down and ruin everything.
And dammit, there he was in her thoughts again. Would the man never leave her alone? She wasn’t even safe in her own home!
The days that followed Violet’s ill-fated trip to Gavin’s office only hammered home how unsafe she was from him, but for entirely different reasons. Thanks to the success of her Saturday book signing, Marie was able to land Violet a meeting with a features writer for the Sun-Times, along with a couple of appearances on local news shows the following week. It should have been a writer’s dream come true, all that publicity for her novel, but every time Violet spoke with an interviewer, it became clear that the person assumed the novel she’d created out of her imagination was actually a not-so-fictionalized account of her own experiences working as a high-priced, high-society call girl. Question after question addressed not Violet’s protagonist, but Violet herself. At best, there was a wink, wink, nudge, nudge banter involved. More often, though, there was less-than-subtle innuendo.
Like she even knew what position fourteen of the Kama Sutra was. And she’d never even met Hugh Hefner, let alone had his love child. And French tickler? Wasn’t that a city in Indiana? Worst of all, however, were the questions about her character of Ethan, and whether or not it was true he was modeled after a certain Chicago business magnate who shall remain nameless, but who everyone seemed to know the identity of anyway. No matter how many times Violet denied any knowledge of anything nonfictional in the week that followed her confrontation with Gavin, she grew more and more worried that no one believed a word.
The whole thing was nuts. The whole world was nuts. And casting a pall over all of it had been the specter of Gavin Mason, and whether or not he planned to go forth with his lawsuit. If the questions her interviewers were asking were any indication, however. Well, suffice it to say that Violet had a bad feeling about, oh … everything.
Although he had been surprisingly quiet after she left his office Monday, she didn’t kid herself that meant he was backing off. A man like him probably needed a little extra time to hone his weaponry and get all his peons in a row. There was no room for error with a guy like that. He was probably just ordering his minions to line up every legal precedent they could find.
By Friday night, all Violet wanted to do was hole up in her apartment with a bunch of old movies. As she always did when she locked the door behind herself, she found herself wishing she had a pet of some kind. A dog who would meet her at the door with happy yipping and dancing, or a cat who would wind around her legs and then hop into her lap. Something—someone—who made her feel important and necessary and who kept the loneliness at bay. But the building didn’t allow animals of any kind—not even fish—so, like always, Violet had to be her own best friend.
She made her way to her tiny bedroom, furnished in fin de siècle Paris, right down to the white wrought-iron bed, cabbage rose bedspread and fringed lamp shade. Even though it wasn’t quite dark, she changed into a pair of flannel pajamas spattered with cartoon sushi and pinned her hair loosely atop her head. Hey, she didn’t have plans for the evening, other than to watch a William Powell double feature and eat lots of ice cream. Having the specter of Gavin Mason hovering over one all week did have that I-need-ice-cream-and-I-need-it-now effect on a girl.
Dammit, there he was again. When she should be thinking about what flavor ice cream to have for dinner and whether she should watch The Thin Man or My Man Godfrey first.
As she entered her kitchen, she shoved all thoughts of Gavin Mason out of her brain and focused on more important matters. Cherry Garcia or Chunky Monkey—there was a dilemma. But it was easily settled by plunking a scoop of each into a big bowl. Now that’s what Violet called living the high life. Who needed Dolce & Gabbana when you had Ben & Jerry?
The opening credits for My Man Godfrey had just finished when there was a knock at Violet’s front door. Which did more than startle her, since not only was she not expecting anyone, but only the most dedicated serial killer would brave five flights of stairs, indicating the one at the door must be truly intent on wreaking mayhem.
Oh, stop it, she told herself. It was probably a delivery for her downstairs neighbor.
A quick peek through the peephole, however, and Violet knew it wasn’t a delivery. She also knew it wasn’t a serial killer. More was the pity. Because she would have been infinitely more grateful for one of those instead of Gavin Mason, who was, in fact, standing on the other side of the door. What on earth was he doing here?
“Who is it?” she called through the door.
“You know exactly who it is,” he replied. “You have a peephole.”
“Through a peephole, everyone looks like a giant fish,” she stalled. “So unless you’re a giant fish, then I don’t know who you are. And even if you are a giant fish, I still don’t know you, because I don’t know any giant fish.”
She heard an exasperated sound from the other side followed by “Open the damned door.”
Violet hooked the chain in its groove, then opened the door the four inches that would allow. “Why, Mr. Mason,” she said when she saw him. “To what do I owe this honor? “
She was proud of herself for not sounding anywhere near as uneasy as she felt. Really, what was he doing here? In a tuxedo? Looking freshly showered and shaved, and smelling even better than he had the last time she saw him?
He studied her intently for a moment. “Actually, it’s you who owes me,” he said. “And I’m here to give you a chance to make good on the debt.”
Oh, she didn’t like the sound of that at all. “I beg your pardon?” she said. Mostly because she had no idea what else to say.
“I had a date for a fundraiser tonight,” he said. “A woman named Marta who read your book, recognized me in Ethan, and who now refuses to speak to me.”
“Gee, that’s a shame,” Violet said. “Not that you don’t have a date for the evening,” she hastened to clarify, “but that you date women who don’t have enough brains to recognize the difference between fact and fiction.”
He frowned at that, obviously wondering if that was a dig at him, too. Which, of course, it was. But he said nothing, evidently thinking that best. Good man.
“Sorry I can’t help you out,” she told him. “But I’m not a dating service.”
He smiled at that. Well, okay, it was actually more like gritting his teeth. But she was going to give him the benefit of the doubt—unlike some Chicago business magnates she knew—and go for smile. “No, you’re certainly not a dating service,” he agreed. “But I’m not here because I want you to fix me up with someone. I’m here because you owe me.”
It took a moment for his meaning to gel in Violet’s muddy brain. “You want me to go to this thing with you?” she asked incredulously.
“No, I don’t want that. But I don’t have much choice. No other woman in town will be seen with me, thanks to you. And going to this thing alone would only illustrate that fact to everyone there.”
“Well, sorry, but I already have plans for the evening,” she said. “Maybe next time you could call first. Surely if you can figure out where I live, you can locate my phone number. Both are unlisted, after all.”
She started to push the door closed, but his hand shot out, his palm flattening against it, and he pushed
