The Billionaire Date by Leigh Michaels Page B

paparazzo’s here again, by the way.” Susannah didn’t look up from the papers she was sorting. “I spotted him when I came back from lunch, lying in wait in the juniper bushes across the street.”
    â€œSounds uncomfortable.”
    â€œIt looked that way, too, so to cheer him up I told him what he missed out on last night.”
    â€œSue—you didn’t. Now we’ll never get rid of him.”
    â€œPersonally,” Alison said from the doorway, “I think we should consider renaming the business.”
    â€œWhat?” Susannah sounded shocked. “You’re the one who came up with Tryad, because you said Deevers, Miller and Novak didn’t have quite the sound we wanted.”
    â€œWell, now I think Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey would be closer to the mark. Not only did Kit make the papers again today, but in the sports section, not just the society pages. The phone’s ringing off the wall, and Rita’s tearing her hair out down there. She’s taken five calls today from men who want to be included in the auction. She said to tell you she’s keeping a list, Kit.”
    Kit snapped her fingers. “That’s how I’ll get rid of the paparazzo—I’ll just go ask him for a dream date, and he’ll probably take to his heels.”
    â€œI’m guessing he’ll agree,” Susannah said. “He seems a nice sort.”
    Alison grinned. “Then the question becomes whether anybody wants to bid on a day spent staked out in a juniper bush.”
    â€œIt would certainly add variety to the auction,” Kit said.
    â€œAnd of course there’s no accounting for taste.” Alison moved across the room to look over Susannah’s shoulder at the presentation she’d laid out on the table.
    Rita appeared in the doorway, breathing a bit unsteadily after climbing two flights of stairs.
    Or perhaps, Kit thought, Rita was nervous rather than short of breath—for behind the secretary loomed a uniformed messenger carrying a bulky package.
    Kit frowned. No one but the partners were allowed in the production room. Not only was it more of a climb than most people wanted to make, but the presence of a client meant that pending projects for anyone else had to be concealed. It was easier to take materials downstairs to the conference room, or to clients’ offices.
    So why had Rita brought a messenger up?
    â€œThe package is for you, Kit,” the secretary said. “And his orders are to deliver it to you personally.”
    Kit took the package reluctantly. Though it was big, it wasn’t as heavy as it looked.
    The messenger touched two fingers to his cap and departed as silently as he’d come. Rita hovered in the doorway.
    â€œMaybe we’d better duck under the table, Ali, in case it blows up when she opens it,” Susannah said brightly.
    There was no return address, and Kit didn’t recognize the handwriting on the label, though she had her suspicions—the ink was bold and black, the letters firm and upright and solid. It was not only a man’s script, she thought, but the script of a man who was almighty sure of himself.
    â€œIf it does explode,” she said, “just remember there’s only one client lately who’s been getting on my nerves—and vice versa.”
    â€œWe’ll engrave that on your tombstone if you like,” Susannah offered.
    Kit picked up an Exacto knife from the nearest drawing table and slit the heavy tape. Inside, wrapped in rigid foam packaging and more tape, was a large, unframed, full-length color photograph of Jarrett. He was wearing a tuxedo, and at the instant the shutter snapped, he’d been adjusting his bow tie and smiling at the camera.
    And across the bottom corner, just above his signature, he’d written, Isn’t this a much better target for your dartboard?

CHAPTER SIX
    K IT SPENT almost twenty minutes constructing a message