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 I know in this day and age that sounds outdated, but—”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.
