Leigh Michaels - The Billionaire Date

Heather giggled. “I wish I could. Shelby’s dad invited her to New York City for the weekend, and she asked Marliss to go with her. They’re planning to see a Broadway show, and shop all the way across Manhattan, and—”

Kit’s heart seemed to bounce off her toes. “They just took off for New York?”

“Well, sure,” Heather said. “Wouldn’t you, if you’d had the chance?”

In a flash. Kit wanted to say. Or anywhere else, as a matter of fact. “All right. Each of them was supposed to model three outfits, so somebody will have to double up.” She reached for the clipboard that held the list of dresses and models arranged in sequence. “Jackie, you’re first. If we can add another change in between your first two—”

The small, plump brunette shook her head. “I wouldn’t mind, but I can’t fit in the outfits they were going to model. That long gown Shelby looks so good in would drag clear to Kansas if I tried to wear it.”

She was correct, Kit realized. “All right, who’s the closest in size? I’ll probably have to rearrange the order you go out in to leave time for the extra clothing changes.” But she couldn’t, she realized. Not only would the emcee be expecting them to follow the original schedule, but Kit had spent hours matching his cue cards to her list. She looked at the schedule and reminded herself that throwing the clipboard would do no good—even if it might make her feel better for a moment or two. “Who’s closest in size?” she repeated.

The girls looked doubtfully at each other. “Well, actually, you are, Ms. Deevers,” Jackie said finally. “Shelby’s the tallest of us all, just about your height. And Marliss is skinny and flat-chested, just like you.”

Thanks for pointing it out, Kit wanted to say. But sarcasm would do no good at the moment, and Jackie’s observation was every bit as true as it was unflattering. For the thousandth time, Kit cursed the fashion show, the debs who had come up with the original idea and the mad impulse that had made her agree to bail them out after they’d gotten in over their heads. It had all looked so simple when they’d come into Tryad’s office just two weeks ago, in despair over a fund-raising idea gone sour and in need of professional help.

“Sorry,” Jackie added. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Never mind,” Kit muttered. She took a deep breath. She was in for it, that was obvious. It was far too late to wash her hands of the mess and walk out. She’d have to follow through to the end. “All right—you’ll have to get yourselves lined up for the first trip down the runway while I get dressed.” She ran her gaze over the schedule and flipped through the clothing rack till she found Marliss’s first outfit. Just an hour ago the garments had been arranged carefully in order of use. Then the girls had come in and started stirring things around as they got ready.

This bunch doesn’t need a public relations person keeping them in line, she thought. They need a lion tamer.

She slid into a pair of sapphire blue chiffon harem pants. Despite their fullness, she felt as if she was wearing nothing at all. The fabric was so wispy it was translucent, and the band that held the garment up came to rest much closer to the curve of her hip than to her waist.

She wondered again, as she had earlier when she’d gotten her first good look at the racks, who had been such an idiot as to select these clothes to be modeled by girls still in their teens. But it was far too late for that question.

Kit was just reaching for the brief-cut top that matched the harem pants when the door opened.

“Who’s in charge here?” a male voice demanded.

Hastily Kit pulled the top over her head, trying to look over her shoulder at the same time in order to get a glimpse of the owner of that rich, insistent voice. One of the girls’ fathers, perhaps, objecting to her activities?

Well, if he was going to try to snatch his daughter out of the lineup at this late date, Kit decided, she’d... She’d make him take the girl’s place and model her outfits himself!

The room had gone dead quiet.

Kit turned to face the intruder, still trying to settle her brief top into place. Her first impression was of height, dark good looks and a tuxedo that looked as if it had been molded to fit his frame. Then the aura of power that surrounded him hit her like the shock wave of an explosion, almost rocking her off her feet.

No wonder the girls went quiet, Kit thought wryly. She was ten years older than any of them and had a whole lot more experience with men. Still, the way this man was staring at her was enough to rob her of the ability to breathe. There was something about the expression in those huge, dark brown eyes....

Kit stepped forward and held out her hand. “You must be Jarrett Webster. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to thank you for emceeing this event—”

His brows drew together. “I assume you’re in charge?” He ignored her outstretched hand.

“I’m Kit Deevers, from Tryad Public Relations, and I’m coordinating the event, yes.”

“Well, if you don’t get this show on the road, not thanking me won’t be the only thing you’ll have to feel sorry about. I’ll give you one more minute and then I’m going to start reading cue cards whether you have a model on the runway or not.” He turned on his heel and strode out.

That, Kit fumed, is the best example of arrogant high-handedness I’ve ever seen! Didn’t the man realize that amateur events hit snags sometimes? “All right, girls, you’ve got your marching orders. As soon as the music starts—”

“Uh, Ms. Deevers?”

Kit closed her eyes in pain. “What is it now, Jackie?”

“I just thought you should know before you go out in the auditorium. You’ve got that top on wrong.”

Kit glanced down and swore.

Like the harem pants, the matching top contained just enough lining fabric to be decent, which meant that the front of the sapphire blue chiffon bodice was lined, but the back was not.

And in her haste to get covered up before turning to face a male intruder, she’d put the thing on backward.

Now she knew what Jarrett Webster’s expression had been as he’d stood in the doorway and stared at her. It was incredulity. He hadn’t been able to believe his eyes.

The show was over, and nobody had fallen off the runway. Nobody, in fact, had even broken a fingemail. Miracles did happen, Kit told herself. It was over—and she had survived. In another half hour or so, the followup reception would be finished, as well, and she’d be done with the whole mess.

Still wearing the last outfit she’d modeled, the long and slinky black silk gown that Shelby had been scheduled to show, Kit leaned against the shadowed side of a pillar in the reception hall and tried to become invisible. The marble pillar was comfortingly cool against her almost-bare back. Only a few narrow strips of satin ribbon separated stone from skin.

At least, she thought, there hadn’t been any doubt about which direction to put on this particular outfit. Still, she could hardly wait to get out of it. Shelby, even at seventeen, was far better endowed than Kit was, and the girls had ended up stuffing tissue paper into the front of the dress to fill it out properly. The result was eyecatching but hardly comfortable.

Guests were starting to drift out of the reception hall, and nobody was paying any attention to Kit. She cast one final look around the room to be certain none of her models were doing anything to damage their borrowed finery. Perhaps she could make it to the dressing room. If she hugged the edge of the reception hall maybe no one would see and stop her. One well-meaning phrase of congratulation on the fashion show’s success might be enough to send her over the edge into hysterical laughter.