A Bride For The Holidays. Renee Roszel

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ