MY FAIR BILLIONAIRE (14 page)

Translation,
Ava thought,
Catherine will want to know there’s a party crasher among us.

“And since you so rarely attend these things,” Chelsea added, “I’m sure Catherine will especially want to see you.”

Translation,
Ava thought,
You don’t belong here, and when Catherine sees you, she’s gonna kick your butt from here to Saks Fifth Avenue.

Ava opened her mouth to say something that might allow her to escape, but to no avail. The women chatted nonstop as they steered her to the stairs and down to the ballroom, barely stopping for breath. Short of breaking free like a panicked Thoroughbred and galloping for the exit, there was little Ava could do but go along for the ride.

The two women located Catherine—and, by extension, Peyton—in no time, and herded Ava in that direction. Peyton looked up about the same time Catherine did, and Ava wasn’t sure which of them looked more surprised. Catherine recovered first, however, straightening to a noble posture, plastering a regal smile on her face and lifting an aristocratic hand to brush back a majestic lock of black hair. Honestly, Ava thought, it was a wonder she hadn’t donned a tiara for the event. Her gaze skittered from Chelsea to Deedee then back to Ava.

“Well, my goodness,” she said flatly. “Ava Brenner, as I live and breathe. It’s been years. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

Ava knew better than to reply, because Catherine always answered her own questions. But unlike Deedee and Chelsea, who at least pretended to be polite—kind of—Catherine, having ascended to the queen bee throne the moment Ava was forced to abdicate, saw no reason to pull punches. Especially when she was dealing with peasants.

Sure enough, Catherine barely paused for breath. “Oh, wait. I know. Visiting your father in the state pen and your mother in the loony bin, and running your little shop for posers. It’s amazing you have any time left for barging into events to which you were in no way invited.”

Ava had had enough run-ins with her former friends by now that nothing Catherine could say would surprise or rattle her. Or hurt her feelings, for that matter. No, only having Peyton hear what Catherine said could do that. That could hurt quite a lot, actually.

She’d also endured enough encounters with ex-acquaintances to have learned that the best way to deal with them was to look them in the eye and never flinch. Which was good, since doing that meant Ava didn’t have to look at Peyton. Imagining his reaction to what Catherine had just revealed was bad enough.

“Actually, Catherine, my father is in a federal correctional institution,” she said with all the courtesy she could muster. She lowered her voice to the sort of stage whisper she would have used at parties like this in the past when gossiping about those who weren’t quite up to snuff. “Federal institutions are
much
more exclusive than state ones, you know. They don’t admit all the posers and wannabes.”

Her reply had the hoped-for effect. Catherine was momentarily stunned into silence. Score one for the party crasher. Yay.

Sobering and returning to her normal voice, Ava added, “And my mother passed away three years ago. But it’s so kind of you to ask about her, Catherine. I hope your mother is doing well. She and my mother were always such good friends.”

Until Ava’s father was revealed to be such a cad. Then Mrs. Bellamy had led the charge to have Ava’s mother blacklisted everywhere from the Chicago Kennel Club to Kappa Kappa Gamma.

Catherine looked flummoxed by Ava’s graciousness. Anyone else might have, if not apologized, at least backed off. But not a queen bee like Catherine. Once again, she recovered her sovereignty quickly.

“And your father?” she asked. “Will he be coming up for parole any time in the near future?”

“Four years,” Ava said with equanimity. “Do give my regards to your father as well, won’t you?”

Even though Ava had had little regard for Mr. Bellamy since he’d cornered her at Catherine’s sweet sixteen party and invited her to his study for a cocktail and God knew what else.

Catherine narrowed her eyes in irritation that Ava was neither rising to the bait nor whittling down to a nub. Really, being polite and matter-of-fact was the perfect antidote to someone so poisonous. It drove Catherine mad when people she was trying to hammer down remained pleasantly upright instead.

“And it sounds like your little shop is just flourishing,” she continued tartly. “Why, Sophie Bensinger and I were talking just the other day about how many crass little interlopers we’ve been seeing at
our
functions lately. Like tonight, for instance,” she added pointedly. “All of them dressed in clothes they couldn’t possibly afford, so they had to be rented from your pretentious little shop.” She scanned Ava up and down. “I had no idea you were one of your own customers. And it
is
nice of you to clothe the needy, Ava, but honestly, couldn’t you do it somewhere else?”

“What, and miss running into all my old friends?” Ava replied without missing a beat.

Now Catherine turned to Peyton. Knowing there was no way to avoid it, Ava did, too. She told herself she was ready for anything when it came to his reaction—confused, angry, smug, even stung. But she wasn’t ready for a complete absence of reaction. His expression was utterly blank, as if he were meeting her for the first time and had no idea who she was. She could no more tell what he thought of everything he’d just heard than she could turn back time and start the evening over.

Where Catherine’s voice had been acid when she spoke to Ava, it oozed sweetness now. “Peyton, I’m sure you remember Ava Brenner from Emerson.” After a telling little chuckle, she added, “I mean, who could forget Ava? She ruled that school with an iron fist. None of us escaped her tyranny. Well, not until her father was arrested for stealing millions from the hedge funds he was supposed to be managing, not to mention the IRS, so that he could pay for his cocaine and his whores. He even gave Ava’s mother syphilis, can you imagine? And herpes! Of course they took everything from him to pay his debts, right down to the Tiffany watch Ava’s grandmother gave her for her debut, one that had been in the family for generations. After that, Ava had to leave Chicago and go... Well. She went to live with others of her kind. In Milwaukee. You know the kind of people I’m talking about, Peyton, of course.”

As if Catherine feared he might not realize she was talking about the very sort of people he’d grown up among—but whom he’d had the good taste and cunningness to rise above—she shivered for effect. And so well had Ava taught him manners, Peyton hesitated only a microsecond before smiling. But his smile never reached his eyes. Then again, neither did Catherine’s. Or Chelsea’s. Or Deedee’s. Wow. Ava really had taught him well.

“Of course I remember Ava,” he said as he extended his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

Ava tugged her arm free of Chelsea’s and placed her hand in his, trying to ignore how even that small touch made her stomach flip-flop. How even that small touch made her remember so many others and made her wish for so many things she knew she would never have. Before she could even get out a hello, Catherine chimed in again.

“Of course you remember Ava,” she echoed Peyton’s words. “How could you forget someone who treated you as atrociously as she treated you? And have I told you, Peyton, how very much I admire your many accomplishments since you graduated?”

Still looking at Ava, still holding her hand, still making her stomach flip-flop, he replied, “Yes, you have, Catherine. Several times, in fact.”

“Well, you have had so many accomplishments,” she gushed. “All of them so admirable. All of us at Emerson are so proud of you. Of course, we all saw your potential when you were a student there. We all knew you would rise above your, ah, meager beginnings and become an enormous success.” She looked at Ava. “Well, except for Ava. But then, look how she turned out. A criminal father and an unstable mother, and not a dime to her name.” She waved a hand negligently. “But there are so many nicer things to talk about. I’m sure she was on her way out. If not, we can find someone who will show her the way.”

For one taut, immeasurable moment, Ava thought—hoped—Peyton would come to her rescue and tell Catherine she was here as his guest. She even hoped he would ignore every lesson she’d taught him about manners and tell all of them that furthermore, they could all go do something to themselves that no gentleman would ever tell anyone to do. But she really had taught him well. Because all he did was release her hand and take a step backward, then lift his drink to his mouth for an idle sip.

A small breath of disappointment escaped her. Well, what had she expected? Not only was he behaving exactly the way he was supposed to—the way she had taught him to—but it wasn’t as though Ava didn’t deserve his dismissal. Back in high school, she would have done the same thing to him. She’d said herself that karma was a really mean schoolgirl. After all, it took one to know one.

Very softly, she said, “I can find my own way out, thank you, Catherine.” She turned to Peyton. “It really was nice to see you again, Peyton. Congratulations on your many admirable accomplishments.”

She was following her own lesson book, turning to make a polite exit, when she thought,
What the hell?
They weren’t in high school anymore. She didn’t have to stay on her side of the social line the way she had at Emerson. Nor did she have to silently suffer the barbs of bullies as she had at the Prewitt School. She wasn’t part of either society anymore. She was her own woman.

And this society had tossed her out on her keister sixteen years ago. She didn’t have to rely on them to further her business or her fortune. On the contrary, any success she saw would be because of people who were like her. People who hoped for something better but were doing their best with what they had in the meantime. People who didn’t think they were better than everyone else while behaving worse. Normal people. Real people. People who didn’t care about social lines or what might happen when they crossed them. care about social lines or crossing them.

She turned back to the group, willing Peyton to meet her gaze. When he did, she told him, “It isn’t true, what Catherine said, Peyton. I knew you were better than all of us at Emerson. You still are. I wouldn’t have made love with you in high school if I hadn’t known that. And I wouldn’t have...I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you now if I hadn’t known on some level, always, that you were the best there was. That you
are
the best there is.”

Catherine had been sipping her champagne when Ava said the part about making love with him, and she must have choked on a gasp she wasn’t able to avoid. Because that was when Cristal went spewing all over Chelsea and Deedee, not to mention down the front of Catherine’s Givenchy.

“You
slept
with him in high school?” she sputtered.
“Him?”

That final word dripped with so much contempt and so much revulsion, there was no way to mistake Catherine’s meaning. That Ava had sunk to the basest, scummiest level of humanity there was by consorting with someone of Peyton’s filthy lower class. That even today, in spite of his
many admirable accomplishments,
he would never be fit for “polite” society like theirs.

Peyton, of course, noticed it, too. As did Catherine, finally. Probably because of the scathing look he shot her.

Immediately, she tried to mask her blunder. “I mean...I’m just so surprised to discover the two of you had a...ah, liaison...in high school. You were both so different from each other.”

“It surprised me, too,” Ava said, still looking at Peyton. Still unable to tell how he was reacting to what he’d just heard. “That he would lower his standards so much to get involved with a member of our crowd. It’s no wonder he didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

Finally, he reacted. But not with confusion, anger or smugness. Judging by his reaction, he was first startled, then incredulous, then...something that kind of looked like happiness? The flip-flopping in Ava’s belly turned into flutters of hopeful little butterflies.

“
I
didn’t want anyone to know?” he said. “But you were the one who—”

He halted, looking at the others, who all appeared to be more than a little interested in what he might say next. Gentleman that he was, he closed his mouth and said nothing more about that night in front of them. Nothing else Ava might say was any of their business, either. She’d said what she needed to say for now. What Peyton chose to do with everything he’d learned tonight was up to him—whether he still wanted high society’s stamp of approval or whether he wanted anything more to do with her.

If he valued his professional success and the wealth and social standing that came with it more than anything, he would be as courteous as Ava had taught him to be and pretend the last several minutes had never happened. He would watch her leave and continue chatting with his new best friends, even knowing how they truly felt about him. He would collect invitations to more events like this and exchange contact info with like-minded wealthy types. He would field introductions to more members of their tribe, doubtless meeting enough single women that Caroline the matchmaker would no longer be necessary.

In spite of what Catherine had said, and in spite of the way they all felt about him deep down, he was one of them now—provided he didn’t screw up. A full-fledged member of the society he’d so eagerly wanted to join. Even if he was nouveau riche instead of moldy old-moneyed, because of his colossal wealth, his membership in this club would never be revoked—provided he didn’t screw up. He had his pick of their women and could plant one at his side whenever he wanted, then produce a passel of beautiful, wealthy children to populate schools like Emerson. Except that Peyton’s children would enjoy all the benefits he’d been denied in such a place—provided he didn’t screw up. Even if Peyton’s past was soiled, his present—and future—would be picture-perfect. He was Peyton Moss, gentleman tycoon. No one would ever openly criticize him or treat him like a guttersnipe again.