The Billionaire Gets His Way(35)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

She gazed at the riches surrounding her again and decided maybe they weren’t worth eighty billion dollars after all. A small cottage in the suburbs, with wisteria and roses and a wicker swing, was worth way, way more than all of this. And being able to fall in love with whomever you wanted, no matter where they came from or who they were or where they were going? Well, there wasn’t a price that could be put on that at all. So much for Gavin’s high society. So much for his success. So much for his wealth. Because if he thought living like this was what it took to be someone in the world, then he was wallowing in greater poverty now than he ever had as a kid.

Ten

Gavin sat across from Violet in the dining room of his Lakeshore Drive penthouse, watching her push her food around on her plate and avoid his gaze. He’d hoped inviting her to dinner at his place would alleviate some of the sullenness that had come over her at Chatsworth’s estate, but she seemed even more subdued now than she had been then. It had taken every wheedling and cajoling gene he possessed to even get her to agree to have dinner with him. All she’d wanted after he’d concluded his business was to be taken home.

He had thought she would enjoy lunch at the restaurant he’d chosen. Not only was it was one of his favorites, it was bloody hard to win a table there, so high in demand was the place. Only the cream of society had the cachet to eat there, something he’d made sure Violet discovered via their waiter by calling ahead and promising an exorbitant tip. Gavin had thought she would enjoy the Whitehall estate even more. Who wouldn’t? It was like a museum, filled with beauty and history and riches unrivaled by any other private collection in the country. He had thought Violet would be dazzled. He had thought she would better appreciate the kind of world he lived in now versus the one he had left behind. He had thought she would begin to understand what was at stake for him, what he had to lose if he lost face with his friends and colleagues. Instead, she’d seemed kind of sad.

So he’d invited her to dinner here, thinking… Well, okay, thinking pretty much the same thing he thought when they were at the estate. That by seeing his home from something other than the pages of a magazine, she might again be better able to understand why he was so determined to protect his lifestyle. All modesty aside, his penthouse was pretty spectacular, too—maybe not Chatsworth Whitehall spectacular, but still pretty damned impressive.

It encompassed the entire top level of the high-rise and was surrounded on all sides by panoramic windows that offered magnificent views of nighttime Chicago, from the Hancock Tower to the north to Navy Pier to the south. The dining table, tucked against one such window, allowed them to see both, along with the glitter and spectacle that was the rest of Chicago, along with the black expanse of Lake Michigan, which was dotted with lights of its own thanks to the yachts and freighters making their way across the inky water. Even having lived here nearly five years, Gavin was still stunned by the beauty of it all, still had trouble believing he had risen so far from the stunted, blighted roots from which he had sprung. Why couldn’t Violet be as awed by this place as he still was?

And where Chatsworth’s house might have looked like a traditional art museum, Gavin’s looked like one for modern art. The inner walls were dotted with twenty-first-century abstracts while a few easels scattered about held more. His furnishings were sleek and contemporary, in muted neutrals so as not to detract from the splashes of color in the paintings.

His place was amazing, he thought, surveying it again, putting modesty aside. He had, after all, paid one of the city’s top decorators a pile of money to make it that way, and one of the city’s top real estate agents to find it for him. And before leaving Chatsworth’s, he’d called his favorite restaurant in the city and ordered a five-star meal to be delivered a half hour after his and Violet’s arrival, complete with server and cleanup crew. That, too, was a perk he enjoyed with the kind of life he led—the kind of power he wielded in both his social and professional worlds. He’d figured Violet would be as impressed by the meal as she was by her surroundings. But nothing had shaken her from her funk.

“Is it the chateaubriand?” he finally asked. “Is it under-cooked? Overcooked? Cold?”

Her head snapped up at the question, and she looked a little confused, as if she were just now remembering where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Although he was still dressed in the suit he’d worn all day, she’d shed her ultra-conservative jacket after their arrival to reveal a shimmery top beneath that was almost the same color as her eyes. The pale amethyst against her creamy skin made him think both were made of silk, and the color only brought out even more expression and emotion in her eyes. Unfortunately, that expression wasn’t delight, and the emotion wasn’t happiness.

“I guess I’m not very hungry,” she said halfheartedly. “That was a big lunch we had.”

“Eight hours ago,” he reminded her.

She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Slow metabolism,” she said, as if that would explain it.

Yeah, right, Gavin thought. He remembered well the night they’d spent at her apartment. Scarcely a day had gone by when he hadn’t remembered it well—okay, so maybe he’d been hoping other things would happen, too, if he brought her to his place tonight. And he knew there was nothing about Violet’s, ah, metabolism that could be even marginally compared to slow. Not to mention she’d been full of vitality and exuberance when she’d been speaking at Northwestern earlier in the day. Whatever had extinguished that exhilaration had happened since he had caught up with her.

“Did you not enjoy the day then?” he asked.

Another one of those tepid shrugs. “Sure. It was great.”

Great, he echoed to himself. That was just…great.

He stood and moved to the other side of the table, curling his fingers over the back of her chair. Maybe he needed to point out the obvious.

“Okay, up you come,” he said as he pulled her chair away from the table.

She seemed surprised by the turn of events. “What? Why?”

“If you’re not hungry, then there’s no point sitting here playing with your food. Come on. I’ll take you on a tour of Chicago.”

“Gavin, please. It’s getting late. Not only do we not have time for a tour of Chicago, I grew up here, remember? I’ve seen everything there is to see.”

He grinned and held out a hand. “Not like this, you haven’t.”