The Billionaire Gets His Way (2 page)

“Is it true,” the woman said in a sweet, gentle voice, “that you're the one who invented the sexual position called the ‘centerfold spread?'”

Oh, my stars,
Violet thought, struggling to keep a straight face. Clearly the woman's years were so advanced that she'd confused Violet-Raven as the heroine of the book, not its author.

“Um, no,” she said. “That wasn't me. It was my book's protagonist, Roxanne.”

Nana's eyebrows knit in a sign of clear confusion. “But I thought you were Roxanne.”

“No, ma'am,” Violet told her. “I'm, uh, Raven.”

“But didn't you write the book?”

“Yes, but—”

“And the book is a memoir about a call girl.”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you're the one who invented the position.”

“No, I—”

“What I'd like to know,” a woman with dark hair who was hipping a baby interrupted, “is exactly how the crème de menthe thing works. Now, did you drink that before performing oral sex on your customers, or was it meant for external use only?”

Violet was vaguely horrified by the personal pronoun used in the question. She'd read about the crème de menthe
thing in a magazine. She'd never actually tried it. Why did the young woman assume otherwise?

“Actually, I never—”

But before she could even complete her reply, another woman, this one a college-aged blonde with little black glasses, stood and said, “My boyfriend and I are going to be spending the summer in Italy. Could you talk more about that sex club Francesco took you to in Milan?”

Violet opened her mouth to reply to that, but not a single word emerged. She was beginning to sense a pattern here. Everyone who had asked a question thought
she
was her fictional character Roxanne. They didn't seem to realize the book was fiction. Even though the story read like a memoir, the blurb on the cover flap made clear the work was a
novel.
The reviews had all been in the fiction section of whatever periodical was doing the reviewing. Not to mention the fact that Roxanne's adventures were so over-the-top, no one could possibly believe they had actually happened to anyone.

Could they?

The sex club/Francesco query evidently reminded a lot of people of questions they wanted to ask, because in the scant moment of Violet's silence, the crowd erupted into what felt like hundreds of questions. Did Violet really have sex with Sebastian on the roller coaster at Knott's Berry Farm? What was her
real
reason for not doing that porno Kevin wanted her to do? Where did she purchase those crotchless panties with the whistle sewn on them that Terrence had liked so much?

On and on it went until the crowd bordered on chaotic. That was when the young woman from the bookstore stepped in and, in a very effective crowd control voice, indicated that the question-and-answer segment had now concluded, and Ms. French would be happy to sign her book,
and would everyone please line up in an orderly fashion who wished to have their copy of
High Heels and Champagne and Sex, Oh, My!
autographed.

Not everyone who had attended the signing got in line, but many did. And although most of those wanted to chat with Violet for a few moments about the book, the bookstore clerk thankfully kept the line moving so that Violet was spared having to hear too many more questions about Roxanne's exploits being her own. By the time she signed the last available copy—and my, but the fragrance of the roses was mingling with the wisteria at the sight of the empty table—she was battling writer's cramp and on the verge of exhaustion.

Unfortunately, as she was capping her Sharpie and envisioning her return to her apartment to don her grubbiest jeans and T-shirt and pop in a DVD of
Casablanca,
someone slammed another copy of the book down on the table in front of her. Hard. Startled, Violet glanced up and found herself gazing into incredible, nearly translucent blue eyes. Blue eyes that had now traveled miles beyond intense, and kilometers beyond anger, to debark at fury central.

“Um, hello,” she managed to say. “I, ah…I'm sorry. I didn't see you standing there.”

The fact that she had overlooked him—as impossible as that seemed even to her—made him narrow his eyes even more angrily. But he said nothing, only shoved the book across the table toward her. Hard.

Somehow she tore her gaze away from his and forced it to the book, which, she told herself, should have way more importance to her anyway. But her attention fell instead on the hand that had splayed open atop it, obscuring the cover art of black patent stilettos, champagne effervescing in a slender flute and red lace panties and bra tossed carelessly between them. It was a large, masculine hand whose
thumb, by its placement, seemed to caress the red lace of the lingerie. A very large and masculine hand, in spite of the elegantly wrought ring that wrapped its third finger, gold inlaid with onyx, that might or might not be a wedding band, since the hand happened to be his left one. But the hand didn't move from the book, making it impossible for Violet to sign it, so she looked at him again. He stared at her with unmistakable hostility, and her confusion mounted.

She tried to remember if she'd met him somewhere before and unwittingly done something to generate such a reaction. Had she accidentally botched his reservations at Chez Alain or overlooked a smudge in his bathtub at the Ambassador Hotel? Had she messed up the hem of his trousers when she'd been a seamstress at Essex Tailors or sent home the wrong cuff links from the tony men's shop where she'd been a salesclerk? Absolutely not, she immediately decided. Not only had she never made such mistakes at her previous jobs, but she would definitely remember eyes like those and a man like him.

Since he evidently didn't want his book signed, she asked, as politely as she could, “Did, um, did you have a question?”

For a moment, he said nothing, but his expression changed, easing up infinitesimally. He looked at Violet almost as if
he
were the one trying to remember if he'd ever met
her
before, and what he might have unwittingly done to her. Which she found laughable in the extreme, since a man like him never did anything unwittingly.

Finally, he dropped his gaze to the book and removed his hand from its cover so that he could flip it open. He turned to a page toward the back that he had marked with a strip of what looked like paisley silk ripped brutally from some unsuspecting garment. Then he shoved the book toward Violet and thrust his finger at the heading.

“Chapter twenty-eight,” he said.

That was it. No question, no observation, just the number of the final chapter of the book, the one headed “Ethan.” Which of all the male characters Violet had written about in
High Heels,
was the one her readers had responded to most. He was the one who was cited in all the reviews the book had received so far, the one who was whispered breathlessly about by talk show hosts who had hyped the book on TV. He was the culmination of all things strong, masculine, confident and rich. When he moved in his worlds of business and society, he was ruthless, arrogant and overbearing. Although his couplings with Roxanne had been earthy, powerful and raw, there had been a tenderness inside him that almost—almost—made her heroine fall head over heels in love.

Which was yet another example of how fictional the book was, and how Violet couldn't possibly have written it from personal experience. No way would she ever fall in love. She lacked the capacity for such an emotion. She'd learned before she was a teenager not to get too emotionally invested in anyone, because, inevitably, she would be separated from them somehow. Either she'd be moved to a new foster home, or her new friend would be. Sometimes it was the foster parents themselves she lost, either to illness or economics or caprice.

No way was she ever going to risk actually falling in love with someone.

“Yes?” Violet asked the man. “Did you have a question about chapter twenty-eight? About Ethan?”

“Not a question,” he said. “A demand.”

“What kind of—”

“I demand a retraction,” he stated without letting her finish.

Okay, now Violet was really confused. “A retraction?”
she echoed. “What for? Why would I need to print a retraction? The book is—”

“Malicious, defamatory and untrue,” he finished for her. “Especially chapter twenty-eight.”

Well, of course the book was untrue, she thought indignantly. It was a
novel.
Duh. Why did people keep thinking it was an actual memoir? Violet must be a better writer than she'd realized. Still, the rest of his accusation was ridiculous. Novels couldn't be malicious or defamatory, thanks to that untrue business. So his demand for a retraction was likewise ridiculous.

Nevertheless, she hesitated before replying, not wanting to upset this guy any more by insulting his alleged intelligence. Carefully, she began, “I'm sorry if you didn't enjoy the book, Mr….?”

Instead of giving her his name, he glared at her some more and said, “My enjoyment of it—or lack thereof—is immaterial. However, I do know for a fact that chapter twenty-eight is libelous and demands a retraction. Just because you changed the man's name to Ethan—”

“Changed his name?” Violet echoed. “I didn't change anyone's name. I didn't have to. Ethan is a fabrication. The book is a—”

“You can't disguise a man's identity simply by changing his name, Ms. French,” the man continued relentlessly, as if she hadn't spoken. “You described Ethan's coloring, his profession, his office, his home, his hobbies, his interests, his physique, his…technique… Everything. In precise,
correct,
detail.” At this, he snatched up the scrap of silk with which he'd marked the page. “You even identified the manufacturer of his underwear.”

Violet shook her head in mystification. She couldn't decide whether her interrogator was simply a little misguided or a raging loony. She turned to the bookstore clerk, hoping
she'd take matters into hand now as she had with the overly enthusiastic crowd earlier. But the young woman was staring at the dark-haired man in openmouthed silence, evidently even more overwhelmed by him than Violet.

So Violet turned back to her, ah, reader, still not sure what to say. Maybe if she played along with him for a minute, disregarding, for now, whether the book was a work of fiction or nonfiction, she could talk him down from whatever ledge he was standing on.

Cautiously, she ventured, “Um, a lot of men wear paisley silk boxers, Mr….”

Still, he didn't give her the name she'd not-so-subtly requested. Instead, he shook the scrap of silk at her and replied, “Not imported from an exclusive, little-known shop in Alsace for whom this design is completely unique.”

Oh, really? Violet thought. Well, she'd read about the place in
Esquire
magazine—guess it wasn't as little known as he realized—and how they employed their own weavers and designers, and probably even their own worms, so that their garments were each utterly luxurious and completely one-of-a-kind. And also outrageously expensive, which was why she'd written that Ethan wore them.

Violet sighed with resignation. “I don't know what you're trying to say. Ethan is a character in my novel. The story is fiction. Roxanne isn't real. Ethan isn't real. If I described him in a way that resembles someone who actually exists, I assure you it was nothing more than serendipity. There are a lot of men out there who work and play and live the way the characters in my book do.”

“You and your publisher may be marketing the book as a novel, but there's no question in anyone's mind that the work is based—and in no way loosely—on your actual experiences as a call girl.”

“What?”
Violet exclaimed. “That's not true! I've never—”

“There's also no question in anyone's mind about Ethan. You've described the man so explicitly and perfectly that everyone in Chicago knows who he is.”

Violet spared a moment to be proud of herself for writing such great prose that she'd brought a character to life—almost literally—for so many of her readers. Then she remembered that this guy had just accused her of being a prostitute, and she got mad all over again. Unfortunately, before she could express that outrage, her assailant spewed more of his own.

“And if you don't print a retraction to this…this…” He thumped the book contemptuously. “This piece of trash—”

“Hey!” Violet objected. “It's not trash! It got a starred review in
Publishers Weekly!
”

“—then I assure you that
Ethan
is going to sue you for every nickel you receive from its sales.”

“It's fiction!” she said again. “No one can sue me for anything.”

“Not only that, but
Ethan
will make certain you never make another nickel in your life, because he will sue you for so much money, your great-grandchildren will be paying his.”

Okay, that did it. When people started threatening her nonexistent family, Violet
really
got mad. She stood with enough force to make the bookstore clerk squeak like a mouse. Then she straightened to her full five-foot-eight, which was made nearly six feet in the three-inch heels she was wearing. Then she leaned forward and crowded the man's space as much as she could, narrowing her eyes at him menacingly.

Even at that, however, Mr. Paisley Pants still towered over her. And he looked way more menacingly back at her.

“Oh, and what are you? Ethan's fictional lawyer?”

He slapped down a business card on the table beside the book, but Violet didn't bother to look at it. She didn't care who he was. She wasn't about to print a retraction for something that wasn't even real.

“No,” the man said. “I'm not Ethan's lawyer. I'm Ethan. And I have never had to pay a woman—especially one like you, Ms. French—for sex.”