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Authors: Leigh Michaels

BOOK: The Billionaire Date
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Kit thought Jarrett sniffed appreciatively, and she held her breath till they were well past, half-expecting that he'd suggest they stop for bratwurst and beer instead.
Inside the coffee shop, Kit led the way to a booth at the back and took the seat facing the door. “Two coffees,” she told the waitress. “Unless you'd like something else?”
“It's your party,” he said.
The coffee arrived and Kit stirred cream into her cup. “I'm puzzled,” she said finally. “Why are you doing this? I can't imagine why you have such a hate for Tryad—”
“I don't, particularly. But fair's fair.”
“Exactly. That's why I didn't charge the fashion show people a fee, just expenses.”
He shrugged. “I can't see that it matters much. The result was the same, whatever you called it.”
So much for the attempt to reason with him, Kit thought.
“So tell me what you're going to do,” he suggested.
“I won't hold you to the details just yet, but I need to know when this affair is coming off so I can fit it into my calendar.”
“I'd hate to put you to the trouble. Besides, who says I need a special date? Perhaps I'll just send out a chain letter.” Where the notion had come from, Kit didn't know, but almost instantly she warmed to the idea. “You know the kind—‘Send a hundred dollars to the name at the top of the list, and within seven days make six copies of this letter and send them out to your friends. Before the month is out, you'll receive—'”
His voice was dry. “Oh, that sounds as if it has real potential.”
Kit pretended to take him seriously. “Doesn't it, though? I wonder how long it would take. If I make all the names on the original list dummies, so the money from the first few levels comes back to me...”
“Why would people send money for a scam like that?”
“Have you no imagination?” Kit smiled warmly at him. “I'll threaten to send someone from the domestic abuse foundation to beat them up if they don't. Let's see, if the first twelve all send out letters...” She reached for a paper napkin from the holder on the table and started to scribble. Two calculations later she was hopelessly lost.
“They won't. Even with threats you'd be lucky to get half.”
“Really?” Kit looked at the muddle of figures on the napkin and pushed it aside. “I'll still bet in a month I'd have ten thousand dollars.”
He looked thoughtful. “Assuming a fifty percent response, in three generations—which is all you'd have time for—you'd take in just short of eight thousand.”
“You did that all in your head, didn't you?” Kit said admiringly. “Well, I'll take your word for it. Eight thousand dollars—and at the cost of only a dozen stamps. Not a bad return on an investment. If we let it go one more round—”
“You're putting a lot of faith in the postal service, of course—assuming that all that mail gets delivered.”
“There is that difficulty.”
“And, of course, there's the minor problem that it's illegal to send chain letters through the mail.”
“I was afraid you'd remember that,” Kit admitted. “It was still a good idea, though.” She crumpled the napkin.
“So, since the chain letter was obviously a sham, what are you really going to do?”
“Are you this big a spoilsport with your ad agency? I must say I have trouble picturing you meekly doing everything they suggest for those ads of yours. The one where you were pretending to be on safari, for instance—”
“That was a real tiger, even if the only shooting was done with cameras. A fan of my ads, are you?”
Oops.
Kit told herself.
That was a slip
. “Not at all. It's just that they're a bit difficult to avoid. One would have to quit reading altogether to escape them, and even then there are the billboards.”
He drained his cup and set it on the table with a firm click. “Let's get down to it, Ms. Deevers. Obviously you don't have an idea in your head about this fund-raiser. So why don't you just admit it?”
“Why should I?” she asked cautiously.
“Because we may as well call the whole thing off now, before you make a fool of yourself.”
Kit felt a slow burn start in her toes and work up. “You sound awfully sure I'm the one who'll look foolish.”
“I didn't say that.”
“No—now that I think about it, you didn't. I wonder if that means you're afraid I'll succeed and you'll have to eat crow.”
“That possibility doesn't seem likely.”
“I'll call it off if you'll promise to keep your mouth shut about Tryad.”
“You're not dictating the terms here, Ms. Deevers.”
“Really? Well, no dice.” She eased out of the booth. “I won't give you the satisfaction of telling people I backed out, and you're not going to slander my company, either. I'm going to pull this off, Mr. Damn-Your-Arrogance Webster—and you're going to be so impressed by the time it's over that you not only won't run down Tryad, you'll give us referrals.”
He didn't move. “Pull it off and you have my promise—all the referrals I can manage. Of course, in the meantime, I can't wait to hear all about how you're going to do it.”
Neither can I, Kit thought. So now, all I have to do is figure it out.
CHAPTER THREE
A
LISON was already in Flanagan's when Kit arrived. She was sitting at a table toward the back of the dim little pub, taking advantage of the light from a neon beer sign above her head to read the latest issue of a public relations journal.
The glass of diet cola in Alison's hand was half empty, Kit saw. That meant she'd been there for a while, and since she wasn't in a position to look out the front window there was no chance she'd seen Kit walking by with Jarrett.
One down,
Kit thought.
Kit pulled out a chair across from her partner and waved at the waitress. “Where's Susannah?”
“Don't know.” Alison slid a bar napkin into the magazine to mark her page and set it aside. “She had a meeting with a client this afternoon, and she wasn't back yet when I left.”
“If it was Pierce at the museum, she might not be back at all.” The waitress brought Kit a glass of Chardonnay, and she sipped it gratefully.
Alison looked puzzled. “You don't think she's serious about him, do you?”
“Why shouldn't she be? I've only met him a couple of times, but he seems nice enough, and he's certainly attractive.”
“He's not her type. Look at me in disbelief if you want, Kit, but underneath all that froth, our Susannah's a very steady sort. And somehow, I suspect, Pierce isn't. She's no more serious about him than...than you are about Jarrett Webster.”
Kit almost choked. “Oh, well, when you put it that way...” She drew a set of imaginary parallel lines on the tabletop with the base of her wineglass. “Ali, if you had to raise a lot of money for a good cause in a very little time, what would you do?”
“Is this a trick question, or wasn't I listening at our staff meeting Monday?”
“It came up since then. It's sort of a competition.” At least that much was the truth, Kit thought.
Alison looked thoughtful, but before she could comment Susannah came in with a swirl of her jersey skirt and sank into the chair across from Kit. “Guess what I just saw, parked straight in front of the brownstone. The most gorgeous black Porsche with Teddy on the license plates. Putting two and two together—”
“And coming up with seven, no doubt,” Alison said. “I thought incredible math was Kit's specialty.”
“Maybe the car belongs to a bear collector,” Kit said.
Susannah leaned forward. “Then what was Jarrett Webster doing walking down the street toward it?”
“Taking a healthy stroll?” Kit mused. “Or slumming, perhaps?”
“You really don't know?” Susannah sounded doubtful. “I thought perhaps he was looking for you, but Rita said he hadn't come into the office.”
“See, Kit? I told you Susannah wasn't serious about Pierce. In fact, it's beginning to sound as if she's got Jarrett Webster on the brain, instead.”
Susannah rolled her eyes. “Ali, you know very well I wouldn't poach on Kit's territory.”
“You're welcome to him,” Kit offered.
“You two and your men,” Alison grumbled.
Susannah sat up straight. “Oh? As if there aren't any in your life?”
“The men in my life are friends, not romantic interests. And now that we're on the subject—”
“I'm lost,” Susannah said. “Which subject? Friends or romantic interests?”
“Friends. Two of mine are announcing their engagement tomorrow evening. The party came up rather suddenly, and—”
“And you want to know what to take as a gift? I'd suggest a bottle of champagne. That's always appreciated.” Susannah flagged the waitress. “I don't know about you two, but I'm starving.”
“Thanks, darling, but I can figure out a gift,” Alison said. “The trouble is, I'm also supposed to attend a convention banquet for one of our clients. It's not critically important, I suppose—I mean, I'll stop by the convention during the day, and it's not as if we're in charge of the arrangements for the banquet itself. But I think Tryad ought to be represented, so I was wondering if one of you—”
Susannah shook her head. “Sorry, but I've already made plans for the whole weekend.”
“I'll go,” Kit said. “Tell me where and when.”
“You're a love, Kitty. I owe you one.” Alison passed an envelope across the table. “Here are the tickets. It's at the Englin Hotel, main ballroom, eight o'clock.”
“Tickets?” Susannah said. “Plural?”
“Too late, Kit's got dibs. And you've already got plans, remember?”
“I didn't mean I was volunteering to take over. I just couldn't help thinking of who Kit might take. As long as there's an extra ticket—”
“I can't think of a soul I want to spend the evening with,” Kit said firmly. “At least, not one I could invite to a banquet featuring rubbery chicken and a roomful of strangers.”
“That's a curse of modern life, you know,” Susannah announced. “Somebody ought to start up a singles club.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, dear,” Alison said, “but someone already has.”
“No, I mean a real singles club—not a dating service, but something to deal with the honest-to-goodness problems of unattached life. The woman who needs a companion for a dull evening at a business banquet, the man who doesn't know how to do his own laundry—”
“I think you've just hit on the reason it won't work.” Kit tucked the envelope into an inside pocket of her handbag.
“I didn't say she should actually wash his shirts, just teach him how.”
“I told you Susannah's a very conservative type, underneath it all,” Alison murmured. “Next thing we know, she'll be starting up a Laundromat.”
Kit tried not to laugh at the indignant look on Susannah's face.
I do love these two
, she thought.
And I can't let them, or Tryad, down.
 
Kit spent a restless night, and as dawn approached, dreams disturbed her. Aware enough to know she wasn't awake but unable to pull herself from the nightmare, she lay rigid as one weird scene chased another through her mind. Finally, just as Jarrett Webster triumphantly put Tryad out of business and began to personally auction off everything from desks to copy machines to drawing boards to the calico cat who lived in the top-floor production room, Kit woke with a snap.
She lay flat on her back, her heart pounding painfully. A couple of tears had slipped from the corners of her eyes and lost themselves in the soft brown hair at her temples. But she felt more anger than fear.
She pushed herself upright and went to the kitchenette. While she waited for her coffee to brew, she relived the dream, analyzing each unrealistic element in the hope of banishing the emotional hangover it had left behind. She still felt half dazed.
It was only a nightmare, after all, she told herself, the aftereffects of contact with an arrogant, insufferable, egotistical male.
“I'd like to auction
him!”
she said, and the coffeemaker sighed as if in agreement.
She started to fill her cup and stopped, holding the pot in midair.
And why not?
she asked herself.
She stood frozen in place, not seeing the stream of coffee that ovenflowed her cup and pooled on the kitchen counter.
There were women who'd love to spend an evening with Jarrett Webster. Kit recognized the attraction he posed, even though she didn't understand it. He wasn't to her taste, but there was no question he was devastatingly good-looking, and that aura of power was no doubt a turn-on for a lot of women. Add his money and his fame....
Yes, there were women masochistic enough to pay for the privilege of spending an evening with him. Why shouldn't Kit—and a good cause, of course—take advantage of the phenomenon?
“Bachelor auction,” she said dreamily. “A date with Jarrett Webster, sold to the highest bidder.”
It wouldn't work, of course. He'd have to cooperate to make the idea fly, and Jarrett's ego was far too large to allow him to take a chance on having to spend an evening with a woman who didn't meet his standards. But if he refused...
He could still hurt Tryad, she reflected. Unless Kit could manipulate him into making that refusal so publicly, so blatantly, so unreasonably that it would ruin his credibility where she and Tryad were concerned.
Kit mopped up the spill and drank her coffee without tasting it while she plotted the most effective way to embarrass Jarrett Webster in public.
 
The Englin Hotel was one of the city's oldest and grandest, and Kit had always thought the baroque main ballroom one of the most beautiful in existence. It bore no resemblance to the sterile meeting rooms of more modern hotels. With its cream and gold walls and the hand-painted clouds and cupids on the lofty arched ceiling, this was a room full of elegance.
It was wasted on the typical dull awards banquet, Kit thought. The room should be reserved for grand balls. It seemed to cry out for hoopskirts and masks, feathers and fans, not the staid dark business suits most of tonight's crowd were wearing.
Still, she'd enjoy the surroundings, even if she wasn't likely to be absorbed in the business of the evening. As long as she looked politely interested, she could devote her attention to putting the finishing touches on her plan for Jarrett.
When she presented her ticket at the door, the ballroom was bustling with manufacturers of all ages and types. Three massive gold and crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the white-draped tables, each set for ten diners. Waiters were setting out fruit cups as the guests coming into the ballroom sought out their places.
“You'll be at table twelve,” the hostess at the ballroom door told Kit as she checked Alison's name off her list. “Seats five and six.”
“I don't have a guest,” Kit said. “So if you need the extra chair—”
But the hostess had already turned to greet the next couple. Kit tucked the ticket envelope into her tiny handbag and walked into the ballroom. A shiver ran up her spine, reminiscent of the first time she'd seen this room as an awestruck teenager attending her first truly formal dance. Tonight, however, the reason for her reaction was more mundane. The ballroom was downright cold. The temperature would soon moderate, Kit knew, with a couple of thousand warm bodies filling the place. But in the meantime, she was glad she'd brought along a shawl.
She paused inside the door to drape the soft, cream-colored Irish wool around her shoulders and happened to spot a familiar face nearby. One of the Englin's concierges was giving instructions to a platoon of waiters. As he finished, he caught Kit's eye and smiled, and as soon as the waiters rushed off to follow orders, he came toward the door to greet her.
She finished settling her shawl and held out a hand. “Hello, Carl. I haven't seen you in ages. I thought you'd moved on to bigger things than nursemaiding banquets.”
He rolled his eyes. “I thought so, too. I inherited this one at the last minute. Though perhaps I should be careful what I say, in case you're the one who planned the thing.”
Kit smiled. “No, thank heaven. Alison's done some public relations work for the company, but they hired a specialist to arrange the entire convention. I'm just here to represent her at the party.”
“Lucky you.” His gaze slid away from her to roam the ballroom.
There was a tinge of irony in his voice, but Kit thought she was lucky, indeed. She'd expected to have to wait till Monday morning to put the first stage of her plan into effect, but this chance meeting was like a plum dropped into her lap. “Carl, you wouldn't happen to know if the hotel has a room available three weeks from tonight, would you?”
“The ballroom, you mean? I doubt it. It's a rare Saturday night we don't have a convention or a wedding reception. I can look at the reservations book, but I think—”
“Oh, no,” Kit said hastily. “I need space for a hundred people, perhaps—not two thousand.”
“That won't be quite as difficult. Can you call me Monday morning to check for sure? I'll be here.” His eyes narrowed as he focused on a far corner of the ballroom, and Kit wondered what potential trouble he'd spotted. “In fact,” he added dryly, “at the rate things are going tonight, I might
still
be here.”
“Monday,” Kit confirmed. Carl moved away, and she glanced around the ballroom, looking for table twelve.
A low, rich voice spoke behind her. “What's happening on Monday?”
Kit jumped, and her shawl slid off one shoulder as she spun to face the last person she'd expected to confront tonight, almost forty-eight hours before she was ready for him. “Do you specialize in sneaking up on people?” she snapped.

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