How to Trap a Tycoon Read online

  She knew that he was the editor-in-chief of Man's Life magazine, which, in her opinion was really far too elitist and sexist a publication for any self-respecting woman—rich or poor—to condone, but it did usually contain a very nice fiction piece, and once, she'd found a great recipe for a Manhattan in there, and the arts section was far superior to anything she found in any other publication. But other than that, the magazine was pretty much an affront to womanhood everywhere. Even if Janet Reno and Gloria Steinem had both given profiles in the magazine recently. Really good ones, too.

  Dorsey also knew that Adam Darien had just recently purchased a new, jet-black, Porsche 911 cabriolet. She knew that, because the two of them had discussed at length the pros and cons of that car and the new Jaguar roadster. Mr. Darien had been leaning toward the Jag until Dorsey had assured him the Porsche was one fine piece of automotive machinery, and when you compared German and British engineering, well … say no more. Unless he was willing to import a mechanic named Nigel, he was much better off with the 911.

  Had Mr. Darien been any other kind of man—one who wasn't incredibly handsome, successful, intelligent and self-aware—she might have thought his frequency at the club was a result of loneliness. But there was no way—no way—she would ever believe a man like him was lonely. Doubtless he simply enjoyed the camaraderie and excessive testosterone levels at Drake's. After all, he always left well before bedtime. Even if he didn't wear a wedding ring—something she just happened to notice one day when she hadn't been looking, honest—she was sure there was some woman, or perhaps women—he did rather seem that type—waiting for him at home.

  But that was all beside the point.

  Because Mr. Darien was, when all was said and done, a member of Drake's. He was a suit-and-tie-wearing, establishment-supporting, stock-and-bond-owning, woman-objectifying … man.

  And anyway, regardless of how much she knew about him, she scarcely had time to think about him, had she? He only braved entry into her brain once or twice—or ten or twenty—times a day, and only during those few—or several—off moments when she had nothing else to think about. She especially didn't have time to think about him while she was here at Drake's, even if, every time she turned around, she saw him sitting there staring at her.

  Like right now, for instance.

  With those incredible brown eyes.

  And that impudent little grin.

  And that dark hair that would never quite stay tamed, as if he ran his fingers through it in exasperation constantly, hair that Dorsey always found herself wanting to reach out and ruffle herself. Over and over and over again. Preferably while both of them were somewhere other than Drake's. Somewhere alone. In the dark. Horizontal. And naked.

  And then there was the way his jacket was always hanging on a nearby peg, and the way his vest was always unbuttoned, and the way his necktie was always askew, as if he only conformed to the suits because he had to, and if he had his choice, he'd much rather be wearing something else entirely—like maybe a sexy denim shirt and some tight Levi's or something. Or some sexy silk pajama bottoms with no tops or something. Or nothing at all or something.

  Um, where was she?

  Oh, yeah. She was thinking about how she never had time to think about Adam Darien—she was far too busy with … stuff. Besides, doing things like thinking about him, and, oh … imagining what he looked like naked would only make him that much harder to forget when the time came for Dorsey to leave her position here at Drake's. And the time would definitely come. In just a few months, too. So Mr. Darien would always remain on the fringes of her thoughts. And he would never, ever be naked when he was hanging around those fringes.

  Well, okay, almost never.

  Twisting the wedding band on her left hand, Dorsey covered the short distance between herself and the bar, trying to pretend that she didn't feel his gaze consuming her, noting that, in addition to her regular customers who had shown up early this cloudy, fallish Friday afternoon—one of whom, she couldn't quite help but note again was Mr. Darien—one of Edie's regulars was still hanging around.

  Edie Mulholland was the daily lunchtime bartender at Drake's, and Straight-Shot-of-Stoli was the most regular of her regulars.

  According to Edie, he came in every afternoon at two-thirty, and Dorsey had seen for herself how he stayed until a few minutes after she left for the day at four.

  Had Dorsey been a more charitable woman, she would have assured herself that Straight-Shot-of-Stoli cared for Edie the way a man his age might care for one of his daughters. But even if he'd never made a pass at the other bartender, Dorsey was reasonably certain that Straight-Shot's intentions toward Edie were anything but honorable.

  He looked to be in his mid-forties, something that would make him more than two decades older than Edie. But Dorsey had to grudgingly admit that he was a very handsome man. His black hair held only a few negligent threads of gray, and his blue eyes suggested a wealth of intelligence and good humor. Beneath the pin-striped power suits he favored, his body was slim and firm and fit.

  There was, unfortunately, one problem. Like Dorsey, he sported a wedding band on the third finger of his left hand. And she was fairly certain that his reason for doing so didn't quite mirror her own. It was something that rather compromised any feelings—whether honorable or not—he might have had for young Edie.

  That didn't stop him, however, from visiting with the other bartender pretty much every day. Or from saying things like—

  "Edie, you need someone to take care of you."

  —as he was saying when Dorsey pushed up the hinged section of the bar and strode quickly behind it.

  "I know, Mr. Davenport, I really do need a keeper," Edie said in response, just as she always did. And, as always, her voice was the picture of politeness when she said it.

  Which was no surprise at all, because Edie Mulholland was, without question, the nicest, most courteous person on the planet. And had Edie's remark about needing a keeper come from any other woman, Dorsey probably would have lost every bit of respect she had for her. Then she probably would have smacked her open hand against the other woman's forehead and cried, "Snap out of it!" They had, after all, come a long way, baby. The last thing Dorsey's gender needed was for some sweet, young thing like Edie Mulholland to hurl them all back into high heels and pearls. Or, worse, chastity belts and those funny little pointed hats with the scarves attached.

  But Edie did need someone to take care of her. Because in addition to being the nicest, most courteous person on the planet, she was also the sweetest, the most generous—and the most trusting.

  She was exactly the kind of person that predators—predators like, oh, say, Straight-Shot-of-Stoli—came after. And she wouldn't know what hit her until it was too late.

  "And believe me, I'm working on it," she added in an aside to Straight-Shot as she lifted a hand in greeting to Dorsey. "If all goes well, I'm going to find exactly the person I'm looking for. Soon."

  "Edie, I'm sorry I'm late," Dorsey said as she slung her white apron over her head and reached behind herself to tie it. "I was at the library, and time just got away from me."

  "That's okay," the other woman said as she repeated Dorsey's action in reverse—unfastening and tugging her apron over her head. "I can still make it before they close," she added as she fingered her delicate blond bangs to straighten them.

  "I'll come in a half-hour early on Monday, okay?"

  Edie smiled, her blue eyes full of a genuine happiness at the simple pleasure of being alive.

  Some people, Dorsey supposed, were just decent folks. And Edie Mulholland was their queen.

  "Don't worry about it," she said, reaching beneath the bar to collect her things—history and humanities textbooks for when the bar was empty, fashion magazines for when the regulars began to trickle in. Because smart women generally received lousy tips. "It's no big deal," she added. "Honest."

  "I'm still coming in early to relieve you on Monday."

 
"Fine," Edie said. "But have a nice weekend between now and then, okay?"

  Yeah, right , Dorsey thought. With a barely begun dissertation that was due in six months waiting for her at home? With volumes of research to perform and analyze? With papers to grade and a midterm to create? Not likely.

  Nevertheless, she assured Edie that she would do her best, and only then did the other bartender wad up her apron and throw it in the linen bin beneath the bar. Then Edie quickly began to pack up her own backpack. She was zipping it up when Dorsey realized she'd left a book behind, a lone paperback sitting on a shelf beneath the bar.

  "You forgot one," she said, reaching out to grab it. She was handing it to Edie when she noted the title of the book and frowned. "Oh, Edie," she added, unable to mask the disappointment in her voice when she saw what it was. "Not you, too. I can't believe you're reading this stuff."

  Edie blushed as she made a grab for the book in question. "Hey, it's headed straight for the best-seller list," she said in her defense. "Everybody says so. Lots of women are reading it."

  "What is it?" Straight-Shot asked.

  Unwilling to give the man any insight into Edie—especially insight like this—Dorsey pretended she hadn't heard the question and handed the book back to her coworker. But Edie evidently had no qualms about letting Straight-Shot know what she was looking for in life, because she turned the book face out toward him.

  "How to Trap a Tycoon," she said.

  Man, Dorsey thought, she didn't even have the decency to sound embarrassed about it.

  "By Lauren Grable-Monroe," Edie added.

  She didn't stuff How to Trap a Tycoon into her backpack with the other books, however, only turned to hand it back to Dorsey, who, not surprisingly, was reluctant to claim it. "I'm leaving it for Renee," Edie told her. "She wants to read it. And then Alison wants it after Renee." She smiled knowingly at Dorsey. "You want me to put you on the waiting list?"

  Dorsey shook her head. "No, thank you," she said blandly.

  Edie chuckled. "Yeah, that's our Dorsey. The last woman in the world who would want to trap herself a tycoon."

  "And why is that?" a second male voice piped up.

  Dorsey spun around at the remark, only to find Adam Darien gazing at her with much interest—way more than usual, and that was saying something—from the other side of the bar. He smiled before adding, "Oh, yeah. I forgot. You're already married, aren't you, Mack?"

  As much as Dorsey MacGuinness hated to be called Mack, she never challenged Adam Darien on the nick-name. She told herself it was because of Lindy's rule—give the customer what he wants … or else. But really, it was because the way Adam Darien spoke the name, the way he murmured it low in that rough, husky voice of his, that voice that reminded her of very good cognac pooling in fine crystal and warming in the palm of a gentleman's hand, the way he wrapped his tongue around her name and fairly purred it, so that it sauntered indolently into her ear, leaving a ripple of heat in its wake that traveled down her throat to her breasts and points beyond…

  Ahem.

  Well, suffice it to say that when Mr. Darien called her Mack, it just didn't quite bother her as much as it did when others called her Mack, that was all. Because, hey, considering the way her social life had been lately—or, more correctly, the way her social life had not been lately—the heady thrill she received from hearing the way he spoke her name was about as close as she was likely to come to sexual fulfillment for some time. Not to mention that, quite frankly, the way he said her name gave her considerably more sexual fulfillment than most women probably received in a lifetime. Certainly more than Dorsey had received in her own.

  And my, but wasn't it warm in Drake's this afternoon? she thought further, reaching up to loosen the knot in her necktie. What did Lindy have the thermostat set on, anyway?

  "I have to run," Edie said, giving Dorsey the perfect opportunity to avoid responding to Mr. Darien's comment—or the call of his libido. Whatever. Edie ducked underneath the bar, then, realizing she was still holding How to Trap a Tycoon, she tossed the book easily back to Dorsey, who caught it capably in one hand.

  "You better not let Lindy catch you doing that," Dorsey said. "Or else."

  But Edie only grinned as she lifted a hand in farewell and hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. "See you Monday. Have a great weekend!"

  Straight-Shot turned completely around on his bar stool to watch her go, never uttering a word as he did. Dorsey shook her head in disbelief. How obvious could the guy be?

  Only when Edie had passed through the door and was out of sight did he spin back around to stare at what was left of the vodka he swirled in the bottom of his glass. "That girl needs someone to take care of her," he said before swallowing the last bit.

  "And I suppose you consider yourself a likely candidate for the position," Dorsey replied sarcastically, quietly, the response intended for his ears alone.

  It was the kind of comment—spoken in the kind of voice—that could have gotten her fired if Straight-Shot complained, but Dorsey couldn't quite stop the words from coming. If he did decide to say something to her boss, Lindy would be matter-of-fact and in no way hesitant about inviting Dorsey to clean out her locker. Pronto. Lindy Aubrey stated flat out at the interview that her workers, in addition to being attractive young women, should be thoroughly willing to be dominated by the exclusively male clientele. Or else.

  To her credit, however, Lindy paid her employees very well, certainly well enough to make submitting to such a rule easier than it might have been in another establishment. Nevertheless, the membership of Drake's was generally of the variety that very definitely enjoyed dominating. A lot. Straight-Shot, she was certain, was no different. But somehow, Dorsey couldn't quite help putting her friendship with Edie first.

  To her surprise, however, Straight-Shot didn't seem to be put off by her remark. Instead, he placed his empty glass back on the cocktail napkin before him and offered her a mild smile.

  "Maybe I do think I'm a likely candidate," he said. "Edie's a sweet girl. Why wouldn't I want to take care of her?"

  Dorsey's gaze fell pointedly to the thick gold band encircling the ring finger of his left hand. But she said nothing more. No sense pushing her luck.

  "Ah," he said, dropping his own gaze to the accessory in question. "Yes, that does rather complicate things, doesn't it?"

  "So then maybe Edie should be looking for someone else," Dorsey said.

  "Judging by her choice of reading material, it would appear that she is."

  Dorsey nodded and pretended that the two of them were on the same wavelength. "Well, if she trapped herself a tycoon, that would certainly take care of her troubles, wouldn't it?"

  She gazed back down at the book in her hand as she uttered the question that invited no response. The cover of the paperback was bent in a couple of places, the spine cracked, suggesting frequent handling and heavy reading. The swirling, dark-crimson words How to Trap a Tycoon took up most of the pink-tinted background of a satin, tasseled pillow. And a single row of words at the bottom, in the same color, stated the author's obviously phony name: Lauren Grable-Monroe.

  All in all, it was a harmless-enough looking package, she supposed. Still, she was beginning to get a very bad feeling about things.

  "I do believe I hate this book," she muttered.

  Then she put it out of her mind by tossing it back onto the shelf where Edie had originally left it. Dorsey did, after all, have more important things to do with her time than speculate about what Lauren Grable-Monroe had intended to accomplish with her book. Especially since she already knew exactly what Lauren Grable-Monroe had intended to accomplish. Dollar signs. Lots of them.

  Dorsey knew this because she was, after all, the author of the book in question. She was Lauren Grable-Monroe.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  A dam Darien watched as Mack pitched How to Trap a Tycoon back beneath the bar, listened to her murmured words of disapp
roval, and could scarcely believe his ears. A woman who actually hated that damned book? A woman who wasn't greedily consuming every last word of it as gospel and arming herself for the hunt? He was ready to leap over the top of the bar and kiss her.

  Of course, that wasn't necessarily because of her reaction to the book. He'd been wanting to do that since the day he'd walked into the club and seen her standing behind the bar, splashing Courvoisier into a snifter for Lindy Aubrey. The first thing Adam had noticed about Mack was that she had excellent taste in neckties. The Hermès silk she'd been wearing that day was one he'd nearly bought for himself a few months before. The second thing he'd noticed about Mack was that he was noticing a beautiful woman's midsection for the first time and wasn't noticing what he usually noticed when noticing a woman's midsection for the first time.

  It rather took his notice.

  In the month that had passed since Mack had started working at Drake's, there hadn't been a single day go by that Adam hadn't considered asking her out. But the slim gold band encircling the fourth finger of her left hand had been a pretty effective deterrent in that regard.

  So far.

  Not that Adam was the kind of man to go after a married woman. There were far too many moral, ethical, and philosophical considerations with regard to such an endeavor—not to mention a real problem with timing. But in some ways, flirting with a married woman was more fun than flirting with a single woman, because there was little chance of anything materializing. And Mack did return his flirting, outrageously at times. It was fun. That was all. And Adam had so little fun in his life. What was the harm in enjoying it with Mack?

  Even if she was a married woman.

  "You hate that damned book?" he echoed incredulously, nudging aside his other, less comfortable thoughts. "How can you hate that damned book? Every woman in America is reading and loving that damned book."