How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Then again, Dorsey thought, she and Lauren Grable-Monroe didn't get along particularly well, either, so that was something she and Adam had in common, and that totally erased reason number three. And probably her mother hadn't really been with his father—Carlotta did so love to tease—which eradicated reason number six. And really, when she thought about it, there might be one or two things to be said for long-term relationships, so she ought to exclude reasons number four and five until she had more to go on. Which left her with only, gosh, two reasons not to go through with it.

  And, hey, two wasn't so many.

  "Okay," she told him softly. "We'll talk later."

  He didn't drop his arm right away, however, and as she turned to squeeze past him, Dorsey bumped into him instead, breast to biceps. Touching him that way was, she decided, a very nice feeling, one she wished other parts of her body could experience, too. Adam seemed to agree, because instead of pulling away from her, he uttered a low sound of wanting, and his entire body began to draw nearer.

  "Later," she repeated reluctantly. "We'll talk later."

  "Talk," he reiterated blandly. "Yeah, we'll do that, too." Then, with obvious unwillingness, he dropped his arm and let her go.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, Adam thought, as he watched Mack cross to the bar on the other side of his library, between now and later he had a cocktail party to get through. Damn. He hated hosting parties to begin with, but it was a good way to conduct business in a laid-back atmosphere, to learn things about both his colleagues and competition that he might not learn in professional surroundings. And because the guest lists of his parties generally consisted of a pretty eclectic assortment of people, it wasn't uncommon for Adam to get a nice story for Man's Life here and there in the process.

  He'd always hired Drake's to cater the things because it was convenient and by now Lindy knew how he liked things done. But it had never occurred to him that Mack would work as one of the bartenders, because Mack didn't normally work weekends. Now, suddenly, here she was, in his home, a place he'd fantasized having her on more than one occasion. "Having," of course, being a relative term in this case, because he'd also fantasized having her in a variety of other places as well—including, but certainly not limited to, the top of his desk at the Man's Life offices, the deck of his sailboat, the back seat of his car, a Ferris wheel, a canoe, and one of the fitting rooms at Carson Pierie Scott. And now … and now…

  Damn. He'd lost his train of thought. Something about having Mack…

  Oh, yeah. Here he finally had her in the privacy of his own home—relatively speaking—and she was working for him, for God's sake.

  This wasn't how he'd planned for their first encounter in his home to unfold. He'd rather hoped to have her as a guest. And he certainly hadn't pictured her here dressed in her bartender uniform. He'd had her wearing something considerably more revealing and infinitely more feminine.

  Stop it , he ordered himself. If he kept this up, he was going to be so focused on Mack tonight that he would forget all about the people—who was it he had invited again?—who were coming to his party. Including—

  Oh, no. Oh, man. Oh, jeez.

  Desiree.

  Adam had been so wrapped up in his thoughts, or rather fantasies, or maybe plans—hey, a guy could dream, couldn't he?—for Mack that he'd completely forgotten that he would have a date for his party tonight.

  This, he thought, might pose a problem. Especially if Desiree got it into her head that she would be spending the night after the party. Which wasn't entirely unthinkable, because the last time he'd had her at his place—wow, had it been almost two months ago?—he had, well … had her at his place.

  What the hell had he been thinking to invite her tonight? he wondered now. Then he recalled the last night that she'd spent here and what she'd—almost—been wearing under her dress. Oh, yeah. He remembered now. He'd been thinking about her—

  Well, that really wasn't important at the moment, was it? he told himself. Because what he hadn't been thinking when he'd invited Desiree tonight was that he would, at some point, discover that not only was Mack a single woman, but that she felt damned nice to hold in his arms. And once those little revelations about Mack had started playing out in his mind—over and over and over again, too, dammit—the last thing Adam had thought about was Desiree. About Desiree coming over tonight. About Desiree's probable expectation that she would be staying until dawn.

  And now Adam was going to have his work cut out for him trying to figure a way to juggle two women without hurting either of them—or himself, for that matter, seeing as how one of those women had such sharp fingernails and the other had such a sharp tongue.

  As if to punctuate his dilemma, the doorbell rang rather ominously. With one final, longing look at Mack, he forced himself to go and answer it.

  Oh, man , he thought again. It was going to be a loooong night.

  * * *

  As a clock somewhere behind Dorsey chimed softly nine times, she concluded that this was going to be the longest night of her entire life. Although only two hours had passed since Adam's guests had begun to arrive, the evening had seemed interminable. Of course, that was probably because one of the first of those arrivals had been Adam's date. His date, for crying out loud. This after he had asked Dorsey—no, commanded her—to remain after the party. To do what? she wondered now. Make cocktails for Emperor Odious the First and Princess Dainty during their romp in the royal love shack?

  It didn't help at all that Adam's—she tried not to choke on the word—date was a pink, poofy powder puff of a woman, nor was it at all heartening to overhear an introduction of her and find out she was named Desiree. Truly. Desiree. What was worse, she was tiny and trim and bubbly, with elfishly cut, pink-tinted—I mean, really—blond hair. Still worse, she was dressed in a cute little Chanel suit the color of blush wine.

  A Chanel suit , Dorsey reflected again. A cute little Chanel suit, too, exactly the kind Lauren Grable-Monroe described in How to Trap a Tycoon. Somehow, Dorsey couldn't help but speculate further that Desiree had sporty separates, seductive peignoirs, and at least one diaphanous gown in her closet, as well, and that she was looking to trap herself a tycoon, a tycoon like, oh, Dorsey didn't know, maybe Adam Darien, for example, and it was all Lauren Grable-Monroe's fault, and damn, damn, damn, what the hell had she been thinking to write that stupid book to begin with?

  Dorsey had always considered herself to be an average-sized woman, but she felt like a great, hulking ogre next to Desiree. Everything about the woman was just so dainty and so cute and so perky and so … pink. She'd even come to the bar and, when she couldn't remember the name of the drink she usually had—it was something pink, though, she did remember that part—had asked Dorsey to fix her something that would match her suit. And Dorsey, damn her evil little mind, had recommended a cosmopolitan which, in addition to being a lovely shade of rose, was pretty much straight liquor and might just cause someone who was tiny and perky, someone like, oh, say, Desiree to pass out in the bathroom—or, as would be the case for her, the powder room—at some point during the evening.

  So far, Desiree had consumed four of them. Any minute now, it ought to start getting interesting.

  Likewise interesting was the look on Adam's face now as he hastily approached the bar, because he looked uncomfortable and annoyed, and Dorsey was just superficial and ticked off enough to be happy about it. Hey, why should she be the only one who was having a lousy time?

  "What the hell have you been serving Desiree all night?" he demanded without preamble.

  Dorsey shrugged as innocently as she could. "Cosmopolitans," she told him benignly.

  He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "That doesn't sound too bad. What's in a cosmopolitan?"

  "Vodka."

  "What else?"

  "Triple Sec."

  "What else?"

  "A little splash of cranberry juice for color."

  "What else?"

  "A lime sque
eze."

  "What else?"

  "More vodka."

  He gaped at her in alarm. "Are you trying to tell me she's been drinking straight liquor all night? Do you realize what that will do to a woman her size?"

  "Make her really, really fat?" Dorsey asked hopefully.

  Adam frowned but said nothing.

  "Well, it can," she insisted. "Of course a little thing like her could use a few extra pounds."

  Clearly detecting her malice, Adam countered just as coolly, "Oh, I don't know. I kind of like the way Desiree is arranged."

  "Yeah, you would," Dorsey muttered. Then, unable to help herself, she added, "She'd better be careful her Wonderbra doesn't suffocate her. Those things can be fiercely hard to manage."

  Adam eyed her blandly. "Gee, you talk as if you speak from experience. No offense, Mack, but you don't seem the Wonderbra type." He dropped his gaze to the part of her that was most likely to don such a contraption and added, "Obviously."

  If she hadn't set herself up for that comment, Dorsey would have slapped him silly for making it. "I, uh … I wore one to a Halloween party once," she told him, feeling stung by both his blatant ogling and the fact that she'd come up lacking—in both his eyes and her own bra.

  "Mm," he replied noncommittally. Then he added, "Actually, if you must know, Desiree doesn't wear a Wonderbra."

  A little stab of jealousy pricked Dorsey's ego—oh, all right, a huge, razor-edged broadsword of jealousy rammed itself right through her heart—and before she could stop herself, she replied, "No, I didn't must know, actually, but since you told me anyway, it sounds like you're speaking from experience."

  He grinned at her with a little malice of his own. "Maybe I am."

  Once again, Dorsey realized she'd just set herself up for being torn down. "Oh," she said in a very small voice. "Well. I see."

  Adam sighed heavily, then rubbed a hand over his forehead as if warding off a wicked migraine. "Look, Mack, I'm sorry. I invited Desiree before you and I…" He expelled another restless breath. "Whatever I had with her—it was a long time ago, okay?" he told her.

  Dorsey eyed him suspiciously. She told herself to drop the subject, that he'd said all he needed to say on the matter, that it was none of her business, that she was only setting herself up for more disappointment if she pushed the issue. In spite of all her admonitions, however, she heard herself ask him, "How long ago?"

  He hesitated before responding, then, "Months," he said. "It was months ago."

  "How many months?"

  "Lots of months."

  "How many?" she repeated.

  He expelled an impatient sound, then said through gritted teeth, "So many, I can't remember."

  After another thoughtful moment, Dorsey said, "I'm guessing it was two months."

  He rolled his eyes but said nothing more. Nor would he meet her gaze. Bingo, Dorsey thought. Men were so transparent. "I'm right, aren't I?" she cajoled. "It's only been two months since the two of you—"

  "All right," he conceded. "It's been two months."

  "Two months isn't very long," she observed.

  "Not in woman years, maybe," he conceded. "But in man years, Desiree might as well be dead."

  The difference in opinion heartened Dorsey not at all. "I suppose you've changed your mind about wanting me to stay late tonight after everyone else goes home."

  He met her gaze levelly. "No, I haven't."

  "But with Desiree here—"

  "Desiree won't be here."

  A little flutter of something warm and hopeful skittered around Dorsey's heart. "She won't?"

  "No," Adam told her very decisively.

  "Oh."

  Evidently, this was something he had yet to discuss with Desiree, because, as if she'd been conjured from thin air by their speculation, she appeared magically at his side. Then she pressed herself into him as if she were trying to absorb him through osmosis. It soon became clear, however, that it was an entirely different scientific experiment that she wanted to perform on him this evening. Not osmosis so much as metamorphosis.

  "Adam," she said petulantly, twirling her empty glass by its stem. "When are we going to get married?"

  Adam went absolutely rigid beside her, mimicking Dorsey's own icy posture. Married? she thought, horrified by the prospect.

  "Married?" Adam echoed, clearly horrified by the prospect.

  The petite blonde nodded and, although Dorsey would have sworn such a thing was totally impossible, she crowded her tiny body even more closely into his. "Yes, married," she said insistently. "For the last four months, I've been setting my tycoon trap for you, and you still haven't stepped into it."

  Wow . If Dorsey had thought Adam was angry before, she was severely mistaken. Because at Desiree's casually offered comment, he suddenly went utterly still, utterly silent, utterly…

  Uh-oh.

  "You, uh … you've been setting a tycoon trap since you met me?" he asked very softly.

  She nodded. "I've done everything that Lauren Grable-Monroe told me to do. I found you exactly where she told me I'd find you, and I did all the things she said to do in her book, but I still don't have you trapped. I mean, you didn't even notice the new diaphanous gown I wore the last time I was here." She turned her face up to look at him and—unbelievable, Dorsey thought—didn't even seem to notice that he was absolutely livid.

  "Do go on, Desi," he said, once again speaking in that soft, scary voice.

  "So, Desiree, looks like you could use a refill," Dorsey cut in quickly, hoping to defuse the tension. She reached across the bar to snatch the woman's empty glass out of her elegantly manicured—and, inescapably, pink—fingertips.

  Desiree smiled her gratitude. "Thank you. You've been so considerate and so helpful tonight. Adam's so lucky to have you." For a moment, Dorsey felt guilty for all of the mean-spirited thoughts she'd been having all night about poor Desiree. Then, "Good help is so hard to find," poor Desiree said.

  Dorsey's fingers tightened on the glass. "So, Desi. You were saying something about luring Adam into your tycoon trap. And here I've been thinking that he's the kind of man who would chew his own foot off before he'd let something like that happen. I do wish you'd go on."

  The other woman brightened. "Oh, have you read How to Trap a Tycoon?" she asked.

  Dorsey nodded indulgently. "Chapter seven had me glued to my chair," she said.

  Desiree's expression clouded. "That's funny. Chapter seven had me squirming in mine. That whole crème de menthe thing was just so…" She squinched up her pink little face in something akin to deep thought, then added, "Although maybe if I'd done the crème de menthe thing, Adam would have proposed by now. And then I wouldn't have to do it anymore, because wives aren't expected to be so inventive. All they have to do is lie there and—"

  "Desi," Adam interrupted. He intercepted the drink that Dorsey had eagerly extended toward her and set it back down on the bar. "I think you've had enough. God knows I have. I'm going to find Lucas Conaway and ask him to drive you home."

  It was at that point that Edie Mulholland, who had been working alongside Dorsey much of the night, returned to the bar to refill a serving tray with flutes of champagne. "What are you, nuts?" she interjected when she heard Adam's statement, drowning out Desiree's halfhearted protests. "You get Lucas Conaway to take her home, she'll never get there."

  Adam threw her a funny look. "What are you talking about?"

  "Just … you know … Lucas Conaway," she repeated, as if that were explanation enough. At Adam's still befuddled expression, she added, "How can you trust him to behave himself with a woman in her condition?"

  "What, are you nuts?" Adam asked this time. "Lucas is the only man here I can trust to behave himself with a woman in this condition."

  This was obviously news to Edie, Dorsey noted, and she couldn't help but wonder why the other bartender was taking such an interest in the matter, anyway.

  "Why? Is he gay?" Edie asked pointedly.

  Adam s
hook his head and laughed. Hard. "Lucas Conaway gay? Ah, no. But taking advantage of intoxicated women isn't his style at all."

  This, too, was clearly news to Edie. And to Dorsey, too, for that matter. After all, Lucas Conaway had been the one who wanted to put carnivorous ants all over Lauren Grable-Monroe's naked, staked-down, honey-covered backside. If that wasn't taking advantage, Dorsey didn't know what was.

  The clock behind her chimed again, once this time, announcing the quarter hour, and Desiree evidently took it as her cue to lose consciousness. Because it was right about then that her delicate eyelids began to flutter, and her tiny body went slack. It was only at the last possible moment that Adam caught her, before she would have fallen face first into her untouched cosmopolitan—bonking her head on the bar in the process, no doubt—something Dorsey realized belatedly that she would rather have liked to see.

  Adam sighed heavily and glanced down at his watch. "Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Will this night never end?"

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  I t was after one A.M. when Mack finally finished breaking down the bar, and Adam didn't think he'd ever seen her looking more exhausted. She seemed to be stretching herself pretty thin these days, what with working on her Ph.D. studies, working on a dissertation, working at Drake's, working at Severn… Hell, all Mack seemed to do in life was work on something, he thought now. Funny, he'd never noticed before that the two of them had that in common.

  But where Adam thrived on his work, Mack's was obviously beginning to wear her down. And for what? he wondered. He himself had a lot to show for all the time he put in for the magazine. He'd gone out of his way to take advantage of the financial rewards inherent in a position like his. And he felt not a twinge of guilt for buying himself all the expensive toys he had purchased over the years. He'd worked his ass off to earn every last one of them, even if his work wasn't the primary source of his wealth; that had been in his family for generations.