The Billionaire Date (17 page)

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Authors: Leigh Michaels

BOOK: The Billionaire Date
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“I guess you'll have the adventure of a new woman in your life, then.” She tore the page out of the notebook and slipped it in the folder of program materials, ready to take to the printer. “The etiquette people wouldn't approve if I bought you, anyway.”
“Why not?”
Kit smiled, though it took all her self-control. “Because all the books agree—a woman can't pay for her own honeymoon. And I'm sure, when it's something so important, you wouldn't want it to look improper. Would you?”
 
With the list of dream dates safely in the hands of the printer and a faithful promise that two thousand copies would be waiting for her late tomorrow afternoon in the Englin Hotel's grand ballroom, Kit finally had time to take a deep breath.
She was surprised to find, when she stepped onto the street from the printers' storefront shop, that the air felt almost warm. While she'd been buried in her office with every thought focused on the auction, spring had crept up on Chicago. In a winter-ravaged flower bed just outside the print shop, tiny crocus leaves poked through sand left over from the winter's snow removal. Across the street was a florist, and on impulse Kit went in and bought a sheaf of creamy white tulips and brilliant yellow jonquils and something else, a pinkish-purple bloom that she didn't recognize.
With the flowers cradled in her arms, she walked slowly to Tryad. There were still plenty of things to be done, though it was mostly a matter of checking and rechecking and tying up loose ends.
Susannah was coming out of the office with a portfolio under her arm just as Kit came up the street. She eyed the flowers. “If you're practicing the wedding march, Kitty, I think you're holding that bouquet at the wrong angle.”
“As a matter of fact,” Kit began. The corner of the lace curtain next door fluttered, and Kit waved, almost in relief, when she realized it was the first time since the paparazzo incident that she'd seen any sign of normal life from the recluse. “Actually, they're for Mrs. Holcomb,” she said. “Sort of a thank-you for routing the paparazzo.”
“She'll never answer the door,” Susannah warned. “Much less let you in.”
Kit climbed the steps to the front porch, which should have been a twin to Tryad's. The paint was peeling, however, and the mailbox looked as if it had served only as a home for spiders for the last five years.
She rang the bell and heard a shuffling inside. Finally, with a creak that sounded like a mausoleum vault, the door opened a slit. All Kit could see through the crack was a single watery blue eye under a bushy gray brow.
At least I got through Susannah's first obstacle
, Kit thought. “I'm from the office next door,” she began.
“Yes?” The voice was curt. “What d'you want?”
“I brought you some flowers.” Kit held up the cellophane-wrapped sheaf.
“Don't need any,” Mrs. Holcomb announced.
Nice conversation stopper,
Kit thought.
Now what do I do?
“I thought you might like them anyway,” she said. “It's sort of a peace offering for the fuss in the neighborhood lately, and a thank-you for defending us all from that photographer.”
The silence stretched out painfully.
“I'll leave them out here,” Kit said finally, and stooped to lay the flowers on the threshold.
“You mean—they're free?” The old woman's voice cracked.
Kit's heart twisted. “They're a present, yes.”
Slowly, with a creak that sounded painful, the door opened wider.
“Tulips,” Mrs. Holcomb said. Her fingertip trembled as she stroked the flower petals. “And jonquils. And larkspur.”
Kit put the sheaf in the woman's arms. “Is that what those are? I wasn't sure.”
“Always liked tulips better than roses. Flashy flowers, roses.”
“They are, aren't they?”
There was a gleam of tears in the old woman's eyes. “I never was the flashy sort.”
“Neither am I,” Kit said dryly. “But there's nothing wrong with good and solid.”
Afraid to press her luck, she said goodbye and walked to Tryad.
Rita had gone home, and Alison was standing at the copy machine in the front office. “I haven't seen you moving this slowly in a couple of weeks, Kitty,” she said. “I shouldn't think the letdown would hit till Sunday, at least, the way you've been going.”
“The worst is over, I think. And I just realized even Mrs. Holcomb has hidden depths.”
Alison paused in the midst of collating a copy. “Now that sounds like a philosophical lecture I'd like to hear.”
“It could be, I suppose, but I'm too tired to think about it.” Kit perched on the corner of Rita's desk. “We were interrupted the other day just as you were telling me about Jarrett's sister.”
Alison shrugged. “I don't know much. I read it somewhere, but I can't even remember where, now.” She smiled. “It was before he loomed large in our lives, you see, so I had no idea it would be important.”
“What do you remember?”
“Just that he had a sister whose husband beat her while they were married and stalked her after she finally divorced him. She lives in Europe, I think the article said, and she's very careful about her travels and activities even yet, because of her ex.”
“I don't blame her. I'd run, too. But at least that explains why Jarrett doesn't talk about her.” Kit could understand, now that she knew how close he had been to the effects of violence, why he'd taken the failure of the fashion show so personally. If it had been a cause he felt less strongly about, the botched show might not have mattered as much. But it did. The spectacular flop had left his favorite charity dangling. And from his standpoint—with Colette and Heather as witnesses—the failure had looked like Kit's fault from start to finish.
Kit could understand why he'd been furious, why he'd insisted that she make up for the mess he thought she'd caused, even why he'd threatened Tryad. She could make allowances for Jarrett's being quick to judge the whole firm. The firm was fairly new and small, and in an effort to become better known, they'd taken on an awfully lot of charity business. For all he knew, they were a fly-by-night operation out to line their own pockets at the expense of a good cause.
But come Saturday night, he was going to know better. Kit would prove herself with flying colors.
She had a right to be pleased. She was not only demonstrating her worth as a public relations person, but she'd done it on her own—with the help of her partners, of course, but none to speak of from Jarrett. It was certainly no thanks to him that she'd have a complete list of dream dates on Saturday night.
She'd done it by herself, and he simply had to be delighted with the results. A good cause would receive a very large donation, Tryad would get all kinds of good publicity, and Jarrett would be so happy...
So happy that he'll see you in
a
completely new light.
That, Kit told herself tartly, was a fairy tale. And she knew better than to dream of Prince Charming.
 
The ballroom was awash in activity when Kit arrived, wearing jeans and with a garment bag draped over her shoulder, two hours before the auction was to start. There was no point in coming earlier, Carl the concierge had told her, because the ballroom had been booked for midday, and the only thing she could do was stand around till that event was over.
But obviously things had run later than he'd expected. Workers had just started stripping tables of used linen when she came in, and Kit, horrified, closed her eyes and counted to fifty in a feeble effort to calm herself.
They do this all the time, she told herself. They'll be
ready.
Carl, in the midst of directing the legions of waiters, spotted her and called, “There's a bunch of boxes for you. I had them dumped out on the mezzanine, since the crowd was still in here.”
“Great.” Kit laid her garment bag over the back of a chair and went in search of the boxes.
At least the programs are present and accounted for. Now if the people just come...
She hadn't stopped to think how large a space two thousand programs would take. There were ten large boxes stacked on the mezzanine floor. She looked around for a bellman to haul them to the ballroom, but soon gave up. It appeared that every spare hand was already at work inside.
She tore the tape off the first box and took out a program. It looked perfect—elegant and professional—and the list of dream dates was impressive.
Not a bad show for less than three weeks' work. Kit congratulated herself. Jarrett would certainly be pleased. Maybe he'd even be proud.
Back to that again, are we, Deevers? Don't count on it.
Carl came in search of her. “This buffet line,” he began. “I forgot to ask if you need steam tables or just space for cold things.”
So much for Kit's moment of self-satisfaction. She hadn't even thought of that problem. “I don't know,” she said unhappily. “I'm sorry, Carl—but I'm not sure what we're getting in the way of snacks.”
He rolled his eyes. “That's what happens when you take your chances on donations, Kit. I'll set them both up, just in case.”
One by one, she carried the boxes of programs to the ballroom door and stacked them next to the ticket booth. Inside, the transformation was under way. At one side of the ballroom the afternoon's head table was becoming a stage. The round banquet tables had been pulled into a new pattern, leaving an open space in the center of the room to create a better view for each seat, and most of the tables were draped in spotless white linen.
Her ticket takers and ushers, hired for the occasion, started to drift in for their instructions. By the time she got them all in place, less than an hour remained. She'd have just enough time to change her clothes and greet the bachelors before the evening swung into high gear.
Kit retrieved her garment bag and hurried down the length of the almost deserted mezzanine toward the nearest ladies' room. Her dress, borrowed at the last possible instant from Susannah's closet, was dark blue silk, with long sleeves and absolutely no back. Not that she was trying to impress anyone, least of all Jarrett—but if her shoulder blades really were her best feature, Kit had decided she might as well make the best of them.
By the time she was dressed, ticket holders were starting to gather on the mezzanine outside the ballroom, but there were still no hors d'oeuvres in sight. Kit felt the first flutters of panic in her midsection and stormed through the ballroom on her way backstage, looking for Jarrett.
In the small room set aside for them, Chicago's most eligible bachelors had gathered. Some were charmingly nervous as they awaited their turn on the auction block. Others were completely cool, as if they did this every day.
And one—the very one she was seeking, of course—was nowhere to be seen.
Kit told herself that without a doubt Jarrett would stroll in at the last instant, happy to have kept her on edge as long as possible. But he wouldn't dare stand her up completely. Would he?
There were, of course, the missing hors d'oeuvres. Or had they ever existed? Had he sabotaged her, after all?
If he had, she thought grimly, she'd rewrite his offer and auction him off to the
lowest
bidder.
She handed a program to every bachelor and climbed atop a chair to draw their attention. “I want to thank you all for taking part in raising money for such an important cause,” she began. “I can't begin to tell you how much your contribution is appreciated, and I hope that you'll all have barrels of fun in carrying out your—”
Jarrett appeared in the doorway, looking calm and unruffled, and Kit's sudden relief almost derailed her train of thought.
“Your dream date,” she went on. “The program lists you alphabetically, since it seemed the only fair way, and that's the order in which we'll auction the packages. If there are any questions...”
There didn't seem to be. Kit scrambled from her unsteady perch and headed for the door, but by the time she got there Jarrett had vanished once more. One of the bachelors pointed toward the hallway. “If you're looking for Webster, he went out there.”
The hallway was lined with banquet equipment, and she had to dodge a couple of maintenance men who were moving excess tables from the ballroom. But a few feet down the hall was Jarrett, leaning against the wall, hands behind his back. His tux was immaculate, his bow tie perfect, every hair in place.
Facing him was Heather, in a silver-sequined gown far too sophisticated for her. “Mother said she might let me bid,” the girl was saying, “so some hussy can't buy you.”
That, Kit thought, was almost a contradiction in terms.

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