The Billionaire Gets His Way(38)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Violet had no idea what a cuvée was, but she knew grand was French for big, so—knowing Gavin—whatever a big cuvée was, it was bound to be expensive.

Oh, it was champagne, she discovered after surrendering her coat to a total stranger and following the maître d’ to an intimate table for two near a crackling fireplace. And not all that big, really. Though all that gold on the label did indeed make it look very grand.

Her new best buddy opened the bottle with swift, deft artistry, but poured barely a mouthful into Violet’s glass. Okay, she knew the stuff was expensive, but couldn’t he do a little better than that?

“Um, could I have a little more, please?” she asked.

He looked at her as if a giant fish had just sprouted out of her forehead. “You should taste it before I pour a full glass, miss. To make sure it meets with your approval.”

Oh. Faux pas number one for the evening. “Gotcha,” she said, wrapping her hand around the bowl of the glass to lift it. At the maître d’s discreet “Ahem,” however, she looked up to find him shaking his head imperceptibly. “The stem,” he whispered. “You should hold the glass by the stem, miss.”

Faux pas number two, Violet thought. And Gavin hadn’t even arrived yet. It was going to be a long evening. “Um, thanks,” she said, genuinely grateful for the man’s coaching. Obviously, he could still tell she wasn’t a part of this crowd, but at least he wasn’t looking down on her anymore and was trying to help her out.

She picked up the glass by its stem—score one for the laborer!—then lifted it to her mouth for a sip. Even though she wouldn’t have known good champagne from bad grape juice, she nodded her approval. Mostly because, even if it was bad, it tasted very good to her.

“Lovely,” she declared.

The maître d’ smiled and tipped the bottle again, this time pouring a more generous portion.

“I’m sure Mr. Mason will be along any time now,” he told her. “But if you need anything else, Miss Tandy, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks,” she told him. “I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.”

Amazing how he could make that sound sincere, she thought as the maître d’ strode to his post.

As she sipped her champagne and waited for Gavin, she stole a moment to take in her surroundings. Immediately, she was reminded of the Whitehall estate, because the club seemed to be striving to look like a smaller version of it. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany that had been polished to a satiny sheen, the ceiling was an ornate collection of gilded rosettes and wainscoting, and the carpet was an elegant design of jewel tones so rich and beautiful that it looked almost as if someone really had scattered rubies and emeralds and sapphires about.

The place was packed, too, with all manner of high society. A few tables away, Violet recognized the members of the group from the Gold Coast party she had attended with Gavin, the ones he’d said it was so important see the two of them together. They were as glittery and vivid as peacocks, making her feel like the same colorless mouse she had that night. So she scanned the rest of the crowd instead. But everyone there was dressed to the nines for the occasion, and all were laughing and chatting, smiling at and waving to each other as if they all knew each other well. Which they doubtless did.

And Gavin was one of them, the way he wanted most in the world to be. The way she would never be herself.

As if conjured by the thought, he appeared at the entrance to the club room, his black overcoat dotted with snowflakes, a few more melting like crystals in his dark hair. Something inside Violet melted a little then, too, just looking at him. He was so handsome. So sexy. And he had it in him to be a decent kind of guy, if only his priorities weren’t so messed up. If only…

If only. The two most dangerous words in the English language. Gavin Mason was what he was. He’d been years in the making. He wasn’t going to change overnight. He might never change. Certainly in a place like this, surrounded by the kind of people he strove hardest to impress, he wasn’t going to be the man she needed him to be. Tonight, more than ever, he would be the unyielding aristocrat who scorned all things plebian. Like her.

Why did he still want to see her?

As if that thought, too, had conjured some kind of connection between the two of them, he glanced over at the table and saw her. Immediately, his anxious expression smoothed, and he smiled, making another chunk of ice in Violet evaporate like steam. He started to walk toward her, then the maître d’ must have reminded him of his coat, too, and Gavin halted to take it off and hand it to the harried Hilda. Then he started to make his way toward Violet once more. But he was halted as soon as he stepped into the room by a couple seated near the door who beckoned to him. With an apologetic look for Violet, he moved that way to greet them. But even from where she sat, she could tell he was impatient. And something about that warmed her inside even more.

Until she felt someone staring at her. Someone who wasn’t Gavin. And it was that creepy kind of staring, too, that made a person’s skin prickle. When she glanced around, she saw a man leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the room amid a group of other people armed with cameras and microphones and such. Members of the media who were here to cover the event. The man was looking right at her, and when her gaze met his, he smiled at her in recognition. Creepy recognition, not wow-it’s-so-great-to-see-you recognition. And she didn’t recognize him at all. So she swiftly turned to see where Gavin was, and saw that he had been stopped by a second couple.

Hastily, Violet returned her attention to her champagne, enjoying a healthy quaff. Within seconds, however, the man who had been watching her was standing by the table, situating himself in such a way that she couldn’t avoid looking at his crotch unless she looked up at his face. So, with a sigh of resignation, she looked up at his face. It was actually a fairly harmless-looking face, bland features beneath a crop of not-particularly-well-cut blond hair. Unlike the other men present—even the members of the media—he wore neither a tuxedo, nor a dark suit, but a pair of rumpled brown corduroys and an oatmeal-colored sweater.

“I know you,” he said when her gaze connected with his. He wagged a finger at her knowingly. “You’re Raven French. The author of that call girl memoir.”

“It’s not a memoir,” Violet said wearily. “It’s a novel. I’m not—”