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My Fair Billionaire
Elizabeth Bevarly


Henry Higgins she's not!Back in school, stuck-up Ava Brenner may have been Peyton Moss's personal mean girl by day, but different kinds of sparks flew at night. Now the tables have turned, and Peyton's about to make his first billion while Ava's living a bit more humbly–to put it mildly. He needs her to teach him how to pass in high society, if they can manage to put old rivalries to bed. Soon, that's exactly where they end up! But will Peyton still want her when he learns about the scandal that sent Ava from riches to rags?









“Look, Ava, I know we were never the best of friends …”


Even if we were—for one night, anyway—lovers, Peyton couldn’t help thinking. Hoping she wasn’t thinking that, too. Figuring she probably was. “But I obviously need help with this new and improved me, and I’m not going to get it from some total stranger. I don’t know anyone here who could help me except you. Because you’re the only one here who knows me.”

“I did know you,” she corrected him. “When we were in high school. Neither of us is the person we were then.”

There was something in her voice when she said that that made Peyton hesitate. It was true he wasn’t the person he’d been in high school; Ava obviously still was. Maybe the adult wasn’t quite as snotty, vain or superficial, but she could still put a guy in his place. She was still classy.

She was still beautiful.

She was still out of his league.




My Fair Billionaire

Elizabeth Bevarly





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ELIZABETH BEVARLY is a New York Times bestselling, RITA


Award nominated author of more than seventy novels and novellas who recently celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of signing her first book contract—with Mills & Boon! Her novels have been translated into more than two dozen languages and published in more than three dozen countries, and someday she hopes to visit all the places her books have. Until then, she writes full-time in her native Louisville, Kentucky, usually on a futon between two cats. She loves reading and movies and discovering British TV shows on Netflix. And also fiddling around with soup recipes. And going to farmers’ markets with her husband. And texting with her son, who’s at college in Washington, DC. Visit her website at www.elizabethbevarly.com (http://www.elizabethbevarly.com) or find her on Facebook at the Elizabeth Bevarly Reader Page.


For David and Eli.

Thanks for always having my back.

I love you guys. OXY.


Contents

Chapter One (#ua1a512f5-33c6-579b-b068-9d3829f08e64)

Chapter Two (#u0d9416f7-a4e9-588a-ac8d-5346d5f18b94)

Chapter Three (#u338bff7d-bec8-5b98-9619-3b102df0ff4f)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


One

T. S. Eliot was right, Ava Brenner thought as she quickened her stride down Michigan Avenue and ducked beneath the awning of a storefront. April really was the cruelest month. Yesterday, the skies above Chicago had been blue and clear, and temperatures hovered in the high fifties. Today, gray clouds pelted the city with freezing rain. She tugged her scarf from the collar of her trench coat and over her head, knotting it beneath her chin. The weather would probably ruin the emerald silk, but she was on her way to meet a prospective vendor and would rather replace an injured scarf than have the perfect auburn chignon at her nape get wet and ragged.

Image was everything. Bottom line. That was a lesson life hammered home when Ava was still in high school. April wasn’t the only thing that was cruel—teenage girls could be downright brutal. Especially the rich, vain, snotty ones at posh private schools who wore the latest designer fashions and belittled the need-based-scholarship students who made do with discount-store markdowns.

Ava pushed the thought away. A decade and a half lay between her and graduation. She was the owner of her own business now, a boutique called Talk of the Town that rented haute couture fashions to women who wanted only the best for those special occasions in life. Even if the shop was operating on a shoestring and wishful thinking, it was starting to show a profit. At least she looked the part of successful businesswoman. No one had to know she was her own best customer.

She whipped the scarf from her head and tucked it into the pocket of her trench coat as she entered an elegant eatery. Beneath, she wore a charcoal-gray Armani jacket and trousers, paired with a sage-colored shell she knew enhanced her green eyes. The outfit had arrived at Talk of the Town just this week, and she’d wanted to test-drive it for comfort and wearability.

As she approached the host stand, her cell phone twittered. It was the vendor she was supposed to be meeting, asking to postpone their appointment for an evening later in the week. So Ava would be on her own for dinner tonight. As usual. Still, she hadn’t taken herself out in a long time, and she had been working extra hard this month. She’d earned a bit of a treat.

Basilio, the restaurant’s owner, greeted her by name with a warm smile. Every time she saw him, Ava was reminded of her father. Basilio had the same dark eyes, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and neatly trimmed mustache. But she was reasonably certain that, unlike her father, Basilio had never done time in a federal prison.

Without even checking the seating chart, he led Ava to her favorite table by the window, where she could watch the passersby as she ate. As she lifted her menu, however, her attention was yanked away by a ruckus in the bar. When she glanced up, she saw Dennis, her favorite bartender, being berated by a customer, a tall man with broad shoulders and coal-black hair. He was evidently offended by Dennis’s suggestion that he’d had too much to drink, a condition that was frankly obvious.

“I’m fine,” the man insisted. Although his words weren’t slurred, his voice was much louder than necessary. “And I want another Macallan. Neat.”

Dennis remained calm as he replied, “I don’t think—”

“That’s right,” the man interrupted him. “You don’t think. You serve drinks. Now serve me another Macallan. Neat.”

“But, Mr.—”

“Now,” the man barked.

Ava’s pulse leaped at the angrily uttered word. She’d worked her way through college at three jobs, one of which had been as a waitress. She’d dealt with her share of patrons who became bullies after drinking too much. Thankfully, Basilio and her waiter, Marcus, were on the spot quickly to attend to the situation.

Dennis shook his head at the others’ approach, holding up a hand for them to wait. In gentling tones, he said, “Mr. Moss, maybe it would be better if you had a cup of coffee instead.”

Heat splashed into Ava’s belly at hearing the name. Moss. She had gone to school—long ago, in a galaxy far away—with a Moss. Peyton Moss. He had been a grade ahead of her at the tony Emerson Academy.

But this couldn’t be him, she told herself. Peyton Moss had sworn to everyone at Emerson that he was leaving Chicago the moment he graduated and never coming back. And he’d kept that promise. Ava had returned to Chicago only a few months after earning her business degree and had run into a handful of her former classmates—more was the pity—none of whom had mentioned Peyton’s return.

She looked at the man again. Peyton had been Emerson’s star hockey player, due not just to his prowess, but also his size. His hair had been shoulder-length, inky silk, and his voice, even then, had been dark and rich. By now, it could have easily deepened to the velvety baritone of the man at the bar.

When he turned to look at Marcus, Ava bit back a gasp. Although the hair was shorter and the profile harsher, it was indeed Peyton. She’d know that face anywhere. Even after sixteen years.

Without thinking, she jumped up and hurried to place herself between Peyton and the others. With all the calm she could muster, she said, “Gentlemen. Maybe what we need here is an unbiased intermediary to sort everything out.”

Peyton would laugh himself silly about that if he recognized her. Ava had been anything but unbiased toward him in high school. But he’d been plenty biased toward her, too. That was what happened when two people moved in such disparate social circles in an environment where the lines of society were stark, immutable and absolute. When upper class met lower class in a place like Emerson, the sparks that flew could immolate an entire socioeconomic stratum.

“Ms. Brenner, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Basilio said. “Men in his condition can be unpredictable, and he’s three times your size.”

“My condition is fine,” Peyton snapped. “Or it would be. If this establishment honored the requests of its paying customers.”

“Just let me speak to him,” Ava said, dropping her voice.

Basilio shook his head. “Marcus and I can handle this.”

“But I know him. He and I went to school together. He’ll listen to me. We’re...we were...” Somehow she pushed the word out of her mouth. “Friends.”

It was another word that would have made Peyton laugh. The two of them had been many things at Emerson—unwilling study partners, aggressive sparring partners and for one strange, intoxicating night, exuberant lovers—but never, ever, friends.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Brenner,” Basilio said, “but I can’t let you—”

Before he could stop her, Ava spun around and made her way to the bar. “Peyton,” she said when she came to a halt in front of him.

Instead of looking at Ava, he continued to study Dennis. “What?”

“This has gone far enough. You need to be reasonable.”

He opened his mouth, but halted when his gaze connected with hers. She’d forgotten what beautiful eyes he had. They were the color and clarity of good cognac, fringed by sooty lashes.

“I know you,” he said, suddenly more lucid. His tone was confident, but his expression held doubt. “Don’t I?”

“You and I went to school together,” she said, deliberately vague. “A long time ago.”

He seemed surprised by the connection. “I don’t remember you from Stanford.”

Stanford? she echoed to herself. Last she’d heard he was headed to a university in New England with a double major in hat tricks and cross-checking and a minor in something vaguely scholastic in case he injured himself. How had he ended up on the West Coast?

“Not Stanford,” she said.

“Then where?”

Reluctantly, she told him, “The Emerson Academy here in Chicago.”

His surprise multiplied. “You went to Emerson?”

Well, he didn’t need to sound so shocked. Did she still look that much like a street urchin?

“Yes,” she said evenly. “I went to Emerson.”

He narrowed his eyes as he studied her more closely. “I don’t remember you from there, either.”

Something sharp pricked her chest at the comment. She should be happy he didn’t remember her. She wished she could forget the girl she’d been at Emerson. She wished she could forget Peyton, as well. But so often over the past sixteen years, he and the other members of his social circle had crept into her brain, conjuring memories and feelings she wished she could bury forever.

Without warning, he lifted a hand to cradle her chin and jaw. Something hot and electric shot through her at the contact, but he didn’t seem to notice. He simply turned her face gently one way, then the other, looking at her from all angles. Finally, he dropped his hand back to the bar. He shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, then—

Then his expression went slack. “Oh, my God. Ava Brenner.”

She expelled an irritated sigh. Damn. She didn’t want anyone to remember her the way she’d been at Emerson, especially the kids like Peyton. Especially Peyton, period. In spite of that, a curl of pleasure wound through her when she realized he’d made a space for her, however small, in his memory.

Resigned, she replied, “Yes. It’s me.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, his tone belying nothing of what he might be thinking.

He collapsed onto a barstool, gazing at her with those piercing golden eyes. A rush of conflicting emotions washed over her that she hadn’t felt for a very long time—pride and shame, arrogance and insecurity, blame and guilt. And in the middle of it all, an absolute uncertainty about Peyton, about herself, about the two of them together. Then as well as now.

Oh, yes. She definitely felt as if she was back in high school. And she didn’t like it now any better than she had then.

When it became clear that Peyton wasn’t going to cause any more trouble, Dennis snatched the empty cocktail glass from the bar and replaced it with a coffee mug. Basilio released a slow breath and threw Ava a grateful smile. Marcus went back to check on his diners. Ava told herself to return to her table, that she’d done her good deed for the day and should just leave well enough alone. But Peyton was still staring at her, and something in his expression made her pause. Something that sent another tumble of memories somersaulting through her brain. Different memories from the others that had plagued her tonight, but memories that were every bit as unpleasant and unwanted.

Because it had been Ava, not Peyton, who had led the ruling social class at the posh, private Emerson Academy. It had been Ava, not Peyton, who had been rich, vain and snotty. It had been Ava, not Peyton, who had worn the latest designer fashions and belittled the need-based-scholarship students who made do with discount-store markdowns. At least until the summer before her senior year, when her family had lost everything, and she’d suddenly found herself walking in their discount-store markdowns herself. Then she’d been the one who was penniless, unwanted and bullied.

Peyton didn’t say a word as Ava studied him, pondering all the things that had changed in the decade and a half since she’d seen him. A few threads of silver had woven their way into his dark hair, and the lower half of his face was shadowed by a day’s growth of beard. She couldn’t remember him shaving in high school. But perhaps he had, even if that morning when she’d woken up beside him in her bedroom, he—

She tried to stop the memories before they could form, but they came anyway. How it had all played out when the two of them were forced to work together on a semester-long project for World Civ, one of the classes that combined seniors and juniors. Money really did change everything—at least at Emerson, it had. School rules had dictated that those whose families had lots of money must belittle those whose families had none, and that those who had nothing must resent those who had everything. In spite of that, there had always been...something...between Ava and Peyton. Something hot and heavy that burned up the air in any room the two of them shared. Some strange, combustible reaction due to...something. Something weird. Something volatile. Something neither of them had ever been able to identify or understand.

Or, ultimately, resist.

It had culminated one night at her house when the two of them had been working late on that class project and had ended up... Well, it hadn’t exactly been making love, since whatever they’d felt for each other then had had nothing to do with love. But it hadn’t been sex, either. There had been more to it than the mingling of two bodies. It had just fallen short of the mingling of two souls.

The morning after, Peyton had jumped out of bed on one side, and Ava had leaped out on the other. They had hurled both accusations and excuses, neither listening to the other. The only thing they’d agreed on was that they’d made a colossal mistake that was never to be mentioned again. Peyton had dressed and fled through her bedroom window, not wanting to be discovered, and Ava had locked it tight behind him. Monday morning, they turned in their assignment and went back to being enemies, and Ava had held her breath for the remainder of the year. Only after Peyton graduated and took off for college had she been able to breathe again.

For all of three weeks. Until her entire life came crashing down around her, pitching her to the bottom rung of the social ladder among the very people she had treated so callously before. People whom she quickly learned had deserved none of the treatment she had spent years dishing out.

She turned to Basilio. “I need a favor. Could I ask one of your waiters to run back to my shop for my car so I can drive Mr. Moss home? I’ll stay here and have coffee with him until then.”

Basilio looked at her as if she’d lost every marble she possessed.

“It’s only a fifteen-minute walk,” she told him. “Ten if whoever you send hurries.”

“But, Ms. Brenner, he’s not—”

“—himself,” Ava quickly interjected. “Yes, I know, which is why he deserves a pass tonight.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

No, she wasn’t. This Peyton was a stranger to her in so many ways. Not that the Peyton she used to know had exactly been an open book. He might not have thought much of her kind when they were in high school, and maybe he hadn’t been much of a gentleman, but he hadn’t been dangerous, either. Well, not in the usual sense of the word. Whatever had made him behave badly tonight, he’d calmed down once he recognized a familiar face.

Besides, she owed him. She owed him more than she could ever make up for. But at least, by doing this, she might make some small start.

“My keys are in my purse at my table,” she told Basilio, “and my car is parked behind the shop. Just send someone down there to get it, and I’ll take him home. Please,” she added.

Basilio looked as if he wanted to object again, but instead said, “Fine. I’ll send Marcus. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Yes, well, that, Ava thought, made two of them.

* * *

Peyton Moss awoke the way he hadn’t awoken in a very long time—hungover. Really hungover. When he opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was or what time it was or what he’d been doing in the hours before wherever and whatever time he was in.

He lay still in bed for a minute—he was at least in a bed, wasn’t he?—and tried to figure out how he’d arrived in his current position. Hmm. Evidently, his current position was on his stomach atop a crush of sheets, his face shoved into a pillow. So that would be a big yep on the bed thing. The question now was, whose bed? Especially since, whoever the owner was, she wasn’t currently in it with him.

But he concluded the owner of the bed must be a she. Not only did the sheets smell way too good to belong to a man, but the wallpaper, he discovered when he rolled over, was covered with roses, and a chandelier above him dripped ropes of crystal beads. He drove his gaze around the room and saw more evidence of gender bias in an ultrafeminine dresser and armoire, shoved into a corner by the room’s only window, which was covered by billows of lace.

So he’d gone home with a strange woman last night. Nothing new about that, except that going home with strangers was something he’d been more likely to do in his youth. Not that thirty-four was old, dammit, but it was an age when a man was expected to start settling down and figuring out what he wanted. Not that Peyton hadn’t done that, too, but... Okay, so maybe he hadn’t settled down that much. And maybe he hadn’t quite figured out everything he wanted. He’d settled some and figured out the bulk of it. Hell, that was why he’d come back to a city he’d sworn he would never set foot in again.

Chicago. God. The last time he was here, he’d been eighteen years old and wild as a rabid badger. He’d left his graduation ceremony and gone straight to the bus station, stopping only long enough to cram his cap and gown into the first garbage can he could find. He hadn’t even gone home to say goodbye. Hell, no one at home had given a damn what he did. No one in Chicago had.

He draped an arm over his eyes and expelled a weary sigh. Yeah, nothing like a little adolescent melodrama to start the day off right.

He jackknifed to a sitting position and slung his legs over the bed. His jacket and tie were hanging over the back of a chair and his shoes were on the floor near his feet. His rumpled shirt and trousers were all fastened, as was his belt. Obviously, nothing untoward had happened the night before, so, with any luck, there wouldn’t be any awkward moments once he found out who his hostess was.

Carefully, he made his way to the door and headed into a bathroom on his right, turning on the water to fill the sink. After splashing a few handfuls onto his face, he felt a little better. He still looked like hell, he noted when he caught his reflection in the mirror. But he felt a little better.

The mirror opened to reveal a slim cabinet behind it, and he was grateful to see a bottle of mouthwash. At least that took care of the dead-animal taste in his mouth. He found a comb, too, and dragged that through his hair, then did his best to smooth the wrinkles from his shirt.

Leaving the bathroom, he detected the aroma of coffee and followed it to a kitchen that was roughly the size of an electron. The light above the stove was on, allowing him to find his way around. The only wall decoration was a calendar with scenes of Italy, but the fridge door was crowded with stuff—a notice about an upcoming Italian film festival at the Patio Theater, some pictures of women’s clothing cut out of a magazine and a postcard reminding whoever lived here of an appointment with her gynecologist.

The coffeemaker must have been on a timer, because there was no evidence of anyone stirring but him. Glancing down at his watch, he saw that it was just after five, which helped explain why no one was stirring. Except that the coffeemaker timer must have been set for now, so whoever lived here was normally up at this ungodly hour.

He crossed the kitchen in a single stride and exited on the other side, finding himself in a living room that was barely as big as the bedroom. Enough light from the street filtered through the closed curtains for him to make out a lamp on the other side of the room, and he was about to move toward it when a sound to his right stopped him. It was the sound a woman made upon stirring when she was not ready to stir, a soft sough of breath tempered by a fretful whimper. Through the semidarkness, he could just make out the figure of a woman lying on the couch.

Peyton had found himself in a lot of untenable positions over the years—many of which had included women—but he had no idea what to do in a situation like this. He didn’t know where he was, had no idea how he’d gotten here and was clueless about the identity of the woman under whose roof he had passed the night. For all he knew, she could be married. Hell, for all he knew, she could be a knife-wielding maniac. Then his hostess made that quiet sound of semiconsciousness again, and he decided she couldn’t be the last. Knife-wielding maniacs couldn’t sound that delectable. Still, if she was sleeping out here and he’d spent the night in her bedroom, he had nothing to feel guilty about, right? Except for tossing her out of her bed when he should have been the one sleeping on the couch. And except for passing out on her in the first place.

What the hell had happened last night? He mentally retraced his steps from the moment he set foot back on his native soil. Although he’d left Chicago via Greyhound bus more than fifteen years ago, his return had been aboard a private jet. His private jet. He might have been a street dog in his youth, but in adulthood... Ah, who was he kidding? In adulthood, he was still a street dog. That was the reason he was back here.

Anyway, after landing, he’d headed straight to the Hotel Intercontinental on Michigan Avenue. That much Peyton remembered with crystal clarity, because the Hotel Intercontinental was the sort of place that A) he never would have had the nerve to enter when he was a kid, and B) would have tossed him out on his ass if he had tried to enter when he was a kid. Funny how they’d had no problem accepting his platinum card yesterday.

He further remembered walking into his suite and tossing his bag onto the massive bed, then going to the window and pushing aside the curtains. He recalled looking out on Michigan Avenue, at the gleaming high-rises and upscale department stores that had always seemed off-limits to him when he lived here. This whole neighborhood had seemed off-limits to him when he was a kid. In spite of that, he’d come to this part of town five days a week, nine months a year, because the Emerson Academy for College Preparatory Learning sat in the middle of it. For those other two days of the week and three months of the year, though, Peyton had always had to stay with his own kind in the rough South Side neighborhood where he’d grown up.

Yesterday, looking out that window, he had been brutally reminded of how his teenage life in this part of town had been juxtaposed to the life—if he could even call it that—that he’d led in his not-even-marginal neighborhood. As much as he’d hated Emerson, it had always felt good to escape his home life for eight hours a day. Yesterday, looking out at the conspicuous consumption of Michigan Avenue, Peyton had, ironically, been transported back to his old neighborhood instead. He’d been able to smell the grease and gasoline of the garage he and his old man had lived above—and where he’d worked to save money for college when he wasn’t at school. He’d heard the police sirens that pelted the crumbling urban landscape, had seen the roving packs of gangs that considered his block fair game. He’d felt the grime on his skin and tasted the soot that belched from the factory smokestacks. And then...

Then had come memories of Emerson, where he’d won a spot on the school hockey team—along with a full scholarship—thanks to his above-average grades and his ruthlessness on the rink. God, he’d hated that school, teeming as it had been with blue-blooded trust-fund babies who were way too rich for his system. But he’d loved how clean and bright the place was, and how it smelled like floor wax and Calvin Klein perfume. He’d liked the quiet during classes and how orderly everything ran. He’d liked being able to eat one decent meal a day. He’d liked feeling safe, if only for a little while.

Not that he would have admitted any of that back then. Not that he would admit it to anyone now. But he’d been smart enough to know that an education from a place like Emerson would look a hell of a lot better on a college application than the decaying public school he would have attended otherwise. He’d stomached the rich kids—barely—by finding the handful of other students like himself. The wretched refuse. The other scholarship kids who were smart but poor and determined to end up in a better place than their parents. There had been maybe ten of them in a school where they were outnumbered a hundred to one. Peyton hadn’t given a damn about those hundreds. Except for one, who had gotten under his skin and stayed there.

Ava Brenner. The Golden Girl of the Gold Coast. Her daddy was so rich and so powerful, and she was so snotty and so beautiful, she’d ruled that school. Not a day had passed at Emerson that didn’t revolve around Ava and her circle of friends—all handpicked by the princess herself, and all on eggshells knowing they could be exiled at her slightest whim. Not a day had passed that Peyton hadn’t had to watch her strolling down the hall, flipping that sweep of red-gold hair around as if it was spun copper...and looking at him as if he were something disgusting stuck to the bottom of her shoe. And not a day had passed when he hadn’t wanted her. Badly. Even knowing she was spoiled and shallow and vain.

He opened his eyes. Yeah, he remembered now that he had been thinking about Ava yesterday. In fact, that was what had made him beat a hasty retreat to the hotel bar. He remembered that, too. And he remembered tossing back three single malts on an empty stomach in rapid succession. He remembered being politely asked to leave the hotel bar and, surprisingly, complying. He remembered lurching out onto Michigan Avenue and looking for the first place he could find to get another drink, then being steady enough on his feet to convince the bartender to fix him a couple more. Then...

He tried harder to remember what had happened after that. But all he could recall was a husky—sexy—voice, and the soft scent of gardenias, and a pair of beautiful sea-green eyes, all of which had seemed oddly familiar somehow.

That brought his gaze back to the woman sleeping on the couch. In the semidarkness, he could see that she lay on her side, facing the room, one hand curled in front of her face. The blanket with which she had covered herself was drooping, part of it pooled on the floor. For some reason, he was compelled to move to the couch and pick it up, to drape it across her sleeping form. As he bent over her, he inhaled the faint scent of gardenias again, as if it had followed him out of his memories.

And just like that, he was pummeled by another one.

Ava Brenner. Again. She was the one who had smelled of gardenias. Peyton remembered the night the two of them had— Well, the night they’d had to finish a school project together at her house. In her room. When her parents were out of town. At one point, she’d gone downstairs to fix them something to eat, and he’d taken advantage of her absence to shamelessly prowl around her room, opening her closet and dresser drawers, snooping for anything he could discover about her. When he came across her underwear drawer, he actually stole a pair of her panties. Pale yellow silk. God help him, he still had them. As he’d stuffed them into his back pocket that night, his gaze lit on a bottle of perfume on her dresser. Night Gardenia, it was called. That was the only way he knew that what she smelled like was gardenias. He’d never smelled—or even seen—one before that night.

As he draped the cover over the sleeping woman, his gaze fell to her face, and his gut clenched tight. He told himself he was imagining things. He was just so overcome with memories of Ava that he was imprinting her face onto that of a stranger. The odds of him running into the last person he wanted to see in Chicago—within hours of his arrival—were too ridiculous to compute. There were two and a half million people in this city. No way could fate be that cruel. No way would he be thrown back into the path of—

Before the thought even formed in his head, though, Peyton knew. It was her. Ava Brenner. Golden Girl of the Gold Coast. Absolute ruler of the Emerson Academy for College Preparatory Learning. A recurring character in the most feverish dreams he’d ever had as a teenage boy.

And someone he’d hoped he would never, ever see again.


Two

“Ava?”

As if he’d uttered an incantation to free a fairy-tale princess from an evil spell, her eyes fluttered open. He tried one last time to convince himself he was only imagining her. But even in the semidarkness, he could see that it was Ava. And that she was more beautiful than he remembered.

“Peyton?” she said as she pushed herself up from the sofa.

He stumbled backward and into a chair on the other side of the room. Oh, God. Her voice. The way she said his name. It was the same way she’d said it that morning in her bedroom, when he’d opened his eyes to realize the frenetic dream he’d had about the two of them having sex hadn’t been a dream at all. The panic that welled up in him now was identical to the feeling he had then, an explosion of fear and uncertainty and insecurity. He hated that feeling. He hadn’t felt it since...

Ah, hell. He hadn’t felt it since that morning in Ava’s bedroom.

Don’t panic, he told himself. He wasn’t an eighteen-year-old kid whose only value lay in his ruthlessness on the rink. He wasn’t living in poverty with a drunk for a father after his mother had deserted them both. He sure as hell wasn’t the refuse of the Emerson Academy who wasn’t worthy of Ava Brenner.

“Um, hi? I guess?” she said as she sat up, pulling up her covers as if she were cloaking herself in some kind of protective device. She was obviously just as anxious about seeing him as he was about seeing her.

As much as Peyton told himself to reply with a breezy, unconcerned greeting, all he could manage was another quiet “Ava.”

She pulled one hand out of her cocoon to switch on a lamp by the sofa. He squinted at the sudden brightness but didn’t glance away. Her eyes seemed larger than he remembered, and the hard angles of her cheekbones had mellowed to slender curves. Her hair was shorter, darker than in high school, but still danced around her shoulders unfettered. And her mouth—that mouth that had inspired teenage boys to commit mayhem—was... Hell. It still inspired mayhem. Only now that Peyton was a man, mayhem took on a whole new meaning.

“You want coffee?” she asked. “It should be ready. I set the coffeemaker for the usual time, thinking I would wake up when I normally do, but I don’t think it’s been sitting too long. If memory serves, you like it strong, anyway.”

If memory serves, he echoed to himself. She had brewed a pot of coffee for them at her house that night, in preparation for the all-nighter they knew lay ahead. He had told her he liked it strong. She remembered. Even though the two of them had barely spoken to each other after that night. Did that mean something? Did he want it to?

“Coffee sounds good,” he said. “But I can get it. You take yours with cream and sugar, if I recall correctly.”

Okay, okay. So Ava wasn’t the only one who could remember that night in detail. That didn’t mean anything.

She pulled the covers more snugly around herself. “Thanks.”

Peyton hurried to the kitchen, grateful for the opportunity to collect himself. Ava Brenner. Damn. It was as if he’d turned on some kind of homing device the minute he got into town in order to locate her. Or maybe she had turned on one to locate him. Nah. No way would she be looking for him after all this time. She’d made her feelings for him crystal clear back at Emerson. They’d only shone with an even starker clarity after that night at her parents’ house. And no way would he be looking for her, either. It was nothing but a vicious twist of fate or a vengeful God or bad karma that had brought them together again.

By the time he carried their coffee back to the living room, she had swept her hair atop her head into a lopsided knot that, amazingly, made her look even more beautiful. The covers had fallen enough to reveal a pair of flannel pajamas, decorated with multicolored polka dots. Never in a million years would he have envisioned Ava Brenner in flannel polka dots. Weirdly, though, they suited her.

She mumbled her thanks as he handed her her coffee—and he told himself he did not linger long enough to skim his fingers over hers to see if she felt as soft as he remembered, even if he did notice she felt softer than he remembered. He briefly entertained the idea of sitting down beside her on the couch but thankfully came to his senses and returned to the chair.

When he trusted himself not to screw up the question, he asked, “Wanna tell me how I ended up spending the night with you again?”

He winced inwardly. He really hadn’t wanted to make any reference to that night in high school. But her head snapped up at the question. Obviously, she’d picked up on the allusion, too.

“You don’t remember?” she asked.

There was an interesting ambiguity to the question. She could have been asking about last night or that night sixteen years ago. Of course she must have meant last night. Still, there was an interesting ambiguity.

He shook his head. As much as it embarrassed him to admit it, he told her, “No. I don’t remember much of anything after arriving at some restaurant on Michigan Avenue.”

Except, of course, for fleeting recollections of green eyes, soft touches and the faint aroma of gardenias. But she didn’t have to know that.

“So you do remember what happened before that?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Not that he was going to tell her any of that, either.

She waited for him to elaborate. He elaborated by lifting one eyebrow and saying nothing.

She sighed and tried again. “When did you get back in town?”

“Yesterday.”

“You came in from San Francisco?”

The question surprised him. “How did you know?”

“When I offered to take you home last night, you told me I was going to have a long drive. Then you told me you live in an area called Sea Cliff in San Francisco. Sounds like a nice neighborhood.”

That was an understatement. Sea Cliff was one of San Francisco’s most expensive and exclusive communities, filled with lush properties and massive estates. His two closest neighbors were a globally known publishing magnate and a retired ’60s rock and roll icon.

“It’s not bad,” he said evasively.

“So what took you to the West Coast?”

“Work.” Before she could ask more, he turned the tables. “Still living in the Gold Coast?”

For some reason, she stiffened at the question. “No. My folks sold that house around the time I graduated from high school.”

“Guess they figured those seven thousand square feet would be too much for two people instead of three. Not including the servants, of course.”

She dropped her gaze to her coffee. “Only two of our staff lived on site.”

“Well, then. I stand corrected.” He looked around the tiny living room, recalled the tiny kitchen and tiny bedroom. “So what’s this place?”

“It’s...” She glanced up, hesitated, then looked down into her coffee again. “I own the shop downstairs. A boutique. Women’s designer fashions.”

He nodded. “Ah. So this apartment came with the place, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Easier to bring me here than to someplace where you might have to explain my presence, huh?”

For the first time, it occurred to him that Ava might be married. Hell, why wouldn’t she be? She’d had every guy at Emerson panting after her. His gaze fell to the hands wrapped around her coffee mug. No rings. Anywhere. Another interesting tidbit. She’d always worn jewelry in high school. Diamond earrings, ruby and sapphire rings—they were her parents’ birthstones, he’d once heard her tell a friend—and an emerald necklace that set off her eyes beautifully.

Before he had a chance to decide whether her ringless state meant she wasn’t married or she just removed her jewelry at night, she said, “Well, you’re not exactly an easy person to explain, are you, Peyton?”

He decided not to speculate on the remark and instead asked about her status point-blank. “Husband wouldn’t approve?”

Down went her gaze again. “I’m not married.”

“But you still have someone waiting for you at home that you’d have to explain me to, is that it?”

The fact that she didn’t respond bothered Peyton a lot more than it should have. He told himself to move along, to just get the condensed version of last night’s events and call a cab. He told himself there was nothing about Ava he wanted to know, nothing she could say that would affect his life now. He told himself to remember how bad things were between them in high school for years, not how good things were that one night.

He told himself all those things. But, as was so often the case, he didn’t listen to a single word he said.

* * *

Ava did her best to reassure herself that she wasn’t lying to Peyton. Lies of omission weren’t really lies, were they? And what was she supposed to do? No way had she wanted him to see the postage stamp-size apartment she called home. She was supposed to be a massive success by now. She was supposed to have a posh address in the Gold Coast, a closet full of designer clothes and drawers full of designer jewelry. Well, okay, she did have those last two. But they belonged to the shop, not her. She could barely afford to rent them herself.

People believed what they wanted to believe, anyway. Even sitting in her crappy apartment, Peyton assumed she was the same dazzling—if vain, shallow and snotty—Gold Coast heiress who’d had everyone wrapped around her finger in high school. He thought she still lived in a place like the massive Georgian townhouse on Division Street where she grew up, and she still drove a car like the cream-colored Mercedes convertible she’d received for her sixteenth birthday.

He obviously hadn’t heard how the Brenners of the Gold Coast had been reduced to a state of poverty and hardship that rivaled the one he’d escaped on the South Side. He didn’t know her father was still doing time in a federal prison for tax evasion, embezzlement and a string of other charges, because he’d had to support a drug-and-call-girl habit. He didn’t know her mother had passed away in a mental hospital after too many years of trying to cope with the anguish and ostracism brought on by her husband’s betrayal. He didn’t know how, before that, Colette Brenner had left Ava’s father and taken her to Milwaukee to finish high school, or that Ava had done so in a school much like Emerson—except that she had been the poor scholarship student looked down on by the ruling class of rich kids, the same way she had looked down on Peyton and his crowd at Emerson.

Sometimes karma was a really mean schoolgirl.

But that was all the more reason she didn’t want Peyton to know the truth now. She’d barely made a dent in her karmic debt. Spending her senior year of high school walking in the shoes of the students she’d treated so shabbily for years—being treated so shabbily herself—she had learned a major life lesson. It was only one reason she’d opened Talk of the Town: so that women who hadn’t had the same advantages in life that she’d taken for granted could have the chance to walk in the designer shoes of high society, if only for a little while.

It was something she was sure Peyton would understand—if it came from anyone but Ava. If he found out what she’d gone through her senior year of high school, he’d mock her mercilessly. Not that she didn’t deserve it. But a person liked to have a little warning before she found herself in a situation like that. A person needed a little time to put on her protective armor. Especially a person who knew what a formidable force Peyton Moss could be.

“There’s no one waiting for me at home,” she said softly in response to his question.

Or anywhere else, for that matter. No one in her former circle of friends had wanted anything to do with her once she started living below the poverty line, and she’d stepped on too many toes outside that circle for anyone there to ever want to speak to her. Peyton would be no exception.

When she looked up again, he was studying her with a scrutiny that made her uncomfortable. But all he said was, “So what did happen last night?”

“You were in Basilio’s when I got there. I heard shouting in the bar and saw Dennis—he’s the bartender,” she added parenthetically, “talking to you. He suggested, um, that you might want a cup of coffee instead of another drink.”

Instead of asking about the conversation, Peyton asked, “You know the bartender by name?”

“Sure. And Basilio, the owner, and Marcus, the waiter who helped me get you to the car. I eat at that restaurant a lot.” It was the only one in the neighborhood she could afford when it came to entertaining potential clients and vendors. Not that she would admit that to Peyton.

He nodded. “Of course you eat there a lot. Why cook for yourself when you can pay someone else do it?”

Ava ignored the comment. Peyton really was going to believe whatever he wanted about her. It didn’t occur to him that sixteen years could mature a person and make her less shallow and more compassionate. Sixteen years evidently hadn’t matured him, if he was still so ready to think the worst of her.

“Anyway,” she continued, “you took exception to Dennis’s suggestion that you’d had too much to drink—and you had had too much to drink, Peyton—and you got a little...belligerent.”

“Belligerent?” he snapped. “I never get belligerent.”

Somehow Ava refrained from comment.

He seemed to realize what she was thinking, because he amended, “Anymore. It’s been a long time since I was belligerent with anyone.”

Yeah, probably about sixteen years. Once he graduated from Emerson, all the targets of his belligerence—especially Ava Brenner—would have been out of his life.

“Basilio was going to throw you out, but I...I mean, when I realized you were someone I knew...I...” She expelled a restless sound. “I told him you and I are... That we were—” Somehow, she managed not to choke on the words. “Old friends. And I offered to drive you home.”

“And he let you?” Peyton asked. “He let you leave with some belligerent guy he didn’t know from Adam? Wow. I guess he really didn’t want to offend the regular cash cow.”

Bristling, Ava told him, “He let me because you calmed down a lot after you recognized me. By the time Marcus and I got you into the car, you were actually being kind of nice. I know—hard to believe.”

There. Take that, Mr. Belligerent Cow-Caller.

“But once you were in the car,” she hurried on before he could comment, “you passed out. I didn’t have any choice but to bring you here. I roused you enough to get you into the apartment, but while I was setting up the coffee, you found your way to the bedroom and went out like a light again. I thought maybe you’d sleep it off in a few hours, but... Well. That didn’t happen.”

“I’ve been working a lot the last few weeks,” he said shortly, “on a demanding project. I haven’t gotten much sleep.”

“You were also blotto,” she reminded him. Mostly because the cow comment still stung.

In spite of that, she wondered what kind of work he did and how he’d spent his life since they graduated. How long had he been in San Francisco? Was he married? Did he have children? Even as Ava told herself it didn’t matter, she was helpless not to glance at his left hand. No ring. No indentation or tan line to suggest one had ever been there. Not that that was any definer of status. Even if he wasn’t married, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a woman who was important in his life.

Not that Ava cared about any of that. She didn’t. Really. All she cared about was getting him out of her hair. Getting him out of her apartment. Getting him out of her life.

In spite of that, she heard herself ask, “So why are you back in Chicago?”

He hesitated, as if he were trying to figure out how to reply. Finally, he said, “I’m here because my board of directors made me come.”

Board of directors? she thought incredulously. He had a board of directors? “Board of directors?” she asked. “You have a board of directors?”

The question sounded even worse coming out of her mouth than it had sitting in her head, where it had sounded pretty bad.

Before she had a chance to apologize, Peyton told her—with a glare that could have boiled an ice cube, “Yeah, Ava. I have a board of directors. They’re part of the multimillion-dollar corporation of which I am chief shareholder, not to mention CEO. A company that’s named after me. On account of, in case I didn’t mention it, I own it.”

Ava grew more astonished with every word he spoke. But her surprise wasn’t from the discovery that he was an enormous success—she’d always known Peyton could do or be whatever he wanted. She just hadn’t pegged him for becoming the corporate type. On the contrary, he’d always scorned the corporate world. He’d scorned anyone who strove to make lots of money. He’d despised people like the ones in Ava’s social circle. And now he was one of them?

This time, however, she kept her astonishment to herself.

At least, she thought she did, until he added, “You don’t have to look so shocked. I did have one or two redeeming qualities back in high school, not the least of which was a work ethic.”

“Peyton, I didn’t mean—”

“The hell you didn’t.” Before she could continue, he added, “In fact, Moss Holdings Incorporated is close to becoming a billion-dollar corporation. The only thing standing between me and those extra zeroes after my net worth is a little company in Mississippi called Montgomery and Sons. Except that it’s not owned by Montgomery or his sons anymore. They all died more than a century ago. It’s now owned by the Montgomery sons’ granddaughters. Who are both in their eighties.”

Ava had no idea what to say. Not that he seemed to expect a response from her, because he suddenly became agitated and rose from the chair to pace the room.

He sounded agitated, too, when he continued, “Helen and Dorothy Montgomery. They’re sweet little old Southern ladies who wear hats and white gloves to corporate meetings and send holiday baskets to everyone every year filled with preserves and socks they make themselves. They’re kind of legendary in the business and financial communities.”

He stopped pacing, looking at something near the front door that Ava couldn’t see. At something he probably couldn’t see, either, since whatever it was must have existed far away from the apartment.

“Yeah, everybody loves the Montgomery sisters,” he muttered. “They’re so sweet and little and old and Southern. So I’m going to look like a bully and a jerk when I go after their company with my usual...how did the Financial Times put it?” He hesitated, feigning thought. “Oh, yeah. Now I remember. With my usual ‘coldhearted, mind-numbing ruthlessness.’ And no one will ever want to do business with me again.”

Now he looked at Ava. Actually, he glared at Ava, as if all of this—whatever this was—was her fault. “Not that there are many in the business and financial communities who like me much now. But at least they do business with me. If they know what’s good for them.”

Even though she wasn’t sure she was meant to be a part of this conversation, she asked, “Then why are you going after the Montgomerys’ company? With ruthlessness or otherwise?”

Peyton sat down again, still looking agitated. “Because that’s what Moss Holdings does. It’s what I do. I go after failing companies and acquire them for a fraction of what they’re worth, then make them profitable again. Mostly by shedding what’s unnecessary, like people and benefits. Then I sell those companies to someone else for a huge profit. Or else I dismantle them and sell off their parts to the highest bidder for a pile of cash. Either way, I’m not the kind of guy people like to see coming. Because it means the end of jobs, traditions and a way of life.”

In other words, she translated, what he did led to the dissolution of careers and income, plunging people into the sort of environment he’d had to claw his way out of when he was a teenager.

“Then why do you do it?” she asked.

His answer was swift and to the point. “Because it makes me huge profits and piles of cash.”

She would have asked him why making money was so important that he would destroy jobs and alienate people, but she already knew the answer. People who grew up poor and underprivileged often made making money their highest priority. Many thought if they just had enough money, it would make everything in their life all right and expurgate feelings of want and need. Some were driven enough to become tremendous successes—at making money, anyway. As far as making everything in their life right and expurgating feelings of want and need, well...that was a bit trickier.

Funnily, it was often people like Ava, who had grown up with money and been afforded every privilege, who realized how wrong such a belief was. Money didn’t make everything all right, and it didn’t expurgate feelings of anything. Sure, it could ease a lot of life’s problems. But it didn’t change who a person was at her core. It didn’t magically chase away bad feelings or alleviate stresses. It didn’t make other people respect or admire or love you. At least not for the right reasons. And it didn’t bring with it the promise of...well, anything.

“And jeez, why am I even telling you all this?” Peyton said with exasperation.

Although she was pretty sure he didn’t expect an answer for that, either, Ava told him, “I don’t know. Maybe because you need to vent? Although why would you need to vent about a business deal, seeing as you make them all the time? Unless there’s something about this particular business deal that’s making you feel like...how did you put it? A bully and a jerk.”

“Anyway,” he said, ignoring the analysis, “for the sake of good PR and potential future projects, my board of directors thought it would be better to not go after the Montgomery sisters the way I usually go after a company—by yanking it out from under its unsuspecting owners. They think I should try to—” he made a restless gesture “—to...finesse it out from under them with my charm and geniality.”

Somehow, the words finesse and Peyton Moss just didn’t fit, never mind the charm and geniality stuff. Ava did manage to keep her mouth shut this time. But he seemed to need to talk about what had brought him back here, and for some reason, she hesitated to stop him.

“The BoD think it will be easier to fend off lawsuits and union problems if I can charm the company away from the Montgomerys instead of grabbing it from them. So they sent me back here to, and I quote, ‘exorcise your street demons, Peyton, and learn to be a gentleman.’ They’ve even set me up with some Henry Higgins type who’s supposed to whip me into shape. Then, when I’m all nice and polished, they’ll let me come back to San Francisco and go after Montgomery and Sons. But nicely,” he added wryly. “That way, my tarnished reputation will stay only tarnished and not firebombed into oblivion.”

Now he looked at Ava as if he were actually awaiting a reply. Not that she had one to give him. Although she was finally beginning to understand what had brought him back to Chicago—kind of—she wasn’t sure what he expected her to say. Certainly Peyton Moss hadn’t been bred to be a gentleman. That didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of becoming one. Eventually. Under the right tutelage. Which even Ava was having a hard time trying to imagine.

When she said nothing, he added quietly, “But you wanna hear the real kicker?”

She did, actually—more than she probably should admit.

“The real kicker is that they think I should pick up a wife while I’m here. They’ve even set me up with one of those millionaire matchmakers who’s supposed to introduce me to—” he took a deep breath and released it slowly, as if he were about to reveal something of great importance “—the right kind of woman.”

Ava’s first reaction was an odd sort of relief that he wasn’t already in a committed relationship. Her second reaction was an even odder disappointment that that was about to change. There was just something about the thought of Peyton being introduced to the “right kind of woman”—meaning, presumably, the kind of woman she herself was supposed to have grown up to be—that did something funny to her insides.

He added, “They think the Montgomery sisters might look more favorably at their family business being appropriated by another family than they would having it go to a coldhearted single guy like me.” He smiled grimly. “So to finally answer your question, Ava, I’m back in Chicago to erase all evidence of my embarrassing, low-life past and learn to be a gentleman in polite society. And I’m supposed to find a nice society girl who will give me an added aura of respectability.”

Ava couldn’t quite keep the flatness from her voice when she replied, “Well, then. I hope you, in that society, with that nice society girl, will be very happy.”

“Aw, whatsamatter, Ava?” he asked in the same cool tone. “Can’t stand the fact that you and I are now social and financial equals?”

“Peyton, that’s not—”

“Yeah, there goes the neighborhood.”

“Peyton, I didn’t mean—”

“Once you start letting in the riffraff, the whole place goes to hell, doesn’t it?”

Ava stopped trying to explain or apologize, since he clearly wasn’t going to let her do either. What was funny—or would have been, had it not been so biting—was that they actually weren’t social and financial equals. Ava was so far below him on both ladders, she wouldn’t even be hit by the loose change spilling out of his pockets.

“So what about you?” he asked.

The change of subject jarred her. “What about me?”

“What are you doing now? I remember you wanted to go to Wellesley. You were going to major in art or something.”

She couldn’t believe he remembered her top college choice. She’d almost forgotten it herself. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about things like that once the family fortune evaporated. Although Ava had been smart, she’d been a lazy student. Why worry about grades when she had parents with enough money and connections to ensure admission into any school she wanted? The only reason she’d been accepted at her tony private school in Milwaukee was that she’d tested so high on its entry exam.

How was she supposed to tell Peyton she’d ended up studying business at a community college? Not that she hadn’t received a fine education, but it was a far cry from the hallowed halls of academia for which she’d originally aimed.

“English,” she said evasively. “I wanted to major in English.”

He nodded. “Right. So where’d you end up going?”

“Wisconsin,” she said, being deliberately vague. Let him think she was talking about the university, not the state.

He arched his brows in surprise. “University of Wisconsin? Interesting choice.”

“The University of Wisconsin has an excellent English department,” she said. Which was true. She just hadn’t been a part of it herself. Nor had she lied to Peyton, she assured herself. She never said she went to University of Wisconsin. He’d just assumed, the same way he’d made lots of other assumptions about her. Why correct him? He’d be out of her life in a matter of minutes.

“And now you own a clothing store,” he said. “Good to see you putting that English degree to good use. Then again, it’s not like you actually work there, is it? Now that I think about it, I guess English is a good major for an heiress. Seeing as you don’t have to earn a living like the rest of us working stiffs.”

Ava bit her tongue instead of defending herself. She still had a tiny spark of pride that prohibited her from telling him the truth about her situation. Okay, there was that, and also the fear that he would gloat relentlessly once he found out how she’d gone from riches to rags.

“Have you finished your coffee?” she asked. It was the most polite way she knew how to say beat it.

He looked down into his mug. “Yeah. I’m finished.”

But he made no move to leave. Ava studied him again, considering everything she had learned. He’d achieved all his success in barely a decade’s time. She’d been out of school almost as long as he, but she was still struggling to make ends meet. And she would consider herself ambitious. Yet he’d gone so much further in the same length of time. That went beyond ambitious. That was...

Well, that was Peyton.

Still, she never would have guessed his stratospheric status had he not told her. When she’d removed his jacket and shoes last night, she had noted their manufacturers—it was inescapable in her line of work. Both could have been purchased in any department store. His hair was shorter than it had been in high school, but he didn’t look as if he’d paid a fortune for the cut, the way most men in his position would. He might be worth almost a billion dollars now—and don’t think that realization didn’t stop her heart a little—but he didn’t seem to be living any differently than any other man.

But then, Peyton wasn’t the kind of guy to put on airs, either.

When he stood, he hesitated, as if he wanted to say something. But he went to the kitchen without a word. She heard him rinse his cup and set it in the drainer, then move back to her bedroom. When he emerged, he was wearing his shoes and jacket, but his necktie hung loose from his collar. He looked like a man who’d had too much to drink the night before and slept in a bed other than his own. But even that couldn’t detract from his appeal.

And there was the hell of it. Peyton did still appeal. He appealed to something deep inside Ava that had lain dormant for too long, something she wasn’t sure would ever be able to resist him. Thankfully, that part of her wasn’t the dominant part. She could resist Peyton Moss. Provided he left now and never came back.

For a moment, they only gazed at each other in silence. There were so many things Ava wanted to say, so many things she wanted him to know. About what had happened to her family that long-ago summer and how her senior year had changed her. About the life she led now. But she couldn’t find the words. Everything came out sounding self-pitying or defensive or weak. She couldn’t tolerate the idea of Peyton thinking she was any of those things.

Finally—thankfully—he ended the silence. “Thanks, Ava, for...for making sure I didn’t spend last night in an alley somewhere.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same for me.”

He neither agreed nor disagreed. He only made his way to the front door, opened it and stepped over the threshold. She thought for a moment that he was going to leave without saying goodbye, the way he had sixteen years ago. But as he started to pull the door closed, he turned and looked at her.

“It was...interesting...seeing you again.”

Yes, it had certainly been that.

“Goodbye, Peyton,” she said. “I’m glad you’re—” What? she asked herself. Finally, because she knew too long a hesitation would make her look insincere, she finished, “Doing well. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“Yeah, doing well,” he muttered. “I’m sure as hell that.”

The comment was curious. He sounded kind of sarcastic, but why would he think otherwise? He had everything he’d striven to achieve. Before she could say another word, however, the door closed with a soft click. And then, as he had been sixteen years ago, Peyton was gone.

And he hadn’t said goodbye.


Three

It wasn’t often that Ava heard a man’s voice in Talk of the Town. So when it became clear that the rich baritone coming from beyond her office door didn’t belong to anyone delivering mail or freight, her concentration was pulled from next month’s employee schedule to the sales floor instead. Particularly when she recognized the man’s voice as Peyton’s.

No sooner did recognition dawn, however, than Lucy, one of her full-time salesclerks, poked her dark head through the office door. “There’s a man out here looking for you, Ava,” she said, adjusting her little black glasses. “A Mr. Moss? He seemed surprised when I told him you were here.” She lowered her voice as she added, “He was kind of fishing for your phone number. Which of course I would never give out.” She smiled and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “You might want to come out and talk to him. He’s pretty yummy.”

Ava sighed inwardly. Clearly, Peyton hadn’t lost his ability to go from zero to sixty on the charm scale in two seconds flat.

What was he doing here? Five days had passed since their exchange in her apartment, not one of which had ended without her thinking about all the things she wished she’d said to him. She’d always promised herself—and karma—that if she ever ran into any of her former classmates from Emerson whom she had mistreated as a teenager, she would apologize and do whatever it took to make amends. It figured that when fate finally threw one of her former victims into her path, it would start with the biggie.

So why hadn’t she tried to make amends on Saturday? Why hadn’t she apologized? Why had she instead let him think she was still the same vain, shallow, snotty girl she’d been in high school?

Okay, here was a second chance to put things to right, she told herself. Even if she wasn’t sure how to make up for her past behavior, the least she could do was apologize.

“Actually, Lucy, why don’t you show him into the office instead?”

Lucy’s surprise was obvious. Ava never let anyone but employees see the working parts of the boutique. The public areas of the store were plush and opulent, furnished with gilded Louis Quatorze tables and velvet upholstered chairs, baroque chandeliers and Aubusson carpets—reproductions, of course, but all designed to promote the same air of sumptuousness the designer clothes afforded her clients. The back rooms were functional and basic. Her office was small and cluttered, the computer and printer the only things that could be called state-of-the-art. The floor was concrete, the walls were cinder block, the ceiling was foam board and nothing was pretty.

Lucy’s head disappeared from the door, but her voice trailed behind her. “You can go back to the office. It’s right through there.”

Ava swiped a hand over the form-fitting jaguar-print dress she had donned that morning—something new from Yves Saint Laurent she’d wanted to test for comfort and wearability. She had just tucked a stray strand of auburn back into her French twist when Peyton appeared in the doorway, dwarfing the already tiny space.

He looked even better than he had the last time she saw him. His hair was deliciously wind tossed, and his whiskey-colored eyes were clearer. He’d substituted the rumpled suit of Saturday morning with faded jeans and a weathered leather jacket that hung open over a baggy chocolate-brown sweater. Battered hiking boots replaced the businesslike loafers.

He looked more like he had in high school. At least, the times in high school when she’d run into him outside of Emerson. Even in his school uniform, though, Peyton had managed to look different from the other boys. His shirttail had always hung out, his shoes had always been scuffed, his necktie had never been snug. Back then, she’d thought he was just a big slob. But now she suspected he’d deliberately cultivated his look to differentiate himself from the other kids at Emerson. Nowadays, she didn’t blame him.

He said nothing at first, only gazed at her the way he had on Saturday, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real. Gradually he relaxed, and even went so far as to lean against the doorjamb and shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Somehow, though, Ava sensed he was striving for a nonchalance he didn’t really feel.

“Hi,” he finally said.

“Hi yourself.”

She tried to be as detached as he was, but she felt the same way she had Saturday—as if she were in high school again. As if she needed to shoulder the mantle of rich bitch ice princess to protect herself from the barbs she knew would be forthcoming. She was horrified by the thought—horrified that the girl she used to be might still be lurking somewhere inside her. She never wanted to be that person again. She never would be that person again. In spite of that, something about Peyton made the haughty teenager bubble up inside her.

Silence descended for an awkward moment. Then Peyton said, “You surprised me, being here. I came into the shop to see if anyone working knew where I could find you. I didn’t expect you to actually be here.”

Because he didn’t think she actually worked here, Ava recalled, battling the defensiveness again. She told herself not to let his comment get to her and reminded herself to make amends. The best way to do that was to be the person she was now, not the person she used to be.

“I’m here more often than you might think,” she said—sidestepping the truth again.

Then again, one couldn’t exactly hurry the appeasement of karma. It was one thing to make amends for past behaviors. It was another to spill her guts to Peyton about everything that happened to her family and admit how she’d ended up in the same position he’d been in in high school, and now she was really, really sorry for how she had behaved all those years. That wasn’t really necessary, was it? To go into all that detail? A woman was entitled to some secrets. And Ava wasn’t sure she could bear Peyton’s smug satisfaction after he learned about it. Or, worse, if he displayed the same kind of fake pity so many of her former so-called friends did.

Oh, Ava, they would say whenever she ran into them. Has your poor father gotten out of prison yet? No? Darling, how do you stand the humiliation? We must meet for lunch sometime, get you out of that dreary store where you have to work your fingers to the bone. I’ll call you.

No calls ever came, of course. Not that Ava wanted them to. And their comments didn’t bother her, because she didn’t care about those people anymore. But coming from Peyton... For some reason, she suspected such comments would bother her a lot.

So she stalled. “We’re supposed to be receiving a couple of evening gowns from Givenchy today, and I wanted to look them over before they went out on the floor.” All of which was true, she hastened to reassure herself. She just didn’t mention that she would have also been at the store if they were expecting a shipment of bubble wrap. She put in more hours at Talk of the Town than her two full-timers did combined.

“Then I guess I was lucky I came in today,” he said, looking a little anxious. Sounding a little anxious.

“What made you come in?” she asked. “I thought you were going to be all booked up with Henry Higginses and millionaire matchmakers while you were in town.”

He grinned halfheartedly and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Both actions were probably intended to make him look comfortable, but neither really did.

“Yeah... Well... Actually...” He took a breath, released it slowly and tried again. “Actually, that’s kind of why I’m here.”

He gestured toward the only other chair in the office and asked, “Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not,” she replied. Even though she did kind of mind, because doing that would bring him closer, and then she would be the one trying to look comfortable when she felt anything but.

He folded himself into the other chair and continued to look uneasy. She waited for him to say something, but he only looked around the office, his gaze falling first on the Year in Fashion calendar on the wall—for April, it was Pierre Cardin—then on the fat issues of Vogue, Elle and Marie Claire that lined the top shelf of her desk, then lower, on the stack of catalogs sitting next to the employee schedule she’d been working on, and then—




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