The Billionaire Date

Finding Mr Right Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

Finding Mr Right

Welcome to the first book in Leigh Michaels’s wonderful new trilogy—all about dating games and the single woman!

Meet Kit, Susannah and Alison. Three very special women who are friends, business partners—and happily single! Ambitious and successful, they live life to the fullest and have no room on their agenda for husband hunting!

But it seems they don’t have to go looking for Mr Right...because each finds themselves unexpectedly pursued by their very own dream date....

First, we see Kit, sensitive and practical, organizing a bachelor auction that brings an exciting surprise when she wins The Billionaire Date.

Bubbly and impulsive Susannah thought she’d never see Marcus again after their affair ended—until a work project brings them together and Susannah faces The Playboy Assignment (April #3500).

And warmhearted Alison can no longer deny her craving for a baby when she meets a doctor who could help her, and finds herself taking on The Husband Project (May #3504).

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, but you won’t be able to put these books down as you share in a very special friendship between three wonderful women, and fall in love with the gorgeous men who—eventually—win them over!

Dear Reader,

Over the years I’ve greatly enjoyed writing books that are connected—sequels, prequels and spin-offs. They usually come about because a secondary character in one book is so interesting that he or she demands a story of their own. But until now I’ve never tackled an interconnected set of books, knowing from the very beginning that the stories would be so closely tied together that—while each book can stand alone—the three form a very special package. So the Finding Mr Right trilogy has been both a challenge and a joy.

My editor and I had been talking about a trilogy for some time, and I’d been looking for the perfect setting in which my heroines could be business partners as well as friends. Then one of my friends mentioned that her sister was a partner in an all-woman public relations firm in Kansas City, Missouri. Now that was a story possibility made just for me, since I have a journalism background and public relations experience. And though, to this day, I know nothing more about that real-life PR firm than that it employs only women, I want to thank the members of that company for the inspiration they provided for the Finding Mr Right trilogy.

And I thank you, my wonderful readers, for following along through the fifteen years since my first book was published, all the way to this new challenge. I think you’ll enjoy meeting Kit, Susannah and Alison every bit as much as I enjoyed writing about them. I must warn you, though—I cried when I had to give up these three special new friends....

With love,

P.S. I love to hear from readers! You can write to me at: P.O.

Box 935, Ottumwa, Iowa, 52501-0935.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

NO MATTER how carefully she counted, Kit couldn’t get past ten.

Of course, she told herself, the problem this time wasn’t that she was mathematically inept—though she was, as a matter of fact, and her partners never hesitated to remind her of it. But she hadn’t forgotten how to count. It was just that the room was small and crammed with giggling, nervous, very young women. Twelve of them, Kit knew. There had to be twelve. Except they were milling about, half-dressed, with makeup and hairbrushes and curling irons in hand, and no matter how carefully she tried to keep track of who was where, she could only see ten.

She climbed onto a chair and stuck two fingers in her mouth to give a keening whistle worthy of a professional sports referee. The sound level diminished instantly, and Kit took advantage of the opportunity. “Would everybody just shut up and stand still for one minute while I take roll?”

She counted heads. There were still only ten.

That figured, she thought. Just fifteen minutes before the start of the fashion show, with the audience already in place, two of her amateur models must have ducked off to the ladies’ room. She only hoped they weren’t actually sick with nerves.

Though it wouldn’t be any surprise, considering the way the rest of the function’s gone, she reminded herself. At least it’ll be over in two more hours, and with any luck I’ll never have to deal with another fashion show in my life, or the debutante crowd, either. “Who’s missing?”

The girls looked around as if surprised. Finally a slender blonde in the corner said, “Marliss and Shelby.”

“Well, go find them, will you, Heather? We only have a few more minutes to get you all ready to go out on the runway.”

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.

But before she could move, a feminine voice from the far side of the pillar said, “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! Pushing herself in like that, in the midst of what should have been the girls’ day.” There was a strident undertone that belied the woman’s soft drawl. “She modeled more than anybody else, for heaven’s sake. One would have thought it was her own private fashion show—which is not at all what we hired her to do.”

Kit bit her tongue and reminded herself that listening to other people’s conversations was guaranteed to bring unpleasant sensations to the eavesdropper. And after all, she thought, it’s done now. That’s the important thing.

“I wondered why you hired her at all, Colette.”

Kit shrank closer against the pillar and sneaked a look over her shoulder. Not that she needed to. She’d have recognized that rich, intense voice across the vastness of outer space. There was a frosting of arrogance that she’d bet never quite vanished.

“Oh, Jarrett, darling, you know one never quite has time to manage everything. I must say, however, we all thought when we hired her that we were going to get professional assistance.”

Kit could see only the woman’s back. The rest of her was hidden by the pillar. But she thought the woman’s shrug was a work of art.

“Oh, here’s my little Heather,” Colette drawled. “Say hello to Jarrett, darling. How lovely you looked—and you did such a good job!”

Kit’s eyes widened in shock. Oh, yes, she thought. Great job, Heather! The girl had not only not bothered to warn her about the two models’ defection, but she’d nearly ended up on the runway wearing the wrong outfit.

Jarrett Webster’s voice was level. “And her fees will cut into the amount you were able to raise for the emergency shelter, I suppose?”

“I’m afraid the results are going to be extremely disappointing,” Colette confided. “It’s such a worthy cause, too, and it would have been nice for the girls to be able to make a contribution that meant something.”

“We worked awfully hard,” Heather added. “And I suppose Ms. Deevers did her best, too. But...” Her voice trailed off as if the threesome was moving away.

Kit was livid. The words were true enough, but the note of doubt in Heather’s voice implied that Kit might have sabotaged the show on purpose.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on controlling her breathing and her temper. She told herself it didn’t matter what anyone thought as long as she knew she’d done her best. It wasn’t her fault that the situation had gone from bad to impossible.

And why should she care what Jarrett Webster believed, anyway? It wasn’t as if she wanted to impress him. As far as she was concerned, the man was no more important than a drop of rain in the ocean.

“In fact,” she said under her breath, “the very idea of anybody in his line of work raising funds for domestic violence is almost laughable. Unless—I suppose he could have thought the money was to promote violence instead of fight it?”

The thought brought a smile, and with a fraction of her self-esteem restored, Kit pushed herself away from the pillar. She was going to change her clothes and go home. Damn Jarrett Webster, anyway. And Heather, and her mother, and all the other debs....

She didn’t see him until she crashed directly into his broad chest.

Jarrett caught her by the elbows, preventing her from sprawling on the floor. For a single effortless instant he held her upright, and Kit felt as light and insubstantial as a dandelion seed floating on the wind. Then, efficiently but without gentleness, he set her on her feet.

Bemused, she shot a quick glance at him. Where had he come from? And perhaps more importantly, exactly when? Had he heard what she’d said? Perhaps not. She’d done no more than mutter to herself, and the hall was still noisy. And she certainly hadn’t heard him, so perhaps...

There was no telling from his expression, she realized. His brown eyes were chilly, but of course that wasn’t any surprise, considering what Heather and Colette had told him. Coming on top of their first encounter, he must think she was an imbecile.

Jarrett Webster’s voice was as soft as the silk Kit wore. “I see at least you got that dress on in the right direction.”

She lifted her head and stared into his face, determined not to be intimidated. The dress was a beauty, and she knew she didn’t look at all bad in it. He had no cause to make nasty cracks.

“Not that it would make a lot of difference,” he went on dryly.

Puzzled by his tone, Kit slid a nervous hand over the slender skirt and glanced at the front of the dress.

Her eyes widened in shock. Their collision had knocked her tissue paper stuffing loose. One wad had slid sideways and ended up under her arm, where it resembled a threatening tumor. The other had popped up in the precise center of the low-cut neckline.

“Damn,” she said.

For the first time, she saw a glint of humor creep into Jarrett Webster’s eyes, but before he had a chance to burst out laughing, Kit turned sharply on her heel and darted toward the dressing room.

Running wasn’t her style, but it was just as well she’d acted on the impulse, she told herself as she irritably stripped off the black silk dress. If she’d stayed around another instant, she’d have probably kicked him.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.

Kit was running behind schedule on Monday morning. When she arrived for their weekly planning breakfast, her two partners were already sitting in their favorite booth at the restaurant just around the corner from the brownstone that housed Tryad’s offices.

Susannah Miller glanced at the dainty watch that dangled on a gold chain around her neck and said, “She’s late.”

“I noticed.” Alison Novak didn’t look up from her notebook or stop scribbling. “I wonder if that means she had an exciting weekend.”

“No doubt. She thought she was going to meet Jarrett Webster himself, you know. And if she did, and if he’s anything like he appears in his ads—”

“You mean maybe she spent the rest of the weekend with him?” Alison considered and shook her head. “No. She’d be even later if that’s what happened.”

Kit slid into the booth. “I wish you’d stop talking about me as if I’m not here.”

“All right,” Susannah said agreeably. “So, now that you finally are here, tell us what happened. Did you meet the king of lingerie?”

“In the flesh,” Kit said. She reached for the lone empty cup, filled it with coffee and savored the aroma. “The trouble is, it was me who was in the flesh—and very little else—at the time.”

Susannah blinked. “Darling, you were supposed to be running the fashion show, not modeling for Jarrett Webster. Of course, it might have advantages for the firm. And for you, of course. Does this mean you’re going to be his Lingerie Lady next month?”

Kit almost choked on her coffee. “Are you kidding? I hardly fit the profile.”

“Well-chosen word,” Alison murmured. “They do all seem to have interesting profiles, and we’re not talking Roman noses, either.” She pulled a glossy fashion magazine from a capacious canvas bag under the table and thrust it at Kit. “I thought you might like to hang this on your office wall.”

Kit took the magazine reluctantly. “I didn’t know you’d taken to reading this sort of thing.”

“Only to keep up with our clients,” Alison said repressively.

Susannah looked skyward. “The sacrifices we all make for the sake of business.”

“It’s just too bad I didn’t find it last week or you could have asked him to autograph it.”

Kit slid her fingernail down the bright-colored coupon that served as a page marker and opened the magazine. She wasn’t surprised at the image that greeted her, even though she’d never seen the photograph before, for all of Milady Lingerie’s ads were similar. Each month’s campaign featured a new, young and stunningly attractive woman, usually buxom and long-haired—and anonymous. Because the models were never identified by name, everyone called them the Lingerie Ladies.

Each ad included a pair of photographs, spread lavishly over two full pages. The larger, main shot always featured the model provocatively posed and wearing a revealing bit of lingerie. In the other photograph, smaller and usually tucked into a corner of the ad near Milady’s distinctive logo, the Lingerie Lady wore street clothes and was pictured with Jarrett Webster—founder, owner and principal designer of Milady Lingerie.

This month’s Lingerie Lady was flaxen-haired, with pouting red lips that precisely matched the scarlet satin teddy she was wearing in the main photo. In the smaller shot, she was on the deck of a sailboat leaning against a smiling Jarrett Webster, her windblown hair teasing his tanned face.

“Another blonde,” Kit muttered.

“What do you mean?” Susannah craned her neck to see the photo.

“Nothing. It just seems that more often than not lately the Lingerie Ladies are blond.”

“I had no idea you were keeping statistics,” Susannah murmured.

“I’m not! I just wonder where he finds them all.”

“And what he does with all of them after the photo sessions are over? Kitty, darling, you should be ashamed—letting your mind drag in the gutter that way.”

Kit would have liked to point out that she hadn’t said a thing about Jarrett Webster’s conduct, and if anyone’s mind needed steam-cleaning it was Susannah’s. But if she rose to the bait, Susannah would only smile and declare that the fact Kit hadn’t actually said the words didn’t mean she hadn’t considered the question.

And that was true enough. Practically everyone who’d ever seen a Milady Lingerie ad had spent some time speculating about where Jarrett Webster found those gorgeous women and whether they did more with him than just pose for pictures.

Which, Kit supposed, must have been the main idea of the ad campaign in the first place, for nobody—male or female, redneck or feminist, fan or foe—ever forgot a Milady Lingerie ad.

“Thanks, Ali,” she said, and put the coupon carefully in place to mark the page. “I’ll post it on my dart board.”

Alison’s eyebrows rose, but before she could answer the waitress returned with a tray and began setting plates in front of each of them. “We ordered your usual,” Alison said, “since we’ve got a lot of business to cover this morning.”

“That’s great.” Kit buttered her toast and cut into her garden omelette. “Whose turn is it to keep the meeting on track?”

“Yours,” Alison said. “But since both you and Susannah seem to be more interested in Jarrett Webster than in Tryad’s new—”

Susannah waved a fork at her. “That’s flagrant slander! You’re the one who brought the magazine.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to count the dots in the picture, either of you.” Alison flipped a page in her notebook and said, “Okay, first order of business is to catch up on progress of current projects. How’s the art museum fund drive doing, Susannah?”