My Fair Billionaire

“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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