Leigh Michaels - The Playboy Assignment

Alison showed faint interest. “At this hour on a Monday morning?”

“Incredible, isn’t it? I thought any teenager who was enterprising enough to be selling brownies this early deserved my support.” She pulled a paper bag from her briefcase and waved it under Alison’s nose. “So I bought both fudge and chocolate-chip cookies—but you can’t have any till after breakfast.”

The waitress set an omelette in front of Alison and grinned at Susannah. “What’ll it be this morning, Sue?”

“Just a raspberry Danish. No hurry.”

Alison picked up her fork. “Better make it bacon and eggs instead of more sugar, or you’ll be bouncing off the walls by noon. Not that you don’t most of the time, anyway.”

“I didn’t buy that much fudge.” There was no defensiveness in Susannah’s tone; Alison’s comment was too near truth to allow room for resentment. Of the three partners in Tryad Public Relations, Alison was the practical manager, Kit was the steady get-it-done-whatever-it-takes sort, and Susannah was the visionary, never short of an idea.

The fact that nine out of ten of those ideas went nowhere had ceased to bother her—because the tenth was always a winner.

Of course, that had been true all her life. For every good plan she’d ever come up with, Susannah Miller had managed to find nine bad ones. Or sometimes, she thought dryly, an idea so far beyond bad that it was worth nine all by itself. That whole thing with Marc—

And that, Susannah told herself, was enough of that; Marc and the last of her disasters were eight long years in the past, and there was no point in rehashing the circumstances. The important thing was with two down-toearth partners to keep her anchored to reality, her wilder ideas were squashed before they could get her into trouble.

Thinking of the partnership reminded her of the empty place where the third member of the triangle usually sat. “Tell me again when Kit’s going to be back?”

“She said she was only taking two weeks off.”

Susannah raised her eyebrows. “You sound a little doubtful. Have you ever known Kit not to keep her word?”

“She’s never been on a honeymoon before.”

“That’s true.” Susannah admired the smooth glazed surface of her raspberry Danish. She was just about to take her first bite when a photograph in the newspaper Alison had tossed aside caught her eye and made her forget everything else. “What’s jolly old Cyrus doing in the press?” She put the Danish down and reached for the paper. “Pierce will be furious if he called in the media himself instead of letting the museum squeeze all the mileage we can out of the announcement...” Her voice trailed off as she saw the headline.

Cyrus Albrecht, industrialist, dies suddenly. The announcement was cool and dispassionate. Even the headline was in discreet black type, not the sort which blared from the page. If it hadn’t been for the photograph—outdated by at least twenty years but still unmistakably Cyrus, with the beaklike nose and enormous ears which hadn’t changed an iota with age—she’d have missed the story altogether.

“He can’t die,” Susannah said flatly.

Alison glanced at the page. “Well, I doubt the Tribune published his obituary as a practical joke. Why can’t he die, anyway? At seventy-eight, I’d say the man has a right.”

“Because he hasn’t rewritten his damned will yet, that’s why. At least, he hadn’t the last time I talked to Pierce.”

Alison nodded wisely. “I’d already gathered this is the millionaire art collector you’ve been dangling after for months.”

“I wouldn’t call it dangling, exactly,” Susannah objected.

“The one who was so sensitive about causing speculation over his intentions that you couldn’t even tell Kit and me exactly who he was.”

“It’s not that I didn’t trust you,” Susannah pointed out. “Pierce was afraid if there was talk—”

“—That the mysterious collector wouldn’t donate his pretty pictures to Pierce’s museum after all.”

“They’re not pretty pictures.” Susannah saw the gleam of humor spring to life in Alison’s dark eyes, and she wanted to bite off her tongue. “Wait a second. Let me rephrase that.”

Alison was hooting with delight.

“Oh, all right,” Susannah admitted. “Some of them—most of the modern art pieces, in fact—are about as far from pretty as it’s possible to get. What I meant was they’re more than just random paintings. It’s a major collection, and it would mean the earth to the Dearborn Museum.”

“Plus putting a finger in the eye of all the other places who’d like to have it?”

“Chicago’s a big city,” Susannah said stubbornly : “Why shouldn’t it have another big art museum?” Her Danish had cooled, and the raspberry filling had congealed. She pushed the plate aside. “Of course, it’s a moot point now, unless Cyrus signed a new will since I talked to Pierce. He might have had time, I suppose, but ”

Alison sighed. “All right, I know better than to think your mind will settle on the week’s work schedule till after you’ve found out what’s going on at your precious museum.”

Susannah jumped up and gathered her purse and brief case. “Ali, thanks a million. You really are the anchor that keeps Tryad from drifting off, you know.”

“Cut out the poetic language and just go,” Alison said tartly. “Before I change my mind.”

Susannah grinned and flung an arm around Alison’s shoulders for a quick hug.

Alison shrugged her off, but she was smiling. “Keep me posted, all right?”

Susannah feigned a look of shock. “But of course. After all, the Dearborn is Tryad’s client—not just mine.” She hurried out to the street before Alison could return an acid answer.

Morning rush hour in Chicago was no time to be hailing a cab, but today she was lucky. The taxi was going the wrong direction, but that was only a minor problem; the cabbie screeched to a halt in the traffic lane and Susannah darted across the street and flung herself into the back seat. “The Dearborn Museum,” she gasped, “and hurry.”

Horns honked behind them, and the cab screeched off, flinging Susannah against the seat.

“You want me to make an illegal U-turn, or can I take a minute to go around the block?” the cabbie asked dryly. “What’s the rush, anyway? That place don’t open till ten.”

“I know.”

The cabbie muttered, “People watch way too many movies these days, that’s the trouble. Somebody’s always shouting ‘Follow that car’—and thinking he’s a comedian.”

Susannah smothered a smile and refused to let herself be drawn into a discussion. Instead she stared out the window at Lake Michigan as the cab sped down Lakeshore Drive.

Despite the hour, several sailboats were already on the lake, their bright sails billowing in the early morning breeze. Far out on the horizon she saw a freighter, its progress so slow and stately that it was hard to tell if it was moving at all.

The cab turned toward downtown, and soon they were in the worst of the morning rush, fighting their way block by block between the skyscrapers, through the dark cold caverns where sunshine never fell. It was several weeks yet till summer would officially arrive, but some of these streets would still feel chilly in the middle of August.

Finally the cab swerved almost onto the sidewalk in front of the converted warehouse where the Dearborn Museum had found a home. At street level were retail shops; on the upper floors were small apartments, and the Dearborn was sandwiched in between. This year’s goal would be to raise enough funds to improve access for the handicapped; Susannah’s proposal for organizing the appeal was lying on her desk.