How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Man, that had been a great day. And an incredible feeling Adam had never thought to feel again. But suddenly, right in the middle of Borders Books and Music on Michigan Avenue

  , he was reliving that same hormonal, almost narcotic, surge.

  He told himself it was only because he'd been anticipating this event for more than a month, ever since Man's Life had received a press release from Rockcastle Books that announced the great coming-out party of the illustrious Lauren Grable-Monroe. It wasn't the press release, however, that had most captured Adam's attention, teeming though it was with interesting—in a rabid, overblown, sensationalistic kind of way—tidbits about the author of How to Trap a Freakin' Tycoon.

  Lauren Grable-Monroe, it seemed, was a resident of this very city, a factoid that had settled in the pit of his stomach like a piece of badly cooked veal. Rockcastle Books made no bones about the fact that the moniker Lauren Grable-Monroe was a pseudonym flagrantly lifted from the three actresses who had starred in the film How to Marry a Millionaire. However, they had made bones—really big ones, too—about divulging who, exactly, had adopted the pseudonym. They had insisted that to divulge Ms. Grable-Monroe's true identity would endanger her position in the social community she loved, not to mention open them up to defamation suits.

  According to her bio, whoever Lauren Grable-Monroe was, she had grown up on Chicago 's Gold Coast, the only child of a wealthy commodities broker and his socialite wife. Her parents had, however, lost their fortune some years ago after a hushed-up scandal, the details of which, at least in the press release, were sketchy, at best. Thus their daughter, a former debutante, had made her way in the world by "making herself available" to numerous and sundry tycoons whose fancy she had captured along the way. And now that her parents were no longer alive—and, presumably, couldn't be embarrassed by her antics—she was hoping to recoup her family's financial losses by offering professional tips in a runaway best-seller.

  Adam, of course, knew her entire biography was a lot of hooey. He'd grown up on the Gold Coast, too, and although he'd never troubled himself with idle gossip—or even active gossip—he would have heard about any scandal that had left anyone broke. More than that, though, he would have known about a socialite daughter making herself available the way Ms. Grable-Monroe claimed to have made herself available. Because Adam had always enjoyed available debutantes. Had her story been true, Lauren Grable-Monroe, whoever she was, would have been his—at least for a while.

  But even the outright phony details of her life hadn't been what had captured Adam's eye when he'd received Rockcastle's press release. No, what had caught his eye—among other body parts—was the publicity photo that had been included with it. Because it had been the kind of photo that could make a man lose sleep. And lots of it. In her glossy picture, Lauren Grable-Monroe evoked an image of a fabulous forties film star, all posh glamour and sex appeal. A fall of shoulder-length, platinum blond hair swept down over one eye in a pretty effective Veronica Lake "do." Her brown eyes were at half-mast, heavily shadowed and lushly lashed. And her mouth…

  God, her mouth.

  Her full, ripe lips were painted red, red, red. Her chin was resting on her hand, and she clutched a slender cigarette holder between two fingers tipped in crimson lacquer. But what Adam had noted most of all was that, judging by the expression on her face, she appeared to be this close to a shattering orgasm.

  And it didn't stop there. Her voice, he knew, thanks to repeated television appearances and an NPR interview that he hadn't quite been able to bring himself to switch off, mirrored the image she projected—a deep and husky timbre, one that reflected her complete and unapologetic confidence in both her femininity and her effect on the opposite sex.

  And speaking of sex, her voice reeked of it—of sex and sex appeal, of sexual knowledge and sexual power. And of something else, too, something Adam hadn't quite been able to identify. Something that had grabbed him by his libido and yanked hard.

  Lauren Grable-Monroe, he had decided some time ago, was one hot tomata, no two ways about it. And hell, he hadn't even seen her in more than two dimensions yet.

  Now, finally, he would be able to discover for himself if the reality lived up to the media promise. Craning his head and pushing himself up taller, he gazed over the bookshelves and in the direction that Lucas was watching himself. And he realized right away that … whoa, baby … the reality looked to be pretty damned promising.

  Blondness was the first thing Adam noted from this distance and this angle. Pale blond, the color of good champagne, flowing in a straight, silky cascade past her shoulders. Curviness was the second thing he noted. A tight, chocolate-brown skirt hugged her hips to midthigh, and the legs extending from beneath—all eight miles of them—were slim and elegant. A short jacket of the same dark fabric fell to her waist and hung open over a pale-gold top that scooped low over high, full breasts. Although a solid twenty or thirty feet separated him from the table where Ms. Grable-Monroe took her seat, he had a clear line of vision from which to take her in.

  And, boy, did Adam want to take her in. Every last luscious inch of her.

  "Wow."

  The observation came not from Adam but from Lucas. Nevertheless, Adam couldn't think of a single thing to add. Unless it was to put the word into capital letters. And italics. With an exclamation point or two following behind. Because WOW!! pretty much summed up Lauren Grable-Monroe.

  He watched as the entourage broke apart and scattered, then watched some more as she folded herself into a chair behind a table laden with what appeared to be … oh … about a billion copies of her book. Seated in chairs before the table and standing around at a respectable distance were what appeared to be, oh … about a billion women clutching copies of that book in their hands.

  Most were young, Adam noticed, college age or even younger, but many—too many—appeared to be his age, too. Several more were older than he, some by as many as three or four decades. The desire to marry money—or, at least, to trap it—evidently transcended generational lines.

  "Ladies—and you few gentlemen," a young woman who was evidently an employee of the bookstore called out to the surrounding crowd. Adam couldn't help noticing that she clutched her own copy of How to Trap a Tycoon in her hand. "Borders is pleased tonight to be hosting best-selling author Lauren Grable-Monroe on the first stop of a multi-city book tour. She'll speak briefly about her book, answer questions for twenty minutes, and then sign as many copies as she's able to sign. Please be patient, as the line promises to be long. And please join me in welcoming Lauren Grable-Monroe."

  The fans, as they say, went wild. Because the applause that clamored up around the author was nothing short of feral. The author herself smiled brightly and wiggled expertly manicured, red-tipped fingers in greeting. "Hello," she said in that throaty, musky voice of hers. "And thank you all for coming tonight. Wow, I didn't expect such a crowd. This is amazing."

  Oh, the hell it was, Adam thought. Rockcastle Books had spared no expense in promoting its latest best-seller. Still, he watched and listened and observed for the rest of the hour as Lauren Grable-Monroe charmed and captivated and entranced her already adoring—hey, her already worshipping—public. And he himself had to admit that there was definitely something rather … tempting … about her. Much to his surprise, he even found himself smiling and laughing at a few of her responses to some of the audience's rather pointed questions. Stranger still, Adam found himself wanting to raise his hand and ask a few of his own.

  So, Ms. Grable-Monroe, just what is it about your book that everyone finds so damned wonderful?

  Well, Mr. Darien, chapter seven seems to be of particular interest to most of my readers. It's about keeping tycoons like yourself in the bedroom.

  And just what is it in chapter seven that everyone keeps raving about? Aside from that crème de menthe thing I've heard mentioned so frequently?

  Why don't you read the book and find out for yourself?

  What? And ensu
re that you receive an added royalty from my purchase? That's not my style.

  Ooo, and just what is your style, big boy?

  Why don't you read me and find out for yourself?

  It occurred to Adam suddenly that although the self-help section in which he stood might be of some use after all—just where did they shelve the voices-in-my-head books, anyway?—anything on impotence was pretty much unnecessary at the moment. No, what he needed was something he really didn't want. Well, he wanted it, he just didn't want to want it. Unfortunately, judging by the looks of Lauren Grable-Monroe's reception, he was going to be surrounded by it—by her—for some time to come.

  He stood in the bookstore watching her, until she had finished signing books for her devoted followers. And all the while, one thought kept circling in his head. He really, really, really wanted to take Lauren Grable-Monroe down. He just wasn't quite sure yet what he would do with her once he got her there.

  "How's your story coming, Lucas?" he asked his staff writer as he watched his quarry blow kisses of farewell to her applauding fans.

  "Not so good," Lucas replied. "I'm having trouble finding female tycoons."

  Adam turned to face him. "You're joking, right? There are plenty of female tycoons in this town."

  Lucas shrugged. "Not the right kind."

  Adam narrowed his eyes. "What's the right kind?"

  Lucas expelled an exasperated sound. "The kind that will give me the time of day, okay?"

  Adam laughed. "Having trouble with the fairer sex, are we?"

  "I'll get the story," Lucas assured him. "Just give me another week or two. I'm following a new lead." Before Adam had a chance to pry further, Lucas turned the tables. "How's your story coming?"

  Only then did Adam recall that he had sort of announced his intention to investigate the elusive author himself way back when he'd assigned Lucas his story. Somehow, though, he'd never quite gotten around to undertaking that investigation.

  Why not? he wondered now. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. And it had been more than a little enjoyable sitting at the bar that night plotting Lauren Grable-Monroe's downfall with Lucas—particularly that part about staking her out naked and covered with honey, spread-eagle, beneath a hot desert sun. It was an image that still crept into Adam's thoughts from time to time, and at the oddest moments, too, especially since he'd seen her publicity photo, because then he'd been able to put a face—a gorgeous, seductive, alluring face—on that body—that lush, rounded, bronzed, naked, sweaty, honey-covered body—and … and … and…

  And where was he? Oh, yeah.

  Other things had come up, so to speak, and his plans for Lauren had been put on hold. Recalling the honey-covered image again, however, Adam couldn't begin to imagine why he had let other things prevent his investigation. And now that he'd seen the author in the flesh—and quite nice flesh it was, too—albeit from a distance, he discovered, not much to his surprise, that he suddenly wanted to undertake his investigation again.

  "I'm on the case," he assured Lucas.

  "Yeah, you're on something, all right," the other man said.

  "Yeah, and it's not Viagra, either."

  "Are you going after her, or what?"

  Adam turned back to where Lauren Grable-Monroe had been sitting mere moments ago and smiled. "Oh, yeah. I'm going after her. I'm going to find out who she is, where she comes from, and what the hell she was thinking to write a book like How to Trap a Flaming Tycoon."

  "And then?" Lucas asked enthusiastically.

  Adam hesitated. "I'm not quite sure yet. But I have a couple of ideas." One included honey and stakes and a hot desert sun, he realized. And the other…

  Well, the other was nowhere near as polite.

  "Lucas," he said, still preoccupied by his thoughts, "help me find out where they keep the books on the Gobi Desert and carnivorous insects."

  * * *

  Dorsey nibbled her lip anxiously as she flicked her gaze to Fran Schott, the publicist Rockcastle Books had assigned her for her book tour. "Are they gone yet?" she asked the tall young blonde who had entered the small stockroom.

  Fran shook her head as she closed the door on a murmur of voices that slunk in from the other side. "There are still about a dozen people out there who want a few more words—or something—with Lauren. Most of them are male. And few of them look respectable."

  Dorsey sighed fitfully. "Tell them Lauren has left the building."

  "Believe me, I have," Fran assured her adamantly. "But a couple of Lauren's fans saw her—you—pass through this door, and they're not leaving until they see her—you—come back out again. You're—she's—just going to have to wait them out."

  Dorsey didn't want to wait. She couldn't wait. If she had to be dressed in her Lauren costume much longer, she was going to scream. Her wig itched, her clothes pinched, her cosmetics weighed more than Mount Rushmore, and her Wonderbra made her feel like she was going to fall forward face first and suffocate on her own foam rubber inserts. Still, all things considered, her first public appearance had gone surprisingly well, especially in light of the fact that she'd been utterly terrified during the entire episode. Now, however, she just wanted to go home, take a bath, and return to Dorseyhood.

  "You might as well make yourself comfortable," Fran said.

  "I'd rather go home to be alone. I feel kind of … strange."

  "I'm not surprised. These things can be nerve-racking in the best of situations." The publicist smiled sympathetically. "And I don't imagine this is the best of situations."

  Fran Schott had been apprised of the actual situation when Rockcastle Books had assigned her to escort Lauren on her book tour. She'd also been apprised of the fact that should she reveal the truth to anyone, she'd never work in publishing again.

  Now the publicist shrugged apologetically. "I had no idea it would be like this," she told Dorsey. "Had I suspected, I would have had a car waiting for you outside. I just assumed that once the signing concluded, everyone would scatter." She tilted her head toward the door. "They might still, if you go out there and exchange a few more words with them."

  Dorsey shook her head. Vehemently. Through much practice and rehearsal over the last month, she had managed to pretty much master the art of deception in creating Lauren Grable-Monroe. After she and Carlotta had collected a suitable vamp's wardrobe from the department stores and couturiers along Michigan Avenue

  and had amassed cosmetics the like of which Dorsey hadn't even realized existed, they had spent the better part of an afternoon creating the physical manifestation of Lauren. With the addition of blond wig and brown contact lenses, with the application of two or three—or ten—layers of eye shadow, blush, lipstick, and whatever else filled those little tubes and tubs that Carlotta had insisted were essential, with the body-altering Wonderbra and stiletto heels, Dorsey had seemed to become someone else entirely. Dorsey had become someone else entirely. She had become Lauren Grable-Monroe.

  Until she opened her mouth.

  That part had taken a bit longer to master. She'd had to mask her voice, and she had been obligated to master the art of—she shuddered now to think about it—repartee. Most difficult of all, she had been forced to get in touch with her sexuality, something she'd never really bothered to do before.

  It wasn't that Dorsey didn't like sex. On the contrary, on those few occasions when she had experienced it—long ago, in a galaxy far away—she was reasonably certain she had enjoyed herself. She was simply opposed to using sex as a marketing tool, that was all. Especially since she was the one carrying the toolbox. So to speak. Lauren needed to be presented as a sexual being. Dorsey was not a sexual being. Therefore, she could only sustain the illusion for a brief time.

  And besides, her wig really did itch a lot.

  She remembered then that she had changed her clothes and donned her makeup at Severn earlier that evening before meeting Fran on campus, and that the publicist had then driven her to the bookstore. Now Dorsey's blue jeans, h
iking boots, and lumberjack sweater were packed safely away in her backpack. The backpack which—hey, what do you know?—just so happened to be leaning haphazardly on a shelf right behind Fran. Dorsey also recalled that there was a tiny employee washroom behind the door to Fran's left.

  "I'm leaving," she announced suddenly, crisply.

  Fran arched her blond eyebrows in surprise. "Going to send Lauren right through the gauntlet out there, are you?" the publicist asked. "You're a braver man than I."

  Dorsey smiled and tugged at the fake fingernail glued on her left index finger, snapping it clean off. "Lauren's staying right here," she said. "I'm the one who's leaving."

  Fran eyed her warily but said nothing as Dorsey snatched the backpack from the shelf behind her. Fifteen minutes later, she was once again green-eyed, bespectacled, and auburn-haired. She tugged her baggy, olive-drab sweater over her cotton undershirt and faded blue jeans, then pushed her glasses to the top of her freshly scrubbed nose. And then, rather gleefully, she crammed every last remnant of Lauren Grable-Monroe—suit, cosmetics, and sky-high heels—into the faded blue back-pack.

  Something oddly satisfying wound through her as she zipped the pack up tight. Something even more pleasant wandered through her as she smiled and tossed it at the publicist, who, even though clearly surprised by the action, caught it in capable hands.

  "Fran," Dorsey said as she strode to the stockroom door, "I'm going downstairs to the coffee shop for an iced cappuccino."

  The publicist blinked once in confusion, then asked, "But how will you get home?"

  "I'll catch a cab," Dorsey told her. She nodded once toward the backpack and grinned wickedly. "You'll keep an eye on Lauren for me, won't you?"

  And with that, she turned and strode casually—happily—out the door.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

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