A Bride For The Holidays. Renee Roszel

      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.