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A Bride For The Holidays
Renee Roszel


Trisha August is determined to be independent and will do anything–well, almost anything–for enough money to set up her own business. She can't believe her luck when hotshot Lassiter Dragan promises to give her a loan….But there's a catch–she has to become his temporary "wife" for the Christmas holidays!Lassiter has sworn that he'll never make himself vulnerable through love. So a convenient, temporary wife seems the perfect solution to enhance his business image. Only, living as man and wife is harder than either of them expects. Lassiter is appalled to discover he's falling in love with his wife!







This marriage ploy was purely a business arrangement.

So why this sudden, wild desire to make their pact anything but pure?

“Money can’t buy happiness, Mr. Dragan!”

“But money lets you look for happiness in a lot of nice places.”

A chill dashed down Trisha’s spine. Suddenly the idea of spending two weeks with the luscious Lassiter Dragan became a disgraceful travesty. From the first instant she’d met him she’d been drawn to the man. But the fairy tale had dissolved, disappeared, and she mentally hauled out all her defenses.

She wouldn’t walk out on their deal. But any crazy illusions Trisha might have had about The Gentleman Dragon being a modern-day Prince Charming had to be stomped to dust.


Renee Roszel has been writing romance novels since 1983 and simply loves her job. She likes to keep her stories humorous and light, with her heroes gorgeous, sexy and larger than life. She says, “Why not spend your days and nights with the very best!” Luckily for Renee, her husband is gorgeous and sexy, too!

Renee Roszel loves to hear from her readers. Send your letter and SASE to P.O. Box 700154, Tulsa, Oklahoma 74170 U.S.A. Or visit her Web site at www.ReneeRoszel.com (http://www.ReneeRoszel.com).




Books by Renee Roszel


HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3682—HER HIRED HUSBAND

3705—THE TYCOON’S TEMPTATION

3725—BRIDEGROOM ON HER DOORSTEP

3752—SURRENDER TO A PLAYBOY


A Bride for the Holidays

Renee Roszel






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To animal rescue societies that take in the broken, abused and abandoned four-legged angels among us.

Adopt a dog or cat.

Give yourself the gift of unconditional love.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u336cd099-2fde-5568-8fa9-c625284f0238)

CHAPTER TWO (#u8e18376b-345e-5e2f-a53a-7692462a58d5)

CHAPTER THREE (#u329cdda9-4c04-5fc4-ba50-0b72e78d3bf4)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u8b5160f2-3c8d-5fad-a3fc-a89bcbb37071)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


THE ringing phone blasted through the stillness of the empty coffee shop like a tornado siren. Trisha’s breath caught and froze in her chest. She instinctively knew this was the call she’d been waiting for.

Her last chance.

The polished aluminum and white-tiled surroundings evaporated from her consciousness as she vaulted over the mop bucket part-time employee, Amber Grace, had dragged out to clean up a spilled latte.

Trisha grabbed the wall phone’s receiver, fumbling, almost dropping it before she managed a firm enough grasp to lift it to her ear. “Ed’s Gourmet Java Joint.” She swallowed, forcing the nervous quiver from her voice. “Trisha August, Day Manager, speaking.”

She recognized the caller’s voice—the bank loan officer, telephoning with his verdict. Her heart pounded so furiously she could hardly hear over its deafening beat. This was her moment of truth—whether she would get her small business loan, or not.

Caught between wrenching anxiety and frothy optimism, she listened, nodded, hardly able to squeeze in more than a brief “yes” or “no” as the loan officer talked in a tone that was mincingly polite but distant.

Her heart sank. She’d heard that same thumbs-down speech so many times she couldn’t stand hearing it again. “But, I’m very responsible and I’m a hard worker. I’ll do anything for a loan!” she blurted, interrupting the lecture she knew was about to end in “Thank you for your interest in Kansas City Unified Bank.” “I’ll do anything you ask!” she cried. “Please, just give me a chance!”

Without even the courtesy of a pause to pretend he gave her plea some thought, the loan officer delivered his “Thank you for your interest” line and hung up.

Trisha stood there with the receiver clenched in a fist. Raw anger at the unfairness of the world overwhelmed her. She could do this! She could make a success of herself, if somebody would only give her a chance! Her throat aching with fury, she slammed the receiver on its hook. “You can’t borrow money if you don’t have money!” Frustration and resentment coloring her words, she twisted away from the phone. “How does anybody ever open a business?”

“That’s a good question,” came a male voice. The comment had been spoken softly, the tone rich and deep and stirringly masculine.

Startled that a customer had entered without her notice, Trisha’s gaze shot to the serving counter. A man stood there. A tall man, clad in a camel overcoat that Trisha guessed was made of the finest cashmere. His broad, expensively garbed shoulders twinkled with melting snow. Dark hair glittered, too. As fetching as all that sparkling and twinkling was in a fluorescent glare that didn’t ordinarily show anyone to advantage, her attention was captured by his face.

What a face! He wasn’t smiling, but a slight upturn at one side of his mouth, gave the impression of cavalier nonchalance. His lips were nice, wholly masculine without the exotic plumpness of some male models.

His eyes were sharp and assessing. That was obvious, even half masked beneath the long, thick sweep of his lashes. It was difficult to tell what color his eyes were, shadowed by such a sexy canopy. Brown, possibly gray.

Her hesitation must have been overlong, because the stranger with the scintillating eyes cleared his throat. “I’d like a cup of coffee.”

Trisha felt like a fool. What had gotten into her? She stepped around Amber Grace and her mop, noticing belatedly that the teenager had also gone stock-still. In an aside, she murmured, “That latte isn’t going to mop itself.”

The teen blinked, coming back from never-never land. “Oh—yeah.” Her mop began to move.

Trisha hurried to the counter and smiled, though the pleasant expression felt strained. That business loan would have helped her achieve her dream—and it was gone. She hadn’t begun to deal with the bitter and unjust defeat, but she shoved the pain and outrage to a back shelf in her brain. This was neither the time nor place to vent her spleen. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said as pleasantly as she could. “We have three special blends today, raspberry-vanilla, Jamaica-chocolate and orange—”

“Do you have anything called coffee?”

She could see his eyes better across the counter. They were gray. Steel gray. An unusual color, and attractive, yet a little too piercing for comfort.

For some bizarre reason she had trouble remembering if they had anything called coffee. Working to get her brain on track, she responded, “Uh—how about our Colombian Dark Secret?”

“As long as the dark secret is that it has coffee in it.”

She found herself smiling, an amazing feat, considering her future had just been crushed under the unfeeling boot heel of corporate banking. “I promise it has coffee in it, sir,” she said, still smiling in spite of her broken dreams. “What size would you like, biggie, biggie-extra or biggie-boggle?” As she named the sizes, she pointed out the small, medium and large cups affixed to the top of the latte machine.

“Medium,” he said.

For some reason she liked that about him. He was a no-nonsense man who called a spade a spade. No fancy pseudo-speak cluttered his world. Just bare-boned facts. “Yes, sir.” She moved away to retrieve a cup and pour him a medium order of strong, black coffee. And he would drink it black, she knew. Black, strong and unadulterated. A real man’s cup of coffee.

A real man’s cup of coffee? What a silly, fanciful thought to have about a total stranger. She shook it off.

Her back to him, she sidled to the Colombian Dark Secret spigot and pulled the lever. Funny, she could feel his gaze on her. Not that lots of customers didn’t follow her movements as she got their order, but there was something different in the way she sensed his gaze. Her cheeks grew hot and she felt a tremor of feminine excitement, to think such a man might—

“What is this business you can’t get a loan for?”

She was so startled by his question she almost dropped the paper cup. When she regained her grip on it and opened the spigot again, she glanced over her shoulder. “Oh—I’m sorry you heard that, sir. I didn’t mean to…” Now the heat in her cheeks was due to humiliation. How unprofessional of her to rant about her bad luck in front of a customer!

“No, tell me,” he said, looking completely serious. “I might know somewhere you can go for that loan.”

With the full cup of coffee, she returned to the counter. “I don’t think so, sir,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve tried every place in town, plus everything on the Internet I can find.” She indicated the cup lids in a cubbyhole beside others containing sugar and creamer packets, as well as red plastic stirrers. When he shook his head to decline, she held the cup toward him. “The only companies that would lend me money charged loan-shark interest rates.”

“That’s too bad.” He reached for the coffee cup.

Just as he was about to take it, Trisha felt a sharp jab between her shoulder blades, hard enough to knock her off balance. She pitched forward, her forearms coming into explosive contact with the coffee bar’s brushed aluminum countertop. She winced at the pain. “Ouch! What in the world…” Struggling up, she reached back to rub the throbbing spot where she’d been jabbed.

“Oops. What’d I hit?” Amber Grace asked in the nasal whine she used when she perpetrated one of her many crimes of incompetence. She turned around to face her boss. “Was it your back?”

Trisha stared at the young girl, reining in her temper with difficulty. “You think?”

Amber Grace wore her usual sheepish “lucky-I’m-Ed’s-niece” face, but an instant later her expression changed to horror. “Oh!” She let go of the mop with one hand and pointed. “Look what you did to that man!”

Look what you did to that man!

Those seven dreadful words exploded in Trisha’s head like gunfire. She didn’t have to look to know his expensive cashmere coat was drenched with Colombian Dark Secret. A mortified sound issued up from her throat, a strangled expression of her grief at the loss of this week’s paycheck. That’s what it would cost her to get his coat cleaned. With great reluctance and even greater regret she faced the man in dripping cashmere.

His attention had dropped to the front of his coat. When their eyes met, his expression was not one of great cheer. “On second thought, a lid might have been a good idea.”

“Oh, heavens!” Trisha would have given her right arm to take back the last few seconds. “I’m so sorry!”

“Napkins?” he asked, holding out the same hand that had almost secured the cup a moment before.

“Oh—of course!” She grabbed a stack from beneath the counter. Ed was stingy with his precious, printed napkins, insisting each customer get only one. But this was an emergency. “Amber Grace, run and grab some paper towels out of the back.” She pressed an inch thick batch of napkins against the man’s coatfront, mopping coffee from the material. Knowing Ed, she would have to pay for the napkins, too.

“I can’t apologize enough, sir!” She flipped the batch of napkins to find fresh areas to absorb the spill. Sponging the man, she noticed there wasn’t a marshmallowy inch on his entire abdomen. He must have a washboard gut under all that expensive fabric. Even steeped in self-contempt and dismay she experienced a rush of feminine admiration. “I really must insist that you let me clean your stomach!” she said.

His hands covered hers, removing the napkins from her fingers and taking over the job. “That’s not necessary,” he said, sounding less put-out than she would have imagined. “I think my stomach escaped most of the coffee.”

Her gaze shot to his face. Had she actually offered to clean his stomach? Shamed to the soles of her feet, she cried, “Oh—I—I meant—your coat! I’d like to have your coat dry-cleaned, at my expense. It’s the least—”

“Just fix me another cup of coffee,” he said. “Forget the coat.”

She swallowed around the lump of wretchedness in her throat. In the five months she’d worked at Ed’s, she’d never spilled coffee on a single customer. And now, to spill a whole biggie-extra on this—this—gorgeous man—er—coat! And then, to make matters a thousand times worse, to offer to clean his stomach!

She found herself staring into his sexy but oh-so-steely gaze, mesmerized. Looking into those eyes, she experienced a strange contradiction within her. His gaze was all business and bottom-line, yet there was something compelling and exciting in the way he was able to hold her attention, something she couldn’t name. But it was there, stunning and impossible to resist. Unnerved, she realized she’d lost her train of thought. “Er—excuse me?”

He laid the soaked stack of napkins on the coffee-doused countertop and accepted the roll of paper towels from a breathless Amber Grace. “Thank you,” he said, tearing off a wad and applying it to his lapel. Odd, Trisha couldn’t recall his gaze leaving hers. “I said, why don’t you fix me another cup of coffee and forget the coat?”

“Oh—right.” Trisha was so flustered and miserable she wasn’t thinking clearly. Take a breath, she berated inwardly. Calm down or you’ll make things worse—if that’s even possible!

“Amber Grace?”

Trisha was surprised to hear the stranger speak directly to Ed’s niece, and peered at them over her shoulder as she retrieved another cup.

“Yes, sir?” Amber Grace asked, an unusually dopey smile on her freckled face.

He handed her the roll of paper towels. “Why don’t you wipe up the countertop?”

“Okay.” The teenager’s smile remained dopey and her gaze stayed on the stranger as she slowly unwound some of the towels and began to dab them on the wet counter.

Trisha turned away to fill the coffee cup, frustrated beyond words. There was no debating the fact that they would never see this customer again. Between her unprofessional rant about the loan, and Amber Grace’s ineptitude, his impression of Ed’s employees had to be pretty awful. And that wasn’t taking into account the fact that she’d flung coffee all over him! She refused to even think about the—the stomach thing. Since he was kind enough to forget it, she would, too.

Someday, in the far, far distant future.

The stranger’s languid-lidded eyes seemed to have a unique effect on females. Both she and Amber Grace were doing a first-class job of making idiots out of themselves. She wondered if this man sent all women into tizzies, or if she could possibly blame her bizarre behavior on a leak of laughing gas from the dentist’s office next door? No. That was too much to hope for. They’d all be affected, and so far, the man with the great lips and bedroom eyes had only half smiled when he’d first come in. Since the spill, he hadn’t smiled at all.

From the sappy look she’d seen on Amber Grace’s face, the teenager was clearly gaga about the handsome stranger. Having made a complete fool of herself, Trisha couldn’t very well blame Amber Grace for her infatuation. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t do Amber Grace’s industriousness any good, if her inattentive dabbing at the countertop was any indication.

Trisha filled the cup, returned to the counter and held it out to him, sternly telling herself to be all-business, and guard every single syllable that came out of her mouth. “Compliments of Ed’s, sir,” she said, not caring if she did have to pay for it herself. There was no way she would ask the man for three dollars and ninety-nine cents now. “You’ve been very gracious.” She decided she must make her coat-cleaning offer once more. “I really would be happy to pay for having that beautiful coat dry-cleaned.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He accepted the cup, which was far less dangerous this time, since Amber Grace had suspended her wiping duties to rest her elbows on the damp countertop. Her chin plunked on her fists, she grinned dreamily at the man.

He took a sip of coffee, then seemed to savor it. “Not bad,” he said. “I think it does have coffee in it.”

Trisha was amazed that she was once again smiling. After all that had happened, she could only call it a miracle—or an act of a person who’d gone completely insane with disgrace and defeat. Looking at his chiseled features, those seductive, silvery eyes, and most especially that lopsided, casual quirk of his lips, she decided she had to go with “miracle.” She’d never met a man before, who could shift his lips slightly, the way this stranger did, and sire an actual smile. Especially on her lips, that only moments ago she’d thought incapable of waywardness.

“Now, tell me about that business,” he said.

She was startled by the suggestion. She’d assumed he’d asked to be polite. She couldn’t imagine he truly cared. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to bore you,” she said.

He took another sip of coffee. “If you really want something, you should never pass up a chance to go after it.”

He had a point. So what if she caused a stranger a little boredom compared to a shot at getting her life’s dream?

“Go on, tell him,” Amber Grace urged, her voice the rapt singsong of the hypnotized.

They both glanced at the loafing teenager, an outrageous riot of quarreling colors. Amber Grace was a sight to behold in a lemon yellow polo shirt, aqua trousers, topped by a ridiculous aqua cap, reminiscent of something a nineteen-fifties nurse might have worn. Her short, shaggy catsup-red hair was the consistency of straw, and her two golden nose rings gleamed under the glare of the lights. Amber Grace was the poster child for parental suffering, not to mention a Day Manager’s nightmare.

The horrible uniform colors weren’t Amber Grace’s fault, though. They were Ed’s. The ultra-frugal coffee shop owner had bought them on the Internet. Trisha suspected it had been during a “we can’t get rid of these terrible uniforms” sale. But Ed was not only frugal, he was shrewd. He got his money back, probably made money, since he required his employees to buy their uniforms from him.

Except for the catsup-colored hair and the nose rings, Trisha knew she looked every bit as bad as Amber Grace. Who on earth looked good in yellow and aqua under stark fluorescent lights?

The ugliness of the uniforms hadn’t really hit home until—well, until just this minute, when she realized how tacky she must look to this obviously discerning stranger, whose attire was so classic and tastefully elegant. And coffee stained, a nagging imp in her brain insisted on needling.

Trying not to dwell on things that couldn’t be helped, Trisha plucked up the abandoned roll of paper towels and tore off a bunch. The man wanted to hear about her business, so she would be wise to get focused where she might do herself some good. “Well…” As she began to sop up spilled coffee, she chanced a peek at him to gauge his expression. His eyes were not glazed over, which was more than she could say for Amber Grace’s.

“What I have in mind is a doggie boutique,” she began, “where people can come to self-groom their pets—use my equipment, tubs, clippers et cetera, to bathe and spruce them up, for a highly reduced price from what a professional groomer would charge. And they’d leave the clipped hair, dirty bath water, splashed floor, in other words—the mess—behind.”

Trisha had made her spiel a million times in the past five months, so she could tell it without thinking, which was lucky, since there was something about this man that made her thinking processes go fuzzy. “I’ve seen similar places. One in Wichita and one in Olathe. Both were doing business hand-over-fist. The customers love it. I know my shop would be a success here in Kansas City. I’ve found a vacant store in a strip center that’s for rent. With a twenty-five thousand dollar loan and a lot of elbow grease I can fix it up really nice. I even have a great name for it— ‘Dog Days of August.’

“Interesting name,” he said, drawing her gaze in time to see a quizzical lift of his brow.

“It’s really a great play on words because that’s my name,” she explained, returning her focus to her scrubbing. His eyes were hard to look into and think about anything but how sexy they were. She cleared her throat. “August. Trisha August.” She sighed long and low, expelling some of the frustration that had built up over months of rejections. “The only trouble is, I can’t get financing. I’ve worked lots of jobs over the years, at several grooming places, too, so I know all about them. The last one I worked at closed when the owner retired, so I had to take this job.”

She tossed the wet clump of towels in the trash and faced him, her expression as serious as her determination. “I’ve saved every cent I can, and I don’t mind working long, hard hours to make my dream come true,” she said. “But all the banks and loan companies give me the same speech—tired platitudes about how small businesses are very chancy, with so many failing in the first year. How banks can’t operate without strict rules. About the importance of collateral and how I’m young, have no assets, little previous business experience and on and on and on,” she cried. “Banks don’t care how hard I’d work. They only care that I’m young and poor!” Her anger surged. “I’m not that young! I’m twenty-eight. I’ve been making it on my own since I was eighteen! And if I weren’t poor I wouldn’t need a loan!”

She slapped the flats of her hands to the countertop and leaned forward, feeling spent and worn down. “That call you heard was my last hope.”

A shape moved in the corner of her eye and she shifted her attention to the shop’s door. A man in a navy uniform of some kind had entered. He wore a navy, airline pilot style hat, though there was no gold braid on it. Snow sparkled on his dark clothes. In a military-like fashion he removed his cap and clasped it under one arm to stand at attention. He was nice looking, in his mid-twenties and muscular. Trisha noticed he also had on matching navy leather gloves and boots. “Sir,” he said, “The flat has been repaired. If you’re ready?”

The handsome customer who’d been listening to her business plan, shifted toward the newcomer and nodded. “Thank you, Jeffery. I’ll be right out.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Outside Ed’s plate glass window, Trisha noticed snow highlighted in the amber glow of a streetlamp. It was barely four-thirty and already dark. The rhythm and choreography of the snowfall had not changed all afternoon. There had to be a foot on the ground by now. Though it was only December eighteenth, with all the cold and snow they’d had this month, Kansas City had a real chance of having a white Christmas this year.

The man in navy departed with military bearing, leaving in his wake a dusting of quickly melting snow. Before Trisha could offer the handsome customer her abject apologies one last time, he picked up a napkin off a small stack that hadn’t been used to sop coffee, leaned down and began to jot something on the back of it. “Your idea sounds solid, Miss August,” he said, his golden pen flashing in the florescence as he wrote. “Make an appointment with this man. His office is in the Dragan building. Tell him what you told me.” He straightened and handed her the napkin. “I think he’ll help you.”

Trisha accepted the napkin, confused. “The Dragan building?” she echoed.

He nodded, depositing his pen in an inside coat pocket. “Tell him Gent sent you.”

“Gent—okay.” She didn’t know there were any banks or loan companies in the Dragan building. “What floor? What’s the company’s name?” She was surprised at her voice. She sounded a little panicky. She knew he was leaving, and she didn’t want him to go. She didn’t like the idea of never looking into those unusual eyes, ever again.

“Security will direct you,” he said, turning away.

Bewildered, she stared down at the napkin. What had he said? Something about security directing her somewhere? Yeah, she’d just bet—right back out onto the street. She felt agitated, conflicted. She thought she believed him. She wanted to, but she wasn’t sure she could. “Are you serious, Mr. Gent?” she asked.

When she got no answer, she pulled her gaze from the napkin. The stranger was gone—as quickly and as silently as he’d come. She dropped her attention back to the napkin, hoping against hope it was true. In bold script the man in cashmere had written “Herman Hodges, Dragan VC.” Then he’d apparently signed it, since the only other word scrawled on the page looked like “Gent.”

She wondered if this coffee-spotted paper napkin could actually hold the key to her dream. “Wow,” she whispered, experiencing a flicker of hope. To think that this flimsy scrap of paper might be her passport to success was too astonishing to completely penetrate.

“Huh?”

Amber Grace stirred, belatedly coming out of her trance.

“Nothing.” Trisha slowly shook her head, afraid to hope but unable to help herself. Gingerly folding the napkin, she slipped it in her trouser pocket. Even if it came to nothing, she had to try.

Like Mr. Gent said, “If you really want something, you should never pass up the chance to go for it!”




CHAPTER TWO


TRISHA sat stiffly in Herman Hodges’ office, on the fiftieth floor of the Dragan building. Perched on the edge of her chair, she tried to hide her nervous anxiety, but she wanted desperately to go to the window and look at the snow fluttering down on the brick, glass and steel cityscape. Watching snow falling calmed her, and if she ever needed calming, she needed it now. Her fingers clamped around her handbag, she gamely faced the sixtyish, bald and portly, upper-management type as he leafed through her thin business file.

The folder contained her meticulously worked out doggie boutique plans. Her meager financial statement was also in that folder. It included one savings account that contained two thousand, three-hundred and ninety one dollars and eighty-seven cents, every penny she’d saved for the past decade. With no other assets, not even a car, Trisha wasn’t encouraged by the expression on his face. Clearly he was wondering why in the world she was even there.

When Mr. Gent had suggested she meet with Mr. Hodges, he’d told her the man was in the Dragan building, but she’d never suspected he was associated with Dragan Venture Capital Inc. She’d heard of the firm, but she never imagined they would deal in such paltry sums as the twenty-five thousand she wanted to borrow, though it was far from paltry to her.

She’d assumed Dragan Venture Capital dealt with high rollers who borrowed millions. Nonetheless, even as the nice security person had escorted her to the plush, fiftieth floor headquarters of Dragan Venture Capital, she refused to panic and run. The handsome stranger’s words kept ringing in her head like a rallying cry.

“If you really want something, you should never pass up the chance to go for it!”

Witnessing Mr. Hodges’ crinkled brow as he closed her file and lifted his attention from it, Trisha’s “go for it” determination faltered. She could almost see the “Thank you for your interest” sentence forming on his lips. Working to hold on to her positive outlook, she cleared her throat and sat straighter in the cushy leather chair, opposite Mr. Hodges’ polished oak desk.

“Well, Miss August,” he began, his smile polite but not particularly warm. “I can see that you’ve put a lot of thought and effort into your—uh…” He paused, as though trying to recall what exactly she’d put a lot of thought into.

“Dog Days of August,” she said, grateful her voice didn’t squeak or break altogether.

“Right,” he said, his pasted-on smile of looming rejection all too familiar. “Dog Days of August. A very clever name.”

She held to her pleasant expression, clung to hope, though she felt like she was grasping a rock cliff with nothing but her fingernails between salvation and a plunge into oblivion.

He sat back and folded his hands over her file folder. He looked very successful and authoritative, lounging in his huge, tufted leather executive chair, dressed in an expensive charcoal suit, crisp white shirt and black, olive-green and purple paisley tie. She noticed his fingernails glimmered slightly. Good grief, the man’s nails were professionally manicured. She felt awkward, uncomfortable. Even wearing her very best emerald green, wool suit and in freshly shined black pumps, her nails weren’t as precisely groomed as this middle-aged man’s. Now it was her turn to question why in the world she was here?

“You see, Miss August,” he began, unmistakably going into lecture mode. She bit the inside of her cheek, a reflex reaction to threatening doom. “Dragan Ventures is an international company, our focus is on initiatives that can quickly dominate emerging, high-growth markets, and show a strong potential for delivering a ten to twenty times return on our investment within five to eight years, via an IPO or merger. Our target investment areas are communications infrastructure, business software technologies, semiconductor products, and new industrial technologies. Building on a strong technical and operational foundation, Dragan invests in the areas where we can contribute the highest degree of expertise and value.”

He paused, and Trisha had a scary feeling he expected her to respond. She had hardly understood a word he’d uttered, but she nodded. “I see.” She was fairly sure he suspected she didn’t.

He leaned forward and she wondered if the move was to intimidate, as if he needed to work at it! “To be frank, Miss August, even if we considered yours a good business risk, and even if we invested in—er—dog grooming parlors, our minimum investment is five million dollars. Twenty-five thousand is well under our radar, so to speak.” He refreshed his smile, though it was neither warmer nor friendlier. “Have you tried your local bank?”

A surge of bitter frustration rushed through her, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes at the condescension of his question. And she’d taken a sick day from work for this! “Yes, sir, I have,” she said, amazingly evenly, her white-knuckled hold on her handbag the only outlet she allowed herself for her emotional upset.

He lifted her file and leaned across the desk, offering it to her. “Thank you for your interest in Dragan Venture Capital, Miss August, however, as I hope I made clear, we really aren’t in the business of—”

“Yes, well,” she said, cutting off the horrible rejection cliché she’d already heard too many times. “I—I didn’t think you were involved in ventures like mine, but when Mr. Gent suggested I see you, I thought—well, I hoped—he—”

“Mr. Who?”

Trisha took hold of her file, but when she tried to pull it from his fingers, she felt resistance and was confused. “Excuse me?”

“Who did you say suggested that you see me?”

For the first time since Trisha set foot inside Mr. Hodges’ expensively appointed office his eyes held a sentiment besides cool indifference. He actually seemed interested. Since he was strangely reluctant to release her file, she let go. “Mr. Gent,” she repeated.

He eyed her suspiciously, unmoving. She wondered what was going through his mind. Whatever his thoughts, they weren’t cheerful. She didn’t enjoy feeling like a bug about to be squashed and decided to try and explain. “I—I assumed Mr. Gent was a client of yours. He acted as though you might want to help me.”

Mr. Hodges eyes narrowed. “Are you saying this man’s name is Mr. Gent?”

Trisha didn’t know what she’d said to make Mr. Hodges so agitated. Who was this Mr. Gent, anyway? Had he defrauded Dragan Venture Capital, or defaulted on a loan? Was he some kind of con artist?

A thought struck like a two-by-four, shaking her to her core. Heavens above! Had Mr. Gent’s suggestion that she go to Dragan Ventures been a cruel payback for staining his coat? Was he out there somewhere laughing his head off? Did a conniving sadist lurk beneath that handsome face? Well, why not? What was the cliché? “You can’t tell a book by its cover.” Clichés were born from long-standing, proven truths.

Sick to her stomach, and wanting to clear up this awful mess and get out as quickly as possible, she opened her square, black handbag and pulled out the napkin. “He didn’t tell me his name. He wrote it down, though. I—I’ll show you.” Her heart sank further just looking at the coffee spattered thing. How could she have been so gullible to believe such an obvious prank? She felt ridiculous handing him the piece of absorbent paper, and couldn’t quite meet his narrowed gaze.

He took the limp, wrinkled napkin from her fingers and frowned at it.

The quiet was so ominous, Trisha had to fill it with either a scream or a defense. Working at remaining at least outwardly composed, she opted for the defense. “You see, a man—a customer at the coffee shop where I work—asked me about my doggie boutique idea. He acted like he thought it had potential, wrote your name on this napkin and told me to come see you. Naturally, I should have realized it was too good to—”

“Would you excuse me for a moment, Miss August?”

Trisha was caught with her mouth open, startled by his troubled tone and the suddenness of his rise from his chair. She didn’t think such a beefy man could move that quickly. “Why—uh—certainly…” Her sentence died away as the man dashed out a side door. She stared after him, her unease becoming unreasoning fear. What was the matter? Who was this Mr. Gent, anyway? One of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted? Did Mr. Hodges think she was an accomplice in some kind of fraud?

She sat forward, tense, the urge to escape roaring like a lion in her brain. She quickly rejected the notion. That friendly security man who had escorted her to the Dragan headquarters was no doubt one of many security men who would track her attempted escape on a zillion security cameras and nab her before she made it to the main floor.

She felt lightheaded and realized she was hyperventilating. “Breathe deeply, slowly, you ninny!” she muttered. “Don’t lose your nerve!” Angry with herself for letting her imagination run amok, she sat back, tried to relax. “Be logical,” she told herself in a low, even whisper. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Mr. Dragan?”

Lassiter didn’t look up from his paperwork to press the intercom button. “Yes, Cindy?”

“I have Jessica Lubeck on the line.”

Lassiter paused in his calculations, frowning. Why did that name sound familiar? “Who?”

“She’s Managing Editor of The Urban Sophisticate magazine. This is her second call today.”

Lassiter remembered. “Right,” he murmured, annoyed with himself. He’d put her off all week, but he knew she needed an answer by the end of the workday. Though Lassiter wasn’t a man to waver when a decision needed to be made, this time he was torn. “I’ll take the call,” he said, laying aside his pen.

“Line two, sir.”

He picked up the receiver. “Hello, Ms. Lubek.”

“Mr. Dragan,” came the woman’s husky voice. She sounded to be about fifty. “I hope you’ve decided to let The Urban Sophisticate do that ‘Home For The Holidays With Lassiter Dragan’ article.”

“I’m flattered by the interest,” he said, honestly. He’d been weighing the pros and cons all week.

“That doesn’t sound like a firm yes,” Jessica Lubek said. “What can I say to convince you? Have I mentioned our ‘Home For The Holidays’ issue is always our bestseller for the year?”

“Yes, Ms. Lubek,” he said. “I know it would give Dragan Ventures invaluable exposure.”

“Worth millions in advertising dollars. We have an international readership, as I believe I’ve mentioned.”

“True.” He paused. He’d already explained to her that he hadn’t granted any interviews for years. Since she had been patient and was being so persistent, he decided to explain. “You see, Ms. Lubek—”

“Call me Jessica,” she interrupted.

“Thank you, Jessica. Let me repeat, your offer intrigues me. It’s just that the last time I was featured in a magazine, the experience wasn’t one hundred percent positive.”

“Really?” She paused, and Lassiter suspected she was puffing on a cigarette, no doubt the reason for her low, raspy voice. “Would you mind my asking what the problem was that’s made you so publicity-shy?”

He glanced toward the window wall in his corner office, staring out at the overcast afternoon. Snow fell thick and fast. Traffic would be a bear getting home. He checked his watch. Three o’clock. He wished it were five. Wished this decision were made, once and for all. “I suppose you deserve to know, since I’ve kept you dangling all week,” he said. “You see, five years ago, Midas Touch Monthly did a story on me. Do you know it?”

“Certainly. I read their article on you. It was a good piece. Midas is a fine business magazine. Forgive my boasting, but its circulation is much smaller than ours.”

Lassiter’s chuckle was ironic. “Exactly. But even with its limited circulation, after that article came out, I found myself…” He paused. There wasn’t a graceful way to put it, so he decided just to say it. “Well, due to that article, I found myself the matrimonial objective of a rabid horde of silly women.” He cringed, recalling the havoc that experience wreaked.

“Oh?” Jessica Lubek said, and he could hear her blow out smoke again. “That’s a shame, Mr. Dragan.” He detected the smile in her voice. “It must be hell being rich and handsome.”

He was surprised by the woman’s bluntness. “You’re quite right to be sardonic. Wealth has many perks. As for handsome, it’s in the eye of the beholder. Unfortunately as far as I could tell, these women didn’t care if I looked like a stubby wombat.”

“A stubby wombat?” Jessica Lubek cut in, still sounding like she was grinning. “As I said, I did read the article, and it included a picture of you. In all honesty, Mr. Dragan, you look about as much like a stubby wombat as a prize stallion looks like a jackass.”

Lassiter experienced unease spiced with displeasure at her continued amusement at his expense. He supposed it could sound comical to someone who’d never experienced it. “The fact is, they wanted to marry rich, come Hades or high water, wombat or jackass. They camped outside my privacy gate, shrieking at me, throwing themselves on my car whenever I came and went. One had herself mailed to me in a huge box.”

He was surprised at how troubling the recollection was, even five years later. He was a private person, and his privacy had been blown all to blazes. “The intrusiveness became a hindrance. Women invaded my office building. I could get nothing done for a month.” He picked up his gold pen and began a restless tapping on his desktop. “That’s why I’ve refused to be featured in articles ever since.”

She chuckled aloud. “I know a lot of men who would do anything to get that kind of attention. Including my husband.”

“They should be wary of what they wish for. Trust me, being harassed by scheming, greedy women is no picnic.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, exhausted and ambivalent. It had been a long, hectic week, and this was not what he needed right now. “I have to admit,” he went on, “the article did bring me some lucrative clients, practically doubling my business.”

“So you have a dilemma.” She no longer sounded amused.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I wish I could reassure you that it won’t happen again, but I can’t.” She exhaled a prolonged blast of cigarette smoke, so audible he could almost smell it. “Publicity is a double-edged sword.”

He clamped his jaws, brooding over whether the offer was a business opportunity he couldn’t afford to refuse, or if he was insane to consider it? Was the untold wealth the publicity would bring worth the inevitable upheaval it would cause his well-ordered, intensely private lifestyle?

To Lassiter, everything was business-related. “Home” to him meant an investment, a tool to promote his company and increase his prosperity.

When asked about his heritage, Lassiter often joked, “Daddy was in steel—spell it any way you want,” meaning “steel” or “steal.” Lassiter was a bottom-line man. With anything he took on, he expected a profit. And this article would garner him a huge one.

That was why his hesitation to accept the offer annoyed him. It should be a no-brainer! But he also knew everything and everyone had a price. What price was he willing to pay for millions in free publicity?

What he needed was some way to benefit from the article without the disruptive burden of brazen, money-grubbing females. If he could just come up with a way to accomplish that.

“I gather none of them snared you?”

The question caught him off guard. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I gather you’re not married,” the editor said.

Lassiter winced at the thought. To him, women were like anything else—assets or liabilities. On the asset side he counted the luscious “arm candy” he dated. Female liabilities included the screaming swarms that had invaded his home and business. The “assets” enjoyed the benefits of his luxurious lifestyle, for their companionship. Because they benefited for what they offered him, he never felt guilt or obligation once a relationship had run its course. As for marriage, he had no interest in “family.” He saw no profit in it.

“Did you hear me?” Jessica asked.

“Yes, I—”

The double doors to Lassiter’s office burst open to display a red-faced Herman Hodges framed in the space. He looked troubled and nervous. “Gent,” he called out in a wheezy exhale.

Lassiter covered the receiver’s mouthpiece. “Herm, I’m on a call.”

The newcomer’s inhale sounded like the gasp of a drowning man. He wagged his hands in front of him, as if to say that couldn’t be helped. This was too important. Lassiter noticed he held something white.

“There’s a woman in my office who gave me this napkin,” he said, extending the flimsy paper toward Lassiter. “She said a Mr. Gent told her to come see me about a loan for a doggie salon.” With a big gulp of air, he tramped into the large office, halting before his boss’s vintage rosewood desk.

He yanked a handkerchief out of his hip pocket and wiped his sweat-beaded head. “It was a shocker seeing what looks amazingly like your signature on this—this coffee shop napkin.” His expression became dubious. “Gent, old man, are you her Mr. Gent?”

The napkin! Lassiter sat forward, experiencing a curious, tingling shock. So, the coffee shop manager had taken him up on his offer.

“I’ve never known you to mix…” Herm swallowed, his jowls quivering as he loudly cleared his throat. “Well, to mix—shall we say—pleasure with business. Lord, Gent. Her business requirements, not to mention her lack of experience and collateral, were so diametrically opposed to what we do here, I gave her my cold-shoulder spiel, almost booted her out of my office without a fare-thee-well! If she’s a—a lady friend of yours, you should have let me know…”

Lassiter recalled the woman’s face, those big, vulnerable green eyes—how they’d glimmered with horror and remorse after she’d spilled coffee on his coat. He still couldn’t figure out what had come over him, made him behave so uncharacteristically, suggesting she contact Herm about a loan. Maybe it was the season. He didn’t ordinarily succumb to anything as sappy as “The Holiday Spirit.” But what else could explain it?

Lassiter’s petite, grandmotherly executive assistant signaled for his attention from the double-doored entry. She looked worried. He nodded to reassure her that Herm’s interruption was okay. “Hold on a second, Herm.” Removing his hand covering the telephone’s mouthpiece, he said, “Jessica, let me get back with you in, say…” He checked his wristwatch, “…thirty minutes? I’ll have a definite answer for you then.”

“Well, certainly…” She sounded hesitant, puzzled, “…as long as your answer is yes.”

“Thirty minutes.” He hung up and motioned Herm forward. “Let’s see that thing.” It wasn’t as though he expected the napkin to be a forgery, but Herm needed to calm down or he’d have a stroke.

Herm handed over the napkin.

“Sit down. Relax.” Lassiter motioned toward one of the twin navy, leather chairs placed within easy conversational distance on the other side of his desk. “What did you do, run up the stairs? You look like you’re going to explode.”

Herm collapsed into the armchair. “Sure, sure, me run up two flights of stairs. That’ll be the day.”

Lassiter glanced at the napkin, then laid it aside. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention Miss August.” Miss August. Trisha August. Interesting that her name had stuck in his mind. He went on, “When the Randall deal heated up, it needed all my attention. To be honest, I wasn’t sure she’d come.” He rested his forearms on his desk. “And she’s not a girlfriend. I met her a few days ago at a coffee shop. Suggesting she come here was—a whim.” He shrugged off his impulsiveness. “It’s Christmas.”

“A whim?” Herm repeated, his look scrutinizing. “It’s Christmas?” His thick, gray eyebrows came together in a suspicious frown.

Lassiter’s shrug had been the only explanation he intended to offer. In truth, it was all he had. “For whatever reason, I gave her your name. I thought she’d feel most comfortable with you. This place can be intimidating, and I’ve seen you with your grandchildren. You’re a regular puppy dog.”

“Puppy dog!” Herm made a pained face. “Lord, Gent! I might as well have dipped her in a vat of dry ice, I was so cold. I wish I’d known. I thought she was one of the innumerable square pegs we have to fend off.” He blew out a breath. “And it’s Friday afternoon—I’m tired.” He ran his hands over his scalp, looking miserable. “I feel like a jerk.”

“You did your job. You didn’t know I sent her,” Lassiter said. “Look at it this way. She’ll forgive you when she walks out with the money.”

Herm seemed to think about that, then nodded, though his brow was still furrowed. He crossed his arms over his belly. “O-kay,” he said slowly. “So, Father Christmas, why did you send the pretty blonde to me, an old married man?” He eyed his boss with wry speculation. “Or do you see our two bachelor vice presidents as competition?”

Lassiter ignored his associate’s gibe. “She needs a loan, not a lover.”

Herm’s expression grew wistful. “I’m sure you’re right. To look at her, she’s got to have all the lovers she can use.”

Lassiter only half heard the comment. The telephone caught his attention and his promise to call Jessica Lubek came back to him. He glanced at his wristwatch. Twenty minutes left.

Trisha August’s face affixed firmly in his mind, Lassiter recalled a question Jessica asked him just before Herm’s intrusion. That question must have been skulking around his subconscious, because it suddenly came into sharp focus, and a thought struck. “I wonder,” he mused aloud.

“I don’t think there’s much doubt about it,” Herm said.

Lassiter looked up. “About what?”

Herm eyed his boss, his expression shifting to one of puzzlement. “About Miss August not needing a lover. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

“Oh—right.” Lassiter’s thoughts raced. He recalled how attractive she was, even in that atrocious uniform, and that hat that looked like it might take flight any second. Her hair had been pulled back into a tight bun at her nape. Even so, she was striking. Her eyes were the color of priceless jade, her facial bones delicately carved. Her lips were full, pink and her pale, flawless skin fairly glowed with golden undertones. She had a dainty, upturned nose, with the hint of a bump on its bridge. A slight flaw that made her nose a little crooked.

Lassiter wasn’t accustomed to seeing flaws on faces as lovely as hers. The women he dated corrected such imperfections, enhanced cheeks and chin, lips and breasts. Trisha’s slightly misaligned nose told him a great deal about her, and he liked what it said.

He’d bet a thousand shares of Dragan Ventures preferred stock that she rarely wore makeup, and the rosy flush of her cheeks and mouth was as natural as her strawberry-blond hair and her quaintly distinctive nose. “But she does need a loan.” He sat back, his focus going inward.

Maybe. Just maybe it would work.

“I wonder,” he said, thinking out loud. “She said she’d do anything for that loan.” He stared, lost in his own thoughts.

“I don’t like the look on your face, Gent.”

Lassiter blinked, coming back to the present. He eyed the VP, his decision made. “Escort Miss August to my office.”

Herm jumped, startled by the vehemence of Lassiter’s command. He sat forward. “I thought you were playing Father Christmas for this woman. What is this dark—thing I see in your eyes?” He glowered, his lips working, as though he were having trouble voicing his misgivings. “You wouldn’t—it would be unethical to—to—” He hefted himself out of the chair. “What are you thinking? Didn’t you say, yourself, she doesn’t need a lover?”

Unaccustomed to being challenged by employees, no matter how well-meaning, Lassiter couldn’t mask his impatience. “Neither do I,” he growled.




CHAPTER THREE


TRISHA found herself being guided out of Herman Hodges’ office through the plush reception area of Dragan Ventures. Wearing shoes on the cushy, beige carpeting seemed like a sin.

Mr. Hodges carried her folder and had draped her overcoat across one arm. He held her elbow in a gentlemanly way, his attitude much warmer and friendlier than when he’d rushed out of his office twenty minutes ago. He lead her into the entry hall, with walls and floors of polished green marble, to a bank of elevators in an alcove. A window wall exhibited a snow-covered panorama of downtown Kansas City, glass and steel skyscrapers, blurred behind an undulating veil of white.

“It looks like the snow is letting up,” Mr. Hodges said, drawing her from her nervous thoughts.

“Yes,” she said, not knowing quite how to react to the man’s one hundred and eighty degree reversal in attitude. He was smiling so she smiled back, though her effort was halfhearted. “Um—Mr. Hodges,” she asked. “Where did you say we were going?” She wanted to make absolutely sure she hadn’t misunderstood when he’d told her before. The shock had been so great, she hadn’t been able to ask him to repeat himself until this minute.

He pressed the elevator “up” button. “To Mr. Dragan’s office.”

She heard him say the same words he’d said before, but they still didn’t make sense. Why would he take her to Mr. Dragan’s office? “Oh?” He seemed too friendly to be about to accuse her of anything. Still, she worried about Mr. Gent. She hadn’t imagined Herman Hodges’ distress at the mention of his name. He’d been frantic. What had happened in the past twenty minutes to change his attitude? “May I ask why we’re going there?”

The elevator door opened and Mr. Hodges urged her inside a mirrored enclosure. She couldn’t miss the fleeting frown that crossed his face. He obviously wasn’t happy about his errand.

Oh dear, she cried inwardly, it has something to do with Mr. Gent! She felt it all the way to her toes! That darn napkin! If I hadn’t dragged that out, I’d be on the bus by now, safely out of the Dragan building on my way home.

“Mr. Dragan wants to—speak with you,” Herman Hodges said. Trisha watched his face in the mirrored interior. He looked a little guilty, reluctant, like a man leading a lamb to slaughter.

“I see.” She clenched the thin shoulder strap of her handbag. She didn’t really see at all. Once again, the idea of running crossed her mind. But that would be cowardly. Besides, how many times did she have to remind herself that she’d done absolutely nothing wrong?

She shifted her gaze to the flash of the floor indicator. The indicator flashed “fifty-one,” then “fifty-two,” where it stopped. The ride had been short. Too short. When the door whooshed open, Mr. Hodges guided Trisha out into a dramatic marble foyer with a twenty-foot ceiling. Across from the elevator alcove a pair of huge copper doors stood open, revealing a large room beyond. Was it Mr. Dragan’s office? The lump of fear in Trisha’s throat prevented her from asking.

Mr. Hodges took her arm, guiding her through the double doors. The room they entered had very high ceilings. The furnishings were elegant, understated, a mix of leathers, silks and tapestries. Live plants abounded in huge planters, many the size of trees.

“It’s—it’s quite beautiful.” Glancing around Trisha noticed both sides of the huge room were entirely glass. Even on a sullen, overcast day like today, natural light flooded the place.

“Yes, it is nice.” Mr. Hodges kept his focus straight ahead, toward the far end of the room where another set of tall, copper doors loomed. Dread at what waited behind those doors made her heart pound and her stomach churn. Why did Mr. Dragan want to speak personally with her? This fifty-second floor was definitely the inner sanctum of Dragan Ventures. A person either had to be very fortunate to get in here—or in a lot of trouble.

“What—what is a room like this used for?” she asked, needing to get her mind on something besides her immediate future. If she didn’t she was afraid her heart might explode from the stress.

“It’s our executive lounge.”

“I gather your executives don’t lounge much,” she said, noting the room was empty.

“It’s Christmas. Many of our employees take vacations at this time of year.”

They reached the double doors and Mr. Hodges opened one. Beyond was a room that finally looked like an office, a cheery one, ornamented with artistic arrangements of lively watercolors. Once again, both side walls were entirely glass.

In front of each window wall was a desk, at each desk a woman sat, working at her computer. As Mr. Hodges and Trisha entered, the two female employees glanced up and smiled. The fact that they hadn’t stared daggers at her wasn’t much of a relief, since it was unlikely they would be privy to why she was there. She wondered if they would look at her differently when she left.

The next set of double doors opened on a pleasant, carpeted room, its walls papered with a subtle, textured design and arranged with impressionistic pen-and-ink drawings. Slightly left of center, facing them, a woman about Herman Hodges’ age sat behind a desk. Petite, with neatly permed white hair, the attractive woman glanced up from her computer screen and smiled.

“Cindy, this is Miss August.”

“Of course.” The woman pressed a button, announcing Trisha’s arrival.

A man responded with, “Send her in.” The voice was deep and deadly serious. Had she come to the end of her journey? Did she at last stand at the mouth of the dragon’s lair—the penthouse office of the legendary Lassiter Q. Dragan?

The air suddenly seemed frigid. Trisha felt chilled through, and weak in the knees. She squeezed Mr. Hodges’ arm tighter in an effort to remain upright.

He must have noticed, for he glanced at her. “Are you all right?”

She wasn’t, but she didn’t intend to turn into a Weeping Wanda. She and her mom had weathered many storms, just the two of them. If there was one thing Trisha had learned from her mother, it was to face life with a positive attitude. Concentrating on her mother’s good advice, Trisha managed a confident expression. “I’m fine.”

He patted her hand, resting on his arm. “I’ll leave you now.” He walked her to the door and grasped the handle, then hesitated. Leaning close, he murmured, “Do what you feel in your heart is best—for you.” His features were troubled.

She stared, unsure how to react. Do what you feel in your heart is best—for you! Was it advice or a warning?

With a nod of encouragement, he handed her her file folder and coat and opened the door, moving away as he did.

Lost in her mental quandary, she belatedly responded with a half nod, which probably looked more like a convulsive tic than a reply.

“Come in, Miss August.”

The booming command from beyond the door made her jump. On their own, her legs moved forward. It wasn’t until after she felt a puff of air at her back, and heard the door whisper shut, that she managed to focus on the man across the room. He sat behind a large desk, the wall beyond him solid glass.

He rose to stand. Silhouetted against the window, he was little more than a black shape, a tall, broad-shouldered shadow-man. Since he wore no suit coat, his dress shirt was the most visible thing about him. The expanse of whiteness was bisected down the center by a dark tie.

He motioned her forward. “Please, come. Sit down.”

Though his invitation into the room had been forceful, his tone was less formidable now, more inviting.

“Yes, sir.” She walked toward the proffered chair. By the time she came within reach of his desk, her eyes had adjusted, and she could see his face. Shock made her stumble to a halt. “Oh…it’s—it’s…” She couldn’t believe her eyes. The man from the coffee shop! The man she’d drenched with Colombian Dark Secret! “Mr. Gent?” She didn’t know what to think. “I—I thought I was here to see Mr. Dragan.”

He motioned her toward the chair. “Please sit down, Miss August. I’ll explain.”

She canted her head in the direction of the chair, but had a hard time removing her gaze from his face. Finally, she shifted her attention to the armchair, sidled to it and sat down. But if he thought sitting would mean relaxing, he vastly misjudged her mental state. She sat erect, clutching her coat and her folder to her. “I’m sitting.” Her tone held a surprising edge, considering how nervous she was. But she wanted answers.

He remained standing. “Would you care for coffee?”

She shook her head. “I get plenty of coffee, thanks.”

He grasped the irony and pursed his lips. “Right.” He surprised her by circling his desk and standing before her. She caught a whiff of his aftershave, tangy and masculine, like a cool breeze through a pine forest with the hint of smoke from a distant campfire. “May I have your coat, Miss August? I’ll hang it up for you.”

She’d forgotten she had it and looked down, noticing she was crushing it to her, along with her poor folder. Annoyed with herself for showing anxiety in her body language, she tried to relax. “Why—yes, thanks.” Their eyes met in a brief, electric shock. During the three days since she’d seen him, her imaginings had degraded badly. Those eyes, the color of polished steel, were so striking that to look at them made breathing difficult. She handed him her coat, then busied herself smoothing her crinkled folder on her lap.

“You’re welcome,” he said, but she avoided glancing his way. Flattening her hands on the folder, she stared out the window behind his desk. She could hear him move across the carpet as he deposited her coat somewhere. She continued to watch the snow flutter down. She breathed deeply, working on her poise.

After a moment he crossed her line of vision. Even the fleeting shadow moving before her made her pulse jump. So much for the calming influence of fluttering snow!

She found herself once again staring at the man as he took a seat and folded his hands on his desktop. She looked at his fingernails. They didn’t shine with polish, but they were neatly trimmed. His fingers were long and graceful, in the most masculine sense of the word. Her gaze trailed over his torso, taking in broad shoulders, strong arms, muscular chest and taut belly. Those attributes not only refused to be camouflaged by his crisp, white shirt, but were somehow magnified. It almost seemed as though nature had taken special pains forming and perfecting him and then made sure no mere piece of cloth could mask such exquisite handiwork.

“Miss August, I’m sorry for the confusion,” he said, drawing her gaze to his sharp, arresting features. “My name is Dragan, Lassiter Dragan. However, some of my business associates know me as Gent.” He paused, looking at her with such intensity she felt it physically, a low humming in the center of her chest. It didn’t help ease her breathing. “You see, Gent is a nickname.”

She found herself biting her lower lip and made herself stop. That would be a clear sign of distress. “Oh?” she said “Then—why?” was all she could say.

“Why didn’t I tell you who I am?”

She nodded. Was the man clairvoyant? The notion that such a handsome man could read her mind was disconcerting. On the other hand, if he could not only ask the questions, but answer them, too, it would make her malfunctioning mental processes less of a stumbling block.

“I’m a private person, Miss August,” he began. “It’s no secret that my name is well known in Kansas City. I was in a hurry that day, and signing Gent saved time.” He glanced at his wristwatch, then back at her, as though the mention of time reminded him he was on a tight schedule. She wondered how many minutes he’d allotted for her. Peeking at her own watch, she noticed it was three-twenty-five. “I didn’t anticipate meeting with you myself,” he said. “I don’t often handle preliminary meetings.”

She was confused. “So—why am I here?”

He smiled briefly, the glint of his teeth disarming, yet strangely ominous. She experienced a skittering along her spine and couldn’t be sure what it meant—attraction? Foreboding? She had a feeling it was a little of both. “I’m glad you’re a woman who likes to get to the point.” His gaze was steady, steely. “It’s important that we do.”

“Please—go on,” she said. Her pounding heart couldn’t stand much more punishment. Was it possible he might be considering giving her a loan? She threw out a silent prayer.

“The reason I had you see Herman Hodges was because I felt you needed a break. I get feelings about people, Miss August, and I felt you might be a good risk,” he said. “My initial thought was to loan you the twenty-five thousand you want.”

Her heart soared. She smiled and opened her mouth to begin an effusive thank you, along with a thousand reassurances that he wouldn’t be sorry for putting his faith in her. But before she could speak, he held up a halting hand.

“However, something’s come up that has made me rethink my original idea. Something that I feel could benefit us both.” He paused, his nostrils flared, and his jaw muscles flexed. It seemed as though he was having trouble stating his proposal.

“Tell me, Mr. Dragan.” She was almost sick with excitement. She’d come here expecting accusations, a reprimand at the least. Now, suddenly, a rich and powerful venture capitalist was actually talking about loaning her money. It didn’t seem possible. But she wasn’t dreaming. She bit the inside of her cheek and it hurt, so she knew she was really here. “I—I can make a success of Dog Days of August. All I need is the chance.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” He relaxed back in his big, executive chair. “That’s why I’m prepared to offer you not only the bare-bones twenty-five thousand you need, but an additional twenty-five thousand, to upgrade the operation—and at the prime interest rate.”

Trisha sat stunned. She wanted to scream with joy, but a tiny fragment of her mind sensed his offer was a smoke screen to obscure some hidden agenda. She didn’t want to believe that, but no matter how she tried to shake off the feeling, it nagged. “I—I’m…” She swallowed to steady her voice. “I’m flattered, Mr. Dragan,” she said. “But, why? Why would you do such a generous thing for me, when nobody else would give me the time of day?”

She recalled Mr. Hodges’ initial reaction to her business plan, and cruel doubt clutched at her heart. “Just now, downstairs, I was being rushed out the door until Mr. Hodges saw that napkin. And you haven’t even looked at my business plan.” She frowned, her initial excitement fading fast. “I hate to slit my own throat, but considering you’re supposed to be a shrewd money man, this doesn’t seem like a smart way to do business.”

“The situation is unusual, Miss August.” His lips curved in a half smile that made her heart flutter and her nerves buzz ominously. “I have a small problem.” He paused for a moment. The silence in the room was heavy, almost too much for Trisha’s strained nerves to endure. “It’s very simple,” he said. “You help me and I’ll help you.”

“Help you how?” She feared whatever he asked her to do—for fifty-thousand dollars—wouldn’t be easy. But hadn’t she sworn she would do anything for a loan? Hadn’t she sworn it out loud? And within earshot of this very man? She felt her face heat. What on earth was he thinking? “I won’t do anything illegal!”

“I wouldn’t ask you to, Miss August,” he said. “It’s perfectly legitimate. All I need from you is a little ‘sweat equity,’ beginning this weekend and ending New Year’s Day.”

The words “sweat equity” stuck in her mind. What did he mean by “sweat equity?” The only picture that flared in her mind was obscenely risqué—silk sheets, naked bodies, limbs entwined in passion.

Mr. Hodges’ warning came back to her and she felt mortified. Had he known Mr. Dragan’s intentions? With a half groan, half growl, she vaulted up. “I’ve never been so insulted! Offering me money for—for…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, Mr. Dragan.” Her tone was as irate as her glare. “I won’t do anything illegal or—or…” She rang her hands, hesitating. “I was going to say immoral. I know in this day and age that sounds outdated, but—”

“Yes, it does,” he said, then pursed his lips suspiciously. Was he laughing at her?

“So, you admit it!” she cried. Moving away from her chair, she took a step backward, bent on a swift escape.

“Miss August.” He rose to his feet, as though he might attempt to physically bar her exit. “You misunderstand. I don’t intend to lay a hand on you.”

She had whirled away and taken several steps toward the exit, but his response made her stop and peer at him over her shoulder. “No?”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on his desk. “No.” He shook his head.

She saw the truth in his serious features and turned around, wayward curiosity and her desperation for a loan getting the better of her. “Then what sort of—sweat equity are you talking about that would make you require my—er—me—over the holidays?”

“I need a wife.”

Her jaw dropped. She’d half expected him to say he needed someone to paint the entire outside of the Dragan building, or to leap out of an airplane with an experimental parachute made of pasta. Something dangerous and foolhardy. But she never expected him to suggest anything as dangerous and foolhardy as, “I need a wife!” Her alarmed expression must have been hilarious, because he flashed that troubling, sardonic grin. “I repeat, Miss August. Not that kind of sweat equity. Your quaint notion of immorality aside, paying a woman for sex falls under the heading of ‘illegal.’ Our relationship would be entirely legal, and purely business.”

She stared, tongue-tied.

Apparently laboring under the delusion that she had any intention of agreeing, he went on, “You would receive an appropriate wardrobe, spend a luxurious vacation at my estate, pretending to be my bride for a magazine article. Then, after the new year, you collect fifty-thousand dollars. At prime.” He paused, watching her. When she didn’t respond, he straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “Nobody loans money at the prime rate, Miss August. Only Santa Claus, himself, might make you a better offer, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.” With the ill-omened lift of an eyebrow, he added, “You would be insane to say no.”

Her incredulity at his arrogance and audacity surged and overflowed. “Then I’m definitely insane.” She straightened her shoulders. “And proud to be!” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed pages from her folder scattered over the floor, and had a split-second urge to stoop down and gather them. But almost immediately she decided against it. If there had ever been a time she needed to march regally away from any man and any proposition, this was that time! With a stiff arm, she indicated her spilled business plan. “Have your secretary mail my prospectus to me, Mr. Dragan! Goodbye!”

“I hope, in ten years, when you’re still serving coffee, you don’t look back and regret this decision.”

She already regretted it, recalling her frantic vow. “I’ll do anything to get this loan! Anything!” Halfway to the door, she found her firm resolve faltering. She slowed, then stopped. A voice in her head shouted, “What’s so offensive about pretending to be a gorgeous, wealthy man’s wife? Not to mention getting a free wardrobe of beautiful clothes and a vacation at a palatial estate—and finally, fifty-thousand dollars to finance your dream! If you say no to this you really are insane!”

Reluctantly, half ashamed of herself for caving in, she faced him. Her cheeks burned, so she must be blushing furiously. To salve her pride, she set her features defiantly. “Absolutely no hanky-panky!”

He shook his head. “I promise.”

“But why me? Surely you have girlfriends who’d do you this favor—and without the no-hanky-panky rule.”

“I prefer to keep relationships on a quid pro quo basis.” He indicated her with a casual wave. “You want something from me and I want something from you. Quid pro quo.”

She scoffed, “That’s very romantic.”

He eyed her levelly. “I don’t mean it to be, Miss August.”

He certainly sounded like he meant what he said. But she’d met a lot of men who’d said things they didn’t mean, made promises they broke with shameful ease. Lassiter Dragan was an extraordinarily sexy man, with bedroom eyes that seduced without even trying. Would this favor he was asking truly be all business? Did she really want it to be? When he didn’t need her any longer, would she be proud of herself or would she feel cheap and weak and used? Even with this cautionary thought skulking around in her brain, she couldn’t quite convince herself to walk away. There was something in his eyes that held her. “What did you say you needed a wife for?” she asked, struggling to find something, anything, to help her make a logical, intelligent decision.

“A magazine wants to interview me.” Rounding his desk he walked all the way across his office to the opposite wall, paneled in cherry wood. “Being interviewed for a magazine has caused me trouble in the past—with women.” His tone and his profile made his annoyance clear.

“Women?” she echoed. That was an odd reason to… “Oh?” Maybe that was why he’d promised he wouldn’t lay a hand on her!

He had touched a panel and it opened to reveal a closet. In the act of reaching for her coat, he shifted his gaze her way. Those sexy, languid eyelids narrowed significantly. “No, Miss August. Not ‘oh?’”

She shook her head, her eyebrows going up in question. “Not—oh?”

“Absolutely. Not!” He made the assertion slowly and precisely, his features stony. “After the last magazine article, women came out of the woodwork. They surrounded my home. Camped out at my gate. Threw themselves onto my car. Invaded my office. Silly, shallow, avaricious woman who just wanted to marry rich. I don’t care to go through that again. That’s what I meant when I said women had caused me trouble.” His lips dipped in a deeper frown. “Is that clear?”

The picture he painted seemed quite possible, considering how handsome he was, and how wealthy. She nodded. “Crystal.”

“Then you understand why appearing to have a wife would simplify things for me.”

“Yes, I see.” For once today, she finally did see.

“And you don’t find it funny?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I can see how it wouldn’t be.”

For a long moment he watched her, his severe expression unnerving. “Thank you,” he said, at last.

“For what?”

“For not finding it funny.” He shifted his attention to the closet and drew out her coat. Draping it over an arm he walked to her with it. “This article is a good business opportunity for me. Because it is, and because of my past negative experience, it could be a good business opportunity for you, too.” He held up her coat so that she could slip her arms in it. As she did, he murmured into her hair, “So you accept my deal?”

The feel of his warm breath at her nape made her tingle and she shivered with its effect. Pulling her coat around her, she faced him.

For a moment she looked inward, weighing the pros and cons. Did she dare turn down a loan at prime? Over the life of the loan, she’d save well over five-thousand dollars. But pretending to be his wife? Was this right? Was it wrong? Would she regret it if she said no? If she said yes? Was she as serious about wanting to start her own business as she’d told herself she was?

She had a thought and had to ask. “But what about when the article comes out? People will think we’re married.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “It’s The Urban Sophisticate’s ‘Christmas In July’ issue. That’s over a half year away. Plenty of marriages break up before six months. You can tell anyone who asks that we were rash, and it’s over.” His deep-timbered voice was so pleasant to listen to, she found herself hanging on every word. He could have been reciting the coffee shop menu and it would have sounded like poetry spoken in his low, seductive way. “As far as the article goes, together you and I can only do ourselves good—for both our businesses.”

Trisha absorbed his comment. His proposition was outlandish to say the least. But if he felt strongly enough about needing a wife to ask her to help him, then in his opinion she had worth and value. He’d proved that with his fifty-thousand dollar loan offer. Amazing! A wealthy, powerful man wanted her help and was willing to pay very well for it.

She felt strangely empowered. It was a nice feeling, one she’d rarely experienced. Certainly her boss, Ed, had never made her feel worthy of her seven-dollars-an-hour salary.

And besides making her feel better about herself, in less than two weeks, Mr. Dragan would loan her the money to make her dream a reality. How close to a miracle did she need to get before she was willing to reach out and grab it?

Yes, she deserved this chance. What did it matter if it came with a few odd strings attached? Why shouldn’t she accept his proposition? Deciding she’d be crazy not to, she stretched out a hand. “I do, Mr. Dragan,” she said, deliberately mimicking the marriage ceremony’s solemn vow. Any wedding—even a sham wedding—between millionaire venture capitalist Lassiter Q. Dragan and wannabe-doggie-salon-owner Trisha Marie August, demanded a touch of irony.

He took her hand in his, warm, firm and flustering. The wry quirk of his lips told her he detected her mockery. “You’ve made a wise decision,” he said. “I’ll have my chauffeur meet you in the executive lounge. He’ll take you home to pack.”

“Pack?” she asked, too aware that he still held her hand.

“Yes, Miss August,” He released her fingers only to skim his hand along her arm to her elbow. His trailing fingers made her tingle, though he touched nothing more intimate than her coat sleeve. “We’re flying to Las Vegas tonight.”

“We are?”

“For the ruse.” He glanced her way. “Being the quickie marriage capital of the world, spending the weekend there will make an impetuous wedding between us seem more believable.”

“Oh…” She nodded. It made sense.

“You’ll want to buy clothes while we’re there,” he added, guiding her toward the exit.

“Oh—yes…” They hadn’t left his office yet, and her head was already spinning, while he seemed to have everything worked out. She experienced a flash of misgiving as reality started to settle in. “Uh—Mr. Dragan, I’m not quite sure—”

“My chauffeur will drive you to the Dragan hangar at the airport,” he said, cutting her off. She sensed the interruption had been calculated to block her ability to express any qualms. “I’ll meet you by my plane by seven.”

He opened the office door for her, his manner gallant, but preemptory, making it clear that the subject was closed. The die cast. Their handshake binding. “Now if you’ll excuse me?” His lips curved in a polite, half smile that didn’t register in his eyes. “I need to make a phone call.”




CHAPTER FOUR


LASSITER arrived at the Dragan hangar precisely at seven o’clock. Bypassing the covered parking slots at the front of the building, he drove through a ten-foot, chain-link gate, across the snow-cleared tarmac, pulling into the cavernous hangar. His company jet sat outside, ready to taxi to the runway. One of his two pilots, clad in a crisp, black uniform and black-and-gold billed cap, held Miss August’s bag as he aided her up the fold-out steps.

Lassiter’s female passenger wore the same knee-length, black coat and black pumps she’d worn when she left his office. Her handbag swung from a long, thin strap over her shoulder. She wore no hat. Her arms were bent, as though she held something, but he couldn’t see what it was.

Since the sun had set hours ago, the hangar lights were the only illumination. Being high wattage spots, they made her blond hair easy to see. Just past shoulder-length, not too curly and not too straight, it fluttered in the wintry gusts.

Lassiter pulled his suitcase from the passenger seat of his sports car, his gaze remaining on her as she disappeared into the sleek, silver and sky-blue jet. “You should wear your hair down all the time,” he murmured with a reflective half smile, recalling his first glimpse of her that afternoon.

He’d known she was attractive, even wearing that atrocious uniform and bat-wing hat, her hair skinned back in a bun. But when she’d walked into his office, he’d been blown away. The copper doors were the consummate backdrop, a perfect contrast for her trim, emerald blazer and slender, matching skirt.

She’d been breathtaking, a work of art, her clothes bringing out the jewel-green color of her huge, anxious eyes. Even her snowy blouse gave him pause, the way its ruffled collar accentuated her slender, oh so delectable neck. Though the combination of tasteful ruffles and pale skin was cunning in its artistry, Lassiter sensed she had not planned it.

Her hair, free flowing as it was now, had dramatized and underscored the grace and elegance of her bone structure, like a golden frame around a warm and luminous Renoir. Seeing her standing there had been such unadulterated drama, he’d experienced an odd, prickling shock, and almost found himself letting out a low wolf whistle of surprise. He’d stopped himself just in time. What a daft reaction to the mere appearance of a woman. It wasn’t as though he was unaccustomed to beautiful women. Even so, he’d had the most peculiar urge to grab his suit jacket, suddenly regretting meeting her in his shirtsleeves.

That, too, had been an absurd impulse. After all, he’d been about to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. There had been no need to impress her. Even so, for some bizarre reason, he’d opted to wear a suit to Las Vegas tonight, rather than jeans and a turtleneck sweater. He still had trouble figuring out that decision. This was a vacation weekend, not a starched corporate jaunt where he had to play CEO.

“Sir, may I take your bag?”

Lassiter blinked, realizing his chief pilot had approached him. “Thank you, Kent.” He handed over his suitcase. “I gather Miss August is settled in?”

“Yes, sir.”

They walked toward the plane. A few flakes of snow cavorted in the spotlights’ glow. “What does the weather look like?”

“We have a few low clouds, but we’ll be above the weather shortly after takeoff, so I anticipate a smooth flight.”

“Good.”

When they reached the jet, the pilot stepped back to allow Lassiter to climb the four steps into the forward section of the passenger area. He entered just behind a mahogany-paneled bulkhead, the food and drink compartments separating the cockpit from the remainder of the plane.

Since the only other person in the passenger section was Trisha August, Lassiter found her immediately. She no longer wore her coat. Apparently the copilot had taken it upon himself to hang it in the rear closet. And why not? He was a young, attractive man and Miss August was also young and attractive. Though the aviator would know better than to trifle with a woman who, for whatever reason, was a guest of Lassiter’s, he would be anxious to please.

Trisha sat in one of the white, leather bucket seats three-quarters of the way back in the twelve passenger jet, the fifth of six seats on the opposite side of the cabin. Lassiter found that amusing. It was as though she assumed she must sit in “coach.”

“Miss August,” he said, straightening after ducking through the entryway. “You needn’t sit back there. All the seats cost the same.”

She looked up, seeming startled to see him, which was a ridiculous assumption for him to jump to. She knew he would be there. Perhaps she was nervous. That would be understandable. Many people had a fear of flying. He approached her along the narrow aisle between leather seats, elevated on a platform a foot above the walkway. “If you’re afraid to fly, don’t worry. My pilots are very conservative. When the weather isn’t optimal, they won’t fly.”

She smiled, a charming sight. “Oh—I’m not afraid.” It was at that moment Lassiter noticed a white, furry creature, curled in her lap. “I was talking to Perrier. She’s a little fidgety. She’s never been on an airplane.”

Lassiter had difficulty believing his eyes. “You brought a dog?” It came out sounding more like an accusation than he intended.

She stroked the animal’s back. Her smile disappeared, disquiet taking its place. “Yes. I—I hope you don’t mind, but…” She cuddled it to her breast as though fearing he might wrench it from her hands and toss it into a snowbank. “I rescued her from the side of a road when she was a puppy. We’ve never been separated overnight. She’s only eight pounds and very well-behaved. She won’t be any bother.”

Lassiter experienced a surge of aggravation. He’d never been able to understand the strange attachment people had for their pets. It seemed foolishly sentimental to lavish devotion on a dumb animal, but if she had to have the beast, it made little difference to their plan. Eyeing the dog severely, he had a thought. A dog could add a homey touch for the magazine article.

His annoyance ebbed. Now that he saw her pet as an asset, he wanted to ease her concern, and leaned forward to stroke the small, kinky-curly head. “Had you asked to bring the dog, my first reaction would have been negative, but I’ve decided it can be an advantage. Lots of people like dogs. Odds are, some animal lovers out there could be so taken with your mutt, they’ll decide to come to me with business ventures.”

Trisha didn’t speak for a moment, her expression going skeptical. “Oh?” she finally said. “Well, I’m gratified my dog works for you.” Her tone was hard-edged. “Maybe we should rent a couple of children. I’ve heard people like them, too.”

He straightened, taken aback by her sarcasm. “I think a dog is enough.”

He wasn’t accustomed to nervy retorts, especially from subordinates. Of course, this was an unusual case. She wasn’t an employee. For the next ten days, Trisha August would play his wife. Rather than find her insubordination annoying, he found it oddly stimulating. He only hoped he didn’t find her too stimulating. He’d made her a promise about that.

“What did you do about your job?”

She remained sober. “Ed knew I was applying for a loan to start my own business, so he knew I might be leaving at a moment’s notice. His nephew needed a job, so it’s taken care of.”




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