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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.”
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 reached the double doors and Mr. Hodges opened one. Beyond was a room that finally looked like an office, a cheery one, ornamented with artistic arrangements of lively watercolors. Once again, both side walls were entirely glass.
In 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 I had you see Herman Hodges was because I felt you needed a break. I get feelings about people, Miss August, and I felt you might be a good risk,” he said. “My initial thought was to loan you the twenty-five thousand you want.”
