The Billionaire Gets His Way / The Sarantos Secret Baby: The Billionaire Gets His Way / The Sarantos Secret Baby. Elizabeth Bevarly
isn’t a favor,” he said, completely unfazed by her outburst. “It’s your chance to pay up on a debt you owe me.”
“But—”
“Think of it this way,” he interrupted her. Again. “If you go to this fundraiser with me tonight, being no more than Violet Tandy, writer—not that you need to tell anyone what you wrote—I might be inclined to reconsider my lawsuit.”
Now Violet was the one to narrow her eyes. “You’re saying if I go to this party with you tonight you’ll forget about suing me? “
“I said I’d reconsider it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning maybe I’ll change my mind about pursuing it.”
Violet dropped her hands to her hips, a deliberate attempt to look less as if she were on the defense and more as if she were on the offense. Even if she still felt plenty defensive and in no way offensive. “Maybe isn’t good enough,” she told him.
“All right then. Probably. I’ll probably change my mind about pursuing it.”
“That’s no better than maybe.”
“Of course it’s better,” he told her. “Probably means much more likely than maybe.”
“But it’s still not definitely.”
“It’s still better than maybe. And it’s the best offer you’re going to get. And, it’s only good for—” he lifted an arm and pulled back the jacket and shirt sleeve to reveal an elegant gold watch beneath “—another sixty seconds.” He dropped his hand to his side. “One minute, Violet. Make a decision. Either go with me tonight and instill a feeling of gratitude in me that might make me rethink prosecuting you for libel, slander and defamation of character, or turn me down and know I’ll go after you with both guns drawn.”
Oh, like that was any kind of choice. Heads he won, tails he also won. There was no guarantee of anything in it for Violet.
Except for the opportunity to attend a swanky Gold Coast party, she thought, which she’d never done before and doubtless never would again. Except for the chance to rub shoulders with the cream of Chicago society. And maybe, you know, get some material for her new novel, which so happened to be about the cream of Chicago society—fictional society, natch, lest there be some confusion about that at some point—and which was barely half finished. And which her publisher was breathing down her neck to turn in so they could capitalize on the success of High Heels and Champagne and Sex! Oh, My!, striking while the iron was hot and all that. So maybe there was a little something in it to benefit Violet. Other than spending an evening with Gavin Mason.
No! Spending an evening with Gavin Mason wasn’t a benefit. That would be a punishment. The burden she had to bear in order to get the good stuff. Which was not Gavin, lest there be some confusion about that, too. Which maybe there was, since Violet was getting more confused by the moment, but—
“Thirty seconds, Violet.”
She mentally ransacked her wardrobe, coming up empty until she remembered a black dress she’d purchased secondhand for a graduation from high school party. That had been ten years—and okay, okay, ten pounds—ago. But it was a forgiving jersey knit with a simple cut that would stay in style forever.
“Fifteen seconds.”
Coupled with a rhinestone bracelet and earrings that could pass for cubic zirconium, provided the lighting wasn’t great, and a pair of slender heels she’d worn to the same graduation party, and maybe, just maybe—
“Five seconds, Violet. Four, three, two—”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I’ll go to the party with you. And you, in turn, are promising you’ll probably change your mind about the lawsuit.”
He said nothing for a moment, then smiled. But instead of saying he promised to do anything, he only echoed one word. “Probably.”
It was the best she was going to get, she told herself. And it was at least a little bit better than what she’d had before. Because there was a chance now, however small, that Gavin would leave her alone after tonight, and she’d never have to see him again.
So why didn’t that make her feel at least a little bit better? In fact, why did she kind of feel worse?
Sugar rush, she finally concluded. All that ice cream was creating one of those carb crashes. Yeah. That had to be it. No other explanation made any sense.
“When can you be ready?” Gavin asked.
Violet looked down at her sushi pajamas, then at Gavin’s flawless tuxedo. Then she drove her gaze higher, to his face, marveling again at how exquisitely his features were arranged. Never, she thought. She could never be ready for a man like him.
“Fifteen minutes,” she told him. “Give me fifteen minutes, and I’m good.”
Fifteen minutes, Gavin echoed to himself as he watched Violet hesitate at the entry to the Steepletons’ ballroom. Fifteen minutes, she’d said, and she was good. Good. Unbelievable. Not only did she look way better than good—words like radiant, luminous and stunning came most readily to mind—but any other woman would have needed hours to put herself together so well.
The black dress was styled simply, even modestly, with a straight neckline that went from collarbone to collarbone in front and had a slight dip in back that revealed just enough skin to make a man want to see more. But it hugged her curves like a lover’s caress, making it not very modest at all. She’d even managed to twist her hair up into something sleek and elegant that revealed the slender column of her nape, a creamy span of flesh that beckoned to a man’s fingertips … and mouth.
Her jewelry was a puzzle, however. Gavin had bought enough diamonds for his companions over the years—though not, God forbid, a ring of any kind—to know whether a woman’s gems were real or not. Violet’s were not. He would have thought that among her clientele over the years, there would have been at least a few generous types who gave her a trinket or two for services rendered, even if they were paying good money for those services. In Gavin’s experience, men who bought women liked to decorate them from time to time, if for no other reason than to remind them who was really in charge of the arrangement. Evidently, Violet’s customers had never given her anything but her required fee, otherwise she would have been wearing the real thing. Maybe he should get her a little something for—
For what? he immediately asked himself. For helping him out tonight? Why should he feel grateful because she’d done an amazing job of looking incredibly beautiful in a matter of minutes? Hell, she was used to putting herself together quickly. A woman in her profession would naturally need to wind things up with a client quickly and make an elegant exit to ensure being hired for another night, even if the jerk didn’t buy her something nice now and then. Violet had had a lot of practice looking this good in fifteen minutes.
She turned around to look at him, smiling a soft smile. And just like that, Gavin felt like someone had punched him in the gut. Because when she smiled that way, without artifice or inhibition, she went beyond beautiful. That naiveté was back, but with it was an innocence and purity that he would have thought impossible to fake. For the first time, he could see why men would pay money, and lots of it, to bed her. Because bedding Violet would make a man feel like he was her very first, that no man had come before him, that he would leave an indelible impression on her that would outstay any man who came after him.
Maybe that wasn’t exactly a PC way of thinking these days, but there it was just the same. A lot of men were still attracted to the notion of virginity. And if that virgin happened to know a lot about sex and was an eager partner, all the better. No wonder Violet’s memoir had so many chapters in it. God knew how many men had come before Gavin.
His thinking halted him in his tracks—literally, since he had been about to step forward to escort Violet into the room. How could he be thinking about how many men had come before him, unless he was thinking