The Billionaire Date Page 13

  Kit tapped her toe on the pavement. “Dammit, Jarrett, that was not fair!”

  “Oh? And what you did was, I suppose?”

  She bit her lip.

  “That’s what I thought. Come on, darling, let’s declare ourselves even. One thing about it, you won’t have any trouble filling that ballroom now.”

  He was right about that much. “Exactly,” Kit said. “Wasn’t it clever of me to think of that stunt? And of course, I’m so pleased that you had the wit to play along.”

  “Right,” Jarrett said dryly. “I’m sure you had it planned out in advance, down to the last detail. Tell me, darling—was that the sort of kiss you had in mind, or do you want to show me a more effective style?”

  The very idea of kissing him again made Kit’s insides feel like melted marshmallows. “It was good enough to get by.”

  He swept her a bow. “Halfhearted praise from you, my dear, is better than a gold medal from the ordinary woman.”

  Kit almost added that no amount of practice would do him any good, but just in time she thought better of the jab. Such a feeble thrust wasn’t likely to pierce Jarrett’s self-confidence. Besides, she realized that what she’d intended as insult was probably true—obviously he didn’t have much left to learn about the art of the kiss.

  Outside Tryad’s brownstone, Jarrett parked the Porsche by the fireplug, helped Kit out and said goodbye.

  She was relieved that he wasn’t going to be sitting beside her desk all day, but she couldn’t help taking one more jab at him. “Leaving so soon? I thought you were going to devote the rest of this week to the auction, and there’s still four full business days left.”

  “I just have to run an errand or two, but I’ll be back. And then I’ll be working very hard, indeed.” His voice was a soft drawl. “After all, I still have to plan—how shall I say it?—the honeymoon you deserve.”

  An hour later Kit was still shuffling papers and trying to concentrate when she heard the front door slam and the distinctive sound of Susannah’s step on the stairway.

  Susannah didn’t even take off her coat or set her briefcase down before she came into Kit’s office. “And you call me the creative one!” she announced.

  “I take it you saw the television show?”

  “At my wildest, I’d never have pulled anything that crazy.”

  “It’s a defective gene,” Kit muttered. She was half serious. She must possess some self-destructive instinct, some flaw that not only made her continually challenge Jarrett, but worse, led her to believe there was a chance she might someday come out ahead.

  “So what was it like to kiss him?” Susannah tossed herself down on the chaise.

  The jealousy Kit had felt earlier in the week echoed faintly through her mind. Was there something more than idle curiosity about Susannah’s question? Jarrett had announced that he liked Susannah. Did that work both ways?

  “You don’t want to know,” Alison announced from the doorway.

  “What do you mean, Ali? Of course, I want to know.”

  “Well, Kit doesn’t want to tell you. Here.” Alison set a tall glass of water and an aspirin bottle on Kit’s desk blotter. “I thought you might need a little something after the show this morning.”

  Kit said, gratefully, “You’re a jewel, Ali.” She swallowed two tablets. “I’ve got it. I’ll just resign and check myself into an asylum—”

  “Aspirin and a padded cell?” Susannah shook her head. “I’d have thought he’d be better at kissing than that.”

  “Before the auction’s finished?” Alison sounded horrified. “Don’t think you’re going to get by with passing the buck to us.”

  Kit went on. “You two can have a news conference to announce you’re seeking a new partner, and then it won’t matter what Jarrett does to try to ruin the auction.”

  “Why would he want to?” Alison said briskly. “I never have understood that, you know.”

  “Because—” Kit paused. She’d come this far on her own, keeping Jarrett’s threat against Tryad to herself. Why worry her partners now, when the auction was looking like a success despite her foolish behavior? Jarrett had admitted that after this morning’s performance, the tickets should sell themselves.

  And Alison was right—why would he go to so much trouble if he was planning to sabotage the event?

  Not so much trouble after all, Kit reminded herself darkly. He’d suggested the players on his basketball team as prizes but refused to ask them to participate. He arranged for hors d’oeuvres, but that hadn’t been helping so much as getting himself out of having to work. What had Jarrett really done, besides take up space in Kit’s office, distract her from work at all hours of the day and blow bubbles?

  Maybe, she thought, she owed Susannah and Alison a warning. The trouble was that once uttered, the words could never be unsaid. Perhaps it would be best to wait a little while, at least till her head didn’t hurt and she could think more logically, to decide.

  “Maybe he doesn’t,” Kit said. “Maybe it’s just me he wants to ruin.”

  Susannah’s grin was wicked. “In the best tradition of a Victorian novel, no doubt.” She moved off the chaise and went to stand by the window. “You could let down your hair from this window like Rapunzel, I suppose—Hey, look at this!”

  “His sister’s a victim,” Alison said.

  Kit was stunned. “What?”

  Susannah said, “I mean it, guys, you’ve got to see this. Mrs. Holcomb’s shooing the paparazzo out from under the bushes!”

  Alison rushed for the window. Kit, feeling the weight of responsibility, headed for the stairs instead.

  She threw open the front door just as the recluse next door—the woman none of them had ever seen leave her house before—bent over the juniper bushes, broom in hand.

  Heedless of her high-heeled pumps, Kit took the steps from porch to sidewalk in a single leap. The jolt to her ankles slowed her down, and before she could reach the street, Jarrett’s Porsche pulled into a parking space a few feet from the fireplug.

  A legal parking spot, Kit thought. Now that was a novelty, for Jarrett.

  He stepped out and leaned against his open door. “I’m delighted you’re so anxious to see me that you’ve come rushing out here, darling, but—” He followed Kit’s gaze to the scene across the street.

  Kit winced as she heard the broomstick striking the photographer’s shoulders, followed by a voice as shrill as a squeaking hinge. “You think women are helpless, do you? Well, this’ll teach you not to spy!”

  Jarrett crossed the street in three steps, removed the broom from Mrs. Holcomb’s grip and briskly shook her hand. “I see you’ve caught a window peeker, ma’am. Good work, you deserve a commendation. I’ll take care of this now. Thank you very much for your help.”

  Mrs. Holcomb grumbled for a moment, then—as if she’d abruptly realized where she was—she seized her broom and scuttled toward her front door like a cockroach frightened of the light.

  The photographer put both hands up, palms out, and backed off. “Crazy old lady was trying to kill me,” he said defensively. “I was only doing my job!”

  “Yes, yes,” Jarrett said. “But maybe you’d better keep your distance anyway. I see you’re wearing a pager. Give me the number and I’ll keep you posted about where we’ll be. You won’t have to get scratched up by the junipers to get your pictures, the recluse can celebrate driving you away, and everybody will be happy.”

  The photographer made a feeble effort to smooth out his clothes. “Yeah, sure you will,” he said, but he handed over a card and retreated down the block.

  Kit hadn’t said a word.

  With the field cleared of combatants, Jarrett dusted off his hands and smiled at her.

  Deep inside Kit, a spark that she’d tried for days to deny grew slowly into the steady flame of knowledge.

  He took her arm. “How do you feel about two weeks on the south coast of France?”

  The flame roared higher until it thr
eatened to consume her, and she had to face the truth she had tried so hard to ignore.

  She wasn’t just attracted to Jarrett. She wasn’t simply captivated by his charm. She didn’t merely find him physically seductive. No, the truth was much worse than any of those.

  Somewhere in the last few days, she’d looked past the playboy to the man, and she’d fallen in love with him.

  It wasn’t just attraction she felt. She couldn’t shake him off as she’d joked she would, like a troublesome head cold. This case of love was a whole lot more serious than that.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AS SHE STOOD THERE, the fires of truth burned away delusion and left Kit facing the stark skeleton of fact. She’d thought she was immune to him, but she’d been hiding from her feelings since the beginning. From the instant they’d met, she’d felt the tug of attraction, as if something deep inside her knew that this was the man of her destiny.

  When she’d so unexpectedly—and literally—run into him at the reception following the fashion show, he’d caught her. But she’d thought her breathless, weightless feeling as he’d held her upright had been only shock at encountering him once more.

  Then there was his offer to help with the auction—or what she’d believed at the time was an offer to help—by recruiting the basketball players to take part. She’d experienced a burst of joy and told herself it was because the success of the auction was assured and Tryad was safe. But neither of those things, really, had been the source of her delight. It had been the idea of Jarrett helping, of him believing in her—and the image of them working together.

  What a mess, Kit told herself. You’ve really gotten yourself into a spot this time, Deevers.

  The worst thing of all, though, was knowing that Jarrett’s joke about a honeymoon was no longer a joke to her. There was nothing she would like more than to be his wife, his love, forever.

  And there was nothing farther from her reach.

  “Kitten? Does it take you that long to decide, or are we playing twenty questions while I guess where you’d like to go instead? What would be your idea of the perfect honeymoon?”

  Anything that includes you. But she’d be a fool even to think about that, for fear the fact would show in her eyes. If he was to guess and he laughed at her...

  He hadn’t really been asking her, anyway, she realized. Not about France, not about the perfect honeymoon. He’d been speculating, as if to himself. The question had been entirely rhetorical.

  “The south coast of France,” Kit said slowly, as if debating. “You mean the Riviera? Casinos and nightlife and glitz and glamour? Some of the women coming Saturday night might like that.” She shook her head. “But it’s not my cup of tea.”

  “Of course I don’t mean the Riviera. I thought we’d sleep under a cardboard box on the sand and beachcomb for items of value to trade for food.”

  “Of course—I should have known the ordinary wouldn’t appeal to you.” Deliberately, she kept her voice tart. “But wouldn’t you rather have six months in an army tent in Iceland?”

  “Oh, certainly, if that’s what you’d like. I’ll have to add fur trim to your black lace outfit, though.”

  “I thought you’d decided on the white. But never mind. I wouldn’t want you to ruin the lines of a Webster design.”

  “It would be a problem to make it look as if it belonged,” Jarrett agreed. “If you want adventure, though, there’s always a camel trek across the Sahara Desert. At least it would be warm.”

  “No, thanks. Blowing sand would be too harsh on my skin.”

  “That’s true. And when you’re wearing only lace, there’s a lot of skin to be harsh to.” He paused on the porch.

  “Are you coming in?” She dared a glance at him.

  “No, I was just passing by and thought I’d try out my idea.”

  “Well, don’t rack your brain too hard. I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to work this out.”

  “You’re surely not giving up already? How high are you prepared to bid, anyway?”

  “I’ll check the contents of my piggy bank this afternoon and let you know.” She shut the door of Tryad’s brownstone in his face and went upstairs.

  Susannah was in her office next to Kit’s, her head bent over a folder open on her desk. Her pose was a bit too sanctimonious to be real, Kit thought. She paused in the doorway. “I’m glad to see you’re working instead of hanging out the window watching.”

  Susannah looked up with a sunny smile. “Would I do anything like that?”

  “Of course you would.”

  “Well, all right, I did. But not after you got onto the porch, where the roof blocked my view.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Someone had to make sure you were safe.”

  “From Mrs. Holcomb? She’s harmless.”

  “I don’t think the paparazzo would agree with you. Besides, that wasn’t what I meant. I thought for a minute that the knight in shining armor was going to turn you over his knee.”

  “Better that than—” Kit saw the bright interest in Susannah’s eyes and broke off abruptly. “I’d better get to work. There’s just three full days left till the auction.”

  “Save me a ticket,” Susannah called after her. “I’m not about to miss this show!”

  Jarrett didn’t come back to the office, but he started calling every few hours with another suggestion for a honeymoon destination. Some were outrageous, others almost reasonable—and Kit wasn’t sure which agitated her more. The off-the-wall ideas were a painful reminder that Jarrett was nowhere near as serious about her as she was about him. The inviting ones only made her heart ache worse as she pictured the way things might have been.

  The truth was, she wouldn’t care whether the destination was luxurious or silly or humble. If he loved her, she’d go anywhere with him—the South Seas or the South of France, a box on a sunny beach or a tent on the Icelandic shore...or nowhere at all. If he loved her the way she loved him, nothing would matter as long as she could be with him.

  But each call reminded her that to him, this was nothing more than a grand jest—a practical joke she’d brought on herself by embarrassing him on television. And she was doing nothing but asking for trouble if she allowed herself to pretend it was anything else.

  So instead of telling him not to call, or instructing Rita not to put him through, she listened to each incredible plan and laughed and commended him and suggested that he try a little harder.

  And each time, her heartache grew, for the Dream Dates Auction was growing closer, and she knew that one of these suggestions would become reality. The long weekend in Hawaii, perhaps, or the golfing trip to Palm Springs, or the theater tour of London would be listed on the program and offered up for sale. On Saturday night some lucky woman would be the winning bidder, and not long after, she would go off on a trip with Jarrett.

  The trip that should have been Kit’s.

  He’d been dead on target with his parting shot at the television station. The last thing she wanted to do was let him go off on a honeymoon trip—even one that wasn’t really a honeymoon—without her.

  But there was nothing she could do about it.

  She even, in a moment of craziness, added up all her financial resources and contemplated blowing every penny at the auction. But though the sum was respectable, it was likely to be no competition for the sort of women who were buying tickets in droves.

  And in any case, she knew the money didn’t really make any difference. If she had all the cash in the world, she wouldn’t bid on him—because winning him in name only would simply be pretending. And pretending would lead nowhere but to pain.

  Better to leave the whole thing behind her. She would get through the auction, and smile at the winning bidder, and congratulate her, and wish them a happy trip. She might even send a bon-voyage bouquet.

  And she would never let Jarrett guess that it was a goodbye gift, as well.

  Their television appearance had created
a momentum that threatened to sweep Kit off her feet. As the last days before the auction ticked away, the fever grew. Every few hours another vendor phoned, out of tickets and pleading for more. There seemed to be a permanent lineup of bachelors on hold, waiting for Kit to get around to them. When USA Today called to ask for press credentials, Kit put down the telephone and screamed in delight.

  Of course, there was a downside, too. Rita was threatening to quit her job—if only, she said, the telephone would stop ringing long enough to let her reach the door. By the end of the week, Kit was half-expecting the secretary to rip all the phone wires from the wall, drape them around her neck and go screaming like a banshee down the street.

  Susannah quietly took over all Kit’s regular work. Kit was too busy to wonder why her clients suddenly seemed to have gone underground, until she overheard Susannah explaining airily to one of Kit’s clients that he hadn’t been able to get through to Kit because—unfortunately for him—he wasn’t a bachelor.

  Alison made sure they all ate on a regular and healthy basis. Not only did she put food in front of Kit, but she waited patiently until it was consumed before she’d go away.

  Even the calico cat who lived in the production room looked a little dazed by the sudden clamor of her surroundings. She took to sleeping in the farthest, darkest corner of the storage closet on the lower level, next to Alison’s office. When Rita got a new box of telephone message slips from the closet one day and shut the door tight, even the cat didn’t notice for several hours.

  Kit added Make amends to cat to her list of things to do as soon as the auction was over. At least, she told herself, she could manage that-a catnip mouse and a good session of petting should do the trick. She was afraid she’d never be able to make it up to Alison, Susannah and Rita.

  On Friday afternoon she left a terse message for Jarrett that if he expected his dream date to be included in the program he’d better call her before the day was out.

  A couple of hours later, he appeared in her office, pulled up a chair beside her desk and waited patiently until she was off the telephone. “Did you know all your lines are jammed?” he asked politely. “I tried to call. In fact, I’ve been trying to call all day. I’ve had such a lot of good ideas—”