Книга - The Billionaire Date

The Billionaire Date
Leigh Michaels


Finding Mr RightKit, Susannah, Alison–Single, successful and not searching for husbands–but love finds them anyway!When Jarrett Webster challenged Kit to organize a charity fund-raiser, a bachelor auction seemed ideal–with Jarrett as the prize! Bids were sure to flood in, and it'd be blissfull revenge for Kit to see Jarrett "sold" to the highest bidder. That would teach him to tease her about being Ms Career Woman!Annoyingly, Jarrett was completely happy to offer an intimate date on his private island. A whole weekend in paradise, with the sexiest man on earth! Try as she might to stop herself, Kit couldn't help thinking how exciting it would be if she could win the billionaire date….







Finding Mr Right (#u86ef9e54-4125-5764-9880-729c473332d5)Letter to Reader (#udbf5d551-5d22-557f-b722-763ff4707566)Title Page (#u77be26e2-5a6b-551a-93f3-83d52d430696)CHAPTER ONE (#ub27d3d9a-a3c6-5926-9a76-1e3f78429d93)CHAPTER TWO (#uf579c55b-9bf0-5a42-a6fe-0fe6f3674c99)CHAPTER THREE (#ue5fa8a47-5d01-5de1-b100-ed71a73e86b7)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Finding Mr Right

Welcome to the first book in Leigh Michaels’s wonderful new trilogy—all about dating games and the single woman!

Meet Kit, Susannah and Alison. Three very special women who are friends, business partners—and happily single! Ambitious and successful, they live life to the fullest and have no room on their agenda for husband hunting!

But it seems they don’t have to go looking for Mr Right...because each finds themselves unexpectedly pursued by their very own dream date....

First, we see Kit, sensitive and practical, organizing a bachelor auction that brings an exciting surprise when she wins The Billionaire Date.

Bubbly and impulsive Susannah thought she’d never see Marcus again after their affair ended—until a work project brings them together and Susannah faces The Playboy Assignment (April #3500).

And warmhearted Alison can no longer deny her craving for a baby when she meets a doctor who could help her, and finds herself taking on The Husband Project (May #3504).

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, but you won’t be able to put these books down as you share in a very special friendship between three wonderful women, and fall in love with the gorgeous men who—eventually—win them over!


Dear Reader,

Over the years I’ve greatly enjoyed writing books that are connected—sequels, prequels and spin-offs. They usually come about because a secondary character in one book is so interesting that he or she demands a story of their own. But until now I’ve never tackled an interconnected set of books, knowing from the very beginning that the stories would be so closely tied together that—while each book can stand alone—the three form a very special package. So the Finding Mr Right trilogy has been both a challenge and a joy.

My editor and I had been talking about a trilogy for some time, and I’d been looking for the perfect setting in which my heroines could be business partners as well as friends. Then one of my friends mentioned that her sister was a partner in an all-woman public relations firm in Kansas City, Missouri. Now that was a story possibility made just for me, since I have a journalism background and public relations experience. And though, to this day, I know nothing more about that real-life PR firm than that it employs only women, I want to thank the members of that company for the inspiration they provided for the Finding Mr Right trilogy.

And I thank you, my wonderful readers, for following along through the fifteen years since my first book was published, all the way to this new challenge. I think you’ll enjoy meeting Kit, Susannah and Alison every bit as much as I enjoyed writing about them. I must warn you, though—I cried when I had to give up these three special new friends....

With love,






P.S. I love to hear from readers! You can write to me at: P.O.

Box 935, Ottumwa, Iowa, 52501-0935.




The Billionaire Date

Leigh Michaels







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

NO MATTER how carefully she counted, Kit couldn’t get past ten.

Of course, she told herself, the problem this time wasn’t that she was mathematically inept—though she was, as a matter of fact, and her partners never hesitated to remind her of it. But she hadn’t forgotten how to count. It was just that the room was small and crammed with giggling, nervous, very young women. Twelve of them, Kit knew. There had to be twelve. Except they were milling about, half-dressed, with makeup and hairbrushes and curling irons in hand, and no matter how carefully she tried to keep track of who was where, she could only see ten.

She climbed onto a chair and stuck two fingers in her mouth to give a keening whistle worthy of a professional sports referee. The sound level diminished instantly, and Kit took advantage of the opportunity. “Would everybody just shut up and stand still for one minute while I take roll?”

She counted heads. There were still only ten.

That figured, she thought. Just fifteen minutes before the start of the fashion show, with the audience already in place, two of her amateur models must have ducked off to the ladies’ room. She only hoped they weren’t actually sick with nerves.

Though it wouldn’t be any surprise, considering the way the rest of the function’s gone, she reminded herself. At least it’ll be over in two more hours, and with any luck I’ll never have to deal with another fashion show in my life, or the debutante crowd, either. “Who’s missing?”

The girls looked around as if surprised. Finally a slender blonde in the corner said, “Marliss and Shelby.”

“Well, go find them, will you, Heather? We only have a few more minutes to get you all ready to go out on the runway.”

Heather giggled. “I wish I could. Shelby’s dad invited her to New York City for the weekend, and she asked Marliss to go with her. They’re planning to see a Broadway show, and shop all the way across Manhattan, and—”

Kit’s heart seemed to bounce off her toes. “They just took off for New York?”

“Well, sure,” Heather said. “Wouldn’t you, if you’d had the chance?”

In a flash. Kit wanted to say. Or anywhere else, as a matter of fact. “All right. Each of them was supposed to model three outfits, so somebody will have to double up.” She reached for the clipboard that held the list of dresses and models arranged in sequence. “Jackie, you’re first. If we can add another change in between your first two—”

The small, plump brunette shook her head. “I wouldn’t mind, but I can’t fit in the outfits they were going to model. That long gown Shelby looks so good in would drag clear to Kansas if I tried to wear it.”

She was correct, Kit realized. “All right, who’s the closest in size? I’ll probably have to rearrange the order you go out in to leave time for the extra clothing changes.” But she couldn’t, she realized. Not only would the emcee be expecting them to follow the original schedule, but Kit had spent hours matching his cue cards to her list. She looked at the schedule and reminded herself that throwing the clipboard would do no good—even if it might make her feel better for a moment or two. “Who’s closest in size?” she repeated.

The girls looked doubtfully at each other. “Well, actually, you are, Ms. Deevers,” Jackie said finally. “Shelby’s the tallest of us all, just about your height. And Marliss is skinny and flat-chested, just like you.”

Thanks for pointing it out, Kit wanted to say. But sarcasm would do no good at the moment, and Jackie’s observation was every bit as true as it was unflattering. For the thousandth time, Kit cursed the fashion show, the debs who had come up with the original idea and the mad impulse that had made her agree to bail them out after they’d gotten in over their heads. It had all looked so simple when they’d come into Tryad’s office just two weeks ago, in despair over a fund-raising idea gone sour and in need of professional help.

“Sorry,” Jackie added. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Never mind,” Kit muttered. She took a deep breath. She was in for it, that was obvious. It was far too late to wash her hands of the mess and walk out. She’d have to follow through to the end. “All right—you’ll have to get yourselves lined up for the first trip down the runway while I get dressed.” She ran her gaze over the schedule and flipped through the clothing rack till she found Marliss’s first outfit. Just an hour ago the garments had been arranged carefully in order of use. Then the girls had come in and started stirring things around as they got ready.

This bunch doesn’t need a public relations person keeping them in line, she thought. They need a lion tamer.

She slid into a pair of sapphire blue chiffon harem pants. Despite their fullness, she felt as if she was wearing nothing at all. The fabric was so wispy it was translucent, and the band that held the garment up came to rest much closer to the curve of her hip than to her waist.

She wondered again, as she had earlier when she’d gotten her first good look at the racks, who had been such an idiot as to select these clothes to be modeled by girls still in their teens. But it was far too late for that question.

Kit was just reaching for the brief-cut top that matched the harem pants when the door opened.

“Who’s in charge here?” a male voice demanded.

Hastily Kit pulled the top over her head, trying to look over her shoulder at the same time in order to get a glimpse of the owner of that rich, insistent voice. One of the girls’ fathers, perhaps, objecting to her activities?

Well, if he was going to try to snatch his daughter out of the lineup at this late date, Kit decided, she’d... She’d make him take the girl’s place and model her outfits himself!

The room had gone dead quiet.

Kit turned to face the intruder, still trying to settle her brief top into place. Her first impression was of height, dark good looks and a tuxedo that looked as if it had been molded to fit his frame. Then the aura of power that surrounded him hit her like the shock wave of an explosion, almost rocking her off her feet.

No wonder the girls went quiet, Kit thought wryly. She was ten years older than any of them and had a whole lot more experience with men. Still, the way this man was staring at her was enough to rob her of the ability to breathe. There was something about the expression in those huge, dark brown eyes....

Kit stepped forward and held out her hand. “You must be Jarrett Webster. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to thank you for emceeing this event—”

His brows drew together. “I assume you’re in charge?” He ignored her outstretched hand.

“I’m Kit Deevers, from Tryad Public Relations, and I’m coordinating the event, yes.”

“Well, if you don’t get this show on the road, not thanking me won’t be the only thing you’ll have to feel sorry about. I’ll give you one more minute and then I’m going to start reading cue cards whether you have a model on the runway or not.” He turned on his heel and strode out.

That, Kit fumed, is the best example of arrogant high-handedness I’ve ever seen! Didn’t the man realize that amateur events hit snags sometimes? “All right, girls, you’ve got your marching orders. As soon as the music starts—”

“Uh, Ms. Deevers?”

Kit closed her eyes in pain. “What is it now, Jackie?”

“I just thought you should know before you go out in the auditorium. You’ve got that top on wrong.”

Kit glanced down and swore.

Like the harem pants, the matching top contained just enough lining fabric to be decent, which meant that the front of the sapphire blue chiffon bodice was lined, but the back was not.

And in her haste to get covered up before turning to face a male intruder, she’d put the thing on backward.

Now she knew what Jarrett Webster’s expression had been as he’d stood in the doorway and stared at her. It was incredulity. He hadn’t been able to believe his eyes.

The show was over, and nobody had fallen off the runway. Nobody, in fact, had even broken a fingemail. Miracles did happen, Kit told herself. It was over—and she had survived. In another half hour or so, the followup reception would be finished, as well, and she’d be done with the whole mess.

Still wearing the last outfit she’d modeled, the long and slinky black silk gown that Shelby had been scheduled to show, Kit leaned against the shadowed side of a pillar in the reception hall and tried to become invisible. The marble pillar was comfortingly cool against her almost-bare back. Only a few narrow strips of satin ribbon separated stone from skin.

At least, she thought, there hadn’t been any doubt about which direction to put on this particular outfit. Still, she could hardly wait to get out of it. Shelby, even at seventeen, was far better endowed than Kit was, and the girls had ended up stuffing tissue paper into the front of the dress to fill it out properly. The result was eyecatching but hardly comfortable.

Guests were starting to drift out of the reception hall, and nobody was paying any attention to Kit. She cast one final look around the room to be certain none of her models were doing anything to damage their borrowed finery. Perhaps she could make it to the dressing room. If she hugged the edge of the reception hall maybe no one would see and stop her. One well-meaning phrase of congratulation on the fashion show’s success might be enough to send her over the edge into hysterical laughter.

But before she could move, a feminine voice from the far side of the pillar said, “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! Pushing herself in like that, in the midst of what should have been the girls’ day.” There was a strident undertone that belied the woman’s soft drawl. “She modeled more than anybody else, for heaven’s sake. One would have thought it was her own private fashion show—which is not at all what we hired her to do.”

Kit bit her tongue and reminded herself that listening to other people’s conversations was guaranteed to bring unpleasant sensations to the eavesdropper. And after all, she thought, it’s done now. That’s the important thing.

“I wondered why you hired her at all, Colette.”

Kit shrank closer against the pillar and sneaked a look over her shoulder. Not that she needed to. She’d have recognized that rich, intense voice across the vastness of outer space. There was a frosting of arrogance that she’d bet never quite vanished.

“Oh, Jarrett, darling, you know one never quite has time to manage everything. I must say, however, we all thought when we hired her that we were going to get professional assistance.”

Kit could see only the woman’s back. The rest of her was hidden by the pillar. But she thought the woman’s shrug was a work of art.

“Oh, here’s my little Heather,” Colette drawled. “Say hello to Jarrett, darling. How lovely you looked—and you did such a good job!”

Kit’s eyes widened in shock. Oh, yes, she thought. Great job, Heather! The girl had not only not bothered to warn her about the two models’ defection, but she’d nearly ended up on the runway wearing the wrong outfit.

Jarrett Webster’s voice was level. “And her fees will cut into the amount you were able to raise for the emergency shelter, I suppose?”

“I’m afraid the results are going to be extremely disappointing,” Colette confided. “It’s such a worthy cause, too, and it would have been nice for the girls to be able to make a contribution that meant something.”

“We worked awfully hard,” Heather added. “And I suppose Ms. Deevers did her best, too. But...” Her voice trailed off as if the threesome was moving away.

Kit was livid. The words were true enough, but the note of doubt in Heather’s voice implied that Kit might have sabotaged the show on purpose.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on controlling her breathing and her temper. She told herself it didn’t matter what anyone thought as long as she knew she’d done her best. It wasn’t her fault that the situation had gone from bad to impossible.

And why should she care what Jarrett Webster believed, anyway? It wasn’t as if she wanted to impress him. As far as she was concerned, the man was no more important than a drop of rain in the ocean.

“In fact,” she said under her breath, “the very idea of anybody in his line of work raising funds for domestic violence is almost laughable. Unless—I suppose he could have thought the money was to promote violence instead of fight it?”

The thought brought a smile, and with a fraction of her self-esteem restored, Kit pushed herself away from the pillar. She was going to change her clothes and go home. Damn Jarrett Webster, anyway. And Heather, and her mother, and all the other debs....

She didn’t see him until she crashed directly into his broad chest.

Jarrett caught her by the elbows, preventing her from sprawling on the floor. For a single effortless instant he held her upright, and Kit felt as light and insubstantial as a dandelion seed floating on the wind. Then, efficiently but without gentleness, he set her on her feet.

Bemused, she shot a quick glance at him. Where had he come from? And perhaps more importantly, exactly when? Had he heard what she’d said? Perhaps not. She’d done no more than mutter to herself, and the hall was still noisy. And she certainly hadn’t heard him, so perhaps...

There was no telling from his expression, she realized. His brown eyes were chilly, but of course that wasn’t any surprise, considering what Heather and Colette had told him. Coming on top of their first encounter, he must think she was an imbecile.

Jarrett Webster’s voice was as soft as the silk Kit wore. “I see at least you got that dress on in the right direction.”

She lifted her head and stared into his face, determined not to be intimidated. The dress was a beauty, and she knew she didn’t look at all bad in it. He had no cause to make nasty cracks.

“Not that it would make a lot of difference,” he went on dryly.

Puzzled by his tone, Kit slid a nervous hand over the slender skirt and glanced at the front of the dress.

Her eyes widened in shock. Their collision had knocked her tissue paper stuffing loose. One wad had slid sideways and ended up under her arm, where it resembled a threatening tumor. The other had popped up in the precise center of the low-cut neckline.

“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 closely. 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.”

Kit frowned.

“By the time the fashion show was finished and the costs paid, the grand sum left for fighting domestic abuse was eighty-seven dollars.”

Kit shrugged. “Better than nothing, don’t you think?”

“A somewhat cynical attitude.”

“Perhaps it is—but frankly, I’m astonished there was that much left over.”

“Meaning that if you’d expected it, you’d have increased your fee in order to eliminate the excess?”

“Meaning, Mr. Webster, that the entire affair was mismanaged.”

“You admit it, then?”

“I’m stating a fact—but it was hardly my fault. Within the constraints of my contract, I did everything I—”

“You were in charge.”

“Not entirely, and not from the beginning. By the time I got involved—” But why should she try to explain? It was obvious he wasn’t going to take her explanation seriously. He certainly wouldn’t take her word over Colette’s and Heather’s, and Kit would end up sounding as if she was trying to shift the blame onto anyone but herself.

“But you were responsible for the show itself, right?”

Kit hesitated. “That’s true.”

“A show that was off schedule, out of sync and excruciatingly slow-paced.”

“If you’re going to compare it to professional affairs, Mr. Webster—”

“I’m not. I know perfectly well it was an amateur event with models who’d never been on a runway before. But it could have been an enjoyable one.”

Kit wanted to tell him to talk to the models themselves about that little problem.

“Besides, a large part of the fund-raising effort was focused not on ticket sales but on the reception afterward. The hope was that after an enjoyable show, the guests would donate generously for their refreshments. However, after sitting through that fiasco, two-thirds of them left in disgust rather than stick around to drink tea. Since they weren’t present, they didn’t contribute, and—”

“I’ll take my share of the blame,” Kit said honestly.

His eyebrow twitched. “That’s refreshing.”

“I used very poor judgment. Instead of standing in for the two models who didn’t show up, I should have just poked my head out from behind the curtain at the gaps and announced that the ensemble the audience should have been seeing was unavailable because the model was too irresponsible to find a substitute. Would you have liked that any better? I thought not. Look, Mr. Webster, I’m sorry the damned fashion show didn’t raise a zillion dollars. But I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

“That’s where the second chance comes in.”

“Now wait a minute! I’ve told you—”

His voice softened till it felt like warm, rich lotion against her skin. “Are you afraid you can’t meet the challenge, Ms. Deevers?”

“Not in the least. With my hands tied, I could do better than that mishmash of amateur do-gooders did. With a month to work on it, I could raise ten thousand dollars, minimum. But the fact remains that I don’t have a month. Tryad can take only a certain amount of time away from our regular client base for nonprofit causes, and we already have all the charity projects we can afford. I’m awfully sorry and all that, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Webster.”

Kit could tell from the way his gaze hardened that Jarrett Webster knew a dismissal when he heard it. She was almost surprised, for she doubted he was on the receiving end of a snub very often.

He didn’t move, though. Kit walked across the room to the sliding doors, but Jarrett didn’t take the hint. He seemed to be as firmly planted in the conference room as a willow tree on the bank of a pond, and his words dropped into the silence with the same effect as a rock into water. “I’ll pay for your time.”

With one hand on the pocket door, Kit turned in astonishment. “What?”

“I said, I’ll foot the bills—not only the charges for your time, at your regular rates, but the basic costs of whatever event you create.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer. “Your challenge is to raise enough money above and beyond those costs to show me that you’re not incompetent, after all.”

“Why not just give your money directly to a shelter somewhere?”

“Are you saying you can’t do it?”

“Of course not. But I don’t understand why—”

“Because you’re going to take my money and multiply it. Instead of giving, say, a couple of thousand dollars directly, I invest it with you, and you’ll turn it into—What was it you said? Ten thousand, minimum? In a month?”

“I may have said that, but—”

“Backing down, Ms. Deevers?” He shook his head sadly. “I’m disappointed in you. It’s such a worthy cause, you see. And besides, if you don’t take this challenge—”

Kit wanted to ignore him, but the question hung in the air like a plume of toxic gas, threatening to choke and smother her. “What if I don’t?”

“If you don’t succeed, or if you don’t even have the guts to try, then I will take great pleasure in telling everyone I deal with exactly why Tryad is a good firm to stay away from.”

Kit gasped. “That’s not fair!”

“If you don’t believe in your abilities, Ms. Deevers, why should I cut you any slack? I think I’d be doing a public service, frankly, to let your prospective clients know what they’re getting into.”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s not fair to blame Tryad as a whole for something that was my doing.”

“I thought,” he said gently, “that you said it wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t, but at least I was involved. My partners weren’t. It has absolutely nothing to do with them.”

Jarrett shrugged. “You’re part of this firm, so whatever you do reflects on them.”

“Yes, but—” She stumbled to a halt, unable to think of a telling argument.

“Take it or leave it.” Finally, he moved, striding with the easy grace of a lynx toward the door where she stood. “I’ll leave my card with your receptionist.” The sleeve of his linen blazer brushed Kit’s bare arm. The contact stung as if she’d been whipped with nettles.

“Wait!”

He turned. He was less than a foot from her, and Kit had to look a long way up into his face. There were flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes, and tiny lines at the corners. Those must come from the time he spent on that sailboat with the current Lingerie Lady.

“Your complaint is with me,” she said desperately.

“Not with Tryad. So I’ll make you a deal.”

He shrugged. “You’re not exactly in a good place to be dictating terms, you know.”

“I’ll do a campaign for you, and I’ll do my best to raise at least ten thousand dollars.”

“Somehow,” Jarrett mused, “this sounds familiar. Almost as if I’d said it myself.”

“But I’ll do it on my own time. You don’t have to pay me a dime, but in return, you have to promise that Tryad doesn’t come into it.”

He looked thoughtful. “You mean, you want me to promise that if you fail—”

“I won’t fail!”

“In that case,” he said gently, “you—and Tryad—don’t have a thing to worry about, do you? Shall we shake hands on our deal, Ms. Deevers?”

Kit didn’t walk him to the front door, as all three of the partners usually did with their clients. Mostly, she admitted, it was because she wasn’t so sure she could still walk.

She heard the front door close and sank against the conference room wall with a thud. How had he managed to turn things so neatly against her? She’d made a perfectly reasonable proposition, and he’d shot it down without even bothering to take aim.

She wanted to pound her forehead against the door.

A couple of minutes later Susannah came in. “He’s gorgeous,” she said.

“I suppose you were hovering in the hallway so you could get a good look?”

“Of course not,” Susannah said with dignity. “I was supervising Rita’s typing.”

“Bet she loved having you leaning over her shoulder.”

“I wasn’t. I was sitting on her desk—I had a much better view of the conference room door that way. Kit, he’s twice as terrific as his pictures. No wonder you... Are you all right?”

“Just jolly,” Kit said under her breath.

“Well, good. You look a little stunned, though. Let me guess what happened. He was so impressed by you that he wants Tryad to take over Milady Lingerie’s public relations?”

“It has nothing to do with Tryad.” And it’s up to me to keep it that way, Kit reminded herself. I have a month to raise ten thousand dollars or...

No, she reminded herself. She didn’t have a month. She had only her personal time—whatever remained after her normal workload. The only thing she’d succeeded in doing with the brash bargain she’d tried to make was to cheat herself. If she’d kept her mouth shut, at least he’d have been paying for her time, and she’d have a full thirty days to pull this off.

But at least, she thought, the fact that she wasn’t getting a cent out of the deal meant that she’d have less money to raise overall. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough, she could convince herself that was a positive note.

“You mean...” Susannah gave a shriek that rattled the brass and crystal chandelier above the conference table. “Then he was asking you for a date?”

Alison’s head appeared around the door. “I can hear you two all the way in my office,” she pointed out. “What in heaven’s name is going on in here? And if it’s some sort of party, why didn’t you invite me to join in the fun?”

“Because it just happened,” Susannah said. “Very unexpectedly. Jarrett Webster popped in out of the blue and—”

“Did not ask me for a date,” Kit cut in hastily. “Look, this is private and personal, and I really don’t want to—”

Susannah nodded wisely at Alison. “She doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you think that means she has something to hide?”

“No doubt. I’ll have to think what the secret might be, though. If it isn’t business and it isn’t a date, then—”

“Stop it!” Kit said firmly. “Both of you!” She turned sideways to slide between them and out the door, and the last view she had as she started up the stairs was of two astonished faces in the doorway of Rita’s office.

Then the irrepressible Susannah said, “Kit’s just a little touchy today, wouldn’t you say, Ali? I wonder if that means she’s in love?”

Forty-eight slow and painful hours crept by. By Friday afternoon, Kit still hadn’t heard from Jarrett, and she was beginning to hope that somewhere, somehow, someone had told him what had really happened to mess up the fashion show. If he learned that she hadn’t been responsible for the mix-ups...

Not likely, she told herself. Who was going to admit it, after all? Not Heather, that was sure, or her mother. And neither chance nor divine providence was apt to step in to change his mind and rescue her, either.

Even if he did learn the truth, Kit might not be entirely off the hook. Unless he was man enough to apologize, which she frankly doubted, she might not even find out that he’d seen the light.

And in the meantime, she didn’t dare take a chance on waiting. She couldn’t put off the necessary work for another moment.

She’d opened her big mouth and now she was going to have to back up her boast with action. Three lousy weeks and ten thousand dollars to raise.

Kit knew all the tricks. Professional fund-raising wasn’t particularly difficult, and in a city the size of Chicago ten thousand dollars wasn’t a great deal of money, either. Except that it was a whole lot more difficult to raise money for an amorphous general cause like fighting domestic violence than for a specific one like putting a new roof on a women’s shelter. Why couldn’t the man have been more precise?

“Because,” Kit muttered, “it would have been helpful if he had, and he knows it.”

So how was she going to pull it off?

Susannah, she knew, could come up with that amount in a matter of days for her favorite museum—but the museum had a mailing list of supporters. And a couple of months ago Alison had reached out and touched Chicago’s corporate trusts and charitable foundations, and in mere hours she’d raised enough money to fund a video production on the benefits of living and working in the Windy City.

Kit had her contacts, too, but she didn’t think simply calling them up to ask for money would be likely to solve this problem. She suspected Jarrett wouldn’t be particularly thrilled if she handed him a few big checks. Too easy, he’d probably say. The money would no doubt have been donated anyway, without her interference.

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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