A Bride For The Holidays. Renee Roszel

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