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He took a sip of coffee, then seemed to savor it. “Not bad,” he said. “I think it does have coffee in it.”
Trisha was amazed that she was once again smiling. After all that had happened, she could only call it a miracle—or an act of a person who’d gone completely insane with disgrace and defeat. Looking at his chiseled features, those seductive, silvery eyes, and most especially that lopsided, casual quirk of his lips, she decided she had to go with “miracle.” She’d never met a man before, who could shift his lips slightly, the way this stranger did, and sire an actual smile. Especially on her lips, that only moments ago she’d thought incapable of waywardness.
“Now, tell me about that business,” he said.
She was startled by the suggestion. She’d assumed he’d asked to be polite. She couldn’t imagine he truly cared. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to bore you,” she said.
He took another sip of coffee. “If you really want something, you should never pass up a chance to go after it.”
He had a point. So what if she caused a stranger a little boredom compared to a shot at getting her life’s dream?
“Go on, tell him,” Amber Grace urged, her voice the rapt singsong of the hypnotized.
They both glanced at the loafing teenager, an outrageous riot of quarreling colors. Amber Grace was a sight to behold in a lemon yellow polo shirt, aqua trousers, topped by a ridiculous aqua cap, reminiscent of something a nineteen-fifties nurse might have worn. Her short, shaggy catsup-red hair was the consistency of straw, and her two golden nose rings gleamed under the glare of the lights. Amber Grace was the poster child for parental suffering, not to mention a Day Manager’s nightmare.
The horrible uniform colors weren’t Amber Grace’s fault, though. They were Ed’s. The ultra-frugal coffee shop owner had bought them on the Internet. Trisha suspected it had been during a “we can’t get rid of these terrible uniforms” sale. But Ed was not only frugal, he was shrewd. He got his money back, probably made money, since he required his employees to buy their uniforms from him.
Except for the catsup-colored hair and the nose rings, Trisha knew she looked every bit as bad as Amber Grace. Who on earth looked good in yellow and aqua under stark fluorescent lights?
The ugliness of the uniforms hadn’t really hit home until—well, until just this minute, when she realized how tacky she must look to this obviously discerning stranger, whose attire was so classic and tastefully elegant. And coffee stained, a nagging imp in her brain insisted on needling.
Trying not to dwell on things that couldn’t be helped, Trisha plucked up the abandoned roll of paper towels and tore off a bunch. The man wanted to hear about her business, so she would be wise to get focused where she might do herself some good. “Well…” As she began to sop up spilled coffee, she chanced a peek at him to gauge his expression. His eyes were not glazed over, which was more than she could say for Amber Grace’s.
“What I have in mind is a doggie boutique,” she began, “where people can come to self-groom their pets—use my equipment, tubs, clippers et cetera, to bathe and spruce them up, for a highly reduced price from what a professional groomer would charge. And they’d leave the clipped hair, dirty bath water, splashed floor, in other words—the mess—behind.”
Trisha had made her spiel a million times in the past five months, so she could tell it without thinking, which was lucky, since there was something about this man that made her thinking processes go fuzzy. “I’ve seen similar places. One in Wichita and one in Olathe. Both were doing business hand-over-fist. The customers love it. I know my shop would be a success here in Kansas City. I’ve found a vacant store in a strip center that’s for rent. With a twenty-five thousand dollar loan and a lot of elbow grease I can fix it up really nice. I even have a great name for it— ‘Dog Days of August.’
“Interesting name,” he said, drawing her gaze in time to see a quizzical lift of his brow.
“It’s really a great play on words because that’s my name,” she explained, returning her focus to her scrubbing. His eyes were hard to look into and think about anything but how sexy they were. She cleared her throat. “August. Trisha August.” She sighed long and low, expelling some of the frustration that had built up over months of rejections. “The only trouble is, I can’t get financing. I’ve worked lots of jobs over the years, at several grooming places, too, so I know all about them. The last one I worked at closed when the owner retired, so I had to take this job.”
She tossed the wet clump of towels in the trash and faced him, her expression as serious as her determination. “I’ve saved every cent I can, and I don’t mind working long, hard hours to make my dream come true,” she said. “But all the banks and loan companies give me the same speech—tired platitudes about how small businesses are very chancy, with so many failing in the first year. How banks can’t operate without strict rules. About the importance of collateral and how I’m young, have no assets, little previous business experience and on and on and on,” she cried. “Banks don’t care how hard I’d work. They only care that I’m young and poor!” Her anger surged. “I’m not that young! I’m twenty-eight. I’ve been making it on my own since I was eighteen! And if I weren’t poor I wouldn’t need a loan!”
She slapped the flats of her hands to the countertop and leaned forward, feeling spent and worn down. “That call you heard was my last hope.”
A shape moved in the corner of her eye and she shifted her attention to the shop’s door. A man in a navy uniform of some kind had entered. He wore a navy, airline pilot style hat, though there was no gold braid on it. Snow sparkled on his dark clothes. In a military-like fashion he removed his cap and clasped it under one arm to stand at attention. He was nice looking, in his mid-twenties and muscular. Trisha noticed he also had on matching navy leather gloves and boots. “Sir,” he said, “The flat has been repaired. If you’re ready?”
The handsome customer who’d been listening to her business plan, shifted toward the newcomer and nodded. “Thank you, Jeffery. I’ll be right out.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Outside Ed’s plate glass window, Trisha noticed snow highlighted in the amber glow of a streetlamp. It was barely four-thirty and already dark. The rhythm and choreography of the snowfall had not changed all afternoon. There had to be a foot on the ground by now. Though it was only December eighteenth, with all the cold and snow they’d had this month, Kansas City had a real chance of having a white Christmas this year.
The man in navy departed with military bearing, leaving in his wake a dusting of quickly melting snow. Before Trisha could offer the handsome customer her abject apologies one last time, he picked up a napkin off a small stack that hadn’t been used to sop coffee, leaned down and began to jot something on the back of it. “Your idea sounds solid, Miss August,” he said, his golden pen flashing in the florescence as he wrote. “Make an appointment with this man. His office is in the Dragan building. Tell him what you told me.” He straightened and handed her the napkin. “I think he’ll help you.”
Trisha accepted the napkin, confused. “The Dragan building?” she echoed.
He nodded, depositing his pen in an inside coat pocket. “Tell him Gent sent you.”
“Gent—okay.” She didn’t know there were any banks or loan companies in the Dragan building. “What floor? What’s the company’s name?” She was surprised at her voice. She sounded a little panicky. She knew he was leaving, and she didn’t want him to go. She didn’t like the idea of never looking into those unusual eyes, ever again.
“Security will direct you,” he said, turning away.
Bewildered, she stared down at the napkin. What had he said? Something about security directing her somewhere? Yeah, she’d just bet—right back out onto the street. She felt agitated, conflicted. She thought she believed him. She wanted to, but she wasn’t sure she could. “Are you serious, Mr. Gent?” she asked.
When she got no answer, she pulled her gaze from the napkin. The stranger was gone—as quickly and as silently as he’d come. She dropped her attention back to the napkin, hoping against hope it was true. In bold script the man in cashmere had written “Herman Hodges, Dragan VC.” Then he’d apparently signed it, since the only other word scrawled on the page looked like “Gent.”
She wondered if this coffee-spotted paper napkin could actually hold the key to her dream. “Wow,” she whispered, experiencing a flicker of hope. To think that this flimsy scrap of paper might be her passport to success was too astonishing to completely penetrate.
“Huh?”
Amber Grace stirred, belatedly coming out of her trance.
“Nothing.” Trisha slowly shook her head, afraid to hope but unable to help herself. Gingerly folding the napkin, she slipped it in her trouser pocket. Even if it came to nothing, she had to try.
Like Mr. Gent said, “If you really want something, you should never pass up the chance to go for it!”
CHAPTER TWO
TRISHA sat stiffly in Herman Hodges’ office, on the fiftieth floor of the Dragan building. Perched on the edge of her chair, she tried to hide her nervous anxiety, but she wanted desperately to go to the window and look at the snow fluttering down on the brick, glass and steel cityscape. Watching snow falling calmed her, and if she ever needed calming, she needed it now. Her fingers clamped around her handbag, she gamely faced the sixtyish, bald and portly, upper-management type as he leafed through her thin business file.
The folder contained her meticulously worked out doggie boutique plans. Her meager financial statement was also in that folder. It included one savings account that contained two thousand, three-hundred and ninety one dollars and eighty-seven cents, every penny she’d saved for the past decade. With no other assets, not even a car, Trisha wasn’t encouraged by the expression on his face. Clearly he was wondering why in the world she was even there.
When Mr. Gent had suggested she meet with Mr. Hodges, he’d told her the man was in the Dragan building, but she’d never suspected he was associated with Dragan Venture Capital Inc. She’d heard of the firm, but she never imagined they would deal in such paltry sums as the twenty-five thousand she wanted to borrow, though it was far from paltry to her.
She’d assumed Dragan Venture Capital dealt with high rollers who borrowed millions. Nonetheless, even as the nice security person had escorted her to the plush, fiftieth floor headquarters of Dragan Venture Capital, she refused to panic and run. The handsome stranger’s words kept ringing in her head like a rallying cry.
“If you really want something, you should never pass up the chance to go for it!”
Witnessing Mr. Hodges’ crinkled brow as he closed her file and lifted his attention from it, Trisha’s “go for it” determination faltered. She could almost see the “Thank you for your interest” sentence forming on his lips. Working to hold on to her positive outlook, she cleared her throat and sat straighter in the cushy leather chair, opposite Mr. Hodges’ polished oak desk.
“Well, Miss August,” he began, his smile polite but not particularly warm. “I can see that you’ve put a lot of thought and effort into your—uh…” He paused, as though trying to recall what exactly she’d put a lot of thought into.
“Dog Days of August,” she said, grateful her voice didn’t squeak or break altogether.
“Right,” he said, his pasted-on smile of looming rejection all too familiar. “Dog Days of August. A very clever name.”
She held to her pleasant expression, clung to hope, though she felt like she was grasping a rock cliff with nothing but her fingernails between salvation and a plunge into oblivion.
He sat back and folded his hands over her file folder. He looked very successful and authoritative, lounging in his huge, tufted leather executive chair, dressed in an expensive charcoal suit, crisp white shirt and black, olive-green and purple paisley tie. She noticed his fingernails glimmered slightly. Good grief, the man’s nails were professionally manicured. She felt awkward, uncomfortable. Even wearing her very best emerald green, wool suit and in freshly shined black pumps, her nails weren’t as precisely groomed as this middle-aged man’s. Now it was her turn to question why in the world she was here?
“You see, Miss August,” he began, unmistakably going into lecture mode. She bit the inside of her cheek, a reflex reaction to threatening doom. “Dragan Ventures is an international company, our focus is on initiatives that can quickly dominate emerging, high-growth markets, and show a strong potential for delivering a ten to twenty times return on our investment within five to eight years, via an IPO or merger. Our target investment areas are communications infrastructure, business software technologies, semiconductor products, and new industrial technologies. Building on a strong technical and operational foundation, Dragan invests in the areas where we can contribute the highest degree of expertise and value.”
He paused, and Trisha had a scary feeling he expected her to respond. She had hardly understood a word he’d uttered, but she nodded. “I see.” She was fairly sure he suspected she didn’t.
He leaned forward and she wondered if the move was to intimidate, as if he needed to work at it! “To be frank, Miss August, even if we considered yours a good business risk, and even if we invested in—er—dog grooming parlors, our minimum investment is five million dollars. Twenty-five thousand is well under our radar, so to speak.” He refreshed his smile, though it was neither warmer nor friendlier. “Have you tried your local bank?”
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. “You’re quite right to be sardonic. Wealth has many perks. As for handsome, it’s in the eye of the beholder. Unfortunately as far as I could tell, these women didn’t care if I looked like a stubby wombat.”
“A stubby wombat?” Jessica Lubek cut in, still sounding like she 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.
