A Bride For The Holidays. Renee Roszel

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,