The Billionaire Date (14 page)

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Authors: Leigh Michaels

BOOK: The Billionaire Date
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“The next thing I throw at you,” she warned, “will be heavier and harder to catch.”
“Yourself?”
She picked up her dictionary and hefted it experimentally.
“Excuse me,” Jarrett said quickly, “but I really do have work to do. Where's that list of grocers?”
He reached for the telephone book. Then he pulled the stool away from her drawing board and toward the corner of her desk, setting it right next to her chair.
Another deliberate maneuver.
Kit told herself,
which will be best ignored.
Dismissing him from her mind was easier said than done, however. Her senses were atingle with his nearness. A hint of his cologne wafted through the air to tickle her nose, the warmth of his body seemed to reach out to her, the soft rustle of his shirt was almost a whisper in her ear. From the corner of her eye, she could see the way his soft, dark hair curved around his ear, and the fine pores of his skin.
“You know, Kitten,” he said suddenly.
Kit jumped as if an ice cube had been slipped down her back.
“What you said a little while ago about throwing yourself at me—”
Automatically, she defended herself. “I didn't say anything like that. You jumped to conclusions.”
He said plaintively, “You are the most contrary woman I've ever met.”
“I thought that's what you liked about me.”
“Oh, it is. Nevertheless—”
“So maybe,” Kit said thoughtfully, “if my main attraction for you is that I
don't
want to sleep with you—”
“I wouldn't go quite that far,” he mused. “But do go on. You were saying?”
“Then if I pretend to be eager, you'll lose interest?”
Jarrett's eyes brightened. “I don't know. Shall we try it and find out?”
“How about if I think it over and let you know?”
“Cold feet, Kitten?” he chided. “I never thought you'd be afraid to take a risk.”
He went back to his list, and Kit stared at her desk blotter.
The trouble was, she realized, he was right. She was afraid. Not of him, but of herself. If she let down her guard for an instant, the attraction she couldn't deny feeling for him would overwhelm her like a tsunami.
And if that happened, she was terrified that the pleasure he offered—the fun he had promised an affair with him would be—might just seem worth the risk.
CHAPTER EIGHT
S
HE WAS CRAZY even to consider the possibility of having an affair with him, and Kit knew it. But recognizing the insanity didn't make it go away.
She had honestly had no idea, until that moment of realization, how deeply she had let herself become mired in thinking about and reacting to Jarrett.
The attraction she felt was perfectly understandable, of course. Jarrett was a force to be reckoned with, a masculine presence any woman was apt to find as heady as the best vintage of the century. And since Kit had been thrown into closer contact with him than most women had the opportunity to experience, it was no wonder she was feeling the effects.
Now that she'd paused to think it over, Kit could see exactly where she'd made her mistake. She'd taken a wrong turn clear back at the beginning. She'd assumed that because her first encounters with him had given her a bad reaction, she would continue to be immune to his charm.
But it hadn't worked out that way. The vaccination hadn't taken, and now she was suffering the consequences—which were threatening to be as messy and inconvenient as a flu virus.
She wanted to put her head on her desk blotter and cry in frustration. Instead, she sat up straighter and tried to ignore him.
The only sound she could hear was the scratch of Jarrett's fountain pen against the fibers of the notepad on which he was writing some kind of list. From the very corner of her eye, she couldn't read the words, but each was neat and almost elegant, laid out by a fine gold nib in coal-black ink against the yellow paper.
His pen resembled green marble, but he held it not like cold stone but as if it was a warm and living extension of his hand. He wielded the instrument with easy grace, almost as if it was a sensual pleasure—with just enough pressure to achieve the desired result. Just as he no doubt would caress a lover's skin...
Great job you're doing of ignoring him, Deevers, she
told herself tartly.
Why not just go hang yourself right now and have it over with?
“Kitty!” Susannah's panicked voice echoed down the stairs. “Are you down there? The computer ate my logo! Please come and make the damned thing give it back!”
Jarrett lifted the nib of his pen from the paper and gave Kit a quizzical look.
She shrugged. “Alison's the practical one, Susannah's the visionary, I'm the technician. When the computer needs discipline, they both scream for me.”
His voice was full of lazy humor. “And Kitten rides to the rescue?”
Not quite,
Kit wanted to say.
In this case, it's Susannah who's doing the rescuing.
The air that stirred in the hallway as Kit passed through felt cool against her face. She hadn't realized how warm her office was. Apparently, another of Jarrett's talents was being able to raise room temperature faster than a half dozen halogen lamps.
Susannah was standing beside the computer station, staring unbelievingly at an absolutely black screen.
Not a good sign,
Kit thought, but she tried to keep her voice light. “I haven't seen a monitor that looks like that one since they invented screen savers. And even then it was in a museum.”
Susannah closed her eyes and put both hands to her temples.
“I'm sure you've already tried all the obvious fixes?”
Susannah nodded. “At least three times each,” she said drearily. “With no results. What did I do? Crash the whole thing?”
“Oh, no. The monitor may have blown, but the computer sounds fine, so all your data is probably still there. It's just that without being able to see what we're doing... You did save it, didn't you?”
“Only the first version. Not the changes I'd just made.”
Kit sighed. “Well, I'm afraid they're history.” A half dozen keystrokes later, she leaned back in her chair. “Hey, Sue. You can open your eyes now.”
Cautiously, Susannah did, and sighed in relief when she saw her logo once again displayed. “Then I
didn't
blow it up?”
“You didn't even lose your most recent work.”
“Kit, you darling—I owe you anything you want. Name it.”
“I'll remember that. But I didn't do much, really.”
“I don't care—it feels like plenty.” Susannah sat at the keyboard again, and Kit went downstairs.
The break had served, like a fresh breeze, to clear her head and restore her sense of balance. She'd be all right now.
The whole experience of finding herself actually attracted to the man had probably been fortunate, she told herself. Shocking as the realization had been, it was better to know what was going on than to continue naively down a path that would lead only to trouble. She was lucky to see the truth while there was still time to draw back.
Now that she knew what she was dealing with, she was no longer in any real danger of falling for the man. She'd treat this incredible crush on him just as she would a head cold—an unpleasant but not life-threatening condition that would soon run its course and be nothing but memory.
She was smiling as she reached her office. The idea of Jarrett being no more important than a head cold—now that was an image she could cherish!
Jarrett was still sitting beside her desk, but the fountain pen and the notepad were no longer in sight. He'd slouched in his chair and propped his feet on her desk blotter with his ankles crossed. In one hand he held a small plastic bottle, in the other a wand—part of the treasures Susannah had tucked in her Christmas stocking last year. As Kit stared in utter disbelief he raised the wand to his lips, blew gently and tipped his head to watch as an enormous and iridescent bubble rose effortlessly toward the ceiling.
Kit swallowed hard. She had never before encountered a man so magnetic, so intensely fascinating, so secure in himself that he could sit with his feet up and blow bubbles without threatening his masculinity in the least.
The bubble shattered. In the quiet room. Kit heard the soft pop as clearly as if it had been an explosion. Or perhaps it wasn't the bubble's demise she heard, but the end of her illusion that mere knowledge could protect her from his charms.
Jarrett looked up and smiled, and Kit's heart squeezed painfully tight.
“Hi,” he said. “Was the resuscitation effort a success?”
“Susannah's breathing again, at least.”
“That's good. I like her.”
Jealousy stabbed through Kit like a javelin. The reaction stunned her. He'd only been making a casual comment—hadn't he? Besides, she couldn't possibly feel jealous over a man she didn't really want—could she? And jealous of Susannah? Her friend, her partner—a woman who was almost as close as a sister?
“I hope you don't mind the bubbles,” Jarrett said. “I'm trying not to let them hit anything important.”
“That's good. Soap rings don't look good on presentation packages.” Kit's voice was incredibly steady, considering what was going on in her mind. “I thought you were calling grocers. Or are you already through the list?”
“I decided it was far too much effort.”
She was momentarily nonplussed, but finally she shrugged. “All right. The night of the auction, I'll tell two thousand hungry people to blame you.”
“Oh, they'll be fed. I just decided it was pointless to waste time soliciting small donations from every grocer in the city, so I called a restaurateur friend. He's taking over the whole thing. Hors d'oeuvres for two thousand, coming right up.”
“And who gets the bill?” she asked doubtfully.
“He's donating it.”
“The whole thing?”
Jarrett nodded and blew another bubble. This one drifted off to the side and burst against the shade of her desk lamp.
“That's some friend. Either he's extremely generous or he's planning to do it on the cheap. What's he going to bring? Cheese cubes and saltines?”
“He didn't say.”
She rubbed the back of her neck. She didn't manage to ease the tense muscles, but she did loosen her French twist. “Well, it probably doesn't matter,” she mused. “The auction will be the main thing. At least we're not promising a sit-down dinner.”
Jarrett put the soap solution aside and sat up straight. “You know, that's not a half-bad idea. A dinner would—”
Kit glared at him. “Let me make this perfectly clear, Webster. Your involvement in food is over. Nothing more—do you understand?”
“Yes, ma'am.” Both his words and his tone were meek.
Kit wasn't fooled for an instant. The busier she kept him, the better off she'd be. “So since you've finished that assignment, you can go to work on ticket sales.”
“Me? But Kitten, darling, you're doing such a good job. I couldn't bear to interfere. Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “if you don't get two thousand people there, you'll end up with a whole lot of cheese on your face. By the time you eat it all, you'll probably have grown whiskers.” He reached out a casual hand. “You'd make a cute sort of mouse. But we'd absolutely have to change your name.”
With the tip of his smallest finger, he traced imaginary lines on her cheeks, just where a mouse would have whiskers. Kit wanted to stand still and let him finish, just to prove that his little trick had no effect on her. But that wasn't true. Though his touch was soft as a feather, the slow, deliberate stroking was enough to drive her mad.
She couldn't take it any more. She stepped back, just out of reach, with more speed and less grace than she'd have liked. Jarrett smiled.
Kit wanted to stamp on his foot. But this sort of provocation, she told herself, called for far more definite action than that.
Maybe, she thought, she'd been onto something earlier, after all. If she stopped playing hard to get, he'd probably back off, concerned about the consequences of his actions.
What she ought to do, she realized, was throw herself into his arms and give him a hot and passionate kiss. That might just terrify him into cutting out this kind of nonsense....
But the very thought made her dizzy. She could actually feel the strength of his body held close in her arms. She could hear the beat of his heart—or was it her own? She could feel the texture of his skin against her fingertips and taste his lips against hers....
Kit's head was spinning, and she had to clutch at the back of a chair to keep herself upright.
No, she thought, there were too many ways to interpret a kiss, and Jarrett was guaranteed to seize on the one he wanted—that she'd agreed to an affair. While she was convinced he'd soon tire of the whole idea if she was no longer a challenge, it was likely to take a while—and if a kiss that had occurred only in her imagination could send her blood pressure through the roof, Kit knew she'd better stop cherishing any illusions about how much she could stand in real life.
But perhaps there was a better idea. What would happen if she seemed to be getting
serious
about him?
That was the answer, she realized. The moment she hinted that she expected—counted on—something more long-lasting than an affair, Jarrett would be no more than a streak of dust in the distance.
She realized abruptly that Jarrett's hand was inches from her face and that he'd snapped his fingers under her nose at least twice. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Kit smiled. All of a sudden, she was feeling much more sure of herself. “Never better,” she said.
He looked a bit wary, she thought. This would require careful handling. “Let's get some work done.” She dug in her desk drawer for a folder. “Here's a list of the ticket outlets. If we're trying to fill the ballroom, I'll have to get another batch of tickets printed. And some extra promotion wouldn't hurt.”
Jarrett ran an eye down the list. “What have you got in mind?”
“I think I told you I'm scheduled on one of the TV talk shows tomorrow morning. I was going to make the appearance by myself, but two of us would be even better. And since you're going to be available the rest of the week...” She held her breath.
But Jarrett didn't even hesitate. “Sure,” he said. “Good idea.”
Kit cupped her hand over the side of her face as she looked at her folder. But she wasn't studying the list of ticket outlets. She was trying to hide the smile she couldn't quite repress.
This,
she thought,
might actually end up being fun.
 
When Kit's doorbell rang on Tuesday morning, dawn was no more than a faint promise in the eastern sky. She was still drinking her first cup of coffee and trying to decide whether fake pearls or a twisted rope of gold would look better under the pitiless glare of television lights. She gave up the question and pulled the door open without bothering to secure the chain. “It's bad enough of you to make a habit of being early,” she grumbled, “but at this hour of the morning it's positively indecent.”

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