gavin Mason wasn’t trouble. Not with any kind of case on the T. She’d faced worse problems than him in her life. No way would she let a man like that deter her from achieving her dreams. Let him try to charge the unchargeable and prove the unproveable. Hell, the publicity would only boost sales of her book even more.

Ka-ching.

Unless, you know, he did manage to tie her up in legalities indefinitely. Which, she supposed, was why she was currently crossing the street toward his office.

Okay, okay, she relented. So maybe Gavin Mason really was Trouble with a capital T, but it rhymed with C, and that stood for—

“Crap,” she muttered under her breath as she reached his side of the street and her feet began to slow. “Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.”

She wadded up the business card and tossed it into a nearby trash can. Take that, trouble/Trouble. Hmpf. And she tried not to think about how, by hedging on the capitalization thing, she had just assigned Gavin Mason the distinction of double-trouble.

She took a deep, fortifying breath and exhaled it slowly. She could do this. She could go to Gavin Mason’s office and speak civilly to him about this matter. He’d had two days to cool off, as had she, and now they could both be reasonable. She could explain to him how she’d come to write her novel, and make him understand that it was a work of fiction. By the end of their meeting, they’d doubtless both be laughing about it.

Okay, maybe not laughing, she amended as she entered the skyscraper that housed GMT, Inc. Because the building didn’t lend itself to levity, and it reeked of serious big business. The steel and glass of the outside was replicated inside, then made even colder and more solemn by the addition of a black granite floor and fixtures. The elevators were stainless steel outside and more black inside, and Violet rode shoulder to shoulder with people dressed in more black and gray.

It dawned on her then, the appropriateness of Gavin Mason’s name. Seriousness and stone. Like everything else here. The utter opposite of someone named Candy Tandy and then further nicknamed Violet. She suddenly felt even more out of place in her rented duds. Not because of the suit’s chicness and expense this time, but because of its hue. She usually liked bright colors and wore them well. But in this environment, wearing red made her feel as if she were standing in the middle of the bullfighting ring, waving the cape to taunt the biggest, baddest of them all.

The offices of GMT, Inc. were in keeping with the rest of the building, but somehow seemed even more severe. A lone receptionist—another study in gray from her clothing to her hair—sat behind a big black desk, with big black letters identifying the company looming on the white wall behind her. The other walls were bare, Violet noted, and the waiting area held only a quartet of empty and uncomfortable-looking chairs. There was no reading material to peruse for anyone who might be waiting. No music to listen to. Not so much as a charcoal print to ponder. Clearly, Gavin Mason didn’t concern himself with creature comforts.

Then she remembered his paisley silk boxers. Well, not for other people, anyway.

She’d been worried that showing up without an appointment might cause a problem, but seeing the place so empty reassured her. After speaking with her editor this morning, Violet had deliberately decided to come just after lunchtime, hoping to catch the man sated and slowed with a full belly and before he got too tied up for the rest of his day. She hadn’t worried that he wouldn’t be here. He was obviously the kind of man who took his work seriously enough to never leave it. Hell, Violet wouldn’t have been surprised if he lived in the building, too. It suited him, all cold and impersonal as it was.

Now, now, she admonished herself. Don’t go in with that attitude. You’re here to make things better, not worse.

As if cued by the thought, the receptionist glanced up from her computer screen. She apologized for not seeing Violet right away in a voice that sounded in no way apologetic, then asked what she could do for her.

“Hello,” Violet said in as chipper a voice as she could manage. “I was wondering if it might be possible to steal a few moments with Mr. Mason. Gavin Mason,” she quickly clarified. As if that needed clarification.

Obviously, it didn’t, since the moment she’d uttered the first Mason, the receptionist had started shaking her head. “I’m afraid Mr. Mason has a very full schedule today. I’m sorry.”

“I realize he’s a busy man,” Violet said, “and I promise not to take any more of his time than necessary. Truly, just a few minutes would be all I’d need.”

The receptionist smiled mechanically, then dropped her gaze to the computer screen and pushed a few buttons on her keyboard. “Perhaps if you can tell me what this is about, I can make an appointment for you later in the week.”

Which would mean Violet had spent money on her rental clothing for nothing and would have to spend more later in the week. Not to mention stew over Gavin Mason’s threats for another few days.

“Today would be much better,” she said firmly. “I mean, I’m here now, and—” she threw a meaningful look over her shoulder at the waiting area “—and no one else is, and, as I said, it won’t take long.”

“Mr. Mason has a very full schedule today,” the receptionist repeated crisply. “Perhaps if you can tell me what this is about, I can fit you in—”

“Later in the week,” Violet chorused with her, then added politely, “doesn’t work for me, I’m afraid.”

“Well, perhaps if you’d made an appointment …”

Violet tried again. “Maybe if you told Mr. Mason I’m here, he would—”

“Mr. Mason has a very full schedule today.”

“He might—”

“Perhaps if you can tell me what this is about, I can fit you in later in the week.”

There was no way Violet was going to tell this woman she was here because Gavin Mason suspected her of being a call girl who’d written about him in a memoir that was really a novel. But if the only way she was going to see the man was later in the week, then she’d have to settle for that.

“Fine,” she said. “I’d like to make an appointment with Gavin Mason later in the week.”

The receptionist smiled, this time with great satisfaction, lifting her perfectly manicured hands to the keyboard before her. “And your meeting is in regard to …?”

“Public relations,” Violet said off the top of her head.

The receptionist narrowed her eyes. “Can you be more specific?”

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes some more but didn’t push the issue. Instead, she studied her computer screen for a moment and said, “Come back at four-fifty-five on Friday. He can see you for five minutes.”

Violet gaped at that, but didn’t object. How could she? She was the one who had said it would only take a few minutes. A foot in the door, she reminded herself. That was all she needed.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Your name?”

She started to reply with her real name, then realized Gavin Mason wouldn’t recognize it. “Raven French.”

She might as well have yelled that the receptionist’s hair was on fire, so massive was the woman’s reaction. Her hands faltered on the keyboard, she bolted backward in her chair, and when she jerked up her head to look at Violet again, her eyes were wide with horror.

“Raven French,” she echoed. With no small amount of melodrama, too, Violet couldn’t help thinking. Honestly, the woman might as well have been summoning some kind of B-movie hell spawn.

“Ye-es,” Violet said cautiously.

Now it was the receptionist who gaped. But she didn’t say anything, either. Her gaze never leaving Violet’s, she rose unsteadily from her chair and began to back away, bumping into the wall behind herself before flattening her palms against it and sidling to the right.

“Stay right there,” she finally said, her voice going even more Norma Desmond than before. “I think maybe Mr. Mason has a moment right now.”

And with that, the woman disappeared behind the wall. Violet heard the clatter of something tumbling over, followed by a thump and the crash of breaking glass, and a not-so-quietly muttered—nor in any way professional—oath. Then there was the quick rapping of knuckles on a door and an even less-quiet—and even less professional—screech of “Oh my God, Mr. Mason, that horrible woman is here to see you. Here. In your office. Can you imagine the nerve?”

The screeching was then replaced by another clatter and thump, only this time it sounded more like something being thrown than being dropped, and the oaths that followed were the likes of which Violet hadn’t heard since accidentally downloading Scarface from Netflix one night instead of Sense and Sensibility, which she had been so certain was next in her queue.

Then, suddenly, there was silence. And somehow, that was even scarier than Say hello to my little friend!

The receptionist suddenly reappeared from behind the wall. After a few delicate ahems, she said, “Mr. Mason will see you now.”

“Um, thank you,” Violet said.

But she didn’t feel particularly grateful. In fact, by the time she moved around the wall and saw the door to Gavin Mason’s office, her insides were taut with anxiety. As demanding as she’d been to see him, she halted at the threshold, now reluctant to enter. Bending at the waist, she peeked inside, looking left, then right, then left again.

But the room was empty. It was also nowhere near as sterile as the rest of the building, filled with massive, dark wood furnishings scattered atop an immense Persian rug that was woven in rich, jewel-tone colors. The paintings on the walls, too, were colossal, brutally executed abstracts in colors that were even denser than the rug. Clearly whoever inhabited the office was as bold and dynamic and larger-than-life as his possessions, but he hadn’t come to work yet. Thinking she must have approached the wrong door, Violet straightened and began to take a step in retreat.

Then, out of nowhere, a large, capable hand snaked out, wrapping large, capable fingers around her wrist and jerking her through the doorway. Before she could even squeak out an objection, the door slammed shut behind her. Automatically, she spun around, but her revolution was hindered by her trapped wrist, and, unaccustomed to her heels, she lost her footing and pitched forward.

Right into Gavin Mason.