The Billionaire Bid. Leigh Michaels
she knew it.
Fine, Gina told herself irritably. Two can play that game. What’s good for the goose…
She pushed the menu aside. This time she didn’t bother with a survey of the room; he’d only interpret that as coyness anyway. She put both elbows on the edge of the table, rested her chin on her fingertips, and stared back at him.
Actually, she had to admit, he wasn’t a bad addition to either the ambience or the decor. He was tall; she could tell that much from the way he was half sitting on the high stool with one foot hooked easily onto the rung and the other still planted on the floor. And he was good-looking in a hard-edged fashion, with blue-black hair, a strong jaw, and a proud nose. Of course, she’d never been much interested in the dark, predatory type.
What, she wondered, had made him bore in on her? Surely he didn’t stare at every woman who glanced at him as Gina had done—or even every woman who took a long hard second look. For one thing, if he did he’d have no time left to do anything else, because there must be plenty of women who—unlike Gina—would find that package attractive enough to inspect at length.
Without taking his gaze off Gina, the man at the bar stretched out a hand unerringly for his replenished glass and held it up, as if offering a toast to her.
Well, Haskell, that didn’t exactly turn out the way you planned. Now what?
The man shifted on the bar stool as if he was about to rise. Gina tensed. If he comes over here…
Beside her, the maître d’ cleared his throat loudly.
Startled, Gina jumped up. Her chair rocked, coming dangerously close to upsetting. Her napkin trailed off her lap onto the floor, and the edge of her suit jacket snagged on the corner of the menu and flipped it off the table. Gina felt color flood her face. The man at the bar, she thought, must be enjoying this show immensely. Fortunately, because of the way the table was angled, he couldn’t see her face now. Even better, she couldn’t see him anymore.
The maître d’, looking as if he were suffering from a sudden cramp, waved a busboy over to retrieve the menu and bring a fresh napkin while he pulled out a chair for her guest. “Mrs. Garrett,” he said, enunciating very carefully.
As if he felt it necessary to introduce us, Gina thought irritably.
Anne Garrett stretched a hand across the table. “Hello, Gina. It’s nice to see you again.” She glanced up at the maître d’ and added dryly, “Thank you, Bruce. I believe I can handle it from here.”
The maître d’ looked skeptical, but he retreated.
“Sorry,” Gina said, feeling breathless. “I’m not usually quite so clumsy.” I will not look at the bar, she told herself. Seeing amusement in those deep-set eyes would not help matters.
I wonder what color his eyes are, anyway.
“Bruce’s evil stare would make Saint Peter feel guilty,” Anne murmured. “I’ve always wondered how many of the waiters he hires last a full week without having a nervous breakdown.” She opened her menu. “I’m sorry to say I only have an hour before I have to be back at the newspaper for one of those ghastly endless meetings. So let’s order first, if you don’t mind, and then you can tell me what’s going on.”
Gina’s throat tightened as time seemed to compress around her. An hour wasn’t nearly long enough…Though, on the other hand, if she couldn’t convince Anne Garrett of the value of her plan in an hour, then she probably couldn’t do it in a week either. And if she couldn’t convince Anne Garrett…
What a cheerful thought that is.
Gina ordered a salad almost at random, sipped her iced tea, and began. “First I want to thank you for meeting with me. I appreciate being able to get your advice, since where Lakemont is concerned, you’re an expert.”
Anne paused with the cream pitcher suspended above her coffee cup. “I wouldn’t go quite that far. I’m a native, but so are you—aren’t you?”
“Not quite. And I don’t have nearly the contacts you do.”
Anne set the cream down and picked up her spoon. “So tell me what it is you want from my contacts.”
Gina wanted to choke herself. That hadn’t been very neatly done at all. “It’s the museum,” she said, and sighed. “Oh, that sounded foolish, didn’t it? Of course it’s the museum. You were gracious enough to show an interest in it when you visited a couple of weeks ago.”
“Of course I’m interested. It’s a nice little museum, full of history.”
“And that’s the point.” Gina ran a hand over the nape of her neck. It felt just a little itchy; the man at the bar must still be watching her. “Lakemont and Kerrigan County deserve more than just a nice little museum, one that’s so short of space it’s crammed full with no place to turn around. Just last week we were offered the stained-glass windows from St. Francis Church. It’s probably going to be torn down before long, you know. But we don’t have a shed big enough to store the windows in, much less a place to display them.”
The waiter returned with their salads. When he was finished arranging the table, Anne drizzled dressing over the crabmeat which topped her salad and said, “So you’re asking for a donation for…what? To remodel a room for the windows?”
“Not exactly.” Gina took a deep breath and plunged. “That would be a start, but I want to reconstruct the entire museum.”
Anne Garrett’s eyebrows climbed. “Put up a new building, you mean?”
“No—oh, no.” The thought was like a knife to Gina’s heart. “A new building for a museum of history? It would be anachronous.”
“The house you’re in now must be a hundred and fifty years old.”
Gina nodded. “And the museum has been there from its beginning. You see, there wouldn’t be a museum at all if it hadn’t been for Essie Kerrigan. She not only started the Kerrigan County Historical Society, but she kept it going almost single-handed for years. Her possessions formed the nucleus of the collection, her money filled the gaps whenever there was a shortfall in the budget, and her house has provided a roof to shelter it. She devoted her entire life to creating and nurturing it.”
“But Essie’s gone now, and you’re the director. So you can do whatever you think best.”
Gina smiled wryly. “I still wouldn’t consider a modern building. For one thing, Essie would haunt it—and if she were to be surrounded by wallboard and cheap pine moldings, she would not be a happy ghost. Besides, there’s the problem of where to put a new building. A museum of history needs to be in the historical area, not the suburbs—and that means near downtown.”
“Near the lakefront, where land is scarce and expensive.”
“Exactly.”
“So if it’s not a new building you want, what do you have in mind? My kids and I had a very pleasant afternoon at the museum, you know—so I’m having trouble seeing what could possibly need to be changed.”
“A pleasant afternoon.” Gina put down her fork and leaned forward. “I’m glad you enjoyed your visit, but would you come back again? No, don’t answer right away—that’s a serious question. In a couple of hours you saw everything we have room to display. Unless we can create more space, room for changing exhibits, there’s no reason for anyone to visit more than once. And unless we have repeat traffic—regular visitors—then the museum can’t possibly support itself. So let me ask again. Would you come back for another visit?”
Anne sighed. “Probably not anytime soon.”
“That’s precisely my point. The museum is now at the stage where it needs to grow, or else it’s going to die.” Gina stabbed a tomato chunk.
“What sort of growth are you talking about?” Anne Garrett sounded doubtful.
Gina