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Authors: Leigh Michaels

BOOK: The Billionaire Date
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“It has nothing to do with Tryad.”
And it's up to me to keep it that way,
Kit reminded herself.
I have a month to raise ten thousand dollars or...
No, she reminded herself. She
didn't
have a month. She had only her personal time—whatever remained after her normal workload. The only thing she'd succeeded in doing with the brash bargain she'd tried to make was to cheat herself. If she'd kept her mouth shut, at least he'd have been paying for her time, and she'd have a full thirty days to pull this off.
But at least, she thought, the fact that she wasn't getting a cent out of the deal meant that she'd have less money to raise overall. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough, she could convince herself that was a positive note.
“You mean...” Susannah gave a shriek that rattled the brass and crystal chandelier above the conference table. “Then he was asking you for a
date?
”
Alison's head appeared around the door. “I can hear you two all the way in my office,” she pointed out. “What in heaven's name is going on in here? And if it's some sort of party, why didn't you invite me to join in the fun?”
“Because it just happened,” Susannah said. “Very unexpectedly. Jarrett Webster popped in out of the blue and—”
“Did
not
ask me for a date,” Kit cut in hastily. “Look, this is private and personal, and I really don't want to—”
Susannah nodded wisely at Alison. “She doesn't want to talk about it.”
“Do you think that means she has something to hide?”
“No doubt. I'll have to think what the secret might be, though. If it isn't business and it isn't a date, then—”
“Stop it!” Kit said firmly. “Both of you!” She turned sideways to slide between them and out the door, and the last view she had as she started up the stairs was of two astonished faces in the doorway of Rita's office.
Then the irrepressible Susannah said, “Kit's just a little touchy today, wouldn't you say, Ali? I wonder if that means she's in love?”
 
Forty-eight slow and painful hours crept by. By Friday afternoon, Kit still hadn't heard from Jarrett, and she was beginning to hope that somewhere, somehow, someone had told him what had really happened to mess up the fashion show. If he learned that she hadn't been responsible for the mix-ups...
Not likely, she told herself. Who was going to admit it, after all? Not Heather, that was sure, or her mother. And neither chance nor divine providence was apt to step in to change his mind and rescue her, either.
Even if he did learn the truth, Kit might not be entirely off the hook. Unless he was man enough to apologize, which she frankly doubted, she might not even find out that he'd seen the light.
And in the meantime, she didn't dare take a chance on waiting. She couldn't put off the necessary work for another moment.
She'd opened her big mouth and now she was going to have to back up her boast with action. Three lousy weeks and ten thousand dollars to raise.
Kit knew all the tricks. Professional fund-raising wasn't particularly difficult, and in a city the size of Chicago ten thousand dollars wasn't a great deal of money, either. Except that it was a whole lot more difficult to raise money for an amorphous general cause like fighting domestic violence than for a specific one like putting a new roof on a women's shelter. Why couldn't the man have been more precise?
“Because,” Kit muttered, “it would have been helpful if he had, and he knows it.”
So how was she going to pull it off?
Susannah, she knew, could come up with that amount in a matter of days for her favorite museum—but the museum had a mailing list of supporters. And a couple of months ago Alison had reached out and touched Chicago's corporate trusts and charitable foundations, and in mere hours she'd raised enough money to fund a video production on the benefits of living and working in the Windy City.
Kit had her contacts, too, but she didn't think simply calling them up to ask for money would be likely to solve this problem. She suspected Jarrett wouldn't be particularly thrilled if she handed him a few big checks. Too easy, he'd probably say. The money would no doubt have been donated anyway, without her interference.
That would be a technical success for Kit, but one that wouldn't mean much. Under those circumstances, Jarrett might not actually carry through with his threat to use his contacts against Tryad. But unless he was wholeheartedly convinced, he certainly wouldn't do the firm any favors, either. And if a man with Jarrett Webster's influence and power so much as raised an eyebrow when Tryad was mentioned...
“Let's face it,” Kit muttered. “He doesn't have to bad-mouth us. All he has to do is sow a little doubt. A cynical question here and a hesitant look there, and our clients will start looking for cover.”
The fact was, Kit realized, that raising the money she'd promised wasn't really the primary goal of this campaign. Impressing Jarrett Webster was, because if she didn't succeed in swaying him, she'd lose the battle—no matter how much money she handed over to his precious cause.
The good news
, she told herself,
is that you don't have to impress him on any personal level.
Considering the way she'd started out, that would be downright impossible.
She reached for a pencil and a pad of graph paper and wrote in block letters across the top, How to excite Jarrett Webster.
Then she stared at the blank page and tapped the eraser against her cheek.
New money—that was what she needed to set the arrogant Mr. Webster on his heels. If she could come up with ten thousand dollars from ordinary people who otherwise wouldn't have made a donation, money that would have been spent on
things
instead of good causes...
Her pencil moved slowly across the page, doodling a row of parallel lines.
She needed an event that would grab publicity—a month wasn't long enough for a slow-building campaign. It had to be something flashy to intrigue the fickle public. And it must return entertainment or actual value to the contributors so they wouldn't mind handing.over fairly large sums of hard-eamed money.
All of which was precisely what the fashion show had tried to do, she reminded herself. Well, she wasn't stupid enough to try that again. But there were plenty of activities people would pay to attend. A formal ball, perhaps—though there must be a dozen already planned for the next few months. A banquet. A rock concert or maybe a symphony performance.
She could feel her blood pressure inching up. There was nothing particularly intriguing about any of those possibilities, certainly nothing that would generate the sort of publicity she needed.
Her intercom buzzed, and Rita announced, “Telephone, Kit. Line three.”
With a tinge of relief Kit tossed the graph paper aside. But as soon as she picked up the receiver, she knew who was waiting for her. Her fingertips began to tingle, and by the time she'd said hello the sensation had rushed all the way up her arm and leaped to her throat. Did the man give off an electrical current that had the power to surge through telephone lines and paralyze whoever was on the other end?
Jarrett didn't bother to return her greeting. “When do you get off work?”
I don't
, Kit wanted to say.
I'm going to stay here in my office forever, working round the clock like a galley slave for the rest of my life.
“I'll be finished in half an hour.”
“I'll be waiting in front.”
The telephone clicked in her ear before she could argue. Or agree, for that matter.
Calling that man arrogant, she fumed, was an understatement of approximately the same magnitude as referring to the Great Chicago Fire as a backyard wiener roast!
One thing was certain. There hadn't been anything in his voice that hinted of regret or apology. So was there any reason she should stick around? Since he hadn't even let her answer his demand, much less tell him whether it was convenient to meet with him right now...
No, she decided. She shoved the pad of graph paper into her briefcase, along with a dozen folders containing other current projects, took her trench coat from its hook, wrapped a bright wool scarf around her throat and tried not to look as if she was hurrying as she descended the stairs to the front door. With any luck, she could-be around the corner and out of sight before he arrived—and all the way home before the half hour was up.
Though she should give him a smidgen of credit, Kit decided. At least he'd had the decency to offer to wait outside. He could have come in and started Susannah speculating again.
Kit glanced up as she reached the front walk, and her steps slowed. Parked by the fireplug directly in front of the brownstone was a shiny black Porsche, and leaning against the passenger door, arms folded patiently, stood Jarrett Webster.
“You said half an hour,” he pointed out.
Kit felt herself coloring guiltily.
“It's a good thing I called from my car, isn't it?” he went on. “Sneaking out like that, Ms. Deevers. One would think you didn't want to talk to me.”
“If you'd stayed on the phone a moment longer, I would have told you that I have other plans for the evening.”
“Then I'm glad I didn't. This shouldn't take all evening, anyway. Or did you think I was asking for a date?”
“Heaven forbid,” Kit said under her breath.
“Good. I'm glad we've got that straight. I'm here for a progress report.”
“What makes you think I want to give you one?”
“See? I told you our conversation wouldn't take long. Does that mean you haven't anything to tell me?”
“No, it means I don't want to tell you about my plans till I have the details worked out,” Kit said. That was perfectly true, she told herself, even though it wasn't quite factual—implying as it did that she had everything but the details in mind.
She added honestly, “Since I hadn't heard from you in a couple of days, I thought perhaps you had second thoughts about the whole project.”
“I do have a business to run and a deadline for the designs for next year's collections. And I don't expect even you—public relations genius that you seem to be—”
The irony in his voice was so thick Kit thought she could have sliced it.
“To come up with a plan without a chance to think it through. But you should know that I'm not known for changing my mind once I've made it up.”
“There are those who'd say that's not determination but pure rigidity,” Kit said sweetly.
He smiled. “I suppose that depends on which side you find yourself on. At any rate, I thought I should find out what you were planning before you got too deeply into your preparations.”
“In case you don't want your name associated with my idea? Now there's a thought.” From the corner of her eye Kit saw the flutter of a lace curtain in the bay window of the brownstone next door, the twin to Tryad's office. Automatically, she lifted a hand to wave.
“Friend of yours?” he asked.
“Not exactly. None of us have ever actually met her. She just watches us all the time.” Mrs. Holcomb's close observation reminded her that Susannah and Alison would probably be leaving soon. The last thing she needed was for them to catch her schmoozing with Jarrett on the front sidewalk.
“It wasn't that. I expected you to try to embarrass me,” he went on. “I just didn't want you to waste a whole weekend of your precious month working on a scheme that I might not approve.”
“Weekend?” Kit was disgusted with herself. How had she managed to forget it was Friday night? Not only would Susannah and Alison be leaving work soon, but they'd be expecting her to meet them at the neighborhood bar where they stopped every Friday night for bratwurst and a chance to discuss the week.
“Look,” she said briskly, “I told you I have plans. Maybe we could meet tomorrow?”
He shook his head. “I'll be tied up.”
Kit told herself not to take the comment literally, but she couldn't help it. Would next month's Lingerie Lady be pictured in black leather, standing over a bound and handcuffed Jarrett Webster? The idea had its attractions. “Of course your plans are more important than mine,” she murmured. “All right, I suppose I could spare a few minutes. Would you like a cup of coffee? There's a little restaurant around the corner.”
His eyes narrowed. “You're suddenly very eager to chat.” But he dropped into step beside her without arguing.
They had to pass Flanagan's, where the scent of bratwurst was wafting through the propped-open front door and out to the street. A textbook example of good public relations, Alison always called it—the subtlest form of advertising.

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