The Billionaire Date

by Leigh Michaels

  “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.

  A thoughtful gleam sprang to life in Jarrett’s dark eyes.

  Kit could have bitten off her tongue. Would she never learn to stop and think before speaking?

  He shrugged, and she could almost see the easy flow of muscles under the perfectly tailored black tuxedo. A different one than he’d been wearing at the fashion show, Kit knew, though men’s evening clothes were all so similar that she didn’t quite understand why she was so certain. She didn’t care for the idea that she’d been paying such close attention to details like the width of his lapels.

  Though perhaps that was better than paying close attention to him, she told herself.

  “All I did was walk in,” he said gently. He stretched out a hand to capture the errant corner of her shawl and draped the soft wool around her shoulders once more. “You’re the one who was chatting in the middle of the main aisle where anyone might overhear. So if you’re feeling spied upon, I suppose the real question is what are you up to that’s caused you to feel—”

  “I’m not paranoid, Mr. Webster.”

  “I was going to say guilty, but if you’d prefer your definition, I suppose—”

  She decided not to argue the point. “What are you doing here, anyway? I wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of thing.”

  “Banquets and conventions? One learns to put up with a certain number of them. Of course, I had no idea this one would turn out to be a thriller.” His gaze wandered lazily down the length of her, taking in everything from sparkly crystal earrings to high-heeled pumps.

  At least, Kit thought, I don’t need to worry about misplaced tissue paper tonight!

  “So what are you planning for Monday?” he went on. “You seem to have overlooked answering my question.”

  “Noticed that, did you? You’re being very acute tonight. What does bring you here? These people manufacture bridge girders and steel cables. It’s hardly in your line of work.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said easily. “I suppose you could say we’re all in the business of support.”

  On the podium, the emcee tested the microphone, and a moment later the lights dimmed.

  Jarrett slid a hand under Kit’s elbow. “Shall we find your table before we get lost in the dark?”

  At least, Kit told herself, she wasn’t cold anymore. Just the idea of being lost in the dark with him was enough to pump steam through her veins. No doubt about it, the sooner she got safely to her place—and Jarrett went away—the better off she’d be. So she allowed him to draw her closer to his side to squeeze between the closely packed tables.

  “I’m at number twelve,” she said. “But I can find it on my own, thanks.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, no. I heard you say you had an extra ticket and no one to use it.”

  He’d been standing behind her as she talked to the hostess, close enough to overhear? But she hadn’t felt his presence, Kit thought. Then she realized how silly that sounded—as if he transmitted radio waves and she was specially tuned to receive them!

  “It would be a shame to have an empty seat next to you,” Jarrett went on smoothly, “so I’ll happily fill in.”

  Kit gritted her teeth and managed to say, “How thoughtful of you to consider my comfort.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Oh, think nothing of it,” he said earnestly. “The whole event is being videotaped, and so close to the podium, an empty chair would really stand out. We can’t have that.”

  Kit wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but she caught his sidelong glance at her and knew he was hoping for something of the sort. She settled for pretending that he hadn’t spoken at all. “It’s very kind of you to make the sacrifice of sitting next to me. But I’m sure you already have a seat somewhere else.”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  Kit feigned a frown. “Does that mean you’re crashing the party? I had no idea you led such a dull life that you’d seek out events like this. One would think that in your position you could find all sorts of entertainment—”

  “I’m on the board of directors of the group that’s hosting this party.”

  “Of course,” Kit murmured.

  “And the directors are floating tonight, filling in wherever we’re needed and making sure everyone feels welcome and comfortable.” He intercepted a passing waiter, lifted two glasses of champagne from the man’s tray and handed one to Kit. “Salud.”

  “Well, if you really want to make sure I have a good time—” Kit sipped her champagne and smiled sweetly at him “—go away.”

  Jarrett laughed. “But I can’t. There’s still the problem of the empty chair. Oh, here’s table twelve.” He seated Kit with a flourish and pulled out the chair next to hers, the last remaining unoccupied one at the table.

  The barrel-chested man sitting next to Kit leaned across her to extend a massive hand toward Jarrett. “Anderson’s the name. Good to see you again, Webster—we met in New Orleans a year or so ago. Who’s this with you?” Kit almost choked on the wave of Scotch on the man’s breath before he released Jarrett’s hand and leaned back in his c
hair, grinning at her. “I get it. We’re going to get a preview of the newest Lingerie Lady, right?”

  That sort of idiocy wasn’t any big surprise, Kit thought. With the load of Scotch he must have already consumed, the man was probably seeing double, so it was no wonder he wasn’t thinking clearly, either. The very idea that she might be the next half-clad beauty in Jarrett’s ads was insane.

  “Hardly,” Jarrett said coolly.

  Annoyance rose in Kit’s throat till it threatened to choke her. You’re being completely irrational, she told herself. She certainly didn’t think of herself as the sort of bimbo who’d be interested in appearing in one of those slinky, sexist ads even if she had the body for it—which nobody had ever suggested she had. So why should she be furious when Jarrett made it clear he didn’t think of her in those terms, either? She ought to be flattered.

  But whether it was reasonable or not, she still wanted to slug him.

  “Not that she couldn’t be,” Jarrett added calmly. “Under the right circumstances.”

  Kit gritted her teeth. She could just about hear what was coming next—a list of all the steps necessary to turn plain and simple Kit Deevers into Lingerie Lady material. An implant here, a tuck there, a haircut and a bleach job...

  Kit’s hand clenched on the stem of her champagne flute. I swear, she thought, if he starts, I’ll dump this glass on his head—and I hope the videotape is running.

  Jarrett’s fingertip stroked the tendons that stood out white on the back of her hand. “But right now I prefer to keep her to myself.”

  The soft, almost intimate tone of his voice, the gentle touch of his fingertip against her skin, seemed to rob Kit of the power of motion. Since when, she wondered, had the perfectly utilitarian tendons in the back of her hand turned into an erotic zone?

  “Oh, is that the secret of how you choose your models, Mr. Webster?” asked the woman sitting next to Jarrett. “The ad is the way you say goodbye to women when they go out of your life?”

  Kit cleared her throat. “And that’s why you shouldn’t expect to see me in the magazines anytime soon, because—”

  Jarrett’s eyes widened theatrically. “Because you don’t intend to go out of my life? My dear—”

  “Because you have yet to get past hello,” Kit said firmly. “To say nothing of the fact that I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those outfits you specialize in.”

  “Careful, Ms. Deevers. I might conclude you’re issuing a challenge.”

  The laughter in his voice felt like salt against a fresh wound. “I wouldn’t waste my time doing anything so foolish.” Kit’s voice was sweet. “You couldn’t possibly be any less interested in me—no matter what I was wearing—than I am in you.”

  “No doubt,” he said thoughtfully, “you’re right.”

  The laughter was gone from his voice, and the fact left Kit feeling almost deflated. When he turned to the woman on his right—the woman who’d made the catty comment about his models—and asked a polite question about what company connection had brought her to the banquet, Kit swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on her fruit cup.

  What did you expect? she asked herself. And what did you want, anyway? Certainly not any more of that kind of silliness!

  The drunk at her left elbow kept leaning closer. By the main course he was practically in Kit’s lap. With her appetite gone, she laid her steak knife across her plate—a better idea in the long run than burying it in the drunk’s ribs, she told herself—and shifted as far away from him as possible.

  Unfortunately, that put her almost against Jarrett’s side. Very casually, without even looking at her, he draped an arm around her shoulders. His fingertips slipped through the loose knit of her shawl and teased the soft skin of her bare arm.

  To an onlooker, Kit thought irritably, the gesture must look like that of a satisfied lover, one who knew his touch would be welcomed. The casually possessive arm wasn’t all that annoyed her, however. She thought Jarrett might as well have announced that he didn’t believe she could stand up for herself.

  The drunk, however, took one look at that possessive arm and backed off, leaving Kit torn between relief and aggravation. She was undeniably pleased at the peaceful end of one problem, but she was equally piqued by the way Jarrett was cuddling her against his side as if he had a perfect right to do so. Still, if she pulled away, the drunk was apt to be back in her face.

  It wasn’t until dessert was served that Jarrett moved, but even then he didn’t release her entirely, just let his hand slip from her shoulder to the back of her chair. She could still feel the warmth of his arm. More incredibly, despite the click of silver and the low roar of voices, she could hear the whisper of his sleeve brushing against her shawl each time she took a breath.

  At least, she thought, dinner was almost finished. With any luck, the speaker would be brief, and then the evening would be over.

  They were just finishing dessert when Carl the concierge leaned over Kit’s shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I thought I should let you know that we’re completely booked on the weekend you asked about. But the Westmoreland Room is open on the Saturday before that. Shall I book it for you, tentatively?”

  Kit saw interest leap to life in Jarrett’s eyes. “That’s the fifteenth?” It didn’t matter when she scheduled the auction, she told herself. Jarrett would never go along with the idea, so what difference did it make which Saturday night she chose? “I’ll call you Monday to take care of all the formalities, Carl.”

  There was satisfaction in knowing that the first step was in place. And perhaps it was just as well that Jarrett knew she’d rented a room. That would add to the impact.

  She’d need a room on Monday evening, as well, she remembered, in order to carry out the next phase of her plan, but Carl had moved away as the waiters began collecting the dessert dishes. She couldn’t ask him about it right now, anyway, without increasing Jarrett’s curiosity. She’d just have to hope it wasn’t a problem.

  Kit turned to Jarrett with a smile. “About that date—”

  “My dear! And you say you’re not interested in me!”

  “A calendar date, not a social one. Since it’s your fund-raiser, and you said you’d fit it into your schedule—”

  “Oh, I’ll make it a point to be free. Do tell me what’s going on.”

  Kit did her best to look innocent. “I’m still working out the fine points. But since you’ve boasted of being able to make any woman look like the sort in your ads—”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Did I say that?”

  “You certainly implied it. I think perhaps I’ll sell raffle tickets, with the grand prize winner to be featured as your Lingerie Lady. At five dollars a chance—”

  “Oh, make it ten,” Jarrett drawled. “Then all you’ll have to do to carry out your bargain by the fifteenth is sell five hundred tickets a week.”

  “And all you’ll have to do is draw the winning name from a hat, make her beautiful and splash her photograph across national magazines using money you were going to spend anyway.” Kit nodded as if in satisfaction. “Perfect fund-raiser. It should be a piece of cake, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I can’t wait to see how it all works out.” Kit gave him credit—there was only a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I have all the details in place.”

  He reached into his breast pocket for a leather wallet and extracted a business card. “In that case,” he said, “let me give you my private number. Call me anytime. I’ll no doubt be sitting by the phone.”

  “Waiting to hear all my brilliant plans?”

  He smiled, and she felt a bit bemused at the surge of pure energy that surrounded her. “Oh, no. I’ll be busy figuring out how to fix the drawing so you win.”

  Kit’s jaw dropped, and before she could think better of it, she sputtered, “But you can‘t—I can’t—the rules...”

  “I know. I’ll have to work out how to get around that
. But for right now I’m just thinking about what fun it will be to dress you for the photo session.” He leaned back in his chair, head tilted, long fingers pressed against his cheek, surveying her. “Black, I think. Black velvet, perhaps. Unless you’d prefer white lace, with nothing underneath?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE WESTMOREL AND ROOM was considerably plainer than the Englin Hotel’s ballroom, and on Monday afternoon, with the lights turned up bright, it was hardly the stuff of romance. But Kit wasn’t worried about the atmosphere. Today, for the news conference she’d planned, the surroundings hardly mattered. And as for the bachelor auction itself—well, they’d just have to wait and see about that.

  Privately, she was still placing her bets on Jarrett refusing to have anything to do with the event-though after Saturday night she was no longer quite so certain. The way he’d bantered about the raffle, without even pausing to think it over, had shaken her just a little.

  Of course, it hadn’t all been banter. He’d also managed to make it plain, without coming straight out and saying so, that if Kit went ahead with the raffle, he didn’t intend to settle for the luck of the draw.

  All the nonsense about fixing the contest so Kit’s would be the name drawn out of the hat was only that, of course—nonsense. In white lace, she thought wryly, I’d look like a walking stick wrapped in a fancy hankie—and he knows it. No, he hadn’t been serious about that. He’d used the image to make it clear that he wasn’t above finagling the outcome till it suited him.

  That was why the idea of the bachelor auction was so perfect, for he couldn’t pull strings behind the scenes to control the results. The auction would be public, with every bid open to view and probably a healthy competition—maybe even rivalry—among the women who attended.

  Kit supposed he could plant someone to bid on him, with orders to go to any financial heights so he wouldn’t have to take his chances with an unpredictable crowd. But if he did anything of the sort, it would be very hard to hide. Tryad would be safe, because he’d never open his mouth about the auction again. If he did, nobody would take him seriously. And if he ended up paying thousands to get himself out of a date—well, Kit had never made any promises about precisely where the funds she intended to raise would come from. If Jarrett chose to dig into his own pocket to save himself the indignity of spending an evening with a woman he hadn’t picked, that was his choice. It was all for a good cause, after all.