How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

"Girlfriends?" he repeated, clearly surprised—and a bit scandalized?—by her charge. "As in plural? Isn't that pushing it?"

  She scrunched up her shoulders again. "I don't know. Is it? You seem like the kind of guy who—"

  "What?" he asked with a wicked grin when she cut herself off.

  "Nothing," she replied quickly, wondering what had possessed her to suggest such a thing to begin with. "It's not important."

  He opened his mouth, clearly to object again, but closed it and eyed her with much consideration. "But then, we were talking about you," he finally said, deftly turning the topic right back to where he had initially assigned it. Dammit.

  "I don't want to talk about me," she told him.

  Hastily, she scrambled for some other topic to discuss, something that would lead to their normal philosophical differences. Because at Drake's, invariably, the more contentious their conversations became, the more Adam smiled—and, oddly, the better he tipped her. And the more he smiled, the more contentious Dorsey's remarks became. Not just because she liked the big tips, but because she liked his smile, too.

  She liked his smile a lot. Even more than the big tips. And tonight was promising to make her a very wealthy woman indeed.

  "I bet he's blue collar," Adam said suddenly, grinning again.

  "Who?"

  "Your husband," he reminded her. "I bet he operates heavy machinery for a living, am I right?"

  She couldn't quite help the bubble of laughter that erupted at that. "Heavy machinery," she repeated blandly.

  He nodded. "A forklift, I'm guessing. No, wait," he corrected himself. "A bulldozer. Yeah, that's it. I'm right, aren't I?"

  Dorsey opened her mouth to comment, but quite frankly had no idea what to say.

  Evidently taking her silence as affirmation, Adam went on, "I knew it. I know women. I know what kind of man attracts them. You would definitely go for the heavy machinery type."

  She nodded slowly. "I see. And what else can you tell me about this bulldozer operator that I'm supposedly married to?"

  He seemed to give that some thought. "Well, let's see now," he began. "He probably has some really straightforward, hardworking name, too. Like … like…"

  "Knute?" she suggested, biting back a giggle. "Rocky? Axel? Bull?"

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of … Dave."

  "Dave the bulldozer operator," she repeated.

  "Tell me I'm wrong."

  "What you are," she told him, "is remarkable. Truly. Remarkable."

  His grin turned smug. "Well, I hate to say I told you so, but…"

  Someone at a neighboring table laughed loudly at something then, but the sound seemed to come from very far away. For a moment, Dorsey simply could not look away from Adam Darien's beautiful Bambi-brown eyes. It was as if he were drawing her into himself, slowly and thoroughly, until she just couldn't quite get away.

  And then the sweet, peaceful moment vanished, shattered as it was by the comment he made next.

  "Well, at least it's nice to know you haven't been sucked in by this tycoon-trapping nonsense," he said, gazing down into his wine before lifting it to his lips for an idle sip. "If I ever get my hands on Lauren Grable-Monroe," he continued as he lowered his glass to the table again, "she'll find out that a tycoon trapped is one mean fuh … uh, friggin' animal, that's what. Oh, man, would I like to get my hands on that woman."

  Dorsey told herself to say nothing, to just ignore the remark and move on to another subject, something harmless and bland that wouldn't become a forum for debate—religion, politics, women's rights, fashion dos and don'ts, that kind of thing. But being the kind of woman she was—namely, impulsive and incautious—and seeing as how she rather took his attack personally she just couldn't quite let it go by.

  So very quietly, she asked, "Who says I'm not a complete convert to Ms. Grable-Monroe's book?"

  He arched his eyebrows in surprise, parting his lips slightly. Just enough so that, had she wanted to, she could have leaned across the tiny table and tasted him, right now, this very minute, in front of God and everybody. But of course, she didn't want to do that. Heavens, no. Not right here in the middle of the restaurant. Just what kind of girl did he think she was?

  Much better to do that in private.

  "You've been converted to Ms. Grable-Monroe's book?" he asked. "Does this mean you're planning on leaving your husband to find a man with money?"

  And did he actually sound hopeful when he asked that? she wondered. Surely not. She tilted her head to one side and said, "That depends."

  He eyed her with much interest. "On what?"

  She strove for a cocky grin. "On whether or not he's done the laundry when I get home tonight."

  Adam looked absolutely scandalized by the mere suggestion. "You make the poor sap do the laundry?"

  Dorsey looked positively incredulous in response. "Hey, half of the dirty underwear would be his, you know. Why shouldn't he do the laundry?"

  "Somehow, I can't imagine Dave the bulldozer operator sorting socks."

  "Hey, you might be surprised what Dave the bulldozer operator could do."

  In no way did Dorsey mean for the comment to be suggestive, but somehow, it came out sounding exactly that way. She supposed it was because, no matter how much or how little time she spent talking to Adam Darien, somehow, at some point, their conversation always became suggestive. And that, she supposed, was because she found him so attractive. And, she knew, he found her attractive, too. In spite of that, he'd never overstepped the bounds of propriety, probably because of her alleged marital status. Still, that didn't keep them from being attracted to each other. Nor did it keep their conversations from straying into dangerous waters.

  "So what else is Dave … good at?"

  Really dangerous waters.

  The way he voiced the question made a quiver of heat dance around Dorsey's entire body, and she didn't trust herself to say anything more. Adam, however, seemed not to share her problem. Because he continued to eye her expectantly as he lifted his glass again and filled his mouth with wine, his gaze never, ever, not even for a second leaving hers. She couldn't help but be fascinated by the way his strong throat worked over the swallow, nor could she prevent the heat she felt creeping into her face as she watched.

  Worse than all that, though, was the fact that he smiled—very knowingly—as he placed his glass back on the table. And then, more softly than she had ever heard him speak, he asked, "More important than that, though, what else are you good at, Mack?"

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  A dam never found out what Mack was good at. Not from her, at any rate. Not during dinner. Now, as he drove her home—after practically picking her up and carrying her to his car when she'd kept insisting she would walk to the El instead, alone; yeah, right—he still wasn't sure what he'd expected to find out when he'd asked her about her … goodness. But he hadn't been able to help himself in voicing the question. The way she danced around the subject of her husband—or, at least, her alleged husband—had driven him nuts. He still wasn't sure what the hell was going on.

  Was she married? Was she separated? Had she ever actually had a husband to begin with? Adam honestly wasn't sure now. The absence of her wedding ring and the fact that she had never specifically answered him one way or the other about Dave the bulldozer operator really had him wondering.

  Was she married? And why was he so obsessed with finding out the answer to that question?

  As the Porsche rumbled confidently down a quiet street in Oak Brook, it murmured its contentment with the cool night air outside. Which was good, because nobody else was saying a damned thing. Even their conversation over dinner had been surprisingly sparse. Which was odd considering the animation of their discussions at Drake's, where there were definite parameters and boundaries to inhibit them.

  But he and Mack hadn't been at Drake's tonight. Therefore, those parameters and boundaries wer
e immaterial. There should have been neither restraint nor hindrance to the topics the two of them could broach. Yet that very freedom of speech had hampered them both. They'd forsaken the meaty subjects they normally tackled in favor of—Adam swallowed his revulsion—chitchat. As a result, they hadn't discussed much of anything at all.

  Especially Mack's husband. Or lack thereof.

  Was she married?

  The question echoed again in his mind, and no amount of ignoring it would squelch Adam's curiosity. Over the past hours in Mack's company, he was inclined to think that no, she wasn't. Not just because of the absence of her wedding ring. And not just because she had sidestepped each of his questions regarding her spouse. No, it was because of the way she had been looking at him all night. As if she was going to forsake all the luscious tidbits on the dessert cart in favor of something else entirely. Yep, crème brûlée and tiramisu had nothin' on Adam Darien, if the look in Mack's eyes was any indication. No married woman would look at an unmarried man that way. No happily married woman, at any rate.

  Was she married?

  If she was, regardless of whether or not it was a happy union, Adam wasn't the kind of man to violate the marital bond—his own or anyone else's. He knew too well what it felt like to have such a trust betrayed, to be on the receiving end of spousal infidelity. If Mack was married, no matter the state of her matrimony, he wouldn't press his luck. Or her.

  If she wasn't married, however…

  Well, even then, he wasn't sure it was a good idea to get mixed up with her in anything other than a mixed drink capacity. Ultimately, they could wind up in a much more difficult position than simply being shaken or stirred. He and Mack had a nice friendship. Did he really want to mess with that?

  "It's on the right," she said suddenly, scattering his ruminations. Her soft voice sounded unnaturally loud in the close confines of the previously silent car. "Number seventy-three, second to last from the corner."

  Adam slowed the Porsche as he approached the quaint—he could think of no other word to use, even though "quaint" was one he normally, manfully, avoided—townhouse, coming to a halt beside a sleek Jaguar sedan. It was a quiet street, devoid of traffic at this hour on a Monday night. In the bluish-tinted light of a corner street lamp, he developed a quick visual impression of wrought-iron railings on tidy front stoops, window boxes full of bright chrysanthemums, beveled glass in bay windows, and lace curtains.

  Townhouses around here didn't rent cheaply, he couldn't help but observe. And mortgages here were even more costly. Mack's address amounted to awfully nice digs for a bartender-student and her bulldozer-operator husband. If, in fact, these were her digs. And if, in fact, she shared the digs with a bulldozer-operator husband who may or may not be real.

  Was she married?

  Only one way to find out.

  "I'll walk you up," Adam said, telling himself that the simple offer did not sound like a royal command.

  He double-parked, flicked on his emergency flashers, and switched off the engine. Then he turned to find that Mack was already opening her door and scrambling out of the car—or, more accurately, fleeing from the car. The minute she was out, she hurried between two luxury sedans parked at the curb beside her toward the front porch of the building she'd identified as her home.

  "Hey!" Adam called after her as he raced to catch up. He did so just as she cleared the top step and alighted on the front stoop. Unable to quite help himself, he curled his fingers around her elbow in an effort to slow her escape. The small action must have caught her off guard, though, because Mack stumbled a bit as he tugged her gently back. Instinctively, as he had earlier in the bookstore, he extended his other hand to once again prevent her from falling. This time, however, he was ready for her when she righted, straightened, and steadied herself. And this time, he stopped her when she tried to take that biiiiig step in retreat.

  "What's your hurry?" he asked softly, breathlessly. Though he couldn't begin to imagine why he should feel breathless after such a short, quick sprint. Then he looked down at Mack's face and knew exactly why. And what little breath was left him evaporated completely.

  She had slipped off her glasses at some point during the evening—an action whose significance Adam decided not to ponder just now—and her eyes seemed brighter, even greener, thanks to the spill of light from the street lamp behind them. Her lips, plump and dewy and oh-so-sexy, were parted softly, though whether in surprise or for some other reason he chose not to contemplate. And her hair, those fiery tresses that had danced about her shoulders all night, just begging for a man's touch, danced about her shoulders now, just begging for a man's touch.

  How could he resist?

  Lifting a hand gingerly to her shoulder, he captured one errant coppery curl and twined it around his forefinger, twisting slowly, leisurely, deliberately. As he completed the gesture, his hand drew nearer her face, and his other fingers skimmed lightly over the elegant line of her jaw. Mack gasped softly at the contact, opening her eyes wider, parting her lips more. And then, without thinking, without questioning, Adam dipped his head toward hers and claimed her mouth with his.

  Fire flashed in his belly when he tasted her for the first time and he savored the mingling essences of wine and woman. Wanting more, he stepped forward and closed what little distance still lay between them. The hand he'd caught in her hair framed her face just as easily, and he tipped her head back some, so that he could plunder her mouth at will. At the same time, he slipped his other hand around her waist, splaying it open at the small of her back to push her gently forward into his embrace.

  For just the briefest of moments, she stiffened, doubling her fists loosely against his chest. But she made no effort to push him away. And then, without warning, she melted into him, curving one hand over his shoulder, threading the fingers of her other slowly through his hair. Tightening his arm around her waist, Adam pulled her upward, closer to himself. He buried his face in the delicate curve where her neck joined her shoulder, nuzzling the soft, fragrant skin he encountered there. She sighed, murmuring a feather-light sound of contentment, then tilted her head back even more. When she did, he felt the ends of her hair brush over the hand he held at her back, a sensation that was surprisingly arousing.

  She smelled incredible, a heavy, heady, intoxicating scent that seemed both perfectly suitable and entirely inappropriate for her. It tempted him, lulled him, drew him closer still. Nosing aside the wide neck of her sweater, he pressed his lips to her throat, dragging light, open-mouthed kisses up and down the slender column before running the tip of his tongue along her collarbone.

  She murmured another low, provocative sound and crowded her body closer to his, and his heart hammered wildly at the gentle thrust and fluid motion of her soft breasts against his chest. The hand he had pressed to her back fell to the curve of her bottom, and he pushed her forward, upward, rubbing her belly languidly against the swollen, heavy hardness that swelled urgently against his trousers.

  A torrent of desire flooded him as their bodies met, and a ballast of need rocked him. And for one very brief, very scary moment, Adam thought he might never recover.

  Too far, too soon , he thought. Way, way, too far. Way, way, too soon.

  Somehow, he rallied his resources to retreat, but not by much. He nuzzled her neck again, more slowly, less urgently this time, then looped his arms loosely around her waist and tucked her head beneath his chin. Mack clung to him and buried her face in his shoulder, breathing erratically, her entire body trembling. Somehow, he sensed she was reluctant to look at him. And he wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not.

  For one long moment, Adam only held her in silence, wondering what the hell had just happened. Gradually, he managed to will his own heart rate to settle, and slowly, he goaded his libido into submission. Eventually, Mack lifted her head from his shoulder, but she didn't pull herself away. Nor did she look up to meet his gaze. Instead, she focused her attention on his chest, and idly—nervously—fingere
d the lapels of his jacket.

  But she didn't say a word.

  So Adam spoke instead. Sort of. "You're, um…" Finding that particular effort a bit difficult to manage, he cleared his throat and tried again. "This is just a shot in the dark, but… You're not … married, are you?"

  Mack expelled a single humorless chuckle, then glanced up at him for the merest of moments before looking away again. Nevertheless, it was time enough for him to see that she was a little dazed and a lot confused. Maybe even as confused as he was himself.

  "Gosh, figured that out all by yourself, did you?" she replied quietly. She shook her head slowly. "No, I'm not married," she added. "I wear a wedding ring at Drake's to keep the members from hitting on me, that's all."

  He nodded, even though he wasn't sure he understood or approved of the deception. "Ever been married?" he asked further.

  She gazed out at the dark street and shook her head again. "No."

  "There's no Dave the bulldozer operator?"

  "No."

  "No one at all?"

  This time she hesitated before replying. And she continued to avoid his gaze.

  So Adam clarified his question. "No one special who fills your head during the day and your bed at night?"

  She squeezed her eyes shut tight for a moment, then opened them again. Very, very slowly, she looked up to meet his gaze. "There's no one in my bed at night, no."

  Suggesting that there was someone who filled her head during the day, Adam concluded. Somehow, though, he couldn't quite bring himself to ask her who that might be.

  "You doing anything tomorrow night?" he asked her impulsively.

  She hesitated before answering, but she didn't look away. "I have to work."

  He nodded. "Right. I forgot." Hoping he didn't sound too desperate, but worried that he did—desperate was, after all, exactly what he was feeling—he asked, "Can you get someone else to take your shift?"

  With clear reluctance, she told him, "No. I can't. I've already asked Lindy for too many nights off lately. I don't think she's going to tolerate too many more."