you really want something, you should never pass up the chance to go for it!”
Witnessing Mr. Hodges’ crinkled brow as he closed her file and lifted his attention from it, Trisha’s “go for it” determination faltered. She could almost see the “Thank you for your interest” sentence forming on his lips. Working to hold on to her positive outlook, she cleared her throat and sat straighter in the cushy leather chair, opposite Mr. Hodges’ polished oak desk.
“Well, Miss August,” he began, his smile polite but not particularly warm. “I can see that you’ve put a lot of thought and effort into your—uh…” He paused, as though trying to recall what exactly she’d put a lot of thought into.
“Dog Days of August,” she said, grateful her voice didn’t squeak or break altogether.
“Right,” he said, his pasted-on smile of looming rejection all too familiar. “Dog Days of August. A very clever name.”
She held to her pleasant expression, clung to hope, though she felt like she was grasping a rock cliff with nothing but her fingernails between salvation and a plunge into oblivion.
He sat back and folded his hands over her file folder. He looked very successful and authoritative, lounging in his huge, tufted leather executive chair, dressed in an expensive charcoal suit, crisp white shirt and black, olive-green and purple paisley tie. She noticed his fingernails glimmered slightly. Good grief, the man’s nails were professionally manicured. She felt awkward, uncomfortable. Even wearing her very best emerald green, wool suit and in freshly shined black pumps, her nails weren’t as precisely groomed as this middle-aged man’s. Now it was her turn to question why in the world she was here?
“You see, Miss August,” he began, unmistakably going into lecture mode. She bit the inside of her cheek, a reflex reaction to threatening doom. “Dragan Ventures is an international company, our focus is on initiatives that can quickly dominate emerging, high-growth markets, and show a strong potential for delivering a ten to twenty times return on our investment within five to eight years, via an IPO or merger. Our target investment areas are communications infrastructure, business software technologies, semiconductor products, and new industrial technologies. Building on a strong technical and operational foundation, Dragan invests in the areas where we can contribute the highest degree of expertise and value.”
He paused, and Trisha had a scary feeling he expected her to respond. She had hardly understood a word he’d uttered, but she nodded. “I see.” She was fairly sure he suspected she didn’t.
He leaned forward and she wondered if the move was to intimidate, as if he needed to work at it! “To be frank, Miss August, even if we considered yours a good business risk, and even if we invested in—er—dog grooming parlors, our minimum investment is five million dollars. Twenty-five thousand is well under our radar, so to speak.” He refreshed his smile, though it was neither warmer nor friendlier. “Have you tried your local bank?”
A surge of bitter frustration rushed through her, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes at the condescension of his question. And she’d taken a sick day from work for this! “Yes, sir, I have,” she said, amazingly evenly, her white-knuckled hold on her handbag the only outlet she allowed herself for her emotional upset.
He lifted her file and leaned across the desk, offering it to her. “Thank you for your interest in Dragan Venture Capital, Miss August, however, as I hope I made clear, we really aren’t in the business of—”
“Yes, well,” she said, cutting off the horrible rejection cliché she’d already heard too many times. “I—I didn’t think you were involved in ventures like mine, but when Mr. Gent suggested I see you, I thought—well, I hoped—he—”
“Mr. Who?”
Trisha took hold of her file, but when she tried to pull it from his fingers, she felt resistance and was confused. “Excuse me?”
“Who did you say suggested that you see me?”
For the first time since Trisha set foot inside Mr. Hodges’ expensively appointed office his eyes held a sentiment besides cool indifference. He actually seemed interested. Since he was strangely reluctant to release her file, she let go. “Mr. Gent,” she repeated.
He eyed her suspiciously, unmoving. She wondered what was going through his mind. Whatever his thoughts, they weren’t cheerful. She didn’t enjoy feeling like a bug about to be squashed and decided to try and explain. “I—I assumed Mr. Gent was a client of yours. He acted as though you might want to help me.”
Mr. Hodges eyes narrowed. “Are you saying this man’s name is Mr. Gent?”
Trisha didn’t know what she’d said to make Mr. Hodges so agitated. Who was this Mr. Gent, anyway? Had he defrauded Dragan Venture Capital, or defaulted on a loan? Was he some kind of con artist?
A thought struck like a two-by-four, shaking her to her core. Heavens above! Had Mr. Gent’s suggestion that she go to Dragan Ventures been a cruel payback for staining his coat? Was he out there somewhere laughing his head off? Did a conniving sadist lurk beneath that handsome face? Well, why not? What was the cliché? “You can’t tell a book by its cover.” Clichés were born from long-standing, proven truths.
Sick to her stomach, and wanting to clear up this awful mess and get out as quickly as possible, she opened her square, black handbag and pulled out the napkin. “He didn’t tell me his name. He wrote it down, though. I—I’ll show you.” Her heart sank further just looking at the coffee spattered thing. How could she have been so gullible to believe such an obvious prank? She felt ridiculous handing him the piece of absorbent paper, and couldn’t quite meet his narrowed gaze.
He took the limp, wrinkled napkin from her fingers and frowned at it.
The quiet was so ominous, Trisha had to fill it with either a scream or a defense. Working at remaining at least outwardly composed, she opted for the defense. “You see, a man—a customer at the coffee shop where I work—asked me about my doggie boutique idea. He acted like he thought it had potential, wrote your name on this napkin and told me to come see you. Naturally, I should have realized it was too good to—”
“Would you excuse me for a moment, Miss August?”
Trisha was caught with her mouth open, startled by his troubled tone and the suddenness of his rise from his chair. She didn’t think such a beefy man could move that quickly. “Why—uh—certainly…” Her sentence died away as the man dashed out a side door. She stared after him, her unease becoming unreasoning fear. What was the matter? Who was this Mr. Gent, anyway? One of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted? Did Mr. Hodges think she was an accomplice in some kind of fraud?
She sat forward, tense, the urge to escape roaring like a lion in her brain. She quickly rejected the notion. That friendly security man who had escorted her to the Dragan headquarters was no doubt one of many security men who would track her attempted escape on a zillion security cameras and nab her before she made it to the main floor.
She felt lightheaded and realized she was hyperventilating. “Breathe deeply, slowly, you ninny!” she muttered. “Don’t lose your nerve!” Angry with herself for letting her imagination run amok, she sat back, tried to relax. “Be logical,” she told herself in a low, even whisper. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Mr. Dragan?”
Lassiter didn’t look up from his paperwork
