A Bride For The Holidays. Renee Roszel

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.