The Billionaire Gets His Way by Elizabeth Bevarly Page B

cashmere,” she read. “But how do I know you didn’t buy that after reading the book, just to make your ridiculous charge seem real?”
    â€œI bought this suit two years ago for a professional portrait I had made. Two years ago,” he added adamantly. “Check the shirt and tie, too,” he instructed.
    She did. Ferragamo and Hermès, respectively.
    He toed off a loafer and scooted it toward her with his foot. Santoni. Damn him.
    He opened the book again as he slipped his shoe on, flipped a few more pages, then began to read. “Ethan’s work environment was a study in contradictions. The building that housed his office was a looming edifice of glass and metal, lacking in color or texture or character, as cold and starkand ruthless as the corporate world itself. But his office reflected the true magnificence, prosperity and hedonism of the man—rich colors, skillfully, beautifully wrought furnishings, decadent artwork.”
    Gavin paused there, looking up to meet Violet’s gaze. Of course, she knew why. He wanted to gauge her reaction to what she knew came next. She had written the passage, after all. But she felt trapped somehow, pinned by his gaze, uncertain what she could say or do that would prevent him from reading the next paragraph. And when she said nothing to stop him, he seemed as if he were looking forward to reading the words that ensued.
    â€œI have many, very special, memories of an oxblood leather chair tucked into one corner.”
    At this, he glanced at something over her right shoulder. Sensing what she would see, she turned around anyway, only to find— ta da! —an oxblood leather chair tucked into that corner of the room. Damn. That didn’t look good. She turned back to Gavin, but he’d dropped his gaze to the book.
    â€œSo often,” he read, “when Ethan requested I come to his office for one of our sessions, he would be sitting in that chair upon my arrival, a cut crystal tumbler of fine, single-malt Scotch—neat, of course—in one hand. Without even greeting me, he would demand that I take off every stitch of clothing, which, of course, I would do. Then he would beckon me over and offer me the glass. I was to fill my mouth first with the Scotch, long enough to warm it, then drop to my knees and fill my mouth with him. As much of him as I could, anyway. I spent entire afternoons on my knees in that office by that chair, first giving him oral pleasure and then bent over the cushion so he could take me from behind, again and again and…” He halted and lookedup at Violet once more, smiling even more broadly. “Well, I think I’ve made my point, haven’t I?”
    Oh, yes! Yes! Yes! Yessss! Violet wanted to shout. “Um, I believe you’ve tried,” she said instead. She cleared her throat indelicately and avoided his gaze. “However, you failed.”
    â€œOh?”
    She nodded. And avoided his gaze some more. “Your artwork is in no way decadent.”
    Now Gavin raised both dark brows in surprise. “Ms., ah, Tandy, have you looked closely at those paintings?”
    â€œWhy do I need to look closely?” she replied. “They’re all abstracts. I don’t care much for abstract art. I mean, not that I’m much of an art connoisseur in the first place. But I really don’t like the kind of art where I can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be.”
    â€œNo, I’m sure you’re more inclined to view the images in the Kama Sutra, but indulge me. That one over there, for instance,” he said, pointing to one on the other side that was executed in bold lacerations of purple and brown. “What does that remind you of?”
    She cocked her head to one side as she viewed it from this distance. “A peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” she finally said. Well, that was what it reminded her of. Hey, she’d told him she wasn’t an art