MY FAIR BILLIONAIRE (13 page)

Over the past two weeks, she’d begun to feel differently about him. Or maybe she was just finally being honest with herself about how she’d always felt about him, even in high school. She’d remembered so many things about him that she’d forgotten over the years—things she had consciously ignored back then, but which had crept into her subconscious anyway. Things that, for that one night at her parents’ house, had allowed her to let down her guard and feel for him the way she truly felt and respond to him the way she truly wanted to respond.

She’d remembered how his smile hooked up more on one side than the other, making him look roguish and irreverent. She’d remembered how once, in the library, he had been so engrossed in his reading that she’d enjoyed five full minutes of just watching him. She’d remembered how he’d always championed the other scholarship kids at Emerson and acted as their protector when the members of her crowd were so cruel. And she’d remembered seeing him stash his lunch under his shirt one day to carry it out to a starving stray dog behind the gym.

They were all acts that had revealed his true character. Acts that made her realize he was none of the things she and her friends had said about him and everything any normal girl would love in a boy. But Ava had chosen to ignore them. That way she wouldn’t have to acknowledge how she really felt about him, for fear that she would be banished from the only world she knew, the only world in which she belonged.

Even with the passage of years and the massive reversal in his fortune, Peyton was still that same guy. He still grinned like a rabble-rouser and could still hone his concentration to the exclusion of everything else. He still rooted for the underdog, and he couldn’t pass a busker on the street without tossing half the contents of his wallet into the performer’s cup. He hadn’t changed a bit. Not really. And neither had the feelings she had buried so deep inside her teenage self.

She expelled a soft sound of both surprise and defeat. Sixteen years ago, she and Peyton couldn’t have maintained a relationship because their social circles had prohibited it—his as much as hers. No one in his crowd would have accepted her any more than her crowd would have accepted him. And neither of them had had the skill set or maturity to sustain a liaison in secret. Eventually it would have ended, and it would have ended badly. They would have burned hot and fast for a while, but they would have burned out. And they would have burned each other. And that would have stayed with them forever. Now...

Now it was the same, only reversed. Peyton’s success had launched him to a place where he wanted and needed the “right” kind of woman for a wife—the kind of woman who would boost his image and raise his status even more. Someone with cachet, who had entrée into every facet of society. Someone whose pedigree and lineage was spotless. He certainly didn’t want a woman whose father was a felon and whose mother had succumbed to mental illness, a woman who could barely pay her own way in the world. He’d fought hard to claw his way to the level of success he had—he’d said so himself. He wasn’t going to jeopardize that for someone like her. Not when the only thing she had to offer him was a physical release, no matter how explosive.

Maybe there was emotion, even love, on her part, but on Peyton’s? Never. There hadn’t been when they were teenagers—he hadn’t been able to get out of her bedroom fast enough, and his antagonism toward her for the rest of the school year had been worse than ever—and not now, either. This morning he’d said nothing about last night, had only wondered what today’s lesson would be, as if their making love hadn’t changed anything. Because it
hadn’t
changed anything. At least, not for him.

Nerves tumbled through her midsection as she surveyed herself in the mirror one last time. On the upside, the fund-raiser tonight was one of the biggest ones held in Chicago, so there was an excellent chance she and Peyton wouldn’t run into anyone from the Emerson Academy. On the downside, the fund-raiser tonight was one of the biggest ones held in Chicago, so there was an excellent chance she and Peyton would run into everyone from the Emerson Academy.

Maybe if she wore a pair of those gorgeous, gemstone-encrusted Chanel sunglasses...

She immediately pushed the idea away. Not only was it déclassé to wear sunglasses to a society function—unless it involved a racetrack or polo match—she couldn’t afford to add any more accessories. As it was, the form-fitting gold Marchesa gown, along with the blue velvet Escada pumps, clutch and shawl, and the Bulgari sapphire necklace, were going to set her back enough that she would have to exist on macaroni and cheese until July. Still, she thought as she turned to view the plunging back of the dress and the perfect French twist she’d managed for her hair, she looked pretty smashing if she did say so herself.

When she stepped out of the fitting room to find Lucy waiting for her, Ava could tell by her look of approval that she agreed.

“You know, I didn’t think the blue shoes and clutch were going to work,” the salesclerk said, “but with that necklace, it all comes together beautifully. I guess that’s why you’re the big boss.”

Well, you could take the girl out of society, but you couldn’t take society out of the girl. Not that some of her former friends hadn’t tried.

The thought made her stomach roil. She really, really, really hoped she didn’t see anyone she knew tonight.

“I have to go,” she said. “Thank you again for working so many hours this week. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You already have,” Lucy told her with a grin. “You’ve made it up to me time and time and a half again.”

Ava grinned back. “Don’t spend it frivolously.”

Not the way Ava had spent so frivolously with this outfit. She wished she’d had the foresight to charge Peyton for expenses.

“Have fun tonight!” Lucy called as Ava made her way to the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Not to worry, Ava assured her friend silently. She’d already done that. By falling in love with a man who would never, ever love her back.

Ten

P
eyton paced in front of the Palmer House Hilton, checking his watch for the tenth time and tugging the black tie of his new tuxedo. Ava had been right about the phone call. That morning, she’d called someone named Violet, who said she would call someone named Catherine, and before he’d even left Ava’s apartment, his phone had rung with a call from that same Catherine, who had turned out to be someone from Ava’s social circle at Emerson—and someone who had treated him even worse than Ava had—gushing about how much she would love it if he would come to their “little soiree.” She’d also made him promise to seek her out as soon as he arrived so the two of them could catch up on old times.

As if he wanted to catch up with anyone from Emerson who wasn’t Ava. Jeez.

Where the hell was she? She should have been here seven and a half minutes ago. He scanned the line of taxis and luxury cars that snaked halfway down Monroe Street. As if his thoughts made it happen, the door of a yellow cab three cars back opened and Ava climbed out. And not just any Ava. But a breathtaking twenty-four-carat-gold Ava.

Holy crap, she looked— He stopped himself. Not just because he couldn’t think of an adjective good enough to do her credit, but because there would be no
holy crap
tonight. Tonight he was supposed to be a gentleman. Tonight, he would be a—he tried not to gag—society buck. Guys like that didn’t say
Holy crap.
Guys like that didn’t even say
Guys like that.
They said... He racked his brain, trying to remember some of the stuff Ava had taught him to say, since even saying stuff like
stuff
was off-limits when it came to presenting a dignified, articulate image.

Aw, screw it. He could think whatever words he wanted, as long as he didn’t say them out loud. And what he thought when he saw Ava gliding toward him, covered in gold and sapphire-blue, was...was...

Huh. Even allowing himself to use his usual vocabulary, he still couldn’t think of anything. Except maybe about what she was wearing
under
all the gold and sapphires.

Crap.

Okay, so the past couple of weeks had been the best of times and the worst of times. The best of times because he’d been around Ava, and he now knew how to do things that increased his social value to women like her. But the worst of times because, even with his increased social value, Ava still didn’t want him. Not the way he wanted her.

Well, okay, she
wanted
him. At least, last night she had. She had definitely wanted him the way he wanted her last night. She just didn’t want him today. Not the way he wanted her. And it was a different kind of wanting he felt today—a way more important kind of wanting—than it had been last night. Which was weird, because last night he’d wanted her in a way that was pretty damned important. What was even worse—in fact, what was the worst part of all—was that she was more firmly entrenched in his head now than ever, and he had no idea how to deal with it. And she wasn’t just in his head. She was in other body parts, too. And not just the ones that liked to have sex.

She’d changed since high school. A lot. Yeah, there had been times when she’d tried to shroud herself in the same ice-princess disguise she’d worn in high school, but Peyton had seen past the facade. She was warmer now, more accessible. More fun to be around. Even when the two of them sparred with each other, there was something enjoyable about it.

But then, he’d kind of enjoyed sparring with her in high school, too. Really, now that he thought about it, he realized Ava couldn’t have been
that
cold and distant back then. Not all the time. There must have been something about her that attracted him—something only his subconscious had been able to see. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been attracted. Since coming back to Chicago, his conscious had started to pick up on it, too. Ava wasn’t vain, shallow or snotty. Had she been vain, she wouldn’t have thought about anyone but herself, and she never would have helped him out with his self-improvement, even if he was paying her. Why shouldn’t he pay her? He was going to pay someone else for their expertise, and hers was even more expert because she’d grown up in the environment he was trying to penetrate. Uh...he meant
enter.
Uh...he meant
join.
Yeah, join.

She wasn’t shallow, either, because she knew a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff. Had she been shallow, he could have tallied her interests on one hand. She’d introduced him to things he’d never thought about before, a lot of which wasn’t even related to social climbing. And she wasn’t snotty, because she’d shared that knowledge with him, knowing he would use it for social climbing, not caring that his new money would mix with old. Not once had she criticized him for being nouveau riche. Only Peyton had done that.

Yep, he definitely knew now what he liked about Ava. And, at the moment, it was all wrapped in gold and walking right toward him.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked by way of a greeting when she came to a halt before him.

“I’m waiting for you.”

“You were supposed to leave my name at the door as your plus-one and go in without me to start mingling. We’re not together, remember?”

How could he forget? She’d made clear this morning that last night hadn’t changed anything between them. “But I don’t know anyone in there. How am I supposed to mingle when I don’t know anyone?”

“Peyton, that’s the whole point of mingling.”

But mingling sucked. It sucked as much as having to tame his profanity. It sucked as much as having to pay ten times what he normally did for a haircut. It sucked as much as not being able to wear ten-year-old blue jeans that were finally broken in the way he liked.

Why did he want to join a class of people who had to do so many things that sucked? Oh, yeah. To increase his social standing. Which would increase his business standing. Which would allow him to take over a company that would increase his monetary standing. That was the most important thing, wasn’t it? Making money? Increasing his value? At least, that had been the most important thing before he landed back in Chicago. Somehow, over the past couple of weeks, that had fallen a few slots on his most important stuff in the world list.

Huh. Imagine that.

“Just promise me you won’t slip out of view,” he told Ava.

“I promise. Now get in there and be the status-seeking, name-dropping, social-climbing parvenu I’ve come to know and lo— Uh...I’ve come to know.”

Peyton’s stomach clenched at the way she first stumbled over the word
love,
then discarded it so easily. Instead, he focused on another word. “Parvenu? What the hell is that? That’s not one of those upper-crusty words you taught me. See? I told you we still have a lot to do.”

“Just give them my name and get in there,” she told him, pointing toward the door. “I’ll count to twenty and follow.” As he started to move away, she hissed under her breath, “And no swearing!”

Peyton forced himself to move forward, ignoring the flutter of nerves in his belly. He had nothing to be nervous about. He’d been entering fancy, expensive places like this for years and had stopped feeling self-conscious in them a long time ago. Even so, it surprised him when a doorman stepped up to open the door for him, welcoming him to the Palmer House Hilton, punctuating the greeting with a respectful
sir.
Because in spite of all that Peyton had achieved since the last time he was in Chicago, tonight he felt like an eighteen-year-old kid who had never left. A kid from the wrong side of town who was trying to sneak into a place he shouldn’t be. A place he wasn’t welcome. A place he didn’t belong.

The feeling was only amplified once he was inside the hotel. The Palmer House was an unassuming enough building on the outside, but inside it looked like a Byzantine cathedral, complete with ornamental columns, gilt arches and a lavishly painted ceiling. The place was packed with people who were dressed as finely as he, the men in black tie and the women in gowns as richly colored as precious gems. Catherine Bellamy, he remembered. That was the name of his former classmate who had asked him to look for her. Except that now her name was Catherine Ellington, because she married Chandler Ellington, who’d been on the Emerson hockey team with Peyton, and who was the biggest...

He tried to think of a word for Chandler that would be socially acceptable but couldn’t come up with a single one. That was how badly the guy had always treated Peyton in high school. Suffice it to say Chandler had been a real expletive deleted in high school. So had Catherine. So they were perfect for each other. Anyway, he was pretty sure he’d recognize them if he saw them.

He followed the well-heeled crowd, figuring they were all destined for the same place, and found himself in the grand ballroom, which was every bit as sumptuous—and intimidating—as the lobby. Chandeliers of roped crystal hung from the ceiling above a room that could have been imported from the Palace of Versailles. A gilt-edged mezzanine surrounded it, with people on both levels clutching flutes of champagne and cut-crystal glasses of cocktails. A waiter passed with a tray carrying both, and Peyton automatically went for one of the latter, something brown he concluded would be whiskey of some kind, a spirit he loved in all its forms.

He took a couple of fortifying sips, but they did nothing to dispel his restlessness. So he scanned the crowd for a flash of gold that was splashed with sapphire. He found it immediately. Found her immediately. Ava had just entered the ballroom and was reaching for a glass of champagne herself. He waited until he caught her eye, then lifted his glass in salute. She smiled furtively and did likewise, subtly enough so that only he would see the gesture.

It was enough. Ava had his back. Taking a deep breath, Peyton turned and ventured into the crowd.

* * *

Ava managed to make it through the first hour of the fund-raiser without incident, mostly by tucking herself between a couple of potted topiaries on the mezzanine. That way, she could keep an eye on the crowd below and still snatch the occasional glass of champagne or canapé from a passing server. Even if Peyton moved from one place to another, it was easy to keep an eye on him.

It quickly became evident, however, that he didn’t need an eye on him. He was a natural. From the moment he flowed into the sea of people, he looked as if he’d been one of them since birth. She kept waiting for him to make a misstep—to untie his tie or ask a waiter for a longneck beer—but he never did. Even now, he was cradling a drink with all the sophistication of James Bond and smiling at a silver-Givenchy-clad Catherine Bellamy as if she were the most fascinating woman he’d ever had the pleasure to meet.

He’d located her within moments of his arrival—or rather, Catherine had located him—and had yet to escape her. Catherine was clearly taking great delight in escorting him through the crowd, reacquainting him with dozens of their former schoolmates. Peyton had greeted each of them with one of his toe-curling smiles, never once hinting at how appallingly they had all treated him in high school.

If he could manage that, there was no way he needed further instruction in etiquette from Ava. After tonight, she could send him on his merry way without her. Off to be the toast of whatever society he might happen to find himself in. Off to his multimillion-dollar estate that was half a continent away. Off to meet the “right” kind of woman his matchmaker had found for him. Off to live his successful life with his blue-blooded wife and his perfectly pedigreed children. Off to launch his business into the stratosphere and line his pockets with even more money. That was the life he wanted. That was the life he had fought so hard, for so long, to achieve. That was the life he wouldn’t sacrifice anything for. He was the master of his own destiny now. And that destiny didn’t include—

“Ava Brenner. Oh, my God.”

It was amazing, Ava thought, how quickly the brain could process information it hadn’t accessed in years. She recognized the voice before she turned around, even though she hadn’t heard it since high school. Deedee Hale. Of the Hinsdale Hales. At her side was Chelsea Thomerson, another former classmate. Both looked fabulous, of course, blonde Deedee in her signature red—this one a lush Zac Posen—and brunette Chelsea in a clingy strapless black Lagerfeld.

“What on
earth
are you doing here?” Deedee asked. She never could utter a complete sentence without emphasizing at least one word. “Not that I’m not
incredibly
happy to see you, of course. I’m just so
surprised.
”

“What a beautiful dress,” Chelsea added. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a knockoff that looked more genuine.”

“Hello, Deedee. Chelsea,” Ava said. As politely as she could, she added, “It’s not a knockoff. It’s from Marchesa’s new spring collection.” And because she couldn’t quite help herself, she also added, even more politely, “You just haven’t seen it anywhere else yet. I have the only one in Chicago.”

“Ooooh,” Chelsea said. “You carry it in that little shop of yours.”

“I do,” Ava said with almost convincing cheeriness.

“How
is
that little project going, by the way?” Deedee asked. “Are we
still
pulling ourselves up by our little bootstraps, hmm?”

“Actually,” Ava said, “tonight, we’re pulling ourselves up by our little Escadas.”

“Ooooh,”
Deedee said. “You carry
those
in your little shop, too.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Have you
seen
Catherine?” Deedee asked. “I’m guessing she was
very
surprised to find you here.”

“I haven’t, actually,” Ava said. “There are just so many people, and I haven’t had a chance to—”

Before she could finish, Deedee and Chelsea were on her like a pack of rabid debutantes. As if they’d choreographed their movements before coming, each positioned herself on one side of Ava and looped an arm through hers.

“But you
must
see Catherine,” Deedee said. “She’s been so adamant about speaking to
everyone
on the guest list.”