A Bride For The Holidays

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Her heart soared. She smiled and opened her mouth to begin an effusive thank you, along with a thousand reassurances that he wouldn’t be sorry for putting his faith in her. But before she could speak, he held up a halting hand.

“However, something’s come up that has made me rethink my original idea. Something that I feel could benefit us both.” He paused, his nostrils flared, and his jaw muscles flexed. It seemed as though he was having trouble stating his proposal.

“Tell me, Mr. Dragan.” She was almost sick with excitement. She’d come here expecting accusations, a reprimand at the least. Now, suddenly, a rich and powerful venture capitalist was actually talking about loaning her money. It didn’t seem possible. But she wasn’t dreaming. She bit the inside of her cheek and it hurt, so she knew she was really here. “I—I can make a success of Dog Days of August. All I need is the chance.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” He relaxed back in his big, executive chair. “That’s why I’m prepared to offer you not only the bare-bones twenty-five thousand you need, but an additional twenty-five thousand, to upgrade the operation—and at the prime interest rate.”

Trisha sat stunned. She wanted to scream with joy, but a tiny fragment of her mind sensed his offer was a smoke screen to obscure some hidden agenda. She didn’t want to believe that, but no matter how she tried to shake off the feeling, it nagged. “I—I’m…” She swallowed to steady her voice. “I’m flattered, Mr. Dragan,” she said. “But, why? Why would you do such a generous thing for me, when nobody else would give me the time of day?”

She recalled Mr. Hodges’ initial reaction to her business plan, and cruel doubt clutched at her heart. “Just now, downstairs, I was being rushed out the door until Mr. Hodges saw that napkin. And you haven’t even looked at my business plan.” She frowned, her initial excitement fading fast. “I hate to slit my own throat, but considering you’re supposed to be a shrewd money man, this doesn’t seem like a smart way to do business.”

“The situation is unusual, Miss August.” His lips curved in a half smile that made her heart flutter and her nerves buzz ominously. “I have a small problem.” He paused for a moment. The silence in the room was heavy, almost too much for Trisha’s strained nerves to endure. “It’s very simple,” he said. “You help me and I’ll help you.”

“Help you how?” She feared whatever he asked her to do—for fifty-thousand dollars—wouldn’t be easy. But hadn’t she sworn she would do anything for a loan? Hadn’t she sworn it out loud? And within earshot of this very man? She felt her face heat. What on earth was he thinking? “I won’t do anything illegal!”

“I wouldn’t ask you to, Miss August,” he said. “It’s perfectly legitimate. All I need from you is a little ‘sweat equity,’ beginning this weekend and ending New Year’s Day.”

The words “sweat equity” stuck in her mind. What did he mean by “sweat equity?” The only picture that flared in her mind was obscenely risqué—silk sheets, naked bodies, limbs entwined in passion.

Mr. Hodges’ warning came back to her and she felt mortified. Had he known Mr. Dragan’s intentions? With a half groan, half growl, she vaulted up. “I’ve never been so insulted! Offering me money for—for…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, Mr. Dragan.” Her tone was as irate as her glare. “I won’t do anything illegal or—or…” She rang her hands, hesitating. “I was going to say immoral. I know in this day and age that sounds outdated, but—”

“Yes, it does,” he said, then pursed his lips suspiciously. Was he laughing at her?

“So, you admit it!” she cried. Moving away from her chair, she took a step backward, bent on a swift escape.

“Miss August.” He rose to his feet, as though he might attempt to physically bar her exit. “You misunderstand. I don’t intend to lay a hand on you.”

She had whirled away and taken several steps toward the exit, but his response made her stop and peer at him over her shoulder. “No?”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on his desk. “No.” He shook his head.

She saw the truth in his serious features and turned around, wayward curiosity and her desperation for a loan getting the better of her. “Then what sort of—sweat equity are you talking about that would make you require my—er—me—over the holidays?”

“I need a wife.”

Her jaw dropped. She’d half expected him to say he needed someone to paint the entire outside of the Dragan building, or to leap out of an airplane with an experimental parachute made of pasta. Something dangerous and foolhardy. But she never expected him to suggest anything as dangerous and foolhardy as, “I need a wife!” Her alarmed expression must have been hilarious, because he flashed that troubling, sardonic grin. “I repeat, Miss August. Not that kind of sweat equity. Your quaint notion of immorality aside, paying a woman for sex falls under the heading of ‘illegal.’ Our relationship would be entirely legal, and purely business.”

She stared, tongue-tied.

Apparently laboring under the delusion that she had any intention of agreeing, he went on, “You would receive an appropriate wardrobe, spend a luxurious vacation at my estate, pretending to be my bride for a magazine article. Then, after the new year, you collect fifty-thousand dollars. At prime.” He paused, watching her. When she didn’t respond, he straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. “Nobody loans money at the prime rate, Miss August. Only Santa Claus, himself, might make you a better offer, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.” With the ill-omened lift of an eyebrow, he added, “You would be insane to say no.”

Her incredulity at his arrogance and audacity surged and overflowed. “Then I’m definitely insane.” She straightened her shoulders. “And proud to be!” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed pages from her folder scattered over the floor, and had a split-second urge to stoop down and gather them. But almost immediately she decided against it. If there had ever been a time she needed to march regally away from any man and any proposition, this was that time! With a stiff arm, she indicated her spilled business plan. “Have your secretary mail my prospectus to me, Mr. Dragan! Goodbye!”

“I hope, in ten years, when you’re still serving coffee, you don’t look back and regret this decision.”

She already regretted it, recalling her frantic vow. “I’ll do anything to get this loan! Anything!” Halfway to the door, she found her firm resolve faltering. She slowed, then stopped. A voice in her head shouted, “What’s so offensive about pretending to be a gorgeous, wealthy man’s wife? Not to mention getting a free wardrobe of beautiful clothes and a vacation at a palatial estate—and finally, fifty-thousand dollars to finance your dream! If you say no to this you really are insane!”

Reluctantly, half ashamed of herself for caving in, she faced him. Her cheeks burned, so she must be blushing furiously. To salve her pride, she set her features defiantly. “Absolutely no hanky-panky!”

He shook his head. “I promise.”

“But why me? Surely you have girlfriends who’d do you this favor—and without the no-hanky-panky rule.”

“I prefer to keep relationships on a quid pro quo basis.” He indicated her with a casual wave. “You want something from me and I want something from you. Quid pro quo.”

She scoffed, “That’s very romantic.”

He eyed her levelly. “I don’t mean it to be, Miss August.”

He certainly sounded like he meant what he said. But she’d met a lot of men who’d said things they didn’t mean, made promises they broke with shameful ease. Lassiter Dragan was an extraordinarily sexy man, with bedroom eyes that seduced without even trying. Would this favor he was asking truly be all business? Did she really want it to be? When he didn’t need her any longer, would she be proud of herself or would she feel cheap and weak and used? Even with this cautionary thought skulking around in her brain, she couldn’t quite convince herself to walk away. There was something in his eyes that held her. “What did you say you needed a wife for?” she asked, struggling to find something, anything, to help her make a logical, intelligent decision.

“A magazine wants to interview me.” Rounding his desk he walked all the way across his office to the opposite wall, paneled in cherry wood. “Being interviewed for a magazine has caused me trouble in the past—with women.” His tone and his profile made his annoyance clear.

“Women?” she echoed. That was an odd reason to… “Oh?” Maybe that was why he’d promised he wouldn’t lay a hand on her!

He had touched a panel and it opened to reveal a closet. In the act of reaching for her coat, he shifted his gaze her way. Those sexy, languid eyelids narrowed significantly. “No, Miss August. Not ‘oh?’”

She shook her head, her eyebrows going up in question. “Not—oh?”

“Absolutely. Not!” He made the assertion slowly and precisely, his features stony. “After the last magazine article, women came out of the woodwork. They surrounded my home. Camped out at my gate. Threw themselves onto my car. Invaded my office. Silly, shallow, avaricious woman who just wanted to marry rich. I don’t care to go through that again. That’s what I meant when I said women had caused me trouble.” His lips dipped in a deeper frown. “Is that clear?”

The picture he painted seemed quite possible, considering how handsome he was, and how wealthy. She nodded. “Crystal.”

“Then you understand why appearing to have a wife would simplify things for me.”

“Yes, I see.” For once today, she finally did see.

“And you don’t find it funny?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I can see how it wouldn’t be.”

For a long moment he watched her, his severe expression unnerving. “Thank you,” he said, at last.

“For what?”

“For not finding it funny.” He shifted his attention to the closet and drew out her coat. Draping it over an arm he walked to her with it. “This article is a good business opportunity for me. Because it is, and because of my past negative experience, it could be a good business opportunity for you, too.” He held up her coat so that she could slip her arms in it. As she did, he murmured into her hair, “So you accept my deal?”

The feel of his warm breath at her nape made her tingle and she shivered with its effect. Pulling her coat around her, she faced him.

For a moment she looked inward, weighing the pros and cons. Did she dare turn down a loan at prime? Over the life of the loan, she’d save well over five-thousand dollars. But pretending to be his wife? Was this right? Was it wrong? Would she regret it if she said no? If she said yes? Was she as serious about wanting to start her own business as she’d told herself she was?

She had a thought and had to ask. “But what about when the article comes out? People will think we’re married.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “It’s The Urban Sophisticate’s ‘Christmas In July’ issue. That’s over a half year away. Plenty of marriages break up before six months. You can tell anyone who asks that we were rash, and it’s over.” His deep-timbered voice was so pleasant to listen to, she found herself hanging on every word. He could have been reciting the coffee shop menu and it would have sounded like poetry spoken in his low, seductive way. “As far as the article goes, together you and I can only do ourselves good—for both our businesses.”

Trisha absorbed his comment. His proposition was outlandish to say the least. But if he felt strongly enough about needing a wife to ask her to help him, then in his opinion she had worth and value. He’d proved that with his fifty-thousand dollar loan offer. Amazing! A wealthy, powerful man wanted her help and was willing to pay very well for it.

She felt strangely empowered. It was a nice feeling, one she’d rarely experienced. Certainly her boss, Ed, had never made her feel worthy of her seven-dollars-an-hour salary.

And besides making her feel better about herself, in less than two weeks, Mr. Dragan would loan her the money to make her dream a reality. How close to a miracle did she need to get before she was willing to reach out and grab it?

Yes, she deserved this chance. What did it matter if it came with a few odd strings attached? Why shouldn’t she accept his proposition? Deciding she’d be crazy not to, she stretched out a hand. “I do, Mr. Dragan,” she said, deliberately mimicking the marriage ceremony’s solemn vow. Any wedding—even a sham wedding—between millionaire venture capitalist Lassiter Q. Dragan and wannabe-doggie-salon-owner Trisha Marie August, demanded a touch of irony.

He took her hand in his, warm, firm and flustering. The wry quirk of his lips told her he detected her mockery. “You’ve made a wise decision,” he said. “I’ll have my chauffeur meet you in the executive lounge. He’ll take you home to pack.”

“Pack?” she asked, too aware that he still held her hand.

“Yes, Miss August,” He released her fingers only to skim his hand along her arm to her elbow. His trailing fingers made her tingle, though he touched nothing more intimate than her coat sleeve. “We’re flying to Las Vegas tonight.”

“We are?”

“For the ruse.” He glanced her way. “Being the quickie marriage capital of the world, spending the weekend there will make an impetuous wedding between us seem more believable.”

“Oh…” She nodded. It made sense.

“You’ll want to buy clothes while we’re there,” he added, guiding her toward the exit.

“Oh—yes…” They hadn’t left his office yet, and her head was already spinning, while he seemed to have everything worked out. She experienced a flash of misgiving as reality started to settle in. “Uh—Mr. Dragan, I’m not quite sure—”

“My chauffeur will drive you to the Dragan hangar at the airport,” he said, cutting her off. She sensed the interruption had been calculated to block her ability to express any qualms. “I’ll meet you by my plane by seven.”

He opened the office door for her, his manner gallant, but preemptory, making it clear that the subject was closed. The die cast. Their handshake binding. “Now if you’ll excuse me?” His lips curved in a polite, half smile that didn’t register in his eyes. “I need to make a phone call.”

CHAPTER FOUR

LASSITER arrived at the Dragan hangar precisely at seven o’clock. Bypassing the covered parking slots at the front of the building, he drove through a ten-foot, chain-link gate, across the snow-cleared tarmac, pulling into the cavernous hangar. His company jet sat outside, ready to taxi to the runway. One of his two pilots, clad in a crisp, black uniform and black-and-gold billed cap, held Miss August’s bag as he aided her up the fold-out steps.

Lassiter’s female passenger wore the same knee-length, black coat and black pumps she’d worn when she left his office. Her handbag swung from a long, thin strap over her shoulder. She wore no hat. Her arms were bent, as though she held something, but he couldn’t see what it was.

Since the sun had set hours ago, the hangar lights were the only illumination. Being high wattage spots, they made her blond hair easy to see. Just past shoulder-length, not too curly and not too straight, it fluttered in the wintry gusts.

Lassiter pulled his suitcase from the passenger seat of his sports car, his gaze remaining on her as she disappeared into the sleek, silver and sky-blue jet. “You should wear your hair down all the time,” he murmured with a reflective half smile, recalling his first glimpse of her that afternoon.

He’d known she was attractive, even wearing that atrocious uniform and bat-wing hat, her hair skinned back in a bun. But when she’d walked into his office, he’d been blown away. The copper doors were the consummate backdrop, a perfect contrast for her trim, emerald blazer and slender, matching skirt.

She’d been breathtaking, a work of art, her clothes bringing out the jewel-green color of her huge, anxious eyes. Even her snowy blouse gave him pause, the way its ruffled collar accentuated her slender, oh so delectable neck. Though the combination of tasteful ruffles and pale skin was cunning in its artistry, Lassiter sensed she had not planned it.

Her hair, free flowing as it was now, had dramatized and underscored the grace and elegance of her bone structure, like a golden frame around a warm and luminous Renoir. Seeing her standing there had been such unadulterated drama, he’d experienced an odd, prickling shock, and almost found himself letting out a low wolf whistle of surprise. He’d stopped himself just in time. What a daft reaction to the mere appearance of a woman. It wasn’t as though he was unaccustomed to beautiful women. Even so, he’d had the most peculiar urge to grab his suit jacket, suddenly regretting meeting her in his shirtsleeves.

That, too, had been an absurd impulse. After all, he’d been about to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. There had been no need to impress her. Even so, for some bizarre reason, he’d opted to wear a suit to Las Vegas tonight, rather than jeans and a turtleneck sweater. He still had trouble figuring out that decision. This was a vacation weekend, not a starched corporate jaunt where he had to play CEO.

“Sir, may I take your bag?”

Lassiter blinked, realizing his chief pilot had approached him. “Thank you, Kent.” He handed over his suitcase. “I gather Miss August is settled in?”

“Yes, sir.”

They walked toward the plane. A few flakes of snow cavorted in the spotlights’ glow. “What does the weather look like?”

“We have a few low clouds, but we’ll be above the weather shortly after takeoff, so I anticipate a smooth flight.”

“Good.”

When they reached the jet, the pilot stepped back to allow Lassiter to climb the four steps into the forward section of the passenger area. He entered just behind a mahogany-paneled bulkhead, the food and drink compartments separating the cockpit from the remainder of the plane.

Since the only other person in the passenger section was Trisha August, Lassiter found her immediately. She no longer wore her coat. Apparently the copilot had taken it upon himself to hang it in the rear closet. And why not? He was a young, attractive man and Miss August was also young and attractive. Though the aviator would know better than to trifle with a woman who, for whatever reason, was a guest of Lassiter’s, he would be anxious to please.

Trisha sat in one of the white, leather bucket seats three-quarters of the way back in the twelve passenger jet, the fifth of six seats on the opposite side of the cabin. Lassiter found that amusing. It was as though she assumed she must sit in “coach.”

“Miss August,” he said, straightening after ducking through the entryway. “You needn’t sit back there. All the seats cost the same.”

She looked up, seeming startled to see him, which was a ridiculous assumption for him to jump to. She knew he would be there. Perhaps she was nervous. That would be understandable. Many people had a fear of flying. He approached her along the narrow aisle between leather seats, elevated on a platform a foot above the walkway. “If you’re afraid to fly, don’t worry. My pilots are very conservative. When the weather isn’t optimal, they won’t fly.”

She smiled, a charming sight. “Oh—I’m not afraid.” It was at that moment Lassiter noticed a white, furry creature, curled in her lap. “I was talking to Perrier. She’s a little fidgety. She’s never been on an airplane.”

Lassiter had difficulty believing his eyes. “You brought a dog?” It came out sounding more like an accusation than he intended.

She stroked the animal’s back. Her smile disappeared, disquiet taking its place. “Yes. I—I hope you don’t mind, but…” She cuddled it to her breast as though fearing he might wrench it from her hands and toss it into a snowbank. “I rescued her from the side of a road when she was a puppy. We’ve never been separated overnight. She’s only eight pounds and very well-behaved. She won’t be any bother.”

Lassiter experienced a surge of aggravation. He’d never been able to understand the strange attachment people had for their pets. It seemed foolishly sentimental to lavish devotion on a dumb animal, but if she had to have the beast, it made little difference to their plan. Eyeing the dog severely, he had a thought. A dog could add a homey touch for the magazine article.

His annoyance ebbed. Now that he saw her pet as an asset, he wanted to ease her concern, and leaned forward to stroke the small, kinky-curly head. “Had you asked to bring the dog, my first reaction would have been negative, but I’ve decided it can be an advantage. Lots of people like dogs. Odds are, some animal lovers out there could be so taken with your mutt, they’ll decide to come to me with business ventures.”

Trisha didn’t speak for a moment, her expression going skeptical. “Oh?” she finally said. “Well, I’m gratified my dog works for you.” Her tone was hard-edged. “Maybe we should rent a couple of children. I’ve heard people like them, too.”

He straightened, taken aback by her sarcasm. “I think a dog is enough.”

He wasn’t accustomed to nervy retorts, especially from subordinates. Of course, this was an unusual case. She wasn’t an employee. For the next ten days, Trisha August would play his wife. Rather than find her insubordination annoying, he found it oddly stimulating. He only hoped he didn’t find her too stimulating. He’d made her a promise about that.

“What did you do about your job?”

She remained sober. “Ed knew I was applying for a loan to start my own business, so he knew I might be leaving at a moment’s notice. His nephew needed a job, so it’s taken care of.”