Eight
Caught In The Billionaire’s Embrace
Elizabeth Bevarly
ELIZABETH BEVARLY is the RITA® Award-nominated, nationally bestselling author of more than five dozen books. When she’s not writing, she’s watching Project Runway and What Not to Wear, but only for research purposes. She’s also confident that she’ll someday find a story in House Hunters International, so she watches that religiously, too. In the meantime, she makes do with her real life of ready-to-wear from Macy’s and college exploratory trips around the Midwest with her husband and soon-to-be-a-senior son.
For everyone who’s ever worked in women’s fashion,
especially employees of The Limited stores
in Cherry Hill and Echelon Malls,
where I got my start in writing by penning pages
in the stockroom during lunch.
I miss you guys. A lot.
There was only one thing that could make Della Hannan’s thirtieth birthday better than she’d already planned for it to be, and it was a thing she hadn’t even planned. That was saying something, since she’d been fine-tuning the details for the celebration since she was a little girl growing up in the kind of neighborhood where birthdays were pretty much unaffordable and therefore pretty much ignored. Where a lot of things were unaffordable and therefore ignored. Things like, well … Della, for instance. But that was why she had promised herself such a festive event. Because, even as a little girl, she’d known she had only herself to count on.
Of course, the past eleven months had rather thrown a wrench in that line of thinking, because since meeting Geoffrey, she’d had no choice but to count on him. Geoffrey wasn’t here tonight, though, and she wasn’t going to let herself think about him or anything else from that world. Tonight was special. Tonight was for her. And it would be everything an underprivileged kid from one of New York’s roughest neighborhoods could have imagined.
Back then, Della had sworn that by the time she turned thirty, she would have escaped the mean streets of her borough and become a self-made millionaire living park-side uptown. And she’d vowed to mark the big three-oh in the style of the rich and famous, that she had imagined she’d become accustomed as this point in life. She wasn’t about to renege on that promise, even if she was celebrating in Chicago instead of New York. She would begin with dinner at a five-star restaurant, follow that with a box seat at the opera and top it off with a nightcap at the sort of club that allowed entrée to only the crème de la crème of society. She was outfitted in thousands of dollars worth of haute couture, dripping in rubies and diamonds, and she had been coiffed and manicured at the city’s finest salon.
She sighed with much contentment as she enjoyed the first part of her evening. Palumbo’s on State Street was the sort of restaurant where prices rivaled the budgets of some sovereign nations. She had, it went without saying, ordered the most expensive items on the menu—four courses, all of which bore European names she’d had to practice all week to pronounce correctly. (Thank goodness the menu had been posted online so she could check in advance and not appear as some kind of philistine when she ordered. And how lovely to have the opportunity to use the word philistine, even if it was only in her head.) Because ordering the most expensive items on one’s birthday was what anyone who was sophisticated and chic and rich would do, right?
The thought made her surreptitiously survey her surroundings, to make sure the other diners—sophisticated, chic and rich, every last one of them—were also enjoying the most expensive bounty. And, okay, okay, to also make sure Geoffrey hadn’t somehow followed her, even though she’d done an excellent job sneaking out—she always did—and even though she wasn’t scheduled to check in with him until her daily call tomorrow. He couldn’t know where she was going, anyway, even if he did discover she’d slipped out when she wasn’t supposed to. She’d planned tonight’s escape even more meticulously than she’d planned her thirtieth birthday celebration.
For all anyone here knew, she was just as blue-blooded as they were and belonged in this society every bit as much. And, thankfully, there was no sign of Geoffrey anywhere. Check and check.
And Della did feel as if she belonged here, sipping champagne as she anticipated the arrival of her calamari appetizer. She’d been moving in environments like this for years, despite not having been born into a wealthy family. She’d clawed her way out of the slum and into the upper echelons of society—even if she’d only been a fringe member—and she’d studied and emulated everyone in this world until she’d had no trouble passing herself off as a pure-blooded member.
Tonight was no exception. She’d paid a not-so-small fortune to rent the crimson velvet Carolina Herrera gown and Dolce & Gabbana shoes, not to mention the Bulgari earrings and pendant and the black silk Valentino opera coat necessitated by the frigid December temperatures. The red hues, she knew, complemented her gray eyes and the dark blond hair that was long enough now to have been swept up into a French twist, held in place by a single hidden comb.
She lifted a hand to make sure every hair was in place, smiling at how much she enjoyed having it long. She’d worn it boyishly short all her life, until earlier this year, and hadn’t sported her natural color since high school, when she’d dyed her hair black during her grunge phase and liked it enough to keep it that way. She hadn’t even realized how it had deepened to such a beautiful honey-infused blond over the years. Between her natural color and the new length—not to mention her rented duds—no one from the old neighborhood would recognize her tonight.
But she wasn’t thinking about any of that, either, she reminded herself. Tonight really was going to be perfect. It really was going to be everything she had planned all those years ago.
Except maybe for the handsome, elegantly attired man the hostess had seated at a table near hers a few moments ago, and whom she hadn’t been able to resist sneaking peeks at during each of those moments. When Della was a kid, she’d never entertained the idea of having a companion for her special evening. She wasn’t sure why not. Maybe because of the aforementioned knowing she would always have only herself to count on. Or maybe because, as a kid, she couldn’t even imagine a guy like him. In her neighborhood, elegantly attired had meant one’s shirt was buttoned. And handsome had meant a guy had all his teeth.
Without warning, the man glanced up, his gaze connecting with hers. Something between the two of them … clicked.
