The Playboy Assignment: The Tryad Trilogy, #2

By Leigh Michaels

Their past won't go away

Eight years ago, Susannah Miller and Marcus Herrington were on their way to happy-ever-after, despite her parents' opposition… until Susannah's half-truths and Marc's anger split them up.

 

Now he's back

Marc has not only popped up in Chicago, he's back in Susannah's life because he's inherited the collection of modern art she desperately needs to acquire for the museum that's her most important client.

 

He's willing to negotiate -- maybe

Marc doesn't want the paintings – they're not to his taste at all -- so he offers a bargain: he'll donate a work of art every time Susannah sleeps with him. She's pretty sure he's only pushing her buttons, but can she take the chance that he's actually out to destroy her instead?

 

Her business is at stake

She has to persuade him to part with a fortune, because if the museum doesn't thrive, her public relations firm will suffer the loss of a most important client–injuring not only Susannah but her two partners.

But even with the success of Tryad Public Relations at stake, can Susannah take the risk and agree to Marc's offer of a short-term affair?

 

Because heaven forbid that Susannah wants forever with the sexy playboy.

 

The Tryad Public Relations trilogy:

Book 1: The Billionaire Date

Book 2: The Playboy Assignment

Book 3: The Husband Project

• Language: English
• Publisher: PBL Limited
• Release date: Jan 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201743840

Leigh Michaels

Leigh Michaels (https://leighmichaels.com) is the author of more than 100 books, including contemporary romance novels, historical romance novels, and non-fiction books including local history and books about writing. She is the author of Writing the Romance Novel, which has been called the definitive guide to writing romances. Six of her books have been finalists in the Romance Writers of America RITA contest for best traditional romance of the year, and she has won two Reviewers' Choice awards from Romantic Times (RT Book Review) magazine. More than 35 million copies of her books have been published in 25 languages and 120 countries around the world. She teaches romance writing online at Gotham Writers Workshop.

Book preview

The Playboy Assignment

By Leigh Michaels

Copyright 1998, 2022

All rights reserved

The Playboy Assignment

Their past won’t go away

Eight years ago, Susannah Miller and Marcus Herrington were on their way to happy-ever-after, despite her parents’ opposition... until Susannah’s half-truths and Marc’s anger split them up.

Now he’s back

Marc has not only popped up in Chicago, he’s back in Susannah’s life because he’s inherited the collection of modern art she desperately needs to acquire for the museum that’s her most important client.

He’s willing to negotiate—maybe

Marc doesn’t want the paintings – they’re not to his taste at all—so he offers a bargain: he’ll donate a work of art every time Susannah sleeps with him. She’s pretty sure he’s only pushing her buttons, but can she take the chance that he’s actually out to destroy her instead?

Her business is at stake

She has to persuade him to part with a fortune, because if the museum doesn’t thrive, her public relations firm will suffer the loss of a most important client–injuring not only Susannah but her two partners.

But even with the success of Tryad Public Relations at stake, can Susannah take the risk and agree to Marc’s offer of a short-term affair?

Because heaven forbid that Susannah wants forever with the sexy playboy.

The Tryad Public Relations trilogy:

Book 1: The Billionaire Date

Book 2: The Playboy Assignment

Book 3: The Husband Project

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

About the Author

Other Books by Leigh Michaels

CHAPTER ONE

The scent of freshly made coffee filled the small cafe, and Susannah paused in the doorway for a few seconds to breathe her fill of the rich aroma. But one of her partners was already waiting in the back booth they reserved for their staff meeting every Monday morning, so she strolled down the length of the long, narrow room and sat across from Alison.

Susannah winced at the hardness of the green vinyl bench. I’m either going to have to start carrying along a cushion or convince the management to redecorate.

Alison folded her newspaper and laid it aside. The cushion would be easier. This place has looked the same as long as I can remember. Unless you’re looking for a challenge.

Any reason I shouldn’t be? Susannah poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table.

Only that redecorating isn’t really a matter of public relations.

Susannah squirmed on the bench. I don’t know about that. My particular segment of the public would have a lot better relations with the management if—

And we’ve already got plenty of regular business to tend to. Which forces me to point out that you’re late. Alison’s tone was matter of fact, without a hint of reproach or irritation.

Susannah reached automatically for the pendant watch which dangled from a heavy gold chain around her neck. Five minutes. And I’d have been smack on time if there hadn’t been a bake sale going on outside the high school as I walked past.

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

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

The waitress set an omelet 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 long 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 that was so far beyond bad that it was worth nine all by itself. That whole thing with Marc—

And that is 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 that with two down-to-earth 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 inescapably 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 eighty-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—

—This 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. Why shouldn’t it have another big art museum? Her danish had cooled, and the raspberry filling had congealed. Susannah pushed the plate aside. It’s a moot point now unless Cyrus signed a new will since I talked to Pierce. He might have had time, I suppose.

Alison sighed. 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 briefcase. 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?

But of course. 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 cabby screeched to a halt in the traffic lane.

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 half a minute to go around the block? the cabby asked dryly. What’s the rush, anyway? That place don’t open till ten.

I know.

The cabby muttered, "People watch way too many movies these days, that’s the trouble. Somebody’s always shouting ‘Follow that car’—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 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.

The Dearborn Museum, named for the frontier fort which occupied what later became the city of Chicago, had been one of Tryad’s first clients. In fact, the tiny public relations firm and the struggling art museum had come to life at about the same time, both bravely taking on the challenge of competing with far larger and more established organizations.

Perhaps that similarity was the reason Susannah had so quickly taken the Dearborn to her heart. At any rate, Kit and Alison had been as delighted to leave the museum to her as Susannah was to take it on.

For three years now, she’d worked with the staff—which actually meant, of course, that she worked with Pierce Reynolds, the museum’s director. And she’d been as thrilled as anyone when Pierce had first contacted Cyrus Albrecht and learned that the old man was considering the future of the collection he’d so painstakingly built.

Susannah paid the cabby and walked around the warehouse to the unmarked back entrance. She pressed the intercom button and gave her name, and a moment later a buzzer sounded and the lock released. She frowned a little as she climbed the narrow steps to the museum floor, wondering if Pierce had considered the need for additional security. Though the Dearborn’s present collection wasn’t shabby, it also wasn’t the sort to draw the attention of thieves. But the Albrecht pieces would be different. If, of course, the Dearborn ever got them.

Pierce was in his office, a small, shabby, industrial-green room to one side of the stairwell, and the moment Susannah saw him she knew she didn’t have to be the one to break the news. His blond hair, normally so neat it almost looked as if it had been painted on, was wildly disarranged. Even more unusual, his tie was at an angle, and the collar of his shirt curled up at the back.

You look almost like one of your artist friends. She dropped into the rickety chair beside his desk. The Bohemian kind who think that even owning a mirror is narcissistic.

Pierce’s hand went automatically to his hair. That’s not funny, Susannah.

I know. I saw the newspaper. She hesitated. It was a shock to you too, obviously.

Shock is hardly the word. Nuclear attack is more like it. Pierce rubbed his temples.

Susannah’s heart dropped to her toes. He hadn’t finished the will?

Pierce shook his head. If I’d only pushed a little harder! He was talking about the details last week when I saw him. If I’d urged him to stop talking and get on with it—

If you’d pressed, he might have backed out altogether.

I suppose. But if I could have just made him see that the fine points could be adjusted any time—

Susannah had stopped listening. The fact they had lost the collection was settling cold and hard in the pit of her stomach. Only now that the prize had been snatched away did she realize how much she had come to count on it. For months she’d been tentatively making her plans around the Albrecht collection. The announcement would be a boost to public recognition of the museum. The visitor list would increase dramatically, and fundraising would be a snap.

Of course, not all of her motives were so selfless as those. The renown would make her job easier, and part of the glory of the museum’s success would reflect on Tryad and therefore on Susannah...

She sighed. Back to the drawing board.

It was odd, Pierce said. The way Cyrus was behaving last week, I mean. I didn’t realize it at the time.

Maybe he was already feeling ill?

No, that’s not it. It was like he was teasing me, holding something back.

Possible. But it was equally possible that Pierce’s perceptions were being colored by twenty-twenty hindsight. Cyrus was a world-class wheeler and dealer. Perhaps he wanted you to offer him something else, something extra, in return for the collection.

Then why didn’t he just ask? Anyway, what else could he have wanted?

Susannah shrugged. More power to influence the museum’s future, perhaps.

We’d already offered him a seat on the board.

I know. Maybe he was just playing out the game, for the fun of it and the attention it got him. He liked having everybody dancing attendance on him.

And he just waited a little too long to get down to business? Suddenly Pierce’s face brightened. You don’t suppose Cyrus made that will anyway, do you? Maybe he didn’t tell me because he didn’t want the attention to stop.

Susannah had her doubts, but this was the first positive note Pierce had expressed, so it was hardly the time to discourage him. At any rate, before she’d gathered her thoughts, he’d picked up the telephone and was fumbling through his wallet. Cyrus’s attorney—what was his name? I’ve got his card in here somewhere.

The business card he eventually produced had once been crisp and elegant, Susannah was certain. Now it was dog-eared, the edges frayed and the type rubbed and blurred, but not so damaged that Pierce couldn’t read the phone number.

I don’t think he can tell you anything, she said as he