How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  When her voice broke off, Lucas encouraged her, "That you'd what?"

  "That I'd, um … that I'd live a good life for her," Edie concluded quietly. "So that's what I've been trying to do. What I'm going to keep doing. I'm going to live a good life. For Alice . And for me."

  Lucas shook his head slowly and wondered what on earth he could possibly say that might brighten her dark memories or lighten her burden. But there were no words that could possibly convey the tumult of emotions tumbling around inside him. He could only imagine the ones that must be tumbling around inside her. The thought that Edie, who was so decent and good and kind, had lived through that kind of hell… The knowledge that she had descended to such immeasurable depths, only to rise so high above them… The realization that she had witnessed so much badness and darkness and could still cloak herself in so much goodness and light…

  It took a remarkable person to do that.

  And all along, Lucas had been thinking what an easy life she must have had. He'd been convinced she'd never seen the rank underbelly of the beast. He'd been so sure he knew more about the bitterness of life and the grimness of reality than she did. But life didn't have to be bitter, and reality didn't have to be grim. Oh, certainly, it could be and had been for both of them. But Edie had put hers behind her, had risen above it, had gotten on with her life.

  Edie, he thought, had dealt with it.

  Lucas, however, clearly had not. Oh, he had almost convinced himself that he had. He had been so sure that by winning scholarships to college and achieving academic honors, by writing celebrated stories for a celebrated magazine like Man's Life, by geographically distancing himself from the place where he had grown up, by emotionally distancing himself from his sister and what few friends he'd ever had… By doing all those things, Lucas had been so sure he was dealing with it. But he still pulled out the distasteful memories of his past and relished their bitterness. He nurtured the wounds and savored the hopelessness, relived the torment and revived the pain.

  Hell, he wasn't dealing with it, he thought now. He was succumbing to it. Little by little, a bit more with every passing day. By reliving his past, he prevented himself from enjoying his present. And he certainly kept himself from ever planning for a decent future. He had a long way to go before he could finally say he'd dealt with it. Of course, it would help if he had someone there with him who might show him the way, a person who had traveled the path already and knew what to watch out for. A person who might not mind if, eventually, he took her hand and helped her, too.

  Right now, however, he had no idea what to say to that person. So he just remained silent and waited for a cue from her.

  "After Alice died," Edie finally went on, "I got it into my head that I wanted to find out where I came from. Where I really came from. So I started looking for my biological mother."

  "And how's that going?" Lucas asked, grateful for the change of subject, fully aware, however, that what he and Edie had just shared was in no way finished.

  "It's going," she told him. "The laws are kind of tricky, and it takes time, but…" She shrugged. "I'm hopeful."

  So what else is new? he thought.

  As grateful as he had been for the change of subject, he was surprised to hear himself pipe up suddenly, "That's why you don't want men touching you, isn't it, Edie? Because you were mistreated so often by your … clients."

  She seemed as surprised as he—and certainly no more thrilled—by the return to their earlier conversation, but she nodded in agreement. "Among others, yes."

  Lucas decided not to ask about those others. Not just because he could, unfortunately, imagine all too well, and not because he didn't want her to relive memories she was clearly unwilling to revisit. But because there was another question he wanted to ask her so much more.

  "Edie, will you let me touch you?"

  Her eyes flew open wide, darkened by her obvious panic at hearing the question. "No," she told him immediately, adamantly.

  He didn't make a move toward her, but he opened his hand, palm up, and began to slowly extend it forward. "Just let me come over there and put my hand in yours, that's all."

  She shook her head vehemently enough to send her blond curls flying. "No, Lucas."

  "Then let me put my palm over yours."

  "No."

  "Then fingertip to fingertip."

  "No."

  "Then—"

  "No."

  This time he was the one to sigh. "Then will you come over here and touch me?" he asked.

  Her eyes seemed to brighten some then, but he saw quickly that it wasn't due to any lightening of her spirit. It was due to the tears that had sprung up out of nowhere. She didn't answer him right away, only continued to gaze at him in silence, her eyes filling deeper and deeper. Then, very slowly, she shook her head again. The motion caused one fat tear to spill over and glide down her cheek, and something inside Lucas twisted tight at seeing it.

  "Edie, just touch me," he said softly. "You know I won't hurt you. You know that."

  "Rationally, I suppose I do know that," she conceded softly. "But it's not my rational mind you have to convince, Lucas. It's the scared, strung-out seventeen-year-old girl who's still living inside me."

  "Then bring her out," he said eagerly, "and let me talk to her. Let me touch her."

  Edie uttered a soft, strangled sound at that. "I wish I could. But she's buried way too deep inside me. You'll never get to her. You'll never convince her."

  "The hell she's down deep," Lucas countered. "Edie, she's right there, just below the surface. She's the one who panics every time a man gets near you."

  He stood up then, not sure what he planned to do, but unable to sit still any longer. And when he did, the scared seventeen-year-old in Edie reacted, bolting out of her chair, too. Even though Lucas didn't make a single move forward, she strode backward until her fanny made contact with the windowsill. Then she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, as if trying to keep herself from falling apart.

  "I won't hurt you, Edie," Lucas said again. "I will never, ever hurt you."

  He braved a small step forward and took some comfort in the fact that she didn't retreat further—not that she had anyplace to go except into the corner, but at least she didn't do that. So he chanced another small step toward her, again with no reaction on Edie's part. She didn't move forward to meet him halfway—or even quarterway—but she didn't withdraw, either.

  The third step he took did seem to concern her, though, because as he completed it, her eyes widened a bit in … something. He couldn't quite say what. Concerned that she would flee to her room and lock the door, and knowing he was probably pushing his luck, Lucas stole a few more steps toward her, positioning himself between her and escape, until he was close enough to reach out and touch her.

  He didn't reach out, though. Because she hastened sideways and crowded herself into the corner created by the window and the wall, cowering in very apparent and very heartbreaking fear.

  "I won't take another step forward," Lucas promised her. "But I'm not going to go backward, either."

  "Lucas," she said, her voice level and strong, something that heartened him greatly. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but … don't. Okay? Just … don't."

  "Edie, all you have to do is give me your hand. That's all. Just give me your hand."

  She shook her head. "You're asking for too much, Lucas. You might as well be asking for the moon."

  "It's next on my wish list," he told her with a tentative smile. "Right after Edie Mulholland's heart."

  Edie gazed at Lucas in disbelief, certain she had misunderstood, or, worse, that he was lying to her. But there was something in his eyes as he said what he did, something wistful, something hopeful, something she'd never seen there before. And she had to force herself not to blurt out that he already had her heart. That he'd had it for a long time now, maybe even before that first night, when she'd had to drive him home from Drake's. That he would always have it, be
cause he was the only man she'd ever come close to caring about. The only man she had ever wished she could touch. The only man she regretted knowing would never be a part of her life.

  She still wasn't sure why she had told him everything she had about her past. For some reason, it had just seemed important that he know. She had no idea why. Really, it wasn't like her history was any of his business. And there was certainly nothing between them that warranted this kind of total, unvarnished honesty. But she had wanted him to know. Maybe because she was tired of him seeing her as Mulholland of Sunnybrook Farm. Or maybe because she was tired of seeing herself that way. Whatever. As difficult and uncomfortable as it had been to revisit all that, she felt strangely good for doing it. Cleaner, somehow. Less tarnished. More human.

  And now he told her he wanted her heart. And, oh, how she wished she could give it to him. Totally, freely, without shadows, without pain. She gazed at his outstretched hand, steady, strong, and inviting. Maybe, she thought, just maybe…

  Before she even realized what she was thinking of doing, Edie found herself lifting her own hand and extending it slowly toward him. Lucas fixed his gaze on the motion, but he didn't move in any way. He didn't reach for her, didn't take a step forward, didn't so much as shift his weight in her direction. So, feeling a little more confident, Edie opened her palm and held it out a bit farther. Her fingers trembled, but she didn't pull back, only focused all her concentration on what she was trying to do, what she wanted to do. She forced her feet to join in the overture, shuffling them forward, but still Lucas remained pinned to the spot. When she glanced up at his face, she found him gazing not at her hand anymore, but at her face, her eyes, her mouth. Another step forward brought her body within inches of his, yet still he made no move to intercept her.

  So Edie lifted her hand a bit more, not toward his hand, but toward his face, toward his mouth. Very, very carefully, she moved her fingers to his lips. For a moment, she couldn't quite bring herself to make that final contact, couldn't quite cover that last, infinitesimal bit of space. Lucas's lips parted fractionally, his warm breath dancing over her fingers, stirring a desire deep inside her unlike anything she'd felt before.

  "Touch me, Edie," he said softly, and the words seemed to wrap themselves around her fingertips, drawing them closer, closer, closer still.

  And then suddenly she was touching him, brushing those same fingertips over the velvety warmth of his mouth, grazing first his lower lip and then his upper lip, over and over and over again, because she'd never felt anything so soft, so warm, so vital in her life. His eyes fluttered closed as her caresses multiplied, and he sighed softly, the sound nuzzling her palm and purling through her body like a languid summer breeze.

  Oh… Oh, that felt so good …

  Her heart hammering hard in her chest, Edie dragged her fingers slowly, gently, from his smooth lower lip to his rough jaw, over the hollow of his cheek, along the high ridge of his cheekbone. Gingerly, she threaded her fingers through the silky hair at his temple, skimmed them across his forehead, over his eyebrow, then traced the elegant line of his nose. But always her fingers returned to his mouth, as if captivated by that feature more than any other.

  And Lucas, dear Lucas, stood motionless through it all, save the quick rise and fall of his chest as his respiration grew almost frantic. He let Edie move at her own pace, in her own time, to whatever she wanted to explore next. And Edie realized quickly that she did indeed want to explore more. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Maybe not even next week. But she did want to know more of Lucas. She wanted to know all of him. She just hoped he could be patient with her. She hoped he would think she was worth the wait.

  "I'll wait as long as it takes, Edie," he said softly, clearly reading her thoughts from her expression. "We'll do this your way. However you want. For however long it takes. Just promise me you'll give it a chance."

  She nodded as she ran a finger gently over his chin, then down the strong column of his throat. "I promise, Lucas," she told him softly. "I promise."

  * * *

  By the time Lucas left Edie's apartment, he was feeling bewitched, bothered and bewildered, dazed, dazzled and delighted. Not just because of the way she'd touched him, but because of the way she'd opened up to him, too. Because of the way he'd opened up to her. They'd talked for a long time—he sitting on the futon, she perched in the rocker—about everything they had in common and everything they didn't, everything they wanted for the future and everything they didn't.

  Then, just before they'd said good-bye, Edie had let Lucas touch her, too. And as he'd slowly, carefully, skimmed his thumb over her warm palm, as he'd felt her pulse beneath his fingertips leap and dance, he'd been stunned to discover that he would wait forever for Edie Mulholland, if that was how long it took. Judging by the look on her face when he'd told her good night, however, it wasn't going to take forever.

  He smiled as he exited her building and headed to his car, parked across the street. And it was only by sheer accident that he glanced toward the corner and saw a figure lurking in the shadows. In the quick glimpse he managed to complete before the figure dissolved into darkness, Lucas formed a hasty impression of a man—a man who was gazing up at Edie Mulholland's windows. With a brief glance over his shoulder, he saw her silhouetted behind the lace curtains, and somehow, he knew—he just knew—that whoever was lurking across the street was there because of Edie.

  Whistling under his breath, Lucas did his best to look like he was just moseying on over to his car to head home and had no idea that some sleazy sonofabitch stalker was creeping around not fifteen feet away from where it was parked. But instead of reaching for the driver's side door handle, he bolted for the shadow into which he'd last seen the figure merge. And then, suddenly, almost as if he had fallen into a dream, he was chasing a man down the street.

  A surprisingly well-dressed man, he realized when he caught up with him and grabbed a fistful of very fine gabardine wool. A man he recognized, he realized further, as he jerked viciously on that fine wool and pulled the man backward, then slammed him maliciously up against a brick wall. A man he shouldn't be at all surprised to see here, he realized even further, as he thrust his forearm against the guy's throat. Hard.

  " Davenport ," he muttered scornfully. It figured he'd be the sleazy sonofabitch who was stalking Edie. Unable to keep that particular observation to himself, Lucas added, "You sleazy, sonofabitch stalker. Who the hell do you think you are?"

  "I'm not a stalker," Davenport denied as he tried to free himself from Lucas's brutal grip. Just to show him what for, however, Lucas shoved him more sternly up against the wall. The other man grimaced when his head made contact with the brick.

  "You were the one following Edie after Adam's party that night, weren't you?" Lucas demanded, the memory still much too fresh in his brain for his comfort.

  Davenport tried to wrench free the forearm pressed to his throat, but Lucas had rage on his side and barely felt the gesture. "Yes," the other man finally gasped. "That was me."

  "And now here you are, hanging around her place," Lucas charged, pushing his arm even more firmly against the other man's throat.

  "Conaway, please," Davenport ground out. "Let me explain. I'm not stalking her."

  "You follow her around in the middle of the night," Lucas pointed out, "and you stand outside her apartment, looking up at her windows. What does that make you, if not a sleazy"—he shoved Davenport back against the wall—"sonofabitch"—he shoved again, harder—"stalker?" He punctuated the question with a few more shoves.

  But Davenport regrouped pretty well. "It makes me somebody who wants to be sure she's safe," he said through gritted teeth. "She wasn't at work today. I wanted to make sure she was all right."

  "You wanna take care of the girl, right?" Lucas spat sarcastically.

  Davenport nodded.

  "You wanna be Edie's sugar daddy, you sonofabitch?" Lucas taunted.

  This time, Davenport shook his head. "No. Just … just her dadd
y."

  Lucas narrowed his eyes at the man. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I'm not a stalker," Davenport said for a third time. "I'm Edie's father. Her biological father."

  * * *

  "I was twenty-two when I met your mother, Edie. And she was eighteen."

  Lucas listened grudgingly as Davenport spoke, and watched even more grudgingly as Edie pressed a cup of freshly brewed coffee into the other man's hand—without quite making physical contact. Then she retreated to the rocking chair she had occupied before. She was still wearing her robe, her hair still tumbled freely about her shoulders, and she still wore the expression of utter bewilderment that had appeared on her face when she'd opened her front door fifteen minutes ago to find Lucas holding Davenport by the scruff of his neck.

  In spite of all that, she seemed like a stranger somehow. There was a desperation about her that Lucas had never seen before, a yearning that went way beyond wishfulness. She'd barely looked at him since he'd come in with Davenport, so fixed had her attention been on the other man after Lucas had shoved him inside and recounted what had happened on the street below, echoing the words that Davenport had uttered. She wanted those words to be true with all her heart, he could see. She wanted more than anything for this man to be her link to the past, her hope for the future. But something inside her wouldn't quite allow that leap just yet.

  Her father, Lucas marveled yet again. Unbelievable.

  "Go on," Edie murmured from the other side of the room, her voice so soft, so weary, Lucas almost didn't hear her.

  Davenport obviously did, however, because he glanced up when she spoke, even if he didn't follow her instruction. Instead of speaking, he curled his fingers more resolutely around his coffee cup and studied her carefully from his place on the futon. Lucas stood midway between the two of them, his shoulders braced against the wall, the rest of his body poised for attack, though why he should feel something like that might be necessary, he couldn't imagine. Not that he didn't trust Davenport , but… He really didn't trust Davenport . Not yet, anyway. And he sure as hell didn't want to see Edie get hurt again.