The Billionaire Date. Leigh Michaels
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