The Billionaire Gets His Way(33)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded silently.

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

“Yeah, no…kidding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Miranda,” Gavin said. “And thank Chatsworth and Billings, as well. But we did stop for a bite on the way.”

Miranda smiled another one of those noncommittal smiles. “Excellent. This way, then.”

So it was within the realm of possibility for Gavin to be considerate, Violet thought after hearing him thank even the cook…chef…meal creator to billionaires. She didn’t kid herself that this was a new condition after her having scolded him that night at the party for treating the bartender so shabbily.

They followed Miranda through the massive front door and found themselves in a massive foyer, off which were a number of massive rooms collected around a massive staircase that spread up to a massive gallery on the massive second floor, all of it massively luxurious. Violet wasn’t sure, but she thought even her shallow breathing echoed through the miles of open space surrounding them. It was into one of the massive rooms to the left of the staircase that Miranda led them, a space that was crowded with ornate antiques, a half-dozen marble sculptures and several paintings on easels.

“As I said, this is a sampling. The pieces Mr. Whitehall is interested in selling are tagged, and are representative of approximately two dozen others. This should give you a vague estimate of the undertaking and its value.”