has a very full schedule today.”
“He might—”
“Perhaps if you can tell me what this is about, I can fit you in later in the week.”
There was no way Violet was going to tell this woman she was here because Gavin Mason suspected her of being a call girl who’d written about him in a memoir that was really a novel. But if the only way she was going to see the man was later in the week, then she’d have to settle for that.
“Fine,” she said. “I’d like to make an appointment with Gavin Mason later in the week.”
The receptionist smiled, this time with great satisfaction, lifting her perfectly manicured hands to the keyboard before her. “And your meeting is in regard to …?”
“Public relations,” Violet said off the top of her head.
The receptionist narrowed her eyes. “Can you be more specific?”
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes some more but didn’t push the issue. Instead, she studied her computer screen for a moment and said, “Come back at four-fifty-five on Friday. He can see you for five minutes.”
Violet gaped at that, but didn’t object. How could she? She was the one who had said it would only take a few minutes. A foot in the door, she reminded herself. That was all she needed.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Your name?”
She started to reply with her real name, then realized Gavin Mason wouldn’t recognize it. “Raven French.”
She might as well have yelled that the receptionist’s hair was on fire, so massive was the woman’s reaction. Her hands faltered on the keyboard, she bolted backward in her chair, and when she jerked up her head to look at Violet again, her eyes were wide with horror.
“Raven French,” she echoed. With no small amount of melodrama, too, Violet couldn’t help thinking. Honestly, the woman might as well have been summoning some kind of B-movie hell spawn.
“Ye-es,” Violet said cautiously.
Now it was the receptionist who gaped. But she didn’t say anything, either. Her gaze never leaving Violet’s, she rose unsteadily from her chair and began to back away, bumping into the wall behind herself before flattening her palms against it and sidling to the right.
“Stay right there,” she finally said, her voice going even more Norma Desmond than before. “I think maybe Mr. Mason has a moment right now.”
And with that, the woman disappeared behind the wall. Violet heard the clatter of something tumbling over, followed by a thump and the crash of breaking glass, and a not-so-quietly muttered—nor in any way professional—oath. Then there was the quick rapping of knuckles on a door and an even less-quiet—and even less professional—screech of “Oh my God, Mr. Mason, that horrible woman is here to see you. Here. In your office. Can you imagine the nerve?”
The screeching was then replaced by another clatter and thump, only this time it sounded more like something being thrown than being dropped, and the oaths that followed were the likes of which Violet hadn’t heard since accidentally downloading Scarface from Netflix one night instead of Sense and Sensibility, which she had been so certain was next in her queue.
Then, suddenly, there was silence. And somehow, that was even scarier than Say hello to my little friend!
The receptionist suddenly reappeared from behind the wall. After a few delicate ahems, she said, “Mr. Mason will see you now.”
“Um, thank you,” Violet said.
But she didn’t feel particularly grateful. In fact, by the time she moved around the wall and saw the door to Gavin Mason’s office, her insides were taut with anxiety. As demanding as she’d been to see him, she halted at the threshold, now reluctant to enter. Bending at the waist, she peeked inside, looking left, then right, then left again.
But the room was empty. It was also nowhere near as sterile as the rest of the building, filled with massive, dark wood furnishings scattered atop an immense Persian rug that was woven in rich, jewel-tone colors. The paintings on the walls, too, were colossal, brutally executed abstracts in colors that were even denser than the rug. Clearly whoever inhabited the office was as bold and dynamic and larger-than-life as his possessions, but he hadn’t come to work yet. Thinking she must have approached the wrong door, Violet straightened and began to take a step in retreat.
Then, out of nowhere, a large, capable hand snaked out, wrapping large, capable fingers around her wrist and jerking her through the doorway. Before she could even squeak out an objection, the door slammed shut behind her. Automatically, she spun around, but her revolution was hindered by her trapped wrist, and, unaccustomed to her heels, she lost her footing and pitched forward.
Right into Gavin Mason.
Three
When Anna had told him Raven French was waiting outside to see him, Gavin had been even more furious than he’d been Saturday at her book signing. It was easy—and safe—to defame a man from a distance. But coming to his office like this violated the first primal rule in The Man Handbook: You never challenge a man on his own turf unless you want to get your ass kicked from here to Abu Dhabi.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked by way of a greeting. Doubtless that violated some rule in whatever handbook women used to get by in life—probably something with the word chocolate in its title—since their first rule would almost certainly dictate polite behavior. Which was all the more reason, Gavin rationalized, to be impolite.
To her credit, she didn’t flinch. Even though he had adopted his most menacing corporate bigshot behavior. Even though he towered over her. Even when he deliberately moved forward to crowd her space even more—and was assailed by the fragrance of something surprisingly subtle and even more surprisingly sweet. On the contrary, she met his gaze levelly and smiled. A flimsy, uneasy smile to be sure, but a smile nonetheless.
Men three times her size—who had infinitely more strength and power than she possessed—had practically wet themselves when Gavin had been this intentionally scary. Raven French, however, smiled. Which just went to show how very badly she’d underestimated him.
“And hello to you, too, Mr. Mason,” she said. But her voice wasn’t nearly as steady as it had been on Saturday. When he’d invaded her turf.
He said nothing in response to her salutation, since he was still waiting for an answer to his question. Both simply gazed at each other in silence, as if neither was sure how to proceed next.
Interesting. On Saturday, there had been no hesitation between them, even though they’d been on display in front of a number of bookstore patrons, which should have inhibited their exchange. Now when it was only the two of them, alone, neither seemed to know what to say.
He still couldn’t believe she’d come here. No one challenged him. Ever. He was the challenger in any situation, be it the boardroom or the bedroom. If Raven French had even an ounce of sense, she’d realize that. And she’d give him satisfaction immediately, in whatever form he demanded it, be it a retraction for her ridiculous book or—
Or something else.
A thought started to creep into his brain at that, one he really had no business entertaining, so he tamped it down. That was a form of satisfaction he neither wanted nor needed from her. Even if she did have long inky shafts of hair that made a man want to wind great handfuls of it around his fist. Even if she did have extraordinary violet eyes a man could find himself drowning in. Even if she did have a red, ripe mouth that made a man want to commit mayhem.
That wasn’t why he was here. It wasn’t why she was here, either. Why was she here, anyway?
“Was there something you wanted, Ms. French?”
Immediately,