No way was she ever going to risk actually falling in love with someone.
“Yes?” Violet asked the man. “Did you have a question about chapter twenty-eight? About Ethan?”
“Not a question,” he said. “A demand.”
“What kind of—”
“I demand a retraction,” he stated without letting her finish.
Okay, now Violet was really confused. “A retraction?” she echoed. “What for? Why would I need to print a retraction? The book is—”
“Malicious, defamatory and untrue,” he finished for her. “Especially chapter twenty-eight.”
Well, of course the book was untrue, she thought indignantly. It was a novel. Duh. Why did people keep thinking it was an actual memoir? Violet must be a better writer than she’d realized. Still, the rest of his accusation was ridiculous. Novels couldn’t be malicious or defamatory, thanks to that untrue business. So his demand for a retraction was likewise ridiculous.
Nevertheless, she hesitated before replying, not wanting to upset this guy any more by insulting his alleged intelligence. Carefully, she began, “I’m sorry if you didn’t enjoy the book, Mr….?”
Instead of giving her his name, he glared at her some more and said, “My enjoyment of it—or lack thereof—is immaterial. However, I do know for a fact that chapter twenty-eight is libelous and demands a retraction. Just because you changed the man’s name to Ethan—”
“Changed his name?” Violet echoed. “I didn’t change anyone’s name. I didn’t have to. Ethan is a fabrication. The book is a—”
“You can’t disguise a man’s identity simply by changing his name, Ms. French,” the man continued relentlessly, as if she hadn’t spoken. “You described Ethan’s coloring, his profession, his office, his home, his hobbies, his interests, his physique, his … technique … Everything. In precise, correct, detail.” At this, he snatched up the scrap of silk with which he’d marked the page. “You even identified the manufacturer of his underwear.”
Violet shook her head in mystification. She couldn’t decide whether her interrogator was simply a little misguided or a raging loony. She turned to the bookstore clerk, hoping she’d take matters into hand now as she had with the overly enthusiastic crowd earlier. But the young woman was staring at the dark-haired man in openmouthed silence, evidently even more overwhelmed by him than Violet.
So Violet turned back to her, ah, reader, still not sure what to say. Maybe if she played along with him for a minute, disregarding, for now, whether the book was a work of fiction or nonfiction, she could talk him down from whatever ledge he was standing on.
Cautiously, she ventured, “Um, a lot of men wear paisley silk boxers, Mr….”
Still, he didn’t give her the name she’d not-so-subtly requested. Instead, he shook the scrap of silk at her and replied, “Not imported from an exclusive, little-known shop in Alsace for whom this design is completely unique.”
Oh, really? Violet thought. Well, she’d read about the place in Esquire magazine—guess it wasn’t as little known as he realized—and how they employed their own weavers and designers, and probably even their own worms, so that their garments were each utterly luxurious and completely one-of-a-kind. And also outrageously expensive, which was why she’d written that Ethan wore them.
Violet sighed with resignation. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say. Ethan is a character in my novel. The story is fiction. Roxanne isn’t real. Ethan isn’t real. If I described him in a way that resembles someone who actually exists, I assure you it was nothing more than serendipity. There are a lot of men out there who work and play and live the way the characters in my book do.”
“You and your publisher may be marketing the book as a novel, but there’s no question in anyone’s mind that the work is based—and in no way loosely—on your actual experiences as a call girl.”
“What?” Violet exclaimed. “That’s not true! I’ve never—”
“There’s also no question in anyone’s mind about Ethan. You’ve described the man so explicitly and perfectly that everyone in Chicago knows who he is.”
Violet spared a moment to be proud of herself for writing such great prose that she’d brought a character to life—almost literally—for so many of her readers. Then she remembered that this guy had just accused her of being a prostitute, and she got mad all over again. Unfortunately, before she could express that outrage, her assailant spewed more of his own.
“And if you don’t print a retraction to this … this …” He thumped the book contemptuously. “This piece of trash—”
“Hey!” Violet objected. “It’s not trash! It got a starred review in Publishers Weekly!”
“—then I assure you that Ethan is going to sue you for every nickel you receive from its sales.”
“It’s fiction!” she said again. “No one can sue me for anything.”
“Not only that, but Ethan will make certain you never make another nickel in your life, because he will sue you for so much money, your great-grandchildren will be paying his.”
Okay, that did it. When people started threatening her nonexistent family, Violet really got mad. She stood with enough force to make the bookstore clerk squeak like a mouse. Then she straightened to her full five-foot-eight, which was made nearly six feet in the three-inch heels she was wearing. Then she leaned forward and crowded the man’s space as much as she could, narrowing her eyes at him menacingly.
Even at that, however, Mr. Paisley Pants still towered over her. And he looked way more menacingly back at her.
“Oh, and what are you? Ethan’s fictional lawyer?”
He slapped down a business card on the table beside the book, but Violet didn’t bother to look at it. She didn’t care who he was. She wasn’t about to print a retraction for something that wasn’t even real.
“No,” the man said. “I’m not Ethan’s lawyer. I’m Ethan. And I have never had to pay a woman—especially one like you, Ms. French—for sex.”
Two
By the time Gavin Mason slammed the door of his Michigan Avenue office behind himself, his anger had diminished not at all. It hadn’t helped that, barely halfway through the seven-block walk from the bookstore, the sky had opened up and dumped sheets of cold October rain on him. Thankfully, since it was Saturday, there was no one around to see him looking so disheveled. Or to see him hurl the copy of High Heels and Champagne and Sex, Oh, My! across the room with all his might. The hardcover slammed against the wall opposite with enough force to rattle a trio of framed degrees hanging there. Then it toppled onto a pair of hand-blown, and not inexpensive, vases when it fell onto the credenza beneath.
He’d hoped his walk—either to the bookstore or back—would purge some of the rage he’d been harboring for the past week, ever since catching wind of the gossip that had been circling in both professional and social circles of Chicago. And he’d hoped he might find satisfaction in meeting face to face with that … that … that lying, scheming harridan whose blistering potboiler was burning up the bestseller list faster than it was shooting his life down in flames. Seizing control of the situation was the way Gavin handled every situation. He always took matters into his own hands, and he didn’t let go until he felt