The Billionaire Date

That would be a technical success for Kit, but one that wouldn’t mean much. Under those circumstances, Jarrett might not actually carry through with his threat to use his contacts against Tryad. But unless he was wholeheartedly convinced, he certainly wouldn’t do the firm any favors, either. And if a man with Jarrett Webster’s influence and power so much as raised an eyebrow when Tryad was mentioned...

“Let’s face it,” Kit muttered. “He doesn’t have to bad-mouth us. All he has to do is sow a little doubt. A cynical question here and a hesitant look there, and our clients will start looking for cover.”

The fact was, Kit realized, that raising the money she’d promised wasn’t really the primary goal of this campaign. Impressing Jarrett Webster was, because if she didn’t succeed in swaying him, she’d lose the battle—no matter how much money she handed over to his precious cause.

The good news, she told herself, is that you don’t have to impress him on any personal level. Considering the way she’d started out, that would be downright impossible.

She reached for a pencil and a pad of graph paper and wrote in block letters across the top, How to excite Jarrett Webster.

Then she stared at the blank page and tapped the eraser against her cheek.

New money—that was what she needed to set the arrogant Mr. Webster on his heels. If she could come up with ten thousand dollars from ordinary people who otherwise wouldn’t have made a donation, money that would have been spent on things instead of good causes...

Her pencil moved slowly across the page, doodling a row of parallel lines.

She needed an event that would grab publicity—a month wasn’t long enough for a slow-building campaign. It had to be something flashy to intrigue the fickle public. And it must return entertainment or actual value to the contributors so they wouldn’t mind handing.over fairly large sums of hard-eamed money.

All of which was precisely what the fashion show had tried to do, she reminded herself. Well, she wasn’t stupid enough to try that again. But there were plenty of activities people would pay to attend. A formal ball, perhaps—though there must be a dozen already planned for the next few months. A banquet. A rock concert or maybe a symphony performance.

She could feel her blood pressure inching up. There was nothing particularly intriguing about any of those possibilities, certainly nothing that would generate the sort of publicity she needed.

Her intercom buzzed, and Rita announced, “Telephone, Kit. Line three.”

With a tinge of relief Kit tossed the graph paper aside. But as soon as she picked up the receiver, she knew who was waiting for her. Her fingertips began to tingle, and by the time she’d said hello the sensation had rushed all the way up her arm and leaped to her throat. Did the man give off an electrical current that had the power to surge through telephone lines and paralyze whoever was on the other end?

Jarrett didn’t bother to return her greeting. “When do you get off work?”

I don’t, Kit wanted to say. I’m going to stay here in my office forever, working round the clock like a galley slave for the rest of my life. “I’ll be finished in half an hour.”

“I’ll be waiting in front.”

The telephone clicked in her ear before she could argue. Or agree, for that matter.

Calling that man arrogant, she fumed, was an understatement of approximately the same magnitude as referring to the Great Chicago Fire as a backyard wiener roast!

One thing was certain. There hadn’t been anything in his voice that hinted of regret or apology. So was there any reason she should stick around? Since he hadn’t even let her answer his demand, much less tell him whether it was convenient to meet with him right now...

No, she decided. She shoved the pad of graph paper into her briefcase, along with a dozen folders containing other current projects, took her trench coat from its hook, wrapped a bright wool scarf around her throat and tried not to look as if she was hurrying as she descended the stairs to the front door. With any luck, she could-be around the corner and out of sight before he arrived—and all the way home before the half hour was up.

Though she should give him a smidgen of credit, Kit decided. At least he’d had the decency to offer to wait outside. He could have come in and started Susannah speculating again.

Kit glanced up as she reached the front walk, and her steps slowed. Parked by the fireplug directly in front of the brownstone was a shiny black Porsche, and leaning against the passenger door, arms folded patiently, stood Jarrett Webster.

“You said half an hour,” he pointed out.

Kit felt herself coloring guiltily.

“It’s a good thing I called from my car, isn’t it?” he went on. “Sneaking out like that, Ms. Deevers. One would think you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“If you’d stayed on the phone a moment longer, I would have told you that I have other plans for the evening.”

“Then I’m glad I didn’t. This shouldn’t take all evening, anyway. Or did you think I was asking for a date?”

“Heaven forbid,” Kit said under her breath.

“Good. I’m glad we’ve got that straight. I’m here for a progress report.”

“What makes you think I want to give you one?”

“See? I told you our conversation wouldn’t take long. Does that mean you haven’t anything to tell me?”

“No, it means I don’t want to tell you about my plans till I have the details worked out,” Kit said. That was perfectly true, she told herself, even though it wasn’t quite factual—implying as it did that she had everything but the details in mind.

She added honestly, “Since I hadn’t heard from you in a couple of days, I thought perhaps you had second thoughts about the whole project.”

“I do have a business to run and a deadline for the designs for next year’s collections. And I don’t expect even you—public relations genius that you seem to be—”

The irony in his voice was so thick Kit thought she could have sliced it.

“To come up with a plan without a chance to think it through. But you should know that I’m not known for changing my mind once I’ve made it up.”

“There are those who’d say that’s not determination but pure rigidity,” Kit said sweetly.

He smiled. “I suppose that depends on which side you find yourself on. At any rate, I thought I should find out what you were planning before you got too deeply into your preparations.”

“In case you don’t want your name associated with my idea? Now there’s a thought.” From the corner of her eye Kit saw the flutter of a lace curtain in the bay window of the brownstone next door, the twin to Tryad’s office. Automatically, she lifted a hand to wave.

“Friend of yours?” he asked.

“Not exactly. None of us have ever actually met her. She just watches us all the time.” Mrs. Holcomb’s close observation reminded her that Susannah and Alison would probably be leaving soon. The last thing she needed was for them to catch her schmoozing with Jarrett on the front sidewalk.

“It wasn’t that. I expected you to try to embarrass me,” he went on. “I just didn’t want you to waste a whole weekend of your precious month working on a scheme that I might not approve.”

“Weekend?” Kit was disgusted with herself. How had she managed to forget it was Friday night? Not only would Susannah and Alison be leaving work soon, but they’d be expecting her to meet them at the neighborhood bar where they stopped every Friday night for bratwurst and a chance to discuss the week.

“Look,” she said briskly, “I told you I have plans. Maybe we could meet tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be tied up.”

Kit told herself not to take the comment literally, but she couldn’t help it. Would next month’s Lingerie Lady be pictured in black leather, standing over a bound and handcuffed Jarrett Webster? The idea had its attractions. “Of course your plans are more important than mine,” she murmured. “All right, I suppose I could spare a few minutes. Would you like a cup of coffee? There’s a little restaurant around the corner.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re suddenly very eager to chat.” But he dropped into step beside her without arguing.

They had to pass Flanagan’s, where the scent of bratwurst was wafting through the propped-open front door and out to the street. A textbook example of good public relations, Alison always called it—the subtlest form of advertising.

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

ALISON 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....

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