The Billionaire Date

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.”