Elizabeth Bevarly - The Billionaire Gets His Way

A ll Violet Tandy had ever wanted out of life was a place to call home. A home of her own, not a foster home like the myriad ones where she grew up. The kind of home people had in old movies, with white clapboard and black shutters and full-grown sugar maples canopying the front yard. And a picket fence. Had to have a picket fence. And a broad front porch with a wicker swing where she could reread all the books shed loved as a child Jane Eyre and Judy Blume, Lassie Come Home and Louisa May Alcott. Only shed own the books and not have to return them to the library every week.

Roses and lilac bushes would grow lush and fragrant around the perimeter of her house, morning glory would zigzag up the chimney and wisteria would drip from the eaves of the back porch. She would crochet wispy sweaters and bake cheerful pastries to support herself. She would live and let live and be content with her solitary existence. And she would never, ever harm another living soul. Yep, a tranquil, unsullied life in a comfy, uncluttered cottage all to herself was the only thing Violet Tandy had ever wanted.

Which was why she wrote a memoir about being a high-priced, high-society call girl.

Not that Violet had ever actually been a call girl, high-priced, high-society or otherwise. And not that her memoir was actually a memoirit was a novel written to read like one, a trend she had noticed was becoming more and more popular with readers these days, herself included. Gracie Ledbetter, her editor at Rockcastle Books, had been so swept away by the story, that when she called Violet to make an offer on the book, she had admitted that if she didnt know better, she would have thought Violet actually was a call girl, and that her novel and that was how Gracie had said it, as if she were italicizing itwas actually a novelization again with the italicsof her real life experiences.

In fact, now that Violet thought about it, Gracie continued to do thatspeak of the novel in italics, as if shed never quite been convinced that the book was complete fiction. Even now, a year after Violet had signed the contract on the completed manuscript and a few weeks after the books debut, Gracie still asked things like, Does the Princess Suite at the Chicago Ambassador Hotel really make you feel like a princess when youre lying on the bed staring up at the castle mural on the ceiling?

Well, how would Violet know? The only reason shed even seen the Princess Suite at the Ambassador was because shed worked there as a housekeeper and had changed the sheets on the bed. Whenever she reminded Gracie of that, however, her editor would reply, Oh, riiight. Of cooourse. You worked there as a housekeeper. Not as ayou know, in a way that wasnt quite as convincing as Violet would have liked.

And once, Gracie had asked if the croque monsieur with truffle sauce at Chez Alain really could fill up a person for three days as the review of the five-star restaurant had claimed.

Well, how would Violet know? The only reason shed even tasted the croque monsieur with truffle sauce at Chez Alain was because shed worked there as a hostess, and all the employees had had a bite or two of new dishes every time the menu changed. Whenever she reminded Gracie of that, however, her editor would reply, Oh, riiight. Of cooourse. You worked there as a hostess. Not as ayou know, in a way that wasnt quite as convincing as Violet would have liked.

No matter. She was certain that the reason Gracie asked such questions was simply because she got so carried away by thequite fictionalprose. With any luck, the reading public would react similarly, and the book would soar to the top of the New York Times bestseller list, something that would earn Violet enough money to buy the snug little Norman Rockwell house in the Chicago suburbs that shed always dreamed about.

Her initial advance for the book had actually been rather modest, but thanks to the reaction Gracies executive editor had had to the revisions on the manuscript, theyd bumped up its initial print run, changed the title to High Heels and Champagne and Sex, Oh, My! and convinced Violet to take a pen name that sounded a lot racier than her own: Raven French. Although Violet had been hesitant about that last, shed conceded, and the combination had worked brilliantly. Its first week of sale, High Heels had debuted at number twenty-nine on the list and gone back for a second printing. Then it jumped another four places the following week. Now it was poised to enter the top fifteen and, having gone back to print for a third time, would doubtless climb higher still in the weeks to come.