How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  And in a low, level voice, he said, "Should I tell you how good it felt to wake up this morning and find you in my bed?"

  Dorsey's lips parted softly in surprise that he would reveal such a thing so freely. No, don't, she thought. Don't tell me anything that will make me care for you more than I do already.

  "Should I tell you how sweet you smell and how soft you are?" he added.

  No, don't. Please don't.

  "Should I tell you how easy you are to hold? How long it's been since I've wanted a woman as much as I want you?"

  No, don't…

  "Should I tell you how incredible last night was?"

  Oh, Adam…

  He seemed to sense her distress, because his smile fell some as he asked further, "Or would telling you all that be revealing too much, too soon?"

  Dorsey's languid pulse had begun to vibrate like a kettledrum with every soft, seductive word he spoke. Surely he wasn't serious about all that, she thought. Surely he was only saying these things to her now because he was still under the influence of the warm, rosy afterglow that came on the heels of lovemaking. Surely he wasn't telling her what he seemed to be telling her. Surely last night had been no more important to him than any of his other sexual conquests had been.

  Then again, he was looking a little conquered himself at the moment, she thought. She never would have guessed that Adam Darien was the kind of man who would bring a woman breakfast and roses in bed.

  She swallowed hard. "Uh, no," she said with some difficulty. "Um, that's, uh … that's fine. You can say that."

  His smile returned, confident, affectionate, and very, very sexy. "Then should I tell you how often I'd like to wake up that same way?" he asked further. "Or would it scare you off if you knew just how badly I want you?"

  Had she thought her pulse was rapid before? Heavens, she'd had no idea her blood could rush so fiercely through her body without making her unconscious. Then again, she was beginning to feel a little dizzy.

  "I, uh…" she stammered, "I—I don't know. Would it?"

  His smile turned a little sad as he considered his answer. "Yeah," he finally said softly. "It probably would. So I don't think I'll tell you that part. Not yet, anyway."

  She felt strangely disappointed that he didn't, then told herself not to be. If his intentions would scare her, then she didn't need to hear them. She was much too frightened of what lay ahead as it was.

  Adam seemed to sense her misgivings, because he stretched out alongside her, propping himself up on one elbow, cradling his head in his palm. For a moment, he only gazed at her, as if he were trying to imprint her appearance on some part of his brain so that he would never forget this moment. Then he lifted his other hand and twined a single auburn curl around his forefinger.

  "I'm glad you stayed last night," he said simply.

  She hesitated only briefly before assuring him, "I'm glad I did, too."

  He unwound the curl from his finger and then brushed his bent knuckles lightly along her jawline. "We should do it again sometime," he told her.

  Dorsey let out a shallow breath before asking, "Should we?"

  He nodded, then skimmed his fingertips across her lower lip. "Mm-hm. Soon."

  His tender touches, so seemingly innocent, so utterly arousing, made it impossible for her to think clearly. "I … okay," she capitulated easily.

  He grazed the back of his hand down the slender column of her throat, then turned it to dip his middle finger in the delicate hollow at its base. "Like tonight maybe," he suggested.

  "To-tonight?" she asked huskily.

  He nodded again. "I have to be in Evanston this afternoon, but I should be done there by six. I could swing by your place on my way home and pick you up. We could grab a bite to eat, maybe go hear some nice jazz, and then come back here. What do you say?"

  Frankly, Dorsey couldn't say anything. Because she'd heard little past the word, " Evanston ." Although tiny bonfires had exploded inside her every time, everywhere, Adam touched her, a cold, brittle weight now wedged itself tight somewhere between her stomach and her heart. And she couldn't quite make herself breathe around it.

  "You, uh … you're going to Evanston this afternoon?" she asked, amazed that she'd managed to form the question, so numb was she feeling. "What for?"

  He dropped his hand to the mattress, and Dorsey felt both gratitude and regret for his retreat. "Lauren Grable-Monroe is speaking at Northwestern today," he muttered distastefully. "And since I've had no choice but to submit to the American public's demands and include a piece on her in Man's Life, I figure the least I can do is try to wrangle an interview with the woman."

  Telling herself not to sound too interested, but helpless not to pursue the matter, Dorsey asked him, "Why don't you just call her publisher and set something up?"

  He didn't seem to think the question odd, because he answered quite readily, "I was going to do that, but there's just something about ambushing the woman that appeals to my baser instincts. So I thought I'd catch her by surprise after her lecture this afternoon."

  Oh, no you won't , Dorsey thought. You've just blown your advantage. She is on to you, mister. Bigtime.

  And she tried to forget how he had been on her—in her—only hours ago. Unfortunately, memories of last night came roaring up to overwhelm her, and Dorsey realized that, regardless of where he was in the world, Adam would always be inside her. Even if she lived to be one hundred years old, she would never forget a moment of what they had shared last night. Especially since it was looking unlikely that they would ever have a chance to repeat it.

  Because she had forgotten that there was a woman standing between them. Namely, Lauren Grable-Monroe.

  Now what? she wondered as a cool lump of dread settled inside her. What on earth was she supposed to do? She'd just spent the most glorious night of her life with a man who might very well prove to be someone special, and Lauren Grable-Monroe was about to step right between them and shove them apart. She had to tell him the truth, she thought. She couldn't keep carrying on with the charade. Not where Adam was concerned. How could she keep lying to him after what they had shared last night?

  But what if he blew her cover? she asked herself. Yes, the two of them had just shared a wonderful night together, and yes, the future for them looked very bright. But what if, when he learned the truth, Adam became angry? Angry about the deception, angry that it was Dorsey who had penned a book he reviled? What if he became angry enough to forget what they had just shared? Angry enough to expose her as Lauren? Angry enough to disrupt her life even more than it had already been disrupted?

  In spite of everything, she honestly didn't know him all that well. What the two of them had discovered together was still so new, so fragile, so uncertain. She wanted to believe he would never do anything to hurt her. But she wasn't sure she could make that leap of faith. Not yet.

  "Adam, I—"

  Dorsey never found out what she was going to tell him, because the hand he had dropped to the mattress moved to the sheet she'd wrapped loosely around herself. With a gentle tug, he freed it from her shoulder, baring one breast. Then, without hesitation, he opened his hand over her naked flesh and palmed her with easy possession. The sensation that shot through her was a keen mixture of heat and cold, of desire and foreboding, of wishing and warning. But the former quickly overrode the latter in every case, and Dorsey lifted a hand to run her fingers through his hair.

  He was so handsome. So tender. So wonderful. And she simply did not want to do anything that would jeopardize the tentative feelings that seemed to have come out of nowhere last night. Surely, later they could talk, and she would find some way to make sense of it all. Surely, later she would find some way to explain. Surely later—

  "I want you again," he said softly.

  But he did nothing to alter his leisurely posture. He only watched her face intently as he rubbed his open hand back and forth over her breast, rousing in her fire and heat and need. Dorsey curled her fingers around
his nape and lay back on the bed, pulling him down with her until his mouth hovered just above her own. Then, with one more gentle nudge, she caught his lips with hers, nuzzling them, nipping them, before running the tip of her tongue along the seam that parted them. He opened to her willingly, and she drove her tongue inside, tasting Adam and the promise of a languid Sunday morning.

  For now, that was enough, she told herself. Because a languid Sunday morning with him was more than she had ever had with anyone else before. If what she suspected was happening between them was actually happening between them, there would be time for explanations later.

  She only hoped there wouldn't be a time for regrets, too.

  * * *

  When Lauren Grable-Monroe took the stage at North-western at precisely three-thirty that afternoon, Adam was glad he had arrived early enough to snag himself a seat up close. Not just because the crush of people—mostly women … mostly college women … mostly rabid college women—behind him were so enthusiastic, and not because he might have had trouble hearing otherwise. But because she was dressed in va-va-voom red that really did bear seeing up close.

  The short, slim skirt hugged legs encased in sheer black silk, and the shorter, slimmer jacket hung open over a scooped-neck, snug black top. Adam got the impression of dangerous curves and not much else, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the elusive, erotic scent that must surely surround her.

  She was an eyeful, that was for sure. Eye candy, he thought further, having heard the phrase from Lucas and finally understanding what it meant. Lauren Grable-Monroe, with her blond, blond hair and dark, dark eyes and red, red mouth—not to mention that do-me-baby body—was every man's dream. And once she was front and center onstage, Adam was glad he'd made the trip to Evanston . Because her front and center was just too nice to miss.

  Of course, he hadn't been so glad earlier that day, when he'd had to leave the warmth of his bed and Mack to shower and change and return to the real world. He hadn't been lying to her when he'd told her it had felt good to wake up and find her in his bed that morning. Actually, that had been a lie, he backpedaled now. Because waking up beside Mack had felt infinitely more than good. It had felt extraordinary. Incredible. Amazingly right.

  As consciousness had gradually dawned on him that morning, Adam had opened his eyes to the indolent, erotic sensations of soft, round breast cradled in one hand and soft, round bottom nestled against full erection. He'd been nearly overcome by the warm, rosy reality of having her in his bed, had wanted to enter her right then, that way, with their bodies spooned back to front as he moved in and out of her from behind.

  Instead, he'd only lain there and held her, enjoying the peaceful, innocent feel of her in his arms. She really was very easy to hold. So easy, that he hadn't wanted to let her go. Ever. And that, more than anything else, had shaken Adam to his core. It was one thing to want a woman as much as he wanted Mack. It was another thing entirely for that wanting to go so deep and for that wanting to go on forever. Yet way down deep inside himself, he was beginning to think that he wanted her in just that way. Soul deep. For all time. And he couldn't for the life of him understand why.

  Yes, she was a beautiful, intelligent, passionate woman. But there was certainly no shortage of those in Chicago . Why did Mack make him feel so different from how other women he had dated—other women he had bedded—had made him feel? There shouldn't be any more to his relationship with her than he'd had with anyone else. But there was. He couldn't quite put his finger on what, but there was definitely something more there.

  The only thing that had kept him from spending the entire day in bed making love to her had been the fact that she, herself, had had to leave, even before he did. She'd never told him specifically where she was going that afternoon. Nor had any amount of coaxing or cajoling on his part been able to make her stay. And boy, had Adam coaxed. Boy, had he cajoled. He'd unsheathed—so to speak—every amorous weapon—so to speak—in his more than ample—so to speak—arsenal, hoping to convince her that nothing could be more important than the two of them spending the day together alone. Preferably in bed. Preferably naked. Preferably insensate with wanting.

  But something had been more important to Mack. Because nothing he'd said or tried or done would make her change her mind. And no matter how many times he had asked her, or in how many ways, she wouldn't tell him where she was going.

  You wouldn't be interested , she'd kept saying. Or It's no place special. Or It's just something I have to do. A prior commitment, she'd tried to explain. I can't get out of it.

  Adam told himself that her reluctance to reveal her destination—and who might be waiting for her at that destination—shouldn't bother him, that she was entitled to her privacy in that respect. In spite of the spontaneous combustion the two of them had generated the night before, whatever was happening between them was still too new and too uncertain for either of them to start making demands on the other. Whatever appointment Mack had been required to meet, she'd made it before last night. And if it was with another man, well…

  Well, then Adam would just have to find the other guy and break his neck, that was all.

  Once Mack had left that afternoon, Adam had seen no reason not to complete his day in the way that he'd initially planned, and he had halfheartedly driven to Evanston to ambush Lauren Grable-Monroe. He expected her to speak at length about the writing of her book, then hawk the publication like snake oil. Instead, she spent much of her time discussing the psychology of men and women and the sexual politics inherent in any romantic relationship. She was surprisingly astute, Adam had to admit, and remarkably animated.

  Clearly, she loved the subject matter about which she had written. Her talk was laced with humor, but many of her observations were unexpectedly pithy. She was obviously well versed in the whole man-woman dynamic. Then again, considering how she'd made her way in the world, he supposed that wasn't surprising. All in all, though, the author's presentation was remarkably informative.

  Man, he should have invited Mack along today, Adam thought as he listened. She really would have gotten into this. Of course, she'd had other things—another man?—to do, he recalled uncomfortably. Then again, he'd be seeing her tonight, he remembered, heartened some. Even if he hadn't been able to convince her to stay at his place that morning, he'd won the concession from her that they would see each other again this evening.

  He could hardly wait.

  After Lauren Grable-Monroe concluded her speech, she opened the floor to questions, thereby bringing Adam back to the matter at hand. There were only a smattering of inquiries at first, but gradually, several people in the auditorium began raising their hands. Many eventually started waving them quite adamantly in their demands to be recognized. Ms. Grable-Monroe took her time when selecting her interrogators, though whether that was because she was trying to be fair or because she was trying to weed out anybody who might be too challenging Adam had yet to decide.

  "Yes, here in front," she said now, directing her attention to a young woman who had a hand extended in the air.

  The girl—for truly, Adam noted, she couldn't have yet completed her freshman year—wore the standard university uniform of baggy cargo pants and massive, long-sleeved T-shirt. She tossed back her ebony curls and adjusted wire-rimmed glasses as she asked, "Ms. Grable-Monroe, would you say a word or two about the Cinderella complex? About how women wait around for Prince Charming to come and rescue them from their unhappy lives and make them feel complete?"

  "Oh, I'd be happy to speak at length on the Cinderella complex," the author said cheerfully. "Especially since you don't seem to have a clue what it's really all about."

  The student's mouth dropped open in surprise, but before she could defend herself, Lauren Grable-Monroe began to talk again.

  "Traditionally, a woman with a Cinderella complex, instead of taking charge of her own life and creating her own destiny, assumes that a man, a Prince Charming, will eventually come and sweep her
off her feet and carry her to his palace, and then the two of them will live happily ever after. He becomes, in that respect, her rescuer. That's the popular—and erroneous, I might add—interpretation of that fairy tale. I'd suggest we look at it a different way. Ask yourself who needed whom more in that relationship?"

  The student seemed stumped. "I'm not sure I'm following you," she said.

  Lauren Grable-Monroe tented her fingers thoughtfully on the dais before her and said, "Cinderella, poor drudge that she was, was, nevertheless, a reasonably happy person. A person who really lacked nothing in her life. She had a family—albeit a dysfunctional one, but hey, who doesn't, right?—and a roof over her head and food on the table and steady work. One might argue that the work was a bit too steady, but still. She had a relatively good life, considering the time period with which we're working here. She needed nothing more. Had Prince Charming never come along, she would have survived quite adequately in her world.

  "Prince Charming, on the other hand," she continued, "did need something in addition to his family, his roof, his food, and his work. He needed an heir. No self-respecting prince of the time would be without one. He would be far too easy a target for his enemies. And there was only one way for the prince to get an heir. He needed a woman. Enter Cinderella. She was his rescuer in that respect. She was his rescuer," the author reiterated. "Not the other way around. Technically, Prince Charming had nothing to offer Cinderella that she didn't already have. She, however, did have something that he didn't—a womb. He couldn't have survived without her. She, however, could have managed quite nicely without him."

  "But what about love?" the student asked.

  Lauren Grable-Monroe smiled. "Ah, now that's an entirely different question. And an entirely different scenario. If you want to bring love into the union, then you have a much more equitable balance of reward and rescue. Which is entirely the point to my book."