How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Mack's expression would have been the same if he had just slapped her with a big, wet fish. "Excuse me?" she said, genuinely puzzled and surprised.

  "That damned book," he said again, gesturing impatiently toward where she had thrown it. "I can't believe you just said you hated it. I can't go anywhere these days without that damned book being the topic of rabid conversation among whatever women happen to be present."

  She glanced over her shoulder at where she'd thrown the paperback, then back at Adam, her expression bemused. "It has a title, you know," she pointed out.

  "I know," he conceded grudgingly. "But I can't say it out loud without gagging."

  "You should see a doctor," she told him.

  "I'm sure it's just a natural reflex to an unnatural phenomenon. Every woman in America seems to be adopting that damned book as her bible. It's not surprising that, it would wreak indigestion on most men."

  Mack's gaze fell some. "Well, not quite every woman has adopted it as her bible," she said dryly.

  Adam bit back a chuckle of delight. She really was too good to be true. He'd suspected as much since the day she'd started working at Drake's, and now he was positive of the fact. Mack was more like one of the guys than she was … one of them. Recollections of her midsection aside—which, of course, he had noticed eventually, several times, in fact—Adam could talk to Mack. Really talk to her. They were on the same wavelength. She was as straightforward as they come. She didn't have any secrets at all.

  "But you have read it, yes?" he asked her. "I mean, you would have had to, if you hate it."

  "Um, yeah," she told him, sounding a little uneasy for some reason. "I've read it. Have you?"

  He shook his head vehemently. "To put it succinctly, hell, no, I haven't read that damned book. It's a crime against nature and society and the way things are."

  She narrowed her eyes at him thoughtfully. "Actually, that wasn't very succinct," she observed. "You could have just replied, 'No.' That would have been succinct. What you said was actually kind of—"

  "No."

  "Well, that was certainly succinct."

  "So you read it and didn't like it?" Adam asked again.

  She sighed heavily, and again he got the impression that she was uncomfortable about something. "Let's just say I don't like the way it's been received by the general public," she told him.

  He eyed her thoughtfully in return for a moment, then pushed his empty glass forward in a silent request for another drink. "That's an interesting way to put it. What don't you like about its reception?"

  She went about the motions of her job automatically as she replied, "It seems to be conducive to mass hysteria, that's what. And mass hysteria leads to everything from nihilism to jingoism."

  Immediately, he began to feel wary. "Uh-oh," he said.

  She glanced up curiously from her task, the bottle of Oban suspended above his glass. "Uh-oh?" she echoed.

  "Nihilism," he repeated. "Jingoism. That's the sociology student in you talking, isn't it? You're about to go off on another one of your sociological tangents, aren't you? You're going to start using words like 'esoteric' and 'exegesis' and 'dogma.' I hate it when you do that."

  Mack chuckled as she went back to pouring his drink. "Oh, come on. You know your cocktail party chitchat quotient has gone sky high since you met me. Admit it."

  "That's beside the point."

  When she glanced up to look at him again, there was a flicker of humor sparking in her eyes. Not for the first time, he marveled at how green the irises were, how they were a color he'd never quite seen anywhere before. It was a color that reminded him of the waters lapping at a certain Caribbean island of his acquaintance and he was tempted to invite her to accompany him there for a very intimate visit sometime.

  And it bothered Adam a lot to realize he had the capacity to entertain ideas like that about a married woman. Hell, about any woman. The last thing he needed in his life was a very intimate visit with someone, married or otherwise. Intimate visits had a habit of turning into permanent conditions. Or, rather, in his case, semi-permanent conditions. The presence of his ex-wife in the world attested to that. And he wasn't likely to make such a mistake again.

  "No, that's the human being in me talking," Mack replied, scattering his thoughts.

  He loved her voice. It was perfect for a bartender, low and throaty and husky, redolent of smoky bars and bluesy guitar riffs and good Scotch over ice.

  "Being a sociology student—or instructor, for that matter—has nothing to do with it," she continued in her smoldering, whiskey riff. Then she smiled. "However, if you'd like to discuss it in terms of the millennial Zeitgeist, I'm open."

  He narrowed his eyes at her, stifling a growl. "No thanks," he said. Then, brightening, he added, "I hate that damned book, too. And its reception by the general public." Then, in case that wasn't enough to emphasize his point, he continued, "And I hate its cover. And its size. And the promotional campaign used. And the fact that it's written in English. And the font it's printed in. And the ink they used. And—"

  She laughed as she finished free-pouring a generous amount of Oban over ice. "Yeah, well, it's hardly surprising that you wouldn't care for it. Seeing as how you're the perfect prey for any potential tycoon-trappers out there."

  "It's not just that," he denied.

  She set his fresh drink before him and smiled knowingly. "Oh, isn't it?" she asked, likewise knowingly.

  He shook his head adamantly. "It's nothing personal," he assured her. "I consider that damned book to be an affront to men everywhere, regardless of their economic situation."

  She crossed her arms and leaned forward, all signs of her previous uneasiness and discomfort having vanished. This was the Mack he knew and loved, the witty, confident, take-no-guff pal.

  "Oh, is that all?" she asked mildly.

  "I'm serious, Mack," he insisted. "Thanks to that damned book, the men in this country are being completely outmaneuvered in the mating game. We've become quarry, for God's sake. And that's just not how nature works. It's … it's… Well, it's unnatural, that's all. We—the men—are supposed to be the hunters. Not the women. But how can we hunt when we can't even figure out what rules the women are playing by on any given day?"

  "You can figure that out," Mack told him. "Just read whatever book is on the best-seller list that day. Like, oh, say, How to Trap a Tycoon."

  "Very funny."

  "It's true," she said. "Sexual politics have always been a part of the whole man-woman thing. They just change with each new best-seller, that's all."

  "Hmm. You may have a point," he conceded. "And, to be fair, I suppose Ms. Grable-Monroe's book is no more irritating than any of the other best-sellers of recent years that have made a man's life difficult. At least this book isn't telling women to avoid us or, worse, to psychoanalyze us. Or worse still, to turn us into apron-wearing, hummus-eating Yanni listeners. But," he interjected when Mack opened her mouth to comment, "this book does flat out objectify men. It turns us into status symbols, possessions to be acquired."

  "Which," she said, "when you get right down to it, is exactly what men have been doing to women throughout history."

  "It's not the same," he said.

  "It's exactly the same," she assured him.

  He shook his head before reiterating, "It's not the same, Mack."

  She grinned, an impish little grin that both chilled and heated him. What a strange—and not unpleasant—sensation. "It's not the same," she said smoothly, "because you're the one being objectified and turned into a status symbol this time."

  "It's not natural," he said again, ignoring her comment because—well, just because, that was why. "Women aren't the pursuers. Men are."

  "Not anymore," she said softly. "Don't know much about biology," she misquoted, "but I am familiar with a little theory that some biologists find interesting. It's called Evolution." She enunciated the word carefully, as if she were speaking to a three-year-old—or perhaps to a sexist, e
litist, chauvinist pig. "Maybe you've heard of it, Evolution. Things, animals—even men—do change." She paused a telling beat before adding, "Eventually."

  Adam said nothing, mainly because she was gazing at him in a way she had that made his entire body go on red alert. It was a feeling no self-respecting single man should experience when faced with a married woman. Because it was the kind of feeling that made him want to forget all about her husband. The kind of feeling that made him want to make her forget all about her husband.

  He pushed the feeling aside as far as he could—which, granted, wasn't all that far. "Don't you find offensive, though," he said, "the suggestion that a woman should go out and find herself a rich man to take care of her? I mean, hasn't your gender been fighting for decades to obliterate this kind of thing?"

  Mack shook her head. "No, my gender has been fighting for decades to provide women with choices and opportunities. We never had those before. What each woman chooses to do with the choices and opportunities she has available to her is entirely up to the individual. But it's that choice we've been fighting for. Besides," she added, "Ms. Grable-Monroe's book isn't necessarily telling women to go out and find rich husbands to take care of them."

  This was news to Adam. "And just how the hell do you figure that?"

  She shrugged. "I see her book as more of a social satire."

  "A social satire?" he repeated incredulously. "In what way? This is a book that tells women that money—someone else's money—would solve just about every problem they have."

  She met his gaze levelly again. And once again, Adam found himself forgetting all about that husband of hers, who must be waiting for her at home. Then again, maybe he worked nights, and he'd never notice if Mack got in a little late for once…

  "Money would solve just about every problem women have," she said. "And the reason it has to be someone else's money is because personal wealth is something women have constantly been denied throughout history by men. Even today, at our highest earning power, we're still not allowed to make as much as men do who are performing the same work."

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "Does everything have to become a sociology lecture with you?"

  "Don't try to change the subject."

  He sighed his exasperation. "Do you really believe that?" he asked. "That women don't make as much as men do for performing the same work? Here I've been under the impression that that was one of those urban legends."

  She straightened, then rolled her eyes heavenward and tapped her chin with her index finger, clearly feigning thought. "Gee, do I really believe that? Let me think about it a minute. Yep, I really do believe that," she immediately answered herself, returning her gaze to his.

  He shook his head at her in disappointment. "And here I've been thinking you're such an intelligent woman, Mack."

  "I am an intelligent woman," she said matter-of-factly. Then, evidently discerning again his attempt to change the subject—she was, after all, an intelligent woman—she reverted to what they were initially discussing. "Men can't afford to let women earn the same amount of money that they do. Because with money comes independence. And men, who, alas, do still rule the world—for now, at least—can't afford to have us independent."

  "Why not?"

  She waited until he turned his attention fully to her face, then pinned her gaze on his yet again. "Because we would enslave you, that's why."

  For a moment, he was so stunned by her response that he simply could not form a reply. But he regained his composure again eventually and smiled. At least, he hoped he was smiling. His face—not to mention other body parts—still felt a little stiff at hearing the whole enslaving thing suggested. My, but the prospects were just too intriguing to bear.

  "Gee, there's nothing I'd love more than to continue this conversation," he said, "but something tells me it's not one I should be having with a married woman."

  She colored a bit at that, as if she, too, had forgotten all about that husband of hers. Well, well, well. Wasn't this just the most interesting conversation that he and Mack had never had?

  Thankfully, their nonexistent discussion was interrupted then by the arrival of Adam's most recently acquired and very existent—sometimes too existent, in Adam's opinion—staff writer. As he watched Mack answer the summons of another club member halfway up the bar, Adam told himself she was not fleeing, and turned to greet his associate.

  Lucas Conaway, age twenty-four, was fifteen years and a lifetime younger than Adam. In his Dockers, white button-down shirt and Animaniacs necktie, he was the sartorial antithesis of Adam, who had opted today for a three-piece, pin-striped Hugo Boss number—which, admittedly, was currently in something of a state of disarray. Likewise, the kid's blond, blue-eyed, gee-whiz good looks were at odds with what Adam cheerfully claimed as his own dark and brooding demeanor.

  Normally, he would readily concede that their differences ended there. Despite the physical and temporal disparities, employer and employee were virtually two of a kind. Both were equally ambitious and driven when it came to the magazine they worked for—and, in Adam's case, owned—and both were equally irreverent and cynical when it came to life in general. Neither accepted any guff from any swine. And neither backed down an inch from what he wanted.

  Adam could already sense that it was that last shared quality that was about to cause some trouble. He could tell by the look of intent on Lucas's face. Oh, well, he thought, it wouldn't be the first time they'd gone head to head on something. Nor, he was confident, would it be the last. And that, he told himself, was what made for good journalism. Even if that journalism found its way into a publication that was targeted less at hard news and more at—he might as well admit it—frivolous masculine pursuits.

  Nevertheless, Man's Life magazine was Adam's pride and joy, his friends and family, his offspring, his better half, his reason for being. He had launched the glossy monthly a mere six years ago, and already its circulation was higher than any other magazine of its kind. Devoted to covering the finer things in a man's life—fast cars and fine wines, great books and good cigars, beautiful, intelligent women … and other such masculine acquisitions—Man's Life had become everything he had envisioned. And in his role of publisher as well as editor-in-chief, Adam was exactly where he wanted to be.

  "I have a great idea for a story," Lucas said as he folded himself onto a neighboring bar stool. Without giving Adam a chance to reply, he hastily continued, "Three times yesterday, I encountered the same thing. Three times. To me, that means it's newsworthy." He lifted his hand toward Mack, who nodded an acknowledgment that she would be right there.

  "Three times, huh?" Adam asked, his curiosity reluctantly piqued. "I suppose that counts for something."

  "It's a sign," Lucas assured him. "On three separate occasions yesterday, in three separate places, I saw women reading that new book How to Trap a Tycoon."

  "Oh, no," Adam said, rolling his eyes. "Not again. Not that."

  "So what could I do but go out and buy myself a copy, too?" Lucas asked.

  Adam eyed him with much disgust. "How could you? You've betrayed your entire gender."

  Lucas shrugged off the charge. "Hey, the book is topical. It's a current event. I'm a journalist. Sue me."

  "Don't tell me you actually read the thing."

  "Of course I read it. And it really fired me up, too."

  "To do what? Go out and trap yourself a tycoon?"

  Lucas grinned in a very wicked way that Adam found more than a little intriguing. "Nope," he said simply. "It made me want to go out and trap Lauren Grable-Monroe."

  Well, that sounded promising. "And do what with her?" Adam spurred.

  Lucas's grin turned positively malicious. Adam was liking this more and more. "My intention is to go out and trap myself Lauren Grable-Monroe and then completely expose her for the fraud I'm certain she is."

  His announcement was punctuated by the sound of shattering glass, something that gave it a rather ominous implication. When A
dam glanced up, it was to find Mack gazing at Lucas with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open, her face drained of all color—except for her cheeks, which were faintly stained with the hint of a blush. Strangely, she was holding her hand out before her, but her fingers, though curved, held nothing. Pushing himself up from his stool, Adam glanced over the top of the bar to find that, yep, just as he'd suspected, Mack was the one who had broken the glass. It lay in about a million pieces on the tile floor behind the bar.

  As he sat back down, he tried to imagine what would have caused such a reaction in her. Not only did Mack never lose her composure over anything, but she never broke anything, either. She was amazing when it came to tending bar. Ultimately, all he could figure—and it was a lame deduction at best—was that maybe she had been overcome by Lucas's boyish good looks. In which case Adam would have no choice but to transfer the kid to the Spongemop, South Dakota , beat, thereby reducing the competition. Bad enough Adam had to sit around waiting for Mack's husband to go to his final reward. Man.

  Then Adam remembered that he couldn't transfer Lucas to Spongemop , South Dakota . Because Lucas had single-handedly upped Man's Life subscriptions by six percent with that Wall Street exposé he'd written for the June issue. So if the kid wanted to turn his journalistic attentions—and intentions—to Lauren Grable-Monroe now, Adam sure as hell wasn't going to stop him. Then again, a story on Ms. Grable-Monroe meant Man's Life would be giving that damned book of hers free publicity. Did he really want to do that?

  And why was Mack still staring at Lucas that way, her green eyes lambent—he could safely say he now knew what that word meant—her mouth full and ripe and luscious-looking, her face glowing with a mixture of caution and something he was hard-pressed to identify, and … and … and…

  And, man, it was getting hot in here. What did Lindy have the thermostat set on? Jeez.

  He reached up to loosen his already loosened necktie, then told Lucas, "I'm not sure I want Lauren Grable-Monroe in my magazine."