Renee Roszel - A Bride For The Holidays

This marriage ploy was purely a business arrangement.

So why this sudden, wild desire to make their pact anything but pure?

“Money can’t buy happiness, Mr. Dragan!”

“But money lets you look for happiness in a lot of nice places.”

A chill dashed down Trisha’s spine. Suddenly the idea of spending two weeks with the luscious Lassiter Dragan became a disgraceful travesty. From the first instant she’d met him she’d been drawn to the man. But the fairy tale had dissolved, disappeared, and she mentally hauled out all her defenses.

She wouldn’t walk out on their deal. But any crazy illusions Trisha might have had about The Gentleman Dragon being a modern-day Prince Charming had to be stomped to dust.

Renee Roszel has been writing romance novels since 1983 and simply loves her job. She likes to keep her stories humorous and light, with her heroes gorgeous, sexy and larger than life. She says, “Why not spend your days and nights with the very best!” Luckily for Renee, her husband is gorgeous and sexy, too!

Renee Roszel loves to hear from her readers. Send your letter and SASE to P.O. Box 700154, Tulsa, Oklahoma 74170 U.S.A. Or visit her Web site at www.ReneeRoszel.com.

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3682—HER HIRED HUSBAND

3705—THE TYCOON’S TEMPTATION

3725—BRIDEGROOM ON HER DOORSTEP

3752—SURRENDER TO A PLAYBOY

A Bride for the Holidays

Renee Roszel

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To animal rescue societies that take in the broken, abused and abandoned four-legged angels among us.

Adopt a dog or cat.

Give yourself the gift of unconditional love.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE ringing phone blasted through the stillness of the empty coffee shop like a tornado siren. Trisha’s breath caught and froze in her chest. She instinctively knew this was the call she’d been waiting for.

Her last chance.

The polished aluminum and white-tiled surroundings evaporated from her consciousness as she vaulted over the mop bucket part-time employee, Amber Grace, had dragged out to clean up a spilled latte.

Trisha grabbed the wall phone’s receiver, fumbling, almost dropping it before she managed a firm enough grasp to lift it to her ear. “Ed’s Gourmet Java Joint.” She swallowed, forcing the nervous quiver from her voice. “Trisha August, Day Manager, speaking.”

She recognized the caller’s voice—the bank loan officer, telephoning with his verdict. Her heart pounded so furiously she could hardly hear over its deafening beat. This was her moment of truth—whether she would get her small business loan, or not.

Caught between wrenching anxiety and frothy optimism, she listened, nodded, hardly able to squeeze in more than a brief “yes” or “no” as the loan officer talked in a tone that was mincingly polite but distant.

Her heart sank. She’d heard that same thumbs-down speech so many times she couldn’t stand hearing it again. “But, I’m very responsible and I’m a hard worker. I’ll do anything for a loan!” she blurted, interrupting the lecture she knew was about to end in “Thank you for your interest in Kansas City Unified Bank.” “I’ll do anything you ask!” she cried. “Please, just give me a chance!”

Without even the courtesy of a pause to pretend he gave her plea some thought, the loan officer delivered his “Thank you for your interest” line and hung up.

Trisha stood there with the receiver clenched in a fist. Raw anger at the unfairness of the world overwhelmed her. She could do this! She could make a success of herself, if somebody would only give her a chance! Her throat aching with fury, she slammed the receiver on its hook. “You can’t borrow money if you don’t have money!” Frustration and resentment coloring her words, she twisted away from the phone. “How does anybody ever open a business?”

“That’s a good question,” came a male voice. The comment had been spoken softly, the tone rich and deep and stirringly masculine.

Startled that a customer had entered without her notice, Trisha’s gaze shot to the serving counter. A man stood there. A tall man, clad in a camel overcoat that Trisha guessed was made of the finest cashmere. His broad, expensively garbed shoulders twinkled with melting snow. Dark hair glittered, too. As fetching as all that sparkling and twinkling was in a fluorescent glare that didn’t ordinarily show anyone to advantage, her attention was captured by his face.

What a face! He wasn’t smiling, but a slight upturn at one side of his mouth, gave the impression of cavalier nonchalance. His lips were nice, wholly masculine without the exotic plumpness of some male models.

His eyes were sharp and assessing. That was obvious, even half masked beneath the long, thick sweep of his lashes. It was difficult to tell what color his eyes were, shadowed by such a sexy canopy. Brown, possibly gray.

Her hesitation must have been overlong, because the stranger with the scintillating eyes cleared his throat. “I’d like a cup of coffee.”

Trisha felt like a fool. What had gotten into her? She stepped around Amber Grace and her mop, noticing belatedly that the teenager had also gone stock-still. In an aside, she murmured, “That latte isn’t going to mop itself.”

The teen blinked, coming back from never-never land. “Oh—yeah.” Her mop began to move.

Trisha hurried to the counter and smiled, though the pleasant expression felt strained. That business loan would have helped her achieve her dream—and it was gone. She hadn’t begun to deal with the bitter and unjust defeat, but she shoved the pain and outrage to a back shelf in her brain. This was neither the time nor place to vent her spleen. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said as pleasantly as she could. “We have three special blends today, raspberry-vanilla, Jamaica-chocolate and orange—”

“Do you have anything called coffee?”

She could see his eyes better across the counter. They were gray. Steel gray. An unusual color, and attractive, yet a little too piercing for comfort.

For some bizarre reason she had trouble remembering if they had anything called coffee. Working to get her brain on track, she responded, “Uh—how about our Colombian Dark Secret?”

“As long as the dark secret is that it has coffee in it.”

She found herself smiling, an amazing feat, considering her future had just been crushed under the unfeeling boot heel of corporate banking. “I promise it has coffee in it, sir,” she said, still smiling in spite of her broken dreams. “What size would you like, biggie, biggie-extra or biggie-boggle?” As she named the sizes, she pointed out the small, medium and large cups affixed to the top of the latte machine.

“Medium,” he said.

For some reason she liked that about him. He was a no-nonsense man who called a spade a spade. No fancy pseudo-speak cluttered his world. Just bare-boned facts. “Yes, sir.” She moved away to retrieve a cup and pour him a medium order of strong, black coffee. And he would drink it black, she knew. Black, strong and unadulterated. A real man’s cup of coffee.

A real man’s cup of coffee? What a silly, fanciful thought to have about a total stranger. She shook it off.

Her back to him, she sidled to the Colombian Dark Secret spigot and pulled the lever. Funny, she could feel his gaze on her. Not that lots of customers didn’t follow her movements as she got their order, but there was something different in the way she sensed his gaze. Her cheeks grew hot and she felt a tremor of feminine excitement, to think such a man might—