The Billionaire Date

by Leigh Michaels

  “Damn,” she said.

  For the first time, she saw a glint of humor creep into Jarrett Webster’s eyes, but before he had a chance to burst out laughing, Kit turned sharply on her heel and darted toward the dressing room.

  Running wasn’t her style, but it was just as well she’d acted on the impulse, she told herself as she irritably stripped off the black silk dress. If she’d stayed around another instant, she’d have probably kicked him.

  Not that he didn’t deserve it.

  Kit was running behind schedule on Monday morning. When she arrived for their weekly planning breakfast, her two partners were already sitting in their favorite booth at the restaurant just around the corner from the brownstone that housed Tryad’s offices.

  Susannah Miller glanced at the dainty watch that dangled on a gold chain around her neck and said, “She’s late.”

  “I noticed.” Alison Novak didn’t look up from her notebook or stop scribbling. “I wonder if that means she had an exciting weekend.”

  “No doubt. She thought she was going to meet Jarrett Webster himself, you know. And if she did, and if he’s anything like he appears in his ads—”

  “You mean maybe she spent the rest of the weekend with him?” Alison considered and shook her head. “No. She’d be even later if that’s what happened.”

  Kit slid into the booth. “I wish you’d stop talking about me as if I’m not here.”

  “All right,” Susannah said agreeably. “So, now that you finally are here, tell us what happened. Did you meet the king of lingerie?”

  “In the flesh,” Kit said. She reached for the lone empty cup, filled it with coffee and savored the aroma. “The trouble is, it was me who was in the flesh—and very little else—at the time.”

  Susannah blinked. “Darling, you were supposed to be running the fashion show, not modeling for Jarrett Webster. Of course, it might have advantages for the firm. And for you, of course. Does this mean you’re going to be his Lingerie Lady next month?”

  Kit almost choked on her coffee. “Are you kidding? I hardly fit the profile.”

  “Well-chosen word,” Alison murmured. “They do all seem to have interesting profiles, and we’re not talking Roman noses, either.” She pulled a glossy fashion magazine from a capacious canvas bag under the table and thrust it at Kit. “I thought you might like to hang this on your office wall.”

  Kit took the magazine reluctantly. “I didn’t know you’d taken to reading this sort of thing.”

  “Only to keep up with our clients,” Alison said repressively.

  Susannah looked skyward. “The sacrifices we all make for the sake of business.”

  “It’s just too bad I didn’t find it last week or you could have asked him to autograph it.”

  Kit slid her fingernail down the bright-colored coupon that served as a page marker and opened the magazine. She wasn’t surprised at the image that greeted her, even though she’d never seen the photograph before, for all of Milady Lingerie’s ads were similar. Each month’s campaign featured a new, young and stunningly attractive woman, usually buxom and long-haired—and anonymous. Because the models were never identified by name, everyone called them the Lingerie Ladies.

  Each ad included a pair of photographs, spread lavishly over two full pages. The larger, main shot always featured the model provocatively posed and wearing a revealing bit of lingerie. In the other photograph, smaller and usually tucked into a corner of the ad near Milady’s distinctive logo, the Lingerie Lady wore street clothes and was pictured with Jarrett Webster—founder, owner and principal designer of Milady Lingerie.

  This month’s Lingerie Lady was flaxen-haired, with pouting red lips that precisely matched the scarlet satin teddy she was wearing in the main photo. In the smaller shot, she was on the deck of a sailboat leaning against a smiling Jarrett Webster, her windblown hair teasing his tanned face.

  “Another blonde,” Kit muttered.

  “What do you mean?” Susannah craned her neck to see the photo.

  “Nothing. It just seems that more often than not lately the Lingerie Ladies are blond.”

  “I had no idea you were keeping statistics,” Susannah murmured.

  “I’m not! I just wonder where he finds them all.”

  “And what he does with all of them after the photo sessions are over? Kitty, darling, you should be ashamed—letting your mind drag in the gutter that way.”

  Kit would have liked to point out that she hadn’t said a thing about Jarrett Webster’s conduct, and if anyone’s mind needed steam-cleaning it was Susannah’s. But if she rose to the bait, Susannah would only smile and declare that the fact Kit hadn’t actually said the words didn’t mean she hadn’t considered the question.

  And that was true enough. Practically everyone who’d ever seen a Milady Lingerie ad had spent some time speculating about where Jarrett Webster found those gorgeous women and whether they did more with him than just pose for pictures.

  Which, Kit supposed, must have been the main idea of the ad campaign in the first place, for nobody—male or female, redneck or feminist, fan or foe—ever forgot a Milady Lingerie ad.

  “Thanks, Ali,” she said, and put the coupon carefully in place to mark the page. “I’ll post it on my dart board.”

  Alison’s eyebrows rose, but before she could answer the waitress returned with a tray and began setting plates in front of each of them. “We ordered your usual,” Alison said, “since we’ve got a lot of business to cover this morning.”

  “That’s great.” Kit buttered her toast and cut into her garden omelette. “Whose turn is it to keep the meeting on track?”

  “Yours,” Alison said. “But since both you and Susannah seem to be more interested in Jarrett Webster than in Tryad’s new—”

  Susannah waved a fork at her. “That’s flagrant slander! You’re the one who brought the magazine.”

  “Well, I didn’t expect you to count the dots in the picture, either of you.” Alison flipped a page in her notebook and said, “Okay, first order of business is to catch up on progress of current projects. How’s the art museum fund drive doing, Susannah?”

  Susannah stabbed a bite of honeydew melon. “Very well, actually. The Cartwright show opens next month. It’s not only the biggest the museum has hung so far, but ticket sales are well beyond what we projected in our original proposal.”

  Alison frowned. “So you’re saying we missed the boat on the estimate?”

  “Of course not, Ali. We did a better-than-fantastic job on the promotion, that’s all. Don’t be fusty.”

  “All right,” Alison said reluctantly. “But keep that factor in mind the next time. While we’re writing a proposal is no time to be modest.”

  “Or overconfident, either,” Kit said. “As we were on the fashion show.”

  “That’s next on the list to discuss. How’d it go, Kit? Aside from Jarrett Webster, I mean.”

  Kit ignored the jab and looked at the bit of toast she held. She hadn’t realized she’d shredded it. “It’s over,” she said. “And believe me, that’s the best I can say for the whole event.”

  She was wrong, of course. It wasn’t over. But—fortunately for her—she didn’t know that for the better part of three days.

  Kit was stretched out on the chaise lounge in the corner of her office, staring at the textured pattern on the ceiling above her head and brainstorming a campaign to publicize a new phone number for a suburban child-abuse hot line, when Susannah put her head around the corner from her own office. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you were working,” she said when she saw Kit’s pose, and started to withdraw.

  Kit sat up. “I’m not getting anywhere,” she admitted. “So come on in. You can pick my brain if I can work on yours.”

  Susannah grinned. “That’s the best bit about having partners, isn’t it? What one of us can’t think of, the others can. Of course, there’s also the fact that we can share celebrations.”

  Kit looked at her more cl
osely. Susannah’s face seemed to glow, and there was a light in her eyes. “Sue, you can’t mean Pierce finally got around to proposing?”

  “Why couldn’t I? Though he didn’t, as a matter of fact.” She pulled a tall stool away from Kit’s drawing board and swiveled it to face the chaise. “It’s something wonderful.”

  “More wonderful than Pierce? I thought—” Too late, Kit saw a shadow drop over Susannah’s face, and she would have bit her tongue off if the action would let her take back the careless words. “I’m sorry. What is it, Sue?”

  The light reappeared in Susannah’s eyes. “He’s discovered a fantastic private collection. It’s incredible, Kit—a whole group of very valuable paintings, along with some rare pottery and some bits of terrific textiles. And the owner has agreed in principle to donate them to Pierce’s museum.” She jumped up, obviously unable to sit still. “Just think of all the fun we’ll have when it’s time to create a publicity campaign to announce that!”

  “Sounds great—or at least a lot more fun than phone numbers for child-abuse hot lines. Can I help?”

  “Of course. I’ll need both you and Alison, and every bit of expertise we all have. This is going to be immense, Kit. It’s not only a major expansion for the museum, it could mean enormous things for Tryad.” She struck a ballerina’s pose in the center of the office and began to spin.

  “Watch it,” Kit said mildly. “Keep that up and you’ll drill through the floor and end up in the reception room dancing on Rita’s desk.”

  Susannah laughed, stopped spinning and flopped on the stool once more. “Who’d have thought five years ago, when you and Alison and I all ended up in that stupid advertising class together, that it would lead to this?”

  “Not me,” Kit said lazily. “I never even expected to be in public relations, you know.” It was funny, she thought. Now she couldn’t imagine any other way of life. She certainly couldn’t contemplate any job that didn’t include Susannah and Alison, her own office with its view of the treetops of Lincoln Park and the kind of creative work she loved.

  “All the work we’ve done is starting to pay off in a big way,” Susannah said with satisfaction.

  The intercom on Kit’s desk buzzed, and she frowned at it. “That’s funny. I asked Rita not to disturb me for a couple of hours, at least, while I worked out this campaign.”

  “My fault,” Susannah said contritely. “She must have heard me up here and figured you were finished.”

  “Don’t fret. Neither of you are interrupting anything important. All I could think of was a bunch of dancing rabbits singing the new phone number, so I suppose that means the real answer will hit me about two in the morning and I’ll stay up all night to work out the details.” She pushed a button. “Yes, Rita?”

  The receptionist’s voice was unusually clipped. “There’s someone here to see you, Ms. Deevers.”

  Ms. Deevers? Rita was being awfully formal all of a sudden. Kit’s gaze dropped to her calendar, lying open on her desk blotter, and focused on the blank block of time she’d protected specifically for this project. “But I don’t have a client scheduled.”

  “I know,” Rita said.

  She sounded as if she had something clenched between her teeth, Kit thought. And if Rita, who had twenty years of experience as an executive secretary, reacted that way...

  Foreboding dropped over Kit like a mosquito net, whispering down around her, tempting her to try to fight free of its restraint. “I’ll be right down.”

  Kit’s office was at the front of the brownstone’s second floor, as far as possible from the stairway. She passed Susannah’s empty office and paused for an instant at the bottom of the steps to gather her strength and to note the way afternoon light filtered through the stained glass panel above the front door. Then she crossed the narrow hall into what had been the formal parlor when the brownstone was a private home. Now it was Rita’s office and the reception room.

  Relief flooded the secretary’s face as Kit came in, but the concern didn’t entirely vanish from her eyes. She looked silently from Kit to a figure in the corner, and Kit followed her gaze.

  The man in Rita’s office stood with his back to her, apparently studying a framed poster on the wall. He didn’t seem to hear her come in.

  But Kit didn’t need to see his face to know who stood there. In fact, she didn’t need to see him at all. The instant she’d stepped through the doorway she’d felt the blast of personal power she’d so quickly come to associate with Jarrett Webster.

  She had to clear her throat before she could speak. The necessity annoyed her, and she tried to do it discreetly. But he obviously heard the small noise, and he turned, his movements lazy and graceful, to face her.

  Deliberately, Kit did not offer to take him to her office or even to the conference room next door. She stood with one hand on the back of a chair and said coolly, “What can I do for you, Mr. Webster?”

  “Oh, it’s the other way around entirely.”

  Kit frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m here to give you something, Ms. Deevers.”

  Had she left something behind at the fashion show? She wasn’t aware of missing anything, except for the poise and decorum she’d sacrificed that afternoon. Or...

  Surely he couldn’t mean he’d learned how wrong his perceptions had been and had come with an apology!

  “Last weekend you had a challenge to face.” Jarrett Webster’s voice was very deliberate. “And you botched it miserably.”

  I knew it couldn’t be anything as sane and straightforward as an apology, Kit thought. She couldn’t help bristling. “I don’t think you understand the pressures of working with—”

  “I’m not interested in excuses. I’m going to give you a second chance, Ms. Deevers.”

  “How lovely of you.” She didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Though why you should think I want one—”

  “Oh, I don’t expect that you do. But it’s what you’re getting, nevertheless.” He paused and added very gently, “I’m giving you a challenge. You’re going to make up for what you wrecked.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  EITHER HER HEARING had gone or the man was a raving lunatic—and there was no doubt in Kit’s mind which side of the bet she should put her money on.

  She glanced at Rita and found her unabashedly listening. The receptionist was practically leaning over her desk to catch every syllable, and that alone would have told Kit how crazy the situation was. Rita was the perfect secretary, involved and interested but absolutely never nosy. Till now.

  “Would you like to come into the conference room, Mr. Webster, so we can discuss this?” Without waiting for an answer, Kit headed for the archway into what had once been the brownstone’s dining room. She stopped inside the doors and waited till he’d crossed the threshold.

  He paused, eyeing the gleaming finish of the golden oak pocket doors standing half open between the conference room and Rita’s office. “Shall I close these for you?”

  Kit put a fingertip into the catch of each door and pulled, and the perfectly balanced panels slid into place with no more than a whisper of sound. “Thanks, but I’m perfectly capable.” She turned to face him and caught the appraising look in his eyes. Before she could stop herself, she added, “I’m not one of your usual helpless dolls, Mr. Webster.”

  He didn’t rush to answer, and he didn’t—as she’d half hoped he might—stop surveying her. “No, you’re certainly not.”

  Kit wished she could believe that was a compliment. Then again, she told herself irritably, if she honestly thought the man was trying to flatter her, she’d be even more furious with him, so she ought to be glad he hadn’t made that mistake.

  “In fact,” Jarrett Webster went on, “I’d say you’re a woman who’s full of surprises. Saturday it was peekaboo blouses and wads of tissue paper, and today—”

  Kit didn’t want to listen to his opinion of her wardrobe. She’d always liked the simple cut of the
cream-colored shirtdress she was wearing—until right this moment, when suddenly it felt as plain as a plastic bag and just as transparent “I shouldn’t think you’d be amazed by that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, I very seldom see tissue paper put to that use,” he assured her.

  “I’m quite aware that most of the women you know have chosen figure-enhancing methods more permanent than tissue paper. But as for half-clad females, I’m sure you’re an expert.”

  He considered and nodded. “That’s true. And I must say the first thing I noticed about you was that you’ve got the nicest pair of...”

  Kit gasped, tried to smother the sound and choked with the effort. Her eyes started to water, and she could feel herself turning red.

  “Shoulder blades I’ve ever seen,” Jarrett finished smoothly. “Why, Ms. Deevers, what did you think I was going to say?”

  Kit managed, finally, to stop coughing, but the lingering tickle in her throat would have kept her from talking even if she’d had something to say.

  “Today, of course, you look amazingly professional.”

  “Thanks,” she managed to say. “I think.” She took a firm grip on herself. “If we can get down to business now, Mr. Webster... I do have other projects waiting for my attention.”

  “You amaze me.” He moved a leather-covered chair out from the conference table and with a graceful turn of his hand invited her to sit

  Kit ignored the gesture and remained on her feet. “It’s very kind of you to—what was your offer? Give me a second chance?”

  “An opportunity to make good where you failed before,” he said helpfully.

  “However, Tryad is very busy this season, and I’m afraid we don’t have time just now to devote to any more charity fashion shows. You might try us again next year.”

  Not that it will do you any good, she added to herself. But at least I’ll have twelve months to come up with a good excuse for why I still don’t have time.

  Jarrett stood his ground. “You don’t seem to understand, Ms. Deevers. This isn’t optional.”