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?”
“A somewhat cynical attitude.”
“Perhaps it is—but frankly, I’m astonished there was that much left over.”
“Meaning that if you’d expected it, you’d have increased your fee in order to eliminate the excess?”
“Meaning, Mr. Webster, that the entire affair was mismanaged.”
“You admit it, then?”
“I’m stating a fact—but it was hardly my fault. Within the constraints of my contract, I did everything I—”
“You were in charge.”
“Not entirely, and not from the beginning. By the time I got involved—” But why should she try to explain? It was obvious he wasn’t going to take her explanation seriously. He certainly wouldn’t take her word over Colette’s and Heather’s, and Kit would end up sounding as if she was trying to shift the blame onto anyone but herself.
“But you were responsible for the show itself, right?”
Kit hesitated. “That’s true.”
“A show that was off schedule, out of sync and excruciatingly slow-paced.”
“If you’re going to compare it to professional affairs, Mr. Webster—”
“I’m not. I know perfectly well it was an amateur event with models who’d never been on a runway before. But it could have been an enjoyable one.”
Kit wanted to tell him to talk to the models themselves about that little problem.
“Besides, a large part of the fund-raising effort was focused not on ticket sales but on the reception afterward. The hope was that after an enjoyable show, the guests would donate generously for their refreshments. However, after sitting through that fiasco, two-thirds of them left in disgust rather than stick around to drink tea. Since they weren’t present, they didn’t contribute, and—”
“I’ll take my share of the blame,” Kit said honestly.
His eyebrow twitched. “That’s refreshing.”
“I used very poor judgment. Instead of standing in for the two models who didn’t show up, I should have just poked my head out from behind the curtain at the gaps and announced that the ensemble the audience should have been seeing was unavailable because the model was too irresponsible to find a substitute. Would you have liked that any better? I thought not. Look, Mr. Webster, I’m sorry the damned fashion show didn’t raise a zillion dollars. But I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”
“That’s where the second chance comes in.”
“Now wait a minute! I’ve told you—”
His voice softened till it felt like warm, rich lotion against her skin. “Are you afraid you can’t meet the challenge, Ms. Deevers?”
“Not in the least. With my hands tied, I could do better than that mishmash of amateur do-gooders did. With a month to work on it, I could raise ten thousand dollars, minimum. But the fact remains that I don’t have a month. Tryad can take only a certain amount of time away from our regular client base for nonprofit causes, and we already have all the charity projects we can afford. I’m awfully sorry and all that, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Webster.”
Kit could tell from the way his gaze hardened that Jarrett Webster knew a dismissal when he heard it. She was almost surprised, for she doubted he was on the receiving end of a snub very often.
He didn’t move, though. Kit walked across the room to the sliding doors, but Jarrett didn’t take the hint. He seemed to be as firmly planted in the conference room as a willow tree on the bank of a pond, and his words dropped into the silence with the same effect as a rock into water. “I’ll pay for your time.”
With one hand on the pocket door, Kit turned in astonishment. “What?”
“I said, I’ll foot the bills—not only the charges for your time, at your regular rates, but the basic costs of whatever event you create.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer. “Your challenge is to raise enough money above and beyond those costs to show me that you’re not incompetent, after all.”
“Why not just give your money directly to a shelter somewhere?”
“Are you saying you can’t do it?”
“Of course not. But I don’t understand why—”
“Because you’re going to take my money and multiply it. Instead of giving, say, a couple of thousand dollars directly, I invest it with you, and you’ll turn it into—What was it you said? Ten thousand, minimum? In a month?”
“I may have said that, but—”
“Backing down, Ms. Deevers?” He shook his head sadly. “I’m disappointed in you. It’s such a worthy cause, you see. And besides, if you don’t take this challenge—”
Kit wanted to ignore him, but the question hung in the air like a plume of toxic gas, threatening to choke and smother her. “What if I don’t?”
“If you don’t succeed, or if you don’t even have the guts to try, then I will take great pleasure in telling everyone I deal with exactly why Tryad is a good firm to stay away from.”
Kit gasped. “That’s not fair!”
“If you don’t believe in your abilities, Ms. Deevers, why should I cut you any slack? I think I’d be doing a public service, frankly, to let your prospective clients know what they’re getting into.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s not fair to blame Tryad as a whole for something that was my doing.”
“I thought,” he said gently, “that you said it wasn’t your fault.”
“It wasn’t, but at least I was involved. My partners weren’t. It has absolutely nothing to do with them.”
Jarrett shrugged. “You’re part of this firm, so whatever you do reflects on them.”
“Yes, but—” She stumbled to a halt, unable to think of a telling argument.
“Take it or leave it.” Finally, he moved, striding with the easy grace of a lynx toward the door where she stood. “I’ll leave my card with your receptionist.” The sleeve of his linen blazer brushed Kit’s bare arm. The contact stung as if she’d been whipped with nettles.
“Wait!”
He turned. He was less than a foot from her, and Kit had to look a long way up into his face. There were flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes, and tiny lines at the corners. Those must come from the time he spent on that sailboat with the current Lingerie Lady.
“Your complaint is with me,” she said desperately.
“Not with Tryad. So I’ll make you a deal.”
He shrugged. “You’re not exactly in a good place to be dictating terms, you know.”
“I’ll do a campaign for you, and I’ll do my best to raise at least ten thousand dollars.”
“Somehow,” Jarrett mused, “this sounds familiar. Almost as if I’d said it myself.”
“But I’ll do it on my own time. You don’t have to pay me a dime, but in return, you have to promise that Tryad doesn’t come into it.”
He looked thoughtful. “You mean, you want me to promise that if you fail—”
“I won’t fail!”
“In that case,” he said gently, “you—and Tryad—don’t have a thing to worry about, do you? Shall we shake hands on our deal, Ms. Deevers?”
Kit didn’t walk him to the front door, as all three of the partners usually did with their clients. Mostly, she admitted, it was because she wasn’t so sure she could still walk.
She heard the front door close and sank against the conference room wall with a thud. How had he managed to turn things so neatly against her? She’d made a perfectly reasonable proposition, and he’d shot it down without even bothering to take aim.
She wanted to pound her forehead against the door.
A couple of minutes later Susannah came in. “He’s gorgeous,” she said.
“I suppose you were hovering in the hallway so you could
get a good look?”
“Of course not,” Susannah said with dignity. “I was supervising Rita’s typing.”
“Bet she loved having you leaning over her shoulder.”
“I wasn’t. I was sitting on her desk—I had a much better view of the conference room door that way. Kit, he’s twice as terrific as his pictures. No wonder you... Are you all right?”
“Just jolly,” Kit said under her breath.
“Well, good. You look a little stunned, though. Let me guess what happened. He was so impressed by you that he wants Tryad to take over Milady Lingerie’s public relations?”
“It has nothing to do with Tryad.” And it’s up to me to keep it that way, Kit reminded herself. I have a month to raise ten thousand dollars or...
No, she reminded herself. She didn’t have a month. She had only her personal time—whatever remained after her normal workload. The only thing she’d succeeded in doing with the brash bargain she’d tried to make was to cheat herself. If she’d kept her mouth shut, at least he’d have been paying for her time, and she’d have a full thirty days to pull this off.
But at least, she thought, the fact that she wasn’t getting a cent out of the deal meant that she’d have less money to raise overall. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough, she could convince herself that was a positive note.
“You mean...” Susannah gave a shriek that rattled the brass and crystal chandelier above the conference table. “Then he was asking you for a date?”
Alison’s head appeared around the door. “I can hear you two all the way in my office,” she pointed out. “What in heaven’s name is going on in here? And if it’s some sort of party, why didn’t you invite me to join in the fun?”
“Because it just happened,” Susannah said. “Very unexpectedly. Jarrett Webster popped in out of the blue and—”
“Did not ask me for a date,” Kit cut in hastily. “Look, this is private and personal, and I really don’t want to—”
Susannah nodded wisely at Alison. “She doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you think that means she has something to hide?”
“No doubt. I’ll have to think what the secret might be, though. If it isn’t business and it isn’t a date, then—”
“Stop it!” Kit said firmly. “Both of you!” She turned sideways to slide between them and out the door, and the last view she had as she started up the stairs was of two astonished faces in the doorway of Rita’s office.
Then the irrepressible Susannah said, “Kit’s just a little touchy today, wouldn’t you say, Ali? I wonder if that means she’s in love?”
Forty-eight slow and painful hours crept by. By Friday afternoon, Kit still hadn’t heard from Jarrett, and she was beginning to hope that somewhere, somehow, someone had told him what had really happened to mess up the fashion show. If he learned that she hadn’t been responsible for the mix-ups...
Not likely, she told herself. Who was going to admit it, after all? Not Heather, that was sure, or her mother. And neither chance nor divine providence was apt to step in to change his mind and rescue her, either.
Even if he did learn the truth, Kit might not be entirely off the hook. Unless he was man enough to apologize, which she frankly doubted, she might not even find out that he’d seen the light.
And in the meantime, she didn’t dare take a chance on waiting. She couldn’t put off the necessary work for another moment.
She’d opened her big mouth and now she was going to have to back up her boast with action. Three lousy weeks and ten thousand dollars to raise.
Kit knew all the tricks. Professional fund-raising wasn’t particularly difficult, and in a city the size of Chicago ten thousand dollars wasn’t a great deal of money, either. Except that it was a whole lot more difficult to raise money for an amorphous general cause like fighting domestic violence than for a specific one like putting a new roof on a women’s shelter. Why couldn’t the man have been more precise?
“Because,” Kit muttered, “it would have been helpful if he had, and he knows it.”
So how was she going to pull it off?
Susannah, she knew, could come up with that amount in a matter of days for her favorite museum—but the museum had a mailing list of supporters. And a couple of months ago Alison had reached out and touched Chicago’s corporate trusts and charitable foundations, and in mere hours she’d raised enough money to fund a video production on the benefits of living and working in the Windy City.
Kit had her contacts, too, but she didn’t think simply calling them up to ask for money would be likely to solve this problem. She suspected Jarrett wouldn’t be particularly thrilled if she handed him a few big checks. Too easy, he’d probably say. The money would no doubt have been donated anyway, without her interference.
That would be a technical success for Kit, but one that wouldn’t mean much. Under those circumstances, Jarrett might not actually carry through with his threat to use his contacts against Tryad. But unless he was wholeheartedly convinced, he certainly wouldn’t do the firm any favors, either. And if a man with Jarrett Webster’s influence and power so much as raised an eyebrow when Tryad was mentioned...
“Let’s face it,” Kit muttered. “He doesn’t have to bad-mouth us. All he has to do is sow a little doubt. A cynical question here and a hesitant look there, and our clients will start looking for cover.”
The fact was, Kit realized, that raising the money she’d promised wasn’t really the primary goal of this campaign. Impressing Jarrett Webster was, because if she didn’t succeed in swaying him, she’d lose the battle—no matter how much money she handed over to his precious cause.
The good news, she told herself, is that you don’t have to impress him on any personal level. Considering the way she’d started out, that would be downright impossible.
She reached for a pencil and a pad of graph paper and wrote in block letters across the top, How to excite Jarrett Webster.
Then she stared at the blank page and tapped the eraser against her cheek.
New money—that was what she needed to set the arrogant Mr. Webster on his heels. If she could come up with ten thousand dollars from ordinary people who otherwise wouldn’t have made a donation, money that would have been spent on things instead of good causes...
Her pencil moved slowly across the page, doodling a row of parallel lines.
She needed an event that would grab publicity—a month wasn’t long enough for a slow-building campaign. It had to be something flashy to intrigue the fickle public. And it must return entertainment or actual value to the contributors so they wouldn’t mind handing.over fairly large sums of hard-eamed money.
All of which was precisely what the fashion show had tried to do, she reminded herself. Well, she wasn’t stupid enough to try that again. But there were plenty of activities people would pay to attend. A formal ball, perhaps—though there must be a dozen already planned for the next few months. A banquet. A rock concert or maybe a symphony performance.
She could feel her blood pressure inching up. There was nothing particularly intriguing about any of those possibilities, certainly nothing that would generate the sort of publicity she needed.
Her intercom buzzed, and Rita announced, “Telephone, Kit. Line three.”
With a tinge of relief Kit tossed the graph paper aside. But as soon as she picked up the receiver, she knew who was waiting for her. Her fingertips began to tingle, and by the time she’d said hello the sensation had rushed all the way up her arm and leaped to her throat. Did the man give off an electrical current that had the power to surge through telephone lines and paralyze whoever was on the other end?
Jarrett didn’t bother to return her greeting. “When do you get off work?”
I don’t, Kit wanted to say. I’m going to stay here in my office forever, working round the clock like a galley slave for the rest of my life. “I’ll be finished in half an hour.”
“I’ll be waiting in front.”
The t
elephone clicked in her ear before she could argue. Or agree, for that matter.
Calling that man arrogant, she fumed, was an understatement of approximately the same magnitude as referring to the Great Chicago Fire as a backyard wiener roast!
One thing was certain. There hadn’t been anything in his voice that hinted of regret or apology. So was there any reason she should stick around? Since he hadn’t even let her answer his demand, much less tell him whether it was convenient to meet with him right now...
No, she decided. She shoved the pad of graph paper into her briefcase, along with a dozen folders containing other current projects, took her trench coat from its hook, wrapped a bright wool scarf around her throat and tried not to look as if she was hurrying as she descended the stairs to the front door. With any luck, she could-be around the corner and out of sight before he arrived—and all the way home before the half hour was up.
Though she should give him a smidgen of credit, Kit decided. At least he’d had the decency to offer to wait outside. He could have come in and started Susannah speculating again.
Kit glanced up as she reached the front walk, and her steps slowed. Parked by the fireplug directly in front of the brownstone 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?”
The Billionaire Date Page 3