A Bride For The Holidays

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. I thought she was one of the innumerable square pegs we have to fend off.” He blew out a breath. “And it’s Friday afternoon—I’m tired.” He ran his hands over his scalp, looking miserable. “I feel like a jerk.”

“You did your job. You 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.”