A Bride For The Holidays. Renee Roszel
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