The Billionaire Bid. Leigh Michaels

the corners of the blueprints with the day’s mail so she could keep looking at the drawings while she fixed herself a chicken stir-fry. Perhaps some radically new idea would leap out at her and solve the problem…For instance, what if instead of simply building over the garden, they were to excavate and add a lower level as well?

      Nice idea, she concluded, but one to run past an engineer. Would it even be possible to get heavy equipment into that small space? And how risky would it be to dig directly next to a foundation that was well over a century old?

      Finally, Gina rolled up the plans and turned on the minuscule television set beside the stove. Even the news would be less depressing than her reflections at the moment.

      But when the picture blinked on, the screen was filled with a shot of the Tyler-Royale store.

      On the other hand, maybe it won’t be less depressing.

      “…and a final-close-out sale will begin next week,” the female reporter—the one who had been standing next to Gina at the press conference—announced.

      The anchorman shook his head sadly. “What a shame. Is there any word of what will happen to the building, Carla?”

      “That question was asked at the press conference, Jason, but Mr. Kerrigan would only say that he had made no plans.” She smiled coyly. “However, we did get a hint that he’s negotiating a deal of some sort with the Kerrigan County Historical Society museum.”

      Gina’s wooden spoon slipped and hot oil and vegetables surged over the edge of the pan onto her index finger. Automatically she stuck the burned tip in her mouth.

      The reporter went on, “The museum’s curator, Gina Haskell, was at the press conference but refused to comment—”

      Gina stared unbelieving at the reporter. “I didn’t refuse to comment,” she protested. “I told you there was nothing going on!”

      “—and when I talked to the president of the historical society just now, he would only say that it would be a crime for such a landmark building to be destroyed.”

      Gina put her elbows on the edge of the counter and dropped her head into her hands. They’d actually called her boss for a comment. The boss she hadn’t bothered to tell about the events of the day, because her harebrained notion had come to nothing.

      “Indeed it would be a crime,” the anchor broke in.

      The reported nodded. “However, an arrangement like that would be a first for Dez Kerrigan. He admitted today that in his entire career in property development he’s never preserved a building.”

      “Hard to believe,” the anchor said. “Keep us posted on the historical society’s preservation efforts, Carla.”

      “What preservation efforts?” Gina groaned.

      The phone rang. She stared at it warily, but she knew that putting off answering wasn’t going to make the president of the historical society any easier to deal with. The trouble was that she didn’t blame him for being furious with her. At least he hadn’t told the reporter that the whole thing was news to him.

      But the caller wasn’t her boss. The voice on the other end of the phone was one she’d heard just once before, but she recognized it instantly. It was rich, warm—and arrogant.

      “You have quite a grip on the media, don’t you?” Dez accused. “Yesterday it was the newspaper, and today the TV station. What’s next—rallying your troops by satellite?”

      “I didn’t do anything,” Gina protested, but she found herself talking to a dead line.

      Though she wasn’t inclined to be sympathetic, she could understand why Dez Kerrigan was annoyed at being made to sound like a criminal. He’d asked for it, of course. More than ten years in the business of buying and selling property, of building and developing real estate, and he’d never saved a building? Still, she didn’t exactly blame him for being exasperated. She was sure he had his reasons for knocking down every building that passed through his hands—inadequate though the justification might sound to ordinary people. People like her.

      Being made to sound like a criminal…

      Now that, she mused, might just offer some real possibilities.

      It was ten in the morning, exactly twenty-four hours since their encounter in the hotel ballroom, when Gina walked into Dez Kerrigan’s office.

      It hadn’t been easy to find him. There was no Kerrigan listed in the telephone book—not that she’d expected his home number to be published. What she had expected to find was a Kerrigan Corporation or a Kerrigan Partners or a Kerrigan-something-else. But there was nothing like that either.

      Of course, she reflected, the mere fact that a man hadn’t named his business after himself didn’t necessarily mean the business wasn’t a monument to his ego. Maybe he just liked being able to deny responsibility once in a while—and that would be harder to do with his name actually blazoned on every site he touched. Or perhaps he thought that the name had lost its impact, since it was now associated with everything from Kerrigan County itself to Kerrigan Hall over at the university, and a whole lot of stuff in between.

      Eventually she located his business. He’d named it Lakemont Development, as if to say it was the only company in town that mattered. While she didn’t doubt that if Dez Kerrigan had his way, his fingerprints would be all over any significant building which took place in the city, Gina thought it was hardly a less egotistical choice than naming it after himself.

      Even after she’d found his business, however, she still had a fair journey before finding Dez Kerrigan himself. Lakemont Development had offices spread all over the city, and she’d called each of them in turn, starting with the shiniest glass-and-steel tower in Lakemont and working her way down until finally a receptionist admitted, cautiously, that Mr. Kerrigan did indeed have an office in that particular building and that he was on the premises today.

      Gina didn’t leave her name—she just went straight over. It was only a few blocks from the museum, but she’d never noticed the building before. And no wonder it hadn’t caught her eye, she thought as she approached. It looked like a converted school building—one that had been abandoned when the city’s population had shifted to the suburbs. Hardly the kind of place where she’d expect to find the headquarters of somebody who played with skyscraper towers as if they were building blocks.

      Inside, the building was quietly bustling. She found her way down a long corridor to Dez Kerrigan’s office.

      His secretary fingered Gina’s business card and looked at her doubtfully. Gina wasn’t surprised; the words “historical society” must be something of a red flag with any of Dez Kerrigan’s employees.

      “I don’t have an appointment,” she admitted to the secretary. “But I imagine he’s been expecting me to drop in. You may have seen on the news last night that we’re negotiating a deal on the Tyler-Royale building.”

      The secretary’s eyes widened, but she didn’t comment. She picked up the telephone, and Gina sat down in the nearest chair. She hoped she was making the point, as quietly and clearly as possible, that she wasn’t going to move until she’d seen the boss.

      A few minutes later the door of Dez Kerrigan’s office opened. “Well, if it isn’t the media magnet in the flesh,” he said. “Come in.”

      Gina put aside her magazine and took her time crossing the small waiting room to the inner office. He stepped back and gestured her inside with elaborate politeness.

      He really was as tall as she’d thought, that day in The Maple Tree. At the press conference, she’d been too preoccupied to notice much, but now she remembered how far she’d had to look up into those odd hazel-green eyes. They didn’t look like emeralds today, she noted. That was all right—she wasn’t here to amuse him.

      She paused just inside the door and looked around thoughtfully. “This isn’t anything like I expected.” The room was large—obviously it had