CHAPTER FOUR
T
HE WESTMOREL AND ROOM was considerably plainer than the Englin Hotel's ballroom, and on Monday afternoon, with the lights turned up bright, it was hardly the stuff of romance. But Kit wasn't worried about the atmosphere. Today, for the news conference she'd planned, the surroundings hardly mattered. And as for the bachelor auction itselfâwell, they'd just have to wait and see about that.
Privately, she was still placing her bets on Jarrett refusing to have anything to do with the event-though after Saturday night she was no longer quite so certain. The way he'd bantered about the raffle, without even pausing to think it over, had shaken her just a little.
Of course, it hadn't
all
been banter. He'd also managed to make it plain, without coming straight out and saying so, that if Kit went ahead with the raffle, he didn't intend to settle for the luck of the draw.
All the nonsense about fixing the contest so Kit's would be the name drawn out of the hat was only that, of courseânonsense.
In white lace,
she thought wryly,
I'd look like a walking stick wrapped in a fancy hankieâand he knows it
. No, he hadn't been serious about that. He'd used the image to make it clear that he wasn't above finagling the outcome till it suited him.
That was why the idea of the bachelor auction was so perfect, for he couldn't pull strings behind the scenes to control the results. The auction would be public, with every bid open to view and probably a healthy competitionâmaybe even rivalryâamong the women who attended.
Kit supposed he could plant someone to bid on him, with orders to go to any financial heights so he wouldn't have to take his chances with an unpredictable crowd. But if he did anything of the sort, it would be very hard to hide. Tryad would be safe, because he'd never open his mouth about the auction again. If he did, nobody would take him seriously. And if he ended up paying thousands to get himself out of a dateâwell, Kit had never made any promises about precisely where the funds she intended to raise would come from. If Jarrett chose to dig into his own pocket to save himself the indignity of spending an evening with a woman he hadn't picked, that was his choice. It was all for a good cause, after all.
But even if he managed to arrange the results, she reflected, he'd still be on display. He'd have to stand in the front of the Westmoreland Room on a stage, under a half dozen white-hot spotlights, while a group of women debated his worth.
And that in itself, Kit thought happily, would be a triumph to be savored. Any man who put women on display as Jarrett did, month after month, deserved to be treated like an object. It would be fascinating to see his reaction to thatâand Kit would be right up front watching.
Unless, of course, he did as she still expected he would and refused to take part. Which was why she'd arranged to make this the most public announcement of her career, so any objection or excuse Jarrett offered would have to be equally public.
Of course, now that it was far too late to back out, Kit would have given anything to be able to wander out of the room, down the grand staircase and away from the hotel to lose herself in the crowds on Michigan Avenue.
Not that she'd have to go so far to find a crowd. With five minutes to go till the official start of her press conference, there were already as many reporters milling around the Westmoreland Room as there were butterflies in Kit's stomach. Enough, in other words, to mount a major exhibit at the natural history museum. There were even a couple of video cameras from Chicago's mostwatched television stations.
Kit was startled by the turnout. It must be a slow news day. She might get even better coverage than she'd hoped for. True, she'd called in all the favors she'd managed to accumulateâand moreâin order to get these people here without giving a hint of what she was going to announce. In fact, she realized, she now owed more good turns to more people than she would be able to pay back in two lifetimes.
But despite all the trump cards she'd played, she hadn't expected so many people to show up. In fact, there was only one person she'd expected to be there who wasn't.
Did Jarrett suspect that the best way to mess up Kit's plans was to have nothing to do with them? Fortunately for her, she'd worked out a scenario that covered that eventuality, too.
Or hadn't he gotten her message? She'd called his private number this morning and told the icy-voiced secretary who'd answered that she'd like him to meet her for coffee at the Captain's Table, right off the Englin's main lobby, at five oâclock sharp. Then she'd bribed the maitre d' with a sizable tip to give Jarrett a note as soon as he arrived, directing him to the Westmoreland Room, instead.
But if he'd been busy all day and hadn't checked in with the secretary... Or if he hadn't taken the message seriously...
The sweep second hand of her watch crossed the hour, and Kit took a deep breath, stepped to the podium and tapped the microphone. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for coming. I'm Kit Deevers, of Tryad Public Relations. I have a short statement, and then I'll take a few questions.” She glanced at the page that lay on the podium and cleared her throat.
“Domestic violence is an issue that concerns us all. As individuals we can't do much about the causes of that violence, but each one of us can help to repair the damages. We can help to provide shelter to women and children who have been abused. We can help them make a fresh start.
“Those things require money, and I'm here today to talk about a new, fun and exciting way for Chicago to raise money for the cause of domestic violence.”
She raised her chin and looked over the room. “Jarrett?” she asked, deliberately letting her voice quiver. “Are you here? No? I'm afraid Mr. Webster has been delayed. At least, I hope he hasn't stood me up.” She gave a nervous little chuckle.
Nobody in the room laughed. In fact, there was an uneasy silence, as if the reporters were embarrassed for her.
The things I'll do in a good cause
, Kit thought.
Like letting myself look like an idiotic, helpless bit of fluff!
She cleared her throat again. “He's authorized me, though, to tell youâ”
There was a stir at the back of the room, and a tall, dark-haired man appeared, making his way easily and without hurry through the crowd. A smile here, a touch on the shoulder there, and within half a minute Jarrett was leaning on the podium beside her, looking earnestly into Kit's eyes. “Stand
you
up?” he asked. “I wouldn't dream of it.”
His voice was husky, and she could imagine how it sounded, magnified by the microphone. She thought he'd probably planned it that way.
She gave him her best stunning smile and turned to the crowd. “I'm so glad he's here to give me moral support,” she confided.
“My pleasure,” Jarrett said.
Kit looked at her prepared statement again, trying to hide the satisfaction she was sure was twinkling in her eyes. This was better than she could have hoped. “Mr. Webster is known to all of you, I think, as the chief executive officer of Milady Lingerie and as a leader of Chicago society. I'm glad to announce that he's giving his time and his support to this wonderful cause by offering to be the grand prize in the very first Dream Dates Auction.”
She didn't look at him. She didn't have to. He'd propped an arm on the podium next to her, and she felt his muscles stiffen.
“The lady who makes the largest donation at the auction will get to spend an entire weekend with Mr. Webster. He hasn't told me exactly what the weekend's activities will include, but I'm sure, with Mr. Webster's reputation, it will indeed be a dream date.”
There was a spattering of surprised comment and some applause.
Don't let it go on too long,
she told herself.
Let him get slapped in the face before he has a chance to think.
She raised her voice and cut across the chatter. “Are there any questions for Mr. Webster?” She stepped back from the podium, her bright smile inviting him to take over.
The look he gave her promised reprisals later.
“What's the date?” a reporter called.
“Of the auction?” Jarrett said. “The fifteenth of this month. Twelve days from today, to be precise. Or do you mean the date I'm offering?” He shook his head. “Sorry, but Ms. Deevers won't let me tell you that. She says she doesn't know, but really she wants to keep it as a surprise so she can sell more tickets.”
Kit's jaw dropped in reluctant admiration. The man was fast on his feet, that was sure.
“And I think she's being far too modest,” he went on. “She's only talked about me. She hasn't told you a thing about all the other bachelors she's lined up to take part in this great cause. Perhaps you'd like to do that right now, Kit?”
He stepped back just a little, every line of his body an invitation for her to share the podium. Kit's feet felt as if they were mired in molasses.
“You
do
have others?” he asked gently. “Not just me?”
“Of course,” Kit said. “I didn't want to take attention from your premier position. In fact, I'll be making announcements throughout the week, as more sign onâso, as they say, stay tuned. Thank you all very much for coming.”
Chairs scraped. The noise level increased as reporters paused to chat to one another. A couple headed for the front of the room.
Jarrett cupped a hand over the microphone. “One would think you were anxious to get rid of all these nice people,” he observed. “I wonder why.”
Kit didn't answer.
“And you've cut your time even shorter, too. Are you eager to have all this behind you?”
“Of course not.” Kit's voice was tart. “I'm having
such
a lot of fun.”
“I must say I'm disappointed about giving up the raffle idea, though. The effort I wasted on turning a few scraps of black lace into a design suitable for you...”
She glared at him.
A smile tugged at the corner of Jarrett's mouth. “Kit, dear,” he murmured, “where on earth did you get the idea that I'm not a good sport? Oh, yesâthis is going to be fun.”
Â
Kit arrived at work early the next morning, but she didn't even get through the front door of Tryad's brownstone before she was greeted by a chorus. Alison leaped from the bottom step, waving a newspaper. “Are you crazy?” she almost shrieked. “A bachelor auction's bad enough, but dragging Jarrett Webster in on it, and making yourself look like a foolâ”
From her perch on the marble-topped radiator in the little alcove near the door, Susannah asked, “Can't you think of a more interesting question than that, Ali? I want to know if you're planning to bid on him yourself, Kit.”
“Why would I want him?” Kit closed the door and leaned against it.
“Why else would you set up this whole affair?”
“Because I'm an idiot,” Kit said.
“You can say that again,” Alison muttered. “Do you know what this makes Tryad look like?”
“A dating service?” Susannah asked brightly.
“No. That one was your idea.”
“And it wasn't a bad one, either.”
Alison ignored her. “What got into you, Kit?”
Kit took a deep breath. “I didn't have any choice about involving Jarrett. It's sort of a bet. I have to raise ten thousand dollars for his favorite charityâ”
Susannah leaned forward. “Or what do you lose?”
“Has it occurred to you, Sue,” Alison said tartly, “that we may not want to hear the answer to that question?”
“Speak for yourself. I'd like to know.”
Alison ignored her. “What do you need Sue and me to do, Kit?”
Kit didn't realize how heavily the stress had been weighing on her until Alison's offer eased the load a fraction. “Bless you, Ali.”
“Well, we're obviously all in this together.”
More than you know
, Kit thought. “The first thing I need is a date with Pierce. You don't mind, do you, Sue?”
Susannah's eyes widened.
“I mean, for the auction,” Kit added hastily. “Do you think he'd agree? All he has to do is take the winning bidder to dinner or a show or something. In fact, I need every available man the three of us knowâand I need them in a hurry.”
Alison looked thoughtful. “Do you mean you went into that news conference last night and promised a bachelor auction with only one bachelor signed on? Kittyâ”
“No,” Kit said simply. “I went in without anybody. I didn't believe for a minute that Jarrett would agree to it.”
“I think,” Susannah said, “she's lost every last marble she ever had.” She was apparently talking to the ceiling. “Alison's right.”