A Bride For The Holidays. Renee Roszel

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