The Billionaire Gets His Way(37)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

His continued lack of response, however, only seemed to make Violet more resolved that her suspicions were right. “That’s what I thought. You were hoping we could repeat that night at my apartment. Then you could take me home under cover of darkness without any of your friends being the wiser that you’re spending time with and sexing up someone they wouldn’t approve of.”

Something inside Gavin felt as if it were crumbling into bits. “Violet, we spent the entire day togeth—”

“Yeah, but we spent the day alone,” she pointed out. “You might want to spend time with me, Gavin, but you don’t want to do it in front of your friends. Because you know it would bring you down in their eyes.”

He had no idea what to say to dissuade her of that idea. Which only cemented her belief that what she had said was true. With one final, shallow nod of her head, she strode to the sofa where she had dropped her jacket and purse and collected both. Then, without looking at him, she crossed to his front door. With a single, desolate glance at where he still stood motionless, she was gone, closing the door firmly behind herself.

By the time he found the presence of mind to follow her and jerk open the door, the elevator doors in the foyer were closing on her. The last thing he saw was the distressed expression on her face, and the last thought he had was one he didn’t have time to put voice to.

What he’d wanted to tell Violet was that the two of them hadn’t been alone all day because he was ashamed to be seen with her among his friends. The reason they’d been alone all day was because he would have spent the day alone anyway. The way he spent virtually every day alone. And virtually every night, too.

It dawned on him then, for the first time, that, until he met Violet, he’d been alone all the time.

Eleven

Violet paused in front of a towering creekstone Victorian mansion nestled in the heart of the Gold Coast that had been converted a half century ago from a lush millionaire’s home to a private club. Gavin’s private club. The kind of private club it cost more to join than Violet had made in a year at any of her previous jobs. Or at all of her previous jobs combined, for that matter. And she asked herself what she was doing here.

So what if her phone had rung within moments of her settling in the backseat of a cab after leaving his penthouse last night? So what if, when she had declined to answer it, Gavin had left a message asking—no, pleading with her—to come to his club tonight to have dinner with him? So what if tonight happened to be a night when, he’d told her, every single member of the club would be there, not to mention a host of other people who were their guests, because the mayor of Chicago would be present for a fundraiser there? So what if this was his way of trying to prove to her that he was more than willing to be seen with her in public, amid his large circle of friends?

“Just meet me at my club,” he’d begged before concluding the call the night before. “I’ll call ahead and make sure you’re on the list so no one will give you a problem. But please, Violet. Please come.”

He’d put her on the list, she echoed to herself now, her stomach knotting. That was the condition of her being able to see him. She would have to be put on a list because she wasn’t a member of the club—of the society—to which he belonged. That should be enough right there to let her know how pointless an expedition this was going to be.

She’d told herself to ignore his request and stay home. But every time she’d replayed the message—and she’d replayed it several times—there had been something in his voice she couldn’t quite dismiss, something that had prevented her from giving up on him just yet. She’d finally decided that, okay, she would be there at seven. But she would be going as herself this time.

That, she had decided, would be the test. Whether or not Gavin was comfortable introducing her to his friends, with her in-your-face lack of social graces, her down-to-earth personality and her off-the-rack discount wardrobe. If he could still be his upper crusty, blue-blooded self in the face of all that, and still treat her with the respect and consideration she deserved, then maybe there was hope. Maybe.

“Ready or not, Gavin,” she said to the building as she ascended the stairs, “here I come.”

True to her word, she hadn’t bothered renting clothes for the evening and had even eschewed the faux party clothes she had worn when Gavin had blackmailed her into going to the Steepletons’ party. Instead, she’d pulled out a pair of plain black trousers and white man-style shirt that she’d had since college and paired them with black flats and simple silver hoop earrings.

Unfortunately, upon arriving at the club room he’d directed her to, she discovered she was dressed exactly like the wait staff. Gee, so maybe she belonged amid this society after all. Even if it was as a laborer.

The tuxedoed maître d’ stationed at the entrance thought she was a laborer, too, because after one dismissive glance at her, he jutted a thumb to the left and barked, “Kitchen entrance is that way, honey. Show up late for your shift again, and I’ll can you myself.”

“I’m not an employee,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. Which, she was surprised to discover, was quite a lot. “I’m a guest.”

The maître d’ looked up at that, but still cast a dubious eye. “Whose guest?”

“Gavin Mason’s.”

Now the maître d’ snapped to attention and began rifling through the papers on the host stand before him. “Yes, miss. Of course, miss. I’m sorry, miss, your name again?”

Somehow, Violet refrained from rolling her eyes. Okay, she conceded, maybe there were things she could get used to in Gavin’s world. Like having people who’d treated you like carpet lint suddenly realize you have value. Of course, this guy only thought she had value for the same reason Gavin thought people had value—because she had enough money to get into a place like this—but still. It was nice to be acknowledged.

“Violet Tandy,” she told the man.

It took him all of a nanosecond to find her. “Of course. Miss Tandy. Mr. Mason hasn’t arrived. In fact, he called to say he hit some unexpected traffic but is on his way, and that I should show you to your table and open the Krug Grand Cuvée that’s chilling for the two of you there. Hilda,” he then barked over his shoulder in the same laborer-appropriate tone he had used before. “Hilda will take your coat, Miss Tandy.”