The model smiled uncertainly at Kit and fluttered on to greet a woman who’d just arrived. “Hello, here’s a small gift from Milady Lingerie for coming tonight....”
Colette sniffed. “That girl is far too naive to be let loose on the world.”
Kit managed a smile. “Not at all like your little Heather,” she agreed. “If you’ll excuse me—”
Jarrett put out a hand. “Where are you going?”
“Out into the mall to see if the demonstrators have an extra sign I can carry.”
He smiled at Colette. “I think that means it’s time to take her to dinner,” he confided, and followed Kit out of the store.
The air of the open mall felt comfortably cool against Kit’s face. She hadn’t realized how warm the store had been. No doubt, she thought, they’d raised the thermostat so the models wouldn’t turn blue. That way the customers wouldn’t notice till after they’d made a purchase how inadequate silk and lace were for warding off goose bumps.
“The things women will do to impress men,” she mused. “They’ll freeze, they’ll squeeze into costumes as restricting as an Iron Maiden—” She broke off to watch the protesters, who had lost a couple of sign bearers and were standing instead of marching. A security guard was keeping an eye on them from a discreet distance, and the camera crew had already left.
“Too bad,” Kit said. “If they’d done something really outrageous, the camera would still be there. Maybe I should give them my card, since they could obviously use the guidance of a good PR firm.”
“That would be unethical,” Jarrett pointed out. “You can’t work for both sides.”
“But you’re not paying me, remember? So the rule doesn’t apply. Besides, you’d get a publicity bounce from anything I did for them.”
“Well, think it over for a day or two first, all right?” Jarrett took her arm. “Would you prefer French, Italian or all-American cuisine?”
“It doesn’t much matter. I could eat a horse.”
“That I might have to search for.”
Kit wasn’t paying attention. She was looking over her shoulder at the dispirited marchers. “If they’d gone after the issue of comfort instead of sexism, every woman in the mall would have at least considered joining in,” she mused. “Underwires are the devil’s invention.”
“What?”
“It’s true, and if you’d ever tried one next to your skin, you’d know.”
Jarrett smiled. “Now that’s an idea I hadn’t ever thought of.”
“Obviously. Men design lingerie for men, not for women.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“For looks. I mean, of course, for men to look at. They’re certainly not thinking of the comfort of women.”
“I’ll make a note of that. No underwires in your white lace affair.”
“I thought you said it was going to be black. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
“Does that mean you’ll wear either?”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“Speaking of bets, I’ve changed my mind about ours. About sleeping together, I mean.”
“That wasn’t a bet.”
“Precisely.”
“That was nothing more than a grandstand statement you made in order to—” Kit broke off and then asked warily, “What do you mean by precisely, Jarrett?”
“I mean it’s not a bet. It’s a certainty.” He unlocked the passenger door of the Porsche and helped her in.
None too soon, Kit thought. Her knees felt like jelly that had just been spread on hot toast.
Jarrett leaned across her to solicitously fasten her seat belt. “However the auction comes out,” he said, “you are going to sleep with me, you know.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
KIT DIDN’T REGAIN command of her voice until the Porsche had swept out of the mall parking lot and onto the freeway. Even then, to her own ears she sounded almost pitifully feeble. “I think I’d like to go home.”
“All right,” Jarrett said equably. “Though I must admit I didn’t think you’d be quite so eager. Just a few minutes ago you told me you were starving, and now—”
“I didn’t say I was inviting you to come with me. And I’m certainly not going to bed with you, now or any other time.”
“Now that’s much more like you.” He sounded almost admiring. “Defiance in the face of the facts—yes, that’s classic Kit Deevers.”
Kit’s head was spinning, and she couldn’t help wondering if he’d blown a gasket or she had. “I meant that if you’re going to be ridiculous, I’d much rather be alone than with you.”
“Oh, if that’s what you’re worried about, we should definitely have dinner. After all, I can’t seduce you at a public restaurant. The maitre d’ would object.”
Kit closed her eyes. But trying to shut out the incredible only made things worse, she found, for with no outside stimuli, her imagination was free to roam.
You’re going to sleep with me....
The words, soft and confident and assured, seemed to ooze through her veins like a hypnotic drug, washing away her resistance and leaving behind a sense of delicious lassitude. She could almost feel the stroking of fingertips soft as silk against her skin.
“And what’s ridiculous about it, anyway?” The lazy tone of Jarrett’s voice slipped into place in her fantasy as neatly as the right answer into a crossword puzzle, and for a moment Kit didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud.
Then she sat up straight. “What’s ridiculous? The whole idea, that’s what! Why would you want to sleep with me? With all the models you’ve got running around, to say nothing of the Lingerie Ladies, who are probably delighted to have your attention—”
She had no idea what his answer would be, and too late, she found herself wishing she hadn’t asked the question. Why had she been fool enough to phrase it in those terms, anyway? She’d practically made it sound as if she thought the offer was an honor. That was a long way from the truth, but still, she’d left herself wide open for a cutting reply. Did she really want to hear, in so many words, that he’d only been teasing? That he’d tossed the suggestion out in jest and was stunned at the strength of her reaction?
“That’s part of it.” His voice was so level, so sober, that there was no denying he was serious. “I wouldn’t say that every model and Lingerie Lady wants my attention, but—”
“Don’t even try for modesty, Webster. It doesn’t become you.”
“All right, I’ll admit that a lot of them do. You, on the other hand, are a challenge.”
“Gee, thanks.” Kit sank into the deep leather seat. “I can’t begin to tell you how terrific that makes me feel.”
“Well, you did ask,” Jarrett said reasonably. “And I thought if I gave you a pretty answer, you’d probably spit at me, so why not try the truth?”
Kit rolled her eyes and tried her best to ignore him.
“Yes,” he mused. “Definitely a challenge.”
Kit was tongue-tied. If she played along, she’d encourage him, but apparently even if she didn’t play along, she’d encourage him. She was stuck in a loselose situation, and—judging by the upbeat tune he was whistling—Jarrett was enjoying it.
He pulled the Porsche up outside a row house at the edge of an upscale shopping district not far from Tryad’s brownstone, and a valet leaped to attention and pulled Kit’s door open. She shot a look at Jarrett. He didn’t seem the sort to live in a row house, and certainly she wouldn’t have expected an attendant waiting in the street. On the other hand, Jarrett was proving to be full of surprises tonight.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “It doesn’t look like it from the outside, but this is absolutely the best French restaurant in greater Chicago.”
Kit wasn’t so sure it looked like a great restaurant from the inside, either. Beyond the maitre d’s station, which was no more than a podium beside the front door, was a simple, almost square room containing a dozen widely spaced tables. Each was draped in snowy linen and set with eleg
ant china and gleaming crystal, but only half were occupied at an hour when most of Chicago’s restaurants were overflowing.
“Obviously an undiscovered treasure,” Kit said wryly.
She hadn’t dropped her voice quite far enough, for it was the maitre d’ who answered. “We cater to a most discriminating clientele, ma’am—people who enjoy their privacy. If you’ll follow me, please...”
Jarrett leaned close. “And that puts you properly in your place, I’d say.” The laughter in his voice was like a fresh spring breeze stirring the tiniest hairs on the back of Kit’s neck and sending a delicious chill all through her body.
The maitre d’ led them to a small corner table and bowed Kit into her chair. To her surprise, Jarrett made no move to seat her himself, or to pull his chair closer to hers. He took the seat opposite and asked if she would care for a drink.
“Yes, please,” Kit said calmly. “Iced tea.”
If she’d hoped to cause him an instant’s shock or perhaps even a tinge of embarrassment by ordering something so plebeian, Kit was disappointed. Jarrett relayed her order to the waiter, asked for a Perrier for himself and smiled at her as he settled in his chair with the wine list. “I’m glad you agree with me that cocktails numb the taste buds and blur the entire experience of good dining.”
To say nothing of blurring one’s common sense, Kit thought. But saying so would tell him she was still thinking about that absurd announcement of his—which would be far, far better ignored. In fact, she told herself, she ought to have pretended from the very beginning that he’d said nothing at all. Or perhaps if she’d laughed in his face...
“I think, unless there’s something you’re particularly craving, that we’ll let the chef surprise us,” Jarrett said.
“That’s fine with me. I seem to have lost my appetite, anyway.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Jarrett’s mouth. “What a shame. I hope it wasn’t anything I said?” He consulted the wine steward, and once the man had scurried away to the cellars, Jarrett leaned forward and tented his fingers under his chin. “I meant it, you know. You are a challenge. In fact, you’re absolutely intriguing.”
“Right,” Kit said dryly. “So tell me, if you will, why someone who’s such a catch would want to sleep with you?”
She thought it was a prizewinning question. If he answered it, he’d present himself as an egotistical fool— almost a caricature of the breed—and she didn’t think he could carry that off with a straight face. If there was one thing Jarrett wasn’t lacking, it was a sense of the ridiculous.
But even if he settled for a silent, modest shrug, he’d end up looking conceited, a man so convinced of his worth that no woman could possibly need an explanation of why she should fall for him.
Kit was looking forward to seeing which he chose.
But Jarrett didn’t even hesitate. “For the fun of it. Because it would be fun, you know.”
“As long as it lasted.”
“Well, that goes without saying.” The wine steward returned with a dusty bottle, and Jarrett sniffed the cork and sampled the vintage. After the steward was gone, he cradled his glass in a lazy hand and nodded toward Kit’s untouched wine. “This really is good, you know.”
“Of course it is. You obviously gave that choice more thought than you did the offer you just made to me.”
Jarrett winced. “I don’t know why you bother with darts, Kitten, when your tongue is even sharper. And that’s not true, anyway. I’ve been thinking about you since—”
“Spare me the details, all right? And let’s change the subject, please.”
“Certainly,” Jarrett murmured. “I expect you’d like to think it over. Just let me know when you’ve worked it all out. In the meantime, I believe I’ll set up an itinerary for that South Seas cruise, after all.”
“Good,” Kit said. “Maybe I’ll be lucky, and you and your dream date will run into a tribe of cannibals. Not that I bear the poor woman any ill will, you understand, but for the greater good of the world sometimes sacrifice is necessary.”
Jarrett smiled. “Oh, I don’t mean for the auction. I’m thinking about afterward—whenever you decide to come along.”
Jarrett kept his word about changing the subject. He talked easily about the newest fresh-from-Broadway play, commented on several recent best-sellers and elicited her opinions of the current conflict between factions of Chicago’s city council.
He was not only well-informed but interested in her views, and although he didn’t hesitate to disagree, he did so in a manner that was neither condescending nor judgmental. Kit was surprised. She’d expected him to be dogmatic about his opinions—or else, in an attempt to impress her, to fawn over hers. Either extreme would have been easier to dismiss than the reality, which was that she found him both refreshing and challenging—an expert verbal fencer.
And though he didn’t bring up the subject of sleeping together, she could feel the question lurking under every remark, every gesture, every smile.
That perception was entirely her problem, and Kit freely admitted it. Jarrett was being a perfect gentleman. Still, by the end of the evening she felt as if she was walking on tissue paper stretched over an open pit. She couldn’t clearly see the danger, though she knew it lurked under her feet. And she also knew that a single false step would send her plunging through.
By the time Jarrett parked the Porsche in front of Kit’s apartment building, she was practically vibrating from the strain. She was relieved to reach home and eager to say good-night and escape. But instead of waiting beside the car till she was safely inside, as he had the night before, Jarrett fell into step beside her.
He didn’t take her arm as they strolled up the walk. In fact, he’d hardly touched her all evening, nothing more than the accidental brush of his hand against hers as he filled her wine glass. But now, she could feel a sense of purpose about him.
I can’t seduce you at a public restaurant, he’d said. But had his intentions changed now that they were in private? The fact that he hadn’t harped on the subject didn’t mean he’d dismissed it from his mind.
Just inside the main door, Kit turned to face him, chin raised, determined that if he so much as tried to kiss her—or, what she thought was more likely, if he suggested that he come upstairs—she’d slap him so hard he wouldn’t see straight till next week.
Before she could speak, however, he’d pressed the button to summon the elevator and reached casually for her hand. “I’ve had a lovely evening, Kitten. Good night.”
The brush of his lips against her lifeline was so soft it hardly counted as a touch, and so brief that Kit’s brain hadn’t yet reacted to the contact before it was over and he was gone.
“Fancy that,” she said aloud. “The man can take a hint, after all.” But deep in her mind was a hollow suspicion that he’d been laughing at her, as if he’d wanted to ask if she really believed he was so inexperienced a hunter as to rush his prey.
She pushed the button for her floor with far more force than was necessary and wished that it had been Jarrett’s nose.
Her apartment was dark, and she almost tripped over the mail scattered across the carpet under the slot in the front door. She gathered up the envelopes and magazines and carried them into the kitchen, which smelled of the morning’s leftover coffee grown stale in the pot. Kit washed it out and put in fresh grounds and water, ready for tomorrow.
She was tired, but far too restless for either sleep or concentration. She found herself wandering from one end of the small apartment to the other.
I can’t seduce you at a public restaurant, he’d claimed. But in fact, she realized, that was exactly what he’d been doing—without a touch or a suggestive word, without so much as a gesture that any onlooker would have found questionable. He’d looked at her, and laughed with her, and questioned and charmed her—and by the end of the evening, she’d been almost disappointed when he’d kissed her hand and left her.
What am I thinking? Kit a
sked herself in shock. I can’t be so silly as to fall for that!
She took a dozen deep and steadying breaths, and her confusion slowly began to dissipate. Yes, the man was charming. Deliberately and cold-bloodedly charming. And he couldn’t possibly seduce her, in public or anywhere else, because she had far too much sense to allow it.
On that note, Kit went to bed, though she tossed uneasily for a long time before exhaustion overcame her. Once she was asleep, however, the palm Jarrett had caressed found its way to her cheek, and rested there.
And she smiled.
Kit climbed the stairs to the production room on Monday, carrying her lunch and a portfolio, and sat at the nearest light table. Susannah, who was at the computer, greeted her with little more than a grunt.
“Sounds like you’re having fun.” Kit found her chopsticks in the bottom of the bag.
“This darned logo,” Susannah muttered. “It just won’t work, no matter how I fiddle. What are you doing today?”
“Putting together the program cover for the Dream Dates Auction. It has to be in the printers’ hands by tonight if it’s going to be finished in time.”
“It hasn’t gone in yet? But the auction’s on Saturday night.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Don’t you have the program finalized?”
“Of course not. Rita’s still getting calls, and there must be twenty bachelors still on my list that I haven’t been able to reach.” Kit dug into her rice and vegetables. “But once the covers are done, I can wing the rest. I want to delay as long as possible to have the most complete list of participants—so if I have to, I’ll just photocopy the inside pages at the last minute.”
“Turn it over to Jarrett. He’s probably got a dozen secretaries.” Susannah frowned at the computer screen.
“That would be a sure route to disaster. He’d probably have them translate it into Swahili or put in every other page upside down—anything to make me look incompetent.”
The Billionaire Date Page 10