the chair. “What are you thinking? Didn’t you say, yourself, she doesn’t need a lover?”
Unaccustomed to being challenged by employees, no matter how well-meaning, Lassiter couldn’t mask his impatience. “Neither do I,” he growled.
CHAPTER THREE
TRISHA found herself being guided out of Herman Hodges’ office through the plush reception area of Dragan Ventures. Wearing shoes on the cushy, beige carpeting seemed like a sin.
Mr. Hodges carried her folder and had draped her overcoat across one arm. He held her elbow in a gentlemanly way, his attitude much warmer and friendlier than when he’d rushed out of his office twenty minutes ago. He lead her into the entry hall, with walls and floors of polished green marble, to a bank of elevators in an alcove. A window wall exhibited a snow-covered panorama of downtown Kansas City, glass and steel skyscrapers, blurred behind an undulating veil of white.
“It looks like the snow is letting up,” Mr. Hodges said, drawing her from her nervous thoughts.
“Yes,” she said, not knowing quite how to react to the man’s one hundred and eighty degree reversal in attitude. He was smiling so she smiled back, though her effort was halfhearted. “Um—Mr. Hodges,” she asked. “Where did you say we were going?” She wanted to make absolutely sure she hadn’t misunderstood when he’d told her before. The shock had been so great, she hadn’t been able to ask him to repeat himself until this minute.
He pressed the elevator “up” button. “To Mr. Dragan’s office.”
She heard him say the same words he’d said before, but they still didn’t make sense. Why would he take her to Mr. Dragan’s office? “Oh?” He seemed too friendly to be about to accuse her of anything. Still, she worried about Mr. Gent. She hadn’t imagined Herman Hodges’ distress at the mention of his name. He’d been frantic. What had happened in the past twenty minutes to change his attitude? “May I ask why we’re going there?”
The elevator door opened and Mr. Hodges urged her inside a mirrored enclosure. She couldn’t miss the fleeting frown that crossed his face. He obviously wasn’t happy about his errand.
Oh dear, she cried inwardly, it has something to do with Mr. Gent! She felt it all the way to her toes! That darn napkin! If I hadn’t dragged that out, I’d be on the bus by now, safely out of the Dragan building on my way home.
“Mr. Dragan wants to—speak with you,” Herman Hodges said. Trisha watched his face in the mirrored interior. He looked a little guilty, reluctant, like a man leading a lamb to slaughter.
“I see.” She clenched the thin shoulder strap of her handbag. She didn’t really see at all. Once again, the idea of running crossed her mind. But that would be cowardly. Besides, how many times did she have to remind herself that she’d done absolutely nothing wrong?
She shifted her gaze to the flash of the floor indicator. The indicator flashed “fifty-one,” then “fifty-two,” where it stopped. The ride had been short. Too short. When the door whooshed open, Mr. Hodges guided Trisha out into a dramatic marble foyer with a twenty-foot ceiling. Across from the elevator alcove a pair of huge copper doors stood open, revealing a large room beyond. Was it Mr. Dragan’s office? The lump of fear in Trisha’s throat prevented her from asking.
Mr. Hodges took her arm, guiding her through the double doors. The room they entered had very high ceilings. The furnishings were elegant, understated, a mix of leathers, silks and tapestries. Live plants abounded in huge planters, many the size of trees.
“It’s—it’s quite beautiful.” Glancing around Trisha noticed both sides of the huge room were entirely glass. Even on a sullen, overcast day like today, natural light flooded the place.
“Yes, it is nice.” Mr. Hodges kept his focus straight ahead, toward the far end of the room where another set of tall, copper doors loomed. Dread at what waited behind those doors made her heart pound and her stomach churn. Why did Mr. Dragan want to speak personally with her? This fifty-second floor was definitely the inner sanctum of Dragan Ventures. A person either had to be very fortunate to get in here—or in a lot of trouble.
“What—what is a room like this used for?” she asked, needing to get her mind on something besides her immediate future. If she didn’t she was afraid her heart might explode from the stress.
“It’s our executive lounge.”
“I gather your executives don’t lounge much,” she said, noting the room was empty.
“It’s Christmas. Many of our employees take vacations at this time of year.”
They reached the double doors and Mr. Hodges opened one. Beyond was a room that finally looked like an office, a cheery one, ornamented with artistic arrangements of lively watercolors. Once again, both side walls were entirely glass.
In front of each window wall was a desk, at each desk a woman sat, working at her computer. As Mr. Hodges and Trisha entered, the two female employees glanced up and smiled. The fact that they hadn’t stared daggers at her wasn’t much of a relief, since it was unlikely they would be privy to why she was there. She wondered if they would look at her differently when she left.
The next set of double doors opened on a pleasant, carpeted room, its walls papered with a subtle, textured design and arranged with impressionistic pen-and-ink drawings. Slightly left of center, facing them, a woman about Herman Hodges’ age sat behind a desk. Petite, with neatly permed white hair, the attractive woman glanced up from her computer screen and smiled.
“Cindy, this is Miss August.”
“Of course.” The woman pressed a button, announcing Trisha’s arrival.
A man responded with, “Send her in.” The voice was deep and deadly serious. Had she come to the end of her journey? Did she at last stand at the mouth of the dragon’s lair—the penthouse office of the legendary Lassiter Q. Dragan?
The air suddenly seemed frigid. Trisha felt chilled through, and weak in the knees. She squeezed Mr. Hodges’ arm tighter in an effort to remain upright.
He must have noticed, for he glanced at her. “Are you all right?”
She wasn’t, but she didn’t intend to turn into a Weeping Wanda. She and her mom had weathered many storms, just the two of them. If there was one thing Trisha had learned from her mother, it was to face life with a positive attitude. Concentrating on her mother’s good advice, Trisha managed a confident expression. “I’m fine.”
He patted her hand, resting on his arm. “I’ll leave you now.” He walked her to the door and grasped the handle, then hesitated. Leaning close, he murmured, “Do what you feel in your heart is best—for you.” His features were troubled.
She stared, unsure how to react. Do what you feel in your heart is best—for you! Was it advice or a warning?
With a nod of encouragement, he handed her her file folder and coat and opened the door, moving away as he did.
Lost in her mental quandary, she belatedly responded with a half nod, which probably looked more like a convulsive tic than a reply.
“Come in, Miss August.”
The
