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Authors: Leigh Michaels

BOOK: The Billionaire Date
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Kit remembered the face from her news conference and from that evening's newspaper. Melinda Mason wasn't pretty, but she was certainly memorable, with her narrow triangular face and hard eyes. So this, she thought, was the woman who was calling up all of Chicago's bachelors to ask about the auction.
Kit drew a deep, sustaining breath, trying to make it as unobtrusive as possible.
Jarrett sprawled a little lower in his seat. “Hello, Melinda. I had no idea they'd shifted you to the sports beat. Are you enjoying the game?”
Melinda didn't bother to answer. “Is it true the two of you are involved in a serious relationship?”
“Oh, we're quite serious about the dream dates,” Jarrett said easily.
“But not about each other?”
“Melinda.” Jarrett sounded almost sad. “You can't expect me to answer that. If I say yes, I'm leaving myself open for a breach of promise suit if things don't work out. And if I say no, the lady here will be very upset with me.”
“And no doubt she won't kiss you good-night,” Melinda said.
Jarrett smiled at Kit. “Or something like that.”
Kit had to admire him. Without saying a thing that he couldn't deny, he'd left the distinct impression that they were lovers. The man was as smooth as oiled steel.
Obviously the reporter agreed with Kit's opinion, for she gave a little snort. “Is tonight just a publicity stunt, then?”
“Oh, no,” Jarrett said airily. “We're mixing work with pleasure. We're going to try to convince some of the team members to auction themselves off.”
“You could just issue orders, I suppose.” Melinda's eyes, colder than ever, turned to assess Kit. “And how do you feel about Mr. Webster offering a date?”
It was Jarrett who answered. “Oh, she thinks it's wonderful. In fact, she's planning to buy me, even if it costs a fortune.”
“Is she, now?”
“The trouble is,” he confided, “she wants me to offer a month in the South Seas—but I think she might be the only one interested in a trip like that. And if she was the only bidder she wouldn't have to pay a fortune, after all, and the cause would suffer.”
Kit decided it was time to take a hand. “So would Jarrett. He can't stand the idea that he might go cheap.”
“
Inexpensive
, darling. Nobody has ever accused me of being cheap.”
The reporter sniffed and moved away. As soon as she was out of earshot, Kit said, “What did she mean, you could just issue orders? Do you own this team?”
“Only part of it,” Jarrett said modestly.
Kit's heartbeat speeded up. “And you're serious about asking your players to be involved in the auction?”
“Of course I'm serious. I think at least half of them are eligible. Besides, why settle for raising a mere ten thousand when we could get into truly big money?”
Kit felt a bubble of excitement rising within her. With Jarrett throwing his support behind her—real support—the auction would be an incredible success. “Jarrett, that's wonderful! Now I'm really seeing stars.”
“I thought you'd like the idea,” he said mildly. “And just think how impressed I'll be with your skills when you manage to recruit all these guys without me even lifting a finger to help.”
 
Jarrett kept up a steady stream of light comment all the way from the arena to Tryad. Finally Kit said coldly, “It seems to have escaped your notice that I'm not speaking to you.”
“Oh, I noticed,” he said cheerfully. “I just decided to ignore it. Same time tomorrow?”
“Are you joking?”
“You don't want my help?”
“This is what you call
help?
With one sentence to your head coach you could solve the whole problem, but will you?”
“Team manager.”
“What?”
“The coach wouldn't go for the idea of the auction, but the manager might. And if I took over, it would violate the whole spirit of our agreement. It might even make me question whether you could have pulled it off alone, after all. Therefore, I believe I'll just stay out of it and let you prove yourself. Front door or back?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Here we are,” Jarrett said patiently. “At Tryad. I was just asking where you left your car. I wouldn't want you having to walk around the building at this hour of the night.”
“What a gentleman you are.” Kit's voice dripped sarcasm.
“Of course. I simply couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you.”
She gave up. Jarrett had obviously been born with a better command of irony than she could acquire in a lifetime of effort. “Actually, I walked to work this morning.”
“Which way?” He put the Porsche into gear.
“You don't have to deliver me. It's only a few blocks.” But there wasn't much conviction in Kit's tone. The evening was cold and moonless, and she didn't feel enthusiastic about a stroll. “But if you insist—turn left at the stop sign, and then take a right a couple of blocks up.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “I thought you might see the advantages of letting me take you home.”
“Well, don't get the idea that I'm planning to invite you in!”
“Isn't it funny,” he mused, “the sort of thing that obviously came to your mind under the heading of advantages when I was only referring to taxi service.”
Kit clenched her teeth hard and only released the pressure when it was necessary to give him further instructions.
The instant the Porsche drew up in front of her apartment house, Kit pushed her door open. She was standing on the sidewalk by the time Jarrett came around the car. He shut her door carefully and said, “You never did answer me, you know. Same time tomorrow? Maybe we can take in a male-strippers show.”
She turned to face him and said sweetly, “Oh? Do you own them, too? Or do you simply enjoy that sort of entertainment?”
“Not at all.” He sounded unperturbed. “But I'd put up with it for your sake in case you want to invite them to entertain at the auction.” He waved two fingers in a casual salute and leaned against the car. “I'll wait here till you're safely inside.”
He hadn't even touched her, much less carried through the sultry promise he'd implied to the reporter earlier that evening. And that, Kit reminded herself, was perfectly fine with her.
Of course
she hadn't wanted him to kiss her!
 
The production room on the top floor of Tryad's brownstone was quiet except for the hum of the computer and the soft, rasping purr of the calico cat who lay across Kit's lap.
Kit put the finishing touches on a computer-graphic image and clicked on the button that sent it to the printer. As she moved to insert a sheet of paper, the cat opened her eyes and protested sleepily, then climbed from Kit's lap and plopped in the center of a puddle of sunshine to give her fur an indignant lick.
Kit leaned back in her chair to enjoy the peaceful surroundings. She loved this part of the public relations business, taking an amorphous idea and translating it into a solid form—in this case, a campaign to promote the new hot line number for reporting child abuse. If the board in charge of the hot line liked her design, it would go to the printer and then out to the public in the form of posters, radio and television spots and billboards.
Of course, the quietly technical side wasn't the only thing Kit liked about public relations. Working with people was fascinating, too. She liked to listen to them, to figure out the difference between what they thought they wanted and what they really needed. That, Kit had found, was the key to long-term client satisfaction.
Though why that should bring her thoughts to Jarrett as abruptly as a car smashing into a concrete wall was something she didn't understand. There was no mystery about what he wanted. He wanted to destroy Tryad, and more specifically Kit.
But why? The failure of the fashion show, of course—which he'd laid at her doorstep. What she didn't understand was why he'd chosen this way to take revenge. For one thing, why had he given her the warning and the challenge to make good instead of acting on his displeasure?
Wry humor stabbed through her. Maybe he'd been more impressed by her backward harem costume than she'd realized!
Susannah came in and spread the contents of a portfolio on a worktable nearby. “Will you be finished with the computer soon?”
Tugged back to reality, Kit sat up straight and reached into the printer tray for the finished graphic. “Right now, I think. Yes, it's all yours, as soon as I save my files.”
“No big hurry. I want Alison's opinion, and yours, before I start. The paparazzo's here again, by the way.” Susannah didn't look up from the papers she was sorting. “I spotted him when I came back from lunch, lying in wait in the juniper bushes across the street.”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
“It looked that way, too, so to cheer him up I told him what he missed out on last night.”
“Sue—you didn't. Now we'll never get rid of him.”
“Personally,” Alison said from the doorway, “I think we should consider renaming the business.”
“What?” Susannah sounded shocked. “You're the one who came up with Tryad, because you said Deevers, Miller and Novak didn't have quite the sound we wanted.”
“Well, now I think Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey would be closer to the mark. Not only did Kit make the papers again today, but in the sports section, not just the society pages. The phone's ringing off the wall, and Rita's tearing her hair out down there. She's taken five calls today from men who want to be included in the auction. She said to tell you she's keeping a list, Kit.”
Kit snapped her fingers. “That's how I'll get rid of the paparazzo—I'll just go ask him for a dream date, and he'll probably take to his heels.”
“I'm guessing he'll agree,” Susannah said. “He seems a nice sort.”
Alison grinned. “Then the question becomes whether anybody wants to bid on a day spent staked out in a juniper bush.”
“It would certainly add variety to the auction,” Kit said.
“And of course there's no accounting for taste.” Alison moved across the room to look over Susannah's shoulder at the presentation she'd laid out on the table.
Rita appeared in the doorway, breathing a bit unsteadily after climbing two flights of stairs.
Or perhaps, Kit thought, Rita was nervous rather than short of breath—for behind the secretary loomed a uniformed messenger carrying a bulky package.
Kit frowned. No one but the partners were allowed in the production room. Not only was it more of a climb than most people wanted to make, but the presence of a client meant that pending projects for anyone else had to be concealed. It was easier to take materials downstairs to the conference room, or to clients' offices.
So why had Rita brought a messenger up?
“The package is for you, Kit,” the secretary said. “And his orders are to deliver it to you personally.”
Kit took the package reluctantly. Though it was big, it wasn't as heavy as it looked.
The messenger touched two fingers to his cap and departed as silently as he'd come. Rita hovered in the doorway.
“Maybe we'd better duck under the table, Ali, in case it blows up when she opens it,” Susannah said brightly.
There was no return address, and Kit didn't recognize the handwriting on the label, though she had her suspicions—the ink was bold and black, the letters firm and upright and solid. It was not only a man's script, she thought, but the script of a man who was almighty sure of himself.
“If it does explode,” she said, “just remember there's only one client lately who's been getting on my nerves—and vice versa.”
“We'll engrave that on your tombstone if you like,” Susannah offered.
Kit picked up an Exacto knife from the nearest drawing table and slit the heavy tape. Inside, wrapped in rigid foam packaging and more tape, was a large, unframed, full-length color photograph of Jarrett. He was wearing a tuxedo, and at the instant the shutter snapped, he'd been adjusting his bow tie and smiling at the camera.
And across the bottom corner, just above his signature, he'd written,
Isn't this a much better target for your dartboard?
CHAPTER SIX
K
IT SPENT almost twenty minutes constructing a message to leave with Jarrett's secretary—a message that was ultrapolite on the surface but would leave no doubt in Jarrett's mind about what she really meant. But when she called the number he'd given her, he answered the phone himself.
Kit was so disappointed she didn't bother to say hello. “What's the matter with your secretary?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. Shall I put her on the phone or just tell her you were asking about her health?”
Didn't the man ever miss a beat? “I figured, slave driver that you are, she must be having open-heart surgery, at least, in order to escape the telephone.”
“I told you this is my private number. She only answers if I can't. You should feel honored, you know. Not many people get this kind of service.”
“In that case, I'll start listing it in my biography under Honors Received,” Kit murmured. “Thanks for the new dartboard cover, by the way.” She leaned back in her chair and studied the board approvingly. The photograph fit nicely, with Jarrett's heart dead center on the bull's-eye.
“My pleasure. I couldn't help noticing that the other one was starting to look like Swiss cheese, and I'd hate for you to have to give up the game.”
“Because if I don't take out my frustration on something inanimate I might start putting dart holes in you?”
“The possibility had occurred to me. Have you decided what we're doing tonight?”
“Well—no strippers, please.”
“But how can you tell whether they'd be appropriate for the auction if you don't go see their act?”
“Oh, it isn't that,” Kit assured him. “I just didn't want you to compare yourself to them and feel inadequate.”
“Why do you think I would?” He sounded interested and not at all offended.
“Because you sent me a fully clothed picture. If you were truly confident, you'd probably have made it a swimsuit pose.”
The silence that followed was brief but, Kit thought, telling. She thoroughly enjoyed it.
“Kitten, darling,” he drawled, “if I'd only known you wanted one....”
“I don't. I was just saying—”
“But since you've asked, I'll look into getting one taken for you right away. In the meantime, I'm sure your imagination will be able to fill in the gaps quite adequately.”
“You,” Kit said with an acid edge to her voice, “need a swift kick in the ego, Webster.” She hung up, cutting off his laugh.
And since she apparently wasn't going to be able to deliver the comedown he so desperately needed, she might as well quit trying.
Of course, she told herself, part of the trouble was that where the strippers were concerned he was absolutely correct. He
wouldn't
feel inadequate in comparison—not because of that all-consuming good opinion of himself but because, she suspected, he'd compare very well, indeed.
There was the way he'd caught her when she slipped at the basketball game, without showing the least sign of effort. And before that, at the fashion show, she'd fallen against him and ended up feeling absolutely weightless. There was no doubt the man was strong. The time he spent on his sailboat was evidence of that, and something he'd said about playing racquetball implied that it was a regular activity, not an occasional pastime.
And even though she'd never seen Jarrett less than fully clothed, there was something about the ease of his movements that spoke of strong muscles always warm and ready for action. Action of all kinds, whether it was sport or rescue or love...
Wait a minute, she thought. What was it he'd said about using her imagination? Just what kind of gaps was she trying to fill in, anyway?
In utter frustration, Kit threw every dart she could find at her new target. But even that didn't help.
 
Kit was packing up the sketches and examples of the design she'd present to the board of the child abuse hot line service when Alison tapped on her office door. “Can I talk to you sometime?” she asked. “I need a favor.”
“Come on in. Just give me a couple of minutes while I finish this, all right? My presentation isn't till after the auction, thank heaven, but if I don't get my support materials organized while the idea's fresh in my mind, I'll probably forget half of what I need.”
Alison perched on the very edge of the high-backed stool beside Kit's drawing board to wait.
It was funny, Kit thought, how different the three of them were. If Susannah was the one doing the waiting, she'd no doubt have flopped wrong-end-to on the chaise, propping her feet on the raised pillow section and letting her long blond hair spill over the foot. Kit would have probably paced. But Alison sat, hands folded atop a manila envelope on her lap, patient and still and ladylike as always—refusing to waste her energy on something that didn't deserve the effort.
Perhaps those differences helped to explain why they worked together so well, Kit thought. They balanced each other like a high-wire walker's pole.
She slid the last page of notes for her presentation into place, tied the portfolio's strings and put it safely into the side pocket of her briefcase. Then she tugged her office chair around till it faced the drawing board and said, “What's up, Ali?”
“Oh, it's this video script. Rita's typed the first draft, and I wondered if you'd have time to critique it before I run through it again.”
“Is this the Windy City promotional film?” Kit held out a hand for the envelope.
Alison nodded. “You don't have to look at it right now, of course. I've got about three weeks before the production team meets for the first time, but if there are big changes—”
Kit nodded. “You'll want plenty of time to tackle the work.” She riffled the pages. At first glance, it looked like Alison's usual careful and professional effort, but Kit was too experienced to believe that any project couldn't be improved. “Will it be all right if I get it back to you in a day or two?”
“That would be great. Thanks, Kit. This is a terribly important project for Tryad, and you have such a good eye for what doesn't work in video.”
Kit laughed. “Too bad I don't have the same vision of what does! We could really use a specialist, you know. A production person with video experience.” She sighed. “Maybe by the end of the year we'll be able to find the money to hire one.”
Alison didn't comment. “Kitty, about the bachelor auction—”
“If you're worried about all the time I'm spending on it...”
“Not really. I'm worried about
you
, and how you're going to manage it all in such a short time. And so's Sue, only she's mainly concerned that you'll end up breaking your heart over Jarrett Webster.”
“You could have fooled me. I thought she was trying to push me at him.”
“She's trying to keep your sense of the ridiculous in focus.”
“Well, if she has extra energy, I'd rather she help out with something that matters.” Kit managed to smile. “It's going to work out fine, Ali. I'm in for another week of agony, but we're getting the kind of attention no firm could buy. And with all the new clients we'll end up with, maybe we can hire not only that production assistant but another secretary.”
“We'll need them, if all those clients materialize,” Alison said dryly. “Thanks for looking at the script. I hate asking you, when you're already overloaded.”
“Paying work comes first,” Kit said.
Alison paused in the doorway. “Want me to tell Susannah to lay off the jokes about you and Jarrett?”
Kit shrugged. “No, don't bother. She'd think it meant I was getting serious.”
 
At two minutes after seven, when Jarrett's shadow fell across her desk, Kit didn't bother to look up. “You're late,” she said crossly.
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“You didn't. Actually, you raised my hopes, because I thought perhaps you'd decided to give tonight a pass. But I should have known I couldn't be quite that lucky.” She pushed her chair back from the desk and looked at him. Tonight there was no casual leather jacket. He was wearing a deep gray pinstripe suit, silvery silk shirt and maroon tie. He looked, she thought, as if he'd just stepped out of a boardroom.
“I could say I was making up for being early last night. In fact, however, I waited downstairs for a bit, but since there didn't seem to be an escort around I came on up.”
“Susannah had a date, and it's Alison's night for volunteer work. And Rita, who's the only one who manages to keep regular hours around here, left at five.”
Jarrett frowned. “Leaving the door unlocked?”
“It's a business office.”
“But it's after business hours. This may be a nice neighborhood, but still—”
“How sweet of you to be concerned about my safety. Actually it's only been about ten minutes since Alison left.”
The line between his brows didn't smooth out. “You could give me a key, so in the future—”
“Or I could leave the door locked, ignore the bell and the phone and leave you standing on the sidewalk. Now
there's
an idea!” She slid her list of bachelors into its folder and filed it in her desk drawer. “You'd better get busy on your dream date, you know, or all the celebrities who have volunteered will overshadow you.”
“Celebrities?”
“Perhaps I should say well-known people. I'm not even having to hunt them down now. They're calling
me
.”
“Congratulations.” He sounded abstracted. Maybe even, she thought, a bit disappointed.
Kit tried, without much success, to hide her smile. She was going to enjoy listening to his apology when this was all over. “Yes, this auction is going to be the biggest event Chicago's seen in years,” she mused. “Ticket sales are ahead of what I'd projected, and I've been asked to do a television interview. By the time it's done, Tryad will have clients standing three deep in line. What kind of dream date are you going to offer? At the rate I'm going, you'll have to come up with something wonderful to stay in the running as the star of the evening.”
“Maybe I won't specify what it is till after the bidding's over.”
Kit frowned. “And make it sort of a grab bag? Do you really believe the bidders would go for that? I mean, even for you, I don't think these women would put out big money without knowing what the prize is.”
“Kitten, you shock me. You're finally admitting that I have my attractions?”
Kit thought over what she'd said and found the unintentional compliment. “Don't get a big head about it,” she recommended. “I can admit the average woman would find you attractive without actually feeling the sensation myself.”
He leaned against her desk, arms folded, and smiled at her. Kit would have sworn the floor rocked under her feet.
How perfectly silly, she told herself, to react that way. It was one thing to find him handsome and magnetic—no woman in her right mind would deny that. But she wasn't crazy enough to let that personal appeal of his knock her off balance, any more than she'd cuddle up with a cobra. So much for Susannah's concerns about her....
Still, she fiddled with her paper-clip dispenser for a moment so she didn't have to look at him, until the adrenaline rush had faded a bit and she was fairly sure her voice wouldn't crack. “Would you like to hear who I've snared just this afternoon? One of Chicago's aldermen
and
a minor rock star.”
“I'm duly impressed. Let's celebrate with dinner.”
“Well, that would certainly be better than the strippers. Unless, of course, the opera is in town?”
Jarrett pulled her trench coat from the hook on the back of her office door. As he helped her into the Porsche, parked once more by the fireplug, Kit paused to wave at the bay window of the neighboring house. The corner of the lace curtain dropped hastily into place. “I wonder if the paparazzo realizes he's being staked out, too,” she murmured. “Mrs. Holcomb probably knows every time he takes a breath.”
“Is he back?”
“At the moment, he's under the juniper bushes across the street. I can just see the end of his telephoto lens. Shall we stop and tell him where we're going to dinner or make him try to tail us?”
Jarrett glanced at his watch. “Actually, I've got one quick stop to make first, if you don't mind.”
“It's fine with me, as long as I can use your car phone while I'm waiting. I could probably convince a couple more people to join the fun if I tell them where I'm calling from.”

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