The Billionaire Date

“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?”