Читать книгу A Bride For The Holidays - Renee Roszel - Страница 10

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.”