How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  H ad he been watching where he was going, Adam wouldn't have bumped into the young woman who appeared suddenly from behind a stack of best-sellers at the front of the store. Nor would he have knocked her cup of coffee right out of her hand. Nor would he have reached out to steady her when it looked as if she was going to go down along with said cup of coffee. Nor would he have felt the surge of utter … utter… What was the opposite of impotence? he wondered idly. Utter … virility—yeah, that was it—that thundered through him when he found himself gazing down into familiar, if startled, pale-green eyes.

  So he was pretty damned glad he hadn't been watching where he was going.

  "Mack," he said softly, a warm ripple of genuine delight purling through him when he recognized the gift that fortune had quite literally—and quite liberally—dropped into his hands.

  Right on the heels of that recognition, however, came the even more delightful realization that after months of thinking about it, dreaming about it, fantasizing about it, he was touching Mack—actually touching her—for the very first time. And just like that, the ripple of warmth became a crashing tsunami of heat.

  It was a rather … stimulating … sensation.

  Before he had a chance to contemplate that particular revelation further—not that extensive contemplation of anything was of primary importance to him at the moment—she righted herself, straightened herself, steadied herself … and took a biiiiig step backward.

  And that was when Adam realized that Mack looked a little different from how she usually did. Her hair, instead of being caught back in the elaborate braid she normally wore at Drake's, tumbled free in a riot of wild, dark-auburn curls about her face and shoulders. Her face, too, was different, due to the presence of oval-shaped, wire-rimmed spectacles that perched pertly on the bridge of her nose. Strangely, instead of detracting from her looks, her glasses only enhanced them. Her eyes seemed larger, somehow, clearer, more expressive.

  And the expression he noticed most was … fear? But that was ridiculous. Why on earth would Mack be afraid of him? After all, looking the way she did right now, all soft and pretty and touchable, she was a hell of a lot scarier than he was.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked her, nudging aside the impression of fear—both hers and his. Then, immediately, he answered his own question. "Oh, wait. Don't tell me. Let me guess. You came to see the newest official spokes-icon of the women's movement."

  She narrowed her eyes at him curiously. "And who would that be?"

  He smiled indulgently. "Nice try," he said. "But you'll never convince me that you didn't come here as a devoted disciple of Her Most Royal Commodity, Lauren Grable-Monroe."

  "Oh, her."

  "Oh, please. Don't act surprised."

  Oddly, though, she didn't seem to be acting. She really did seem to be surprised. Just not by the presence of Lauren Grable-Monroe, that was all. Clearly, her surprise—and something more, he just couldn't quite say what—had been generated by his own presence in the store.

  Then again, he reminded himself, it was only natural that she and he, for that matter, might feel a bit awkward, seeing as how the two of them had never met in surroundings other than Drake's. And at the club, their roles were always clearly defined. Plus, they were always separated by the bar—among other things. Adam really had never laid a hand on Mack until a moment ago. Now, suddenly, with all the barriers, both physical and psychological, gone, he realized he wanted to lay more than just his hand on her. He, too, felt a bit surprised. By, of all things, his own uncertainty. He'd never felt uncertain about anything in his life.

  Oh, except for Mack, of course.

  "Well, it was interesting seeing you, Mr. Darien," she said, stooping to pick up the cup of coffee that had spilled on the floor between them. It had been covered by a snug plastic lid, so the mess was reasonably well contained. Still, there was a small beige puddle spreading rapidly by the time she scooped the cup up. "I'd better find somebody to take care of this," she added. "See you at Drake's."

  In other words, Adam translated, Beat it.

  "I'll help you," he said.

  But instead of stooping alongside her, he lifted a hand to hail one of the bookstore employees. Evidently one of them had seen the collision, because the young man was approaching with a roll of paper towels.

  "And I'll buy you another…" Adam gazed down and noted the proliferation of ice cubes and foam mingling with the beige and bit back a gag. How anyone could do something like that to a perfectly good cup of coffee was beyond him. "Another … whatever it was you were drinking," he finally concluded.

  Mack stood when the bookstore employee assured her he would take care of the mess, then apologized profusely for the spill, even though Adam had been the one responsible.

  "I'm the one who should apologize," he said.

  She met his gaze levelly, her green eyes flashing with … something. "Yes, I know, but you didn't apologize, did you?" she asked pointedly.

  He narrowed his gaze at her, then turned his attention to the young man on the floor. "Sorry," he said. Without awaiting a reply, he turned to Mack. "I'll buy you another one."

  She expelled a soft sound of disbelief and shook her head. "Do you ever defer to anyone?"

  This time he was the one to utter a sound of disbelief. "Of course not," he told her. But he offered no further explanation. After all, he figured, none was necessary, was it?

  She nodded. "No, of course not," she echoed. "I stand corrected."

  Yeah, she stood something, all right, Adam thought, unable to keep his gaze from roving hungrily over every inch of her. He was trying to figure out if this was the first time he'd seen her from the waist down. Surely not. Then again, he was pretty sure he'd remember a below-the-waist like hers.

  Her baggy bartender uniform, although very appealing, hadn't prepared him for the trim, surprisingly long legs revealed by her snug blue jeans. Her sweater, unfortunately, was not so snug, but during the collision, the scooped neck had fallen off one shoulder, revealing a strap of white cotton undergarment—not to mention creamy shoulder—beneath. And that more than made up for any lack of shape the sweater suffered. Not that Mack was particularly well endowed, Adam noticed, and not for the first time. But what she did have was quite … fetching.

  "I'll buy you another cup of coffee," he said for the third time, irritated that she hadn't yet taken him up on his offer. Or his edict. Whatever.

  "That's okay," she said, her voice sounding rushed and anxious. "It's not necessary. I really need to get something to eat anyway."

  "All the better," he told her. "I skipped dinner myself. There's a great restaurant a couple of blocks away. We can eat there. My treat."

  Again she threw him that incredulous look at the way he tossed around orders, as if he were czar of all he surveyed. Okay, fine. So maybe he was a little … commanding. Adam preferred to think of it as being a good delegator. All right, a good dictator. Details, details. Jeez.

  "Um, that's okay," she told him yet again. "You don't have to buy me dinner. Thanks, anyway."

  It took a moment for Adam to realize that she was determined to turn him down. And it took him a moment more to realize how much that bothered him.

  "Oh, come on," he cajoled. "It's just dinner. What's the big deal?"

  The moment he voiced the question, Adam remembered what the big deal was. Her husband. As big deals went, that one was sort of … big. At least, he'd always visualized Mack's husband as being big. About six foot six, to be precise. Weighing in at three hundred pounds at least. With no neck. And a nasty overbite. And a hairy back. And knuckles grazing the tarmac. A really big beer belly. And a really tiny—

  Before his thoughts became too distastefully graphic, Adam dropped his gaze down to the third finger of her left hand, to the slim gold band that always served to remind him of his folly. Much to his surprise, however—not to mention his profound interest—he discovered that Mack wasn't wearing her wedding ring.

  Oddly, that
made him remember that she hadn't worked a number of her shifts at Drake's over the past few weeks. She'd always had one of the other bartenders filling in for her, but she had missed quite a few nights. He wondered now if the reason for her absences at work might have something to do with the absence of a ring on her left hand. Like maybe her marriage wasn't all it was cracked up to be these days. And then he recalled once again their surroundings and couldn't help but think that Mack had come to the bookstore tonight to hear a best-selling author tell her how to trap herself a tycoon.

  "Dinner's not a good idea," she told him. But, Adam noticed, she didn't say exactly why.

  "It's an excellent idea," he countered. Then, before she could object—and because he just couldn't quite help himself—he reached out and wrapped his fingers lightly around her upper arm, urging her gently forward. And, talking as fast as he could, he added, "Besides, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about for a long time now, and Drake's just isn't conducive to frank conversation."

  * * *

  Dorsey had no idea how Adam Darien talked her into joining him for dinner, but fifteen minutes later, she found herself seated across from him at a cozy—really, it was too cozy—table for two, in a quiet—really, it was too quiet—restaurant near the bookstore. Actually, that wasn't entirely true. She was, in fact, fairly certain she knew how he had talked her into joining him for dinner. She had let him. That was how. She just wasn't sure she knew why she had let him.

  Oh, all right, that wasn't exactly true, either. She was pretty sure she knew why she had let him. Because number one, he had caught her completely unawares when he had invited her. And number two, he had simply looked too scrumptious to resist.

  And that was precisely the problem, Dorsey remembered now too late; she had found him irresistible since day one. He was an enigma, and she'd never been able to let go of puzzles she couldn't solve. He was everything she should deplore in a man—autocratic, self-centered, elitist, rich—but there was just something about him… She couldn't quite put her finger on what.

  But some undefinable thing in him called to something equally undefinable in her. She could think of no other way to describe it. A rare, unifying element of some sort that they had in common. Whenever he strode into the bar at Drake's, every sense she possessed went on alert. She could have her back to the door, could be focused completely on a complex and unfamiliar drink recipe, but the second Adam Darien entered, she knew—she knew—he was there.

  And her reaction to him, so unlike any she had experienced to anyone else, was something she couldn't help but want to explore.

  Too, somehow she sensed that his exterior—as hard and impenetrable as it seemed to be—was little more than a facade, one that hid behind it a completely different creature from the face he presented to the world. Her conversations with him, full though they were of his dogma and opinions, were always animated—the two of them were evenly matched. He wasn't quite so full of himself that he didn't listen, and listen well, to what she had to say. And even when he disagreed with what she said, which was pretty much all the time, he still showed respect for her evaluations.

  He was an intriguing mix of contradictions, first gruff, then gentle, at once antagonistic and agreeable, both chauvinist and conversationalist. As a result, he was that most irresistible kind of man for a woman to find—one who challenged her, both on a human and a feminine level.

  Plus, she had to admit as she glanced over the top of her menu to inadvertently watch him inspect his, he really was very cute.

  More than cute, she admitted grudgingly. It wasn't only what went on inside his head that appealed to her. As much pride as Dorsey had in her intellectual achievements, she was by no means above succumbing to a primitive physical attraction. And the attraction she felt toward him was certainly primitive. Potent. Relentless. Rawly sexual. Which, now that she thought about it, was probably a very good reason for her to avoid him. It was a long time since she had been sexually attracted to a man, never so powerfully as she was to Adam Darien. She'd just as soon it not be happening now, when her own sexuality was being manipulated by someone else—namely, Lauren Grable-Monroe.

  "So what looks good to you?" he asked suddenly, glancing up from his menu before she had a chance to avert her gaze. He smiled—rather smugly, too—when he caught her ogling him.

  What looked good to her, Dorsey thought, he would be better off not knowing. Because it would only lead to trouble. "Oh, gosh. I can't really decide," she hedged.

  "Interesting," he countered smoothly, fixing his gaze on hers. "Because I know exactly what I want."

  A surge of heat hummed through her at his softly uttered assurance, and she had no idea how to respond. All she could do was damn Lauren anyway for using up all the good repartee hours ago.

  Thankfully, their server arrived with the drinks they had ordered—or, rather, that Adam Darien had ordered. God forbid he should consult her first, after all, she thought, as the waiter placed a glass of very expensive Merlot in front of her. "It was cold walking here, and you need warming" had been his reason for ordering red wine instead of the iced cappuccino he had promised her earlier. The way he'd voiced the "you need warming" part, however, had gone a loooong way toward remedying that particular problem. Still, there was no reason he had to know that.

  Dorsey mumbled her thanks to the server and, resigned to her fate, lifted the glass to her lips for an idle sip. The wine was dark, smooth, and mellow, and she had to admit that it felt good going down. But it was nowhere near as intoxicating as the dark, smooth, mellow look in his eyes. And she couldn't help wondering if he'd feel just as good going—

  Uh-oh.

  Their waiter hastily scribbled down their dinner orders as they gave them—an amazing feat, as far as Dorsey was concerned, seeing as how she herself couldn't understand a word of what she said in that regard—then conveniently disappeared. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, that might do something, anything, to alleviate the frantic heat arcing between them—or, at the very least, the frantic heat smacking her upside the head—when Adam took matters out of her hands by speaking first.

  And, oh, what a speech it was.

  "So, Mack, tell me about this husband of yours."

  It was the last thing Dorsey had expected to hear from him. Although he had commented once or twice at Drake's on her phony marital status, it had always been some silly little flirtatious thing that meant nothing. "Mack, if you weren't a married woman, I'd take you away from all of this" or some such thing. He had never actually asked her about her husband. And why the subject should come up now she couldn't imagine.

  She remembered then that her wedding ring—the one her nonexistent husband had allegedly slipped over her finger on their imaginary wedding day—was currently lying on the top shelf of her locker at Drake's. Hoping Adam didn't notice, she slowly withdrew her left hand from the table and tucked it between her leg and the chair.

  And just when had she taken the next, Herculean step, toward thinking of him as Adam instead of Mr. Darien? she wondered. Unfortunately, she couldn't find an adequate answer to her own question. Nor could she find one for his. So she answered him with one of her own.

  "Why do you ask?" she replied.

  He lifted his shoulders and let them fall in a shrug that was in no way casual. "You mentioned once in conversation that you thought money could solve all of a woman's problems." He leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table, folding his arms one over the other. It was a harmless action that seemed very intimidating somehow. "If that's true," he continued, "then why didn't you marry for money? Why didn't you go out and trap yourself a tycoon? Seems like that would have made your life a whole lot easier."

  "Who says I didn't marry for money?" she replied evasively.

  Adam chuckled low, a wonderfully masculine sound that seemed to meander indolently through her entire body. And oh, boy, did it feel good.

  "Well, there's the fact that you attend Severn ," he
said, "a college whose student body is comprised of those less financially endowed than others. And there's also the small matter of your job at Drake's," he added. "Call me presumptuous, but I'd think that had you gone to all the trouble to find a rich man, you probably wouldn't have been admitted to Severn , and you probably wouldn't be tending bar to supplement your college expenses. A nice girl like you in a place like that, I mean."

  She hesitated before responding, not so much because she wasn't sure what to say this time, but because of the way he had uttered the words "A nice girl like you." Simply put, he had voiced the phrase as if he'd meant it exactly as he'd said it—that he did indeed consider her to be a nice girl. That was completely at odds with what the rest of her patrons at Drake's seemed to think. A woman bartender was to them, evidently, the equivalent of a prostitute. Except that they could get a bartender for a lot cheaper, and she'd fix a helluva nightcap after they had sex.

  "Maybe I work at Drake's," Dorsey replied dryly, "because I like the social interaction and fascinating conversation."

  He eyed her skeptically as he fingered the base of his wine glass in a way that set her heart to racing again. He had nice hands, she noted. Big and square and blunt-fingered, exactly what a man's hands should look like.

  "And maybe," he said, "an asteroid the size of Lithuania will crash into the Earth while we're sleeping peacefully in our beds tonight."

  She shrugged. "Hey, it could happen."

  He laughed low in that very masculine way again before cajoling, "Come on, Mack. Tell me about the forthright, upright, do-right guy you're married to."

  She sighed, hedging again. "Um, gee, what's there to tell?" she finally asked. Aside from the fact that he didn't exist, of course. Which, now that she thought about it, made him infinitely more appealing than most men of her acquaintance.

  Present company excluded, naturally.

  "What's his name?" Adam asked.

  "Why do you want to know?" she stalled yet again. "I mean, I don't ask you about your girlfriends, do I?" she asked pointedly.