How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Lucas smiled but turned to Mack. "Gimme a Tanqueray and tonic."

  Mack, of course, was way ahead of Lucas on that score. It was remarkable how she kept a catalogue of the drinking preferences of Drake's entire membership and began pouring the preferred beverage the moment she noted, the member's presence at the bar. She set Lucas's prepared drink before him, then dropped the Tanqueray bottle back into the well. But she didn't scurry off afterward, as Adam had assumed she would. Instead, she continued to study Lucas. With much interest.

  Dammit .

  "This is a story," Lucas finally continued, oblivious to Mack's interest, "that the readers of Man's Life would find very interesting."

  "And that would be because…" Adam spurred him.

  Lucas's smile turned predatory. "Because I intend to locate Ms. Lauren Grable-Monroe and find out just what her credentials—so to speak—are that would make her the self-appointed social guru of today's women."

  Adam sighed heavily but said nothing. He was torn between the dread of giving space to Lauren Grable-Monroe in any form and the ecstasy of filling that space with what might be a really satisfying diatribe against her. If anyone could write a flaming exposé of Lauren Grable-Monroe, it would be Lucas Conaway. The kid was a truly gifted writer.

  There were times when Adam frankly wondered what had made the kid accept a position at Man's Life when he could have gone pretty much anywhere he wanted. Certainly his salary was competitive with any number of similar publications. But Lucas was a writer who should be covering human rights violations and sneaky, underhanded governments. Not which Cuban cigars best complemented California cognacs.

  "Why would you want to expose Lauren Grable-Monroe?"

  The question came not from Adam but from Mack, who seemed to be genuinely curious about the answer.

  Lucas sipped his drink and sighed with much contentment, then turned his attention to Mack. "Because she's fast becoming the latest icon of popular American culture," he pointed out. "She's a good sound bite. Like I said, she's topical. She's controversial." He hesitated for only a moment before adding. "And something tells me she is really hot, too. Have you read the book?"

  Mack nodded, but once again her cheeks were stained faintly with pink. Adam thought it made her look rather adorable. Then he immediately berated himself for allowing the word "adorable" into his masculine verbal repertoire. What Mack looked, he corrected himself, was rather… Oh, dammit. Adorable. That was what she looked.

  "So that means you read chapter seven, right?" Lucas asked. "The one called Keeping the Tycoon in the Bedroom. Man, that chapter alone's worth the price of the book." He turned to Adam. "You would not believe some of the stuff she writes in that chapter. And so matter-of-fact she is about it, too. There's this thing with crème de menthe…" He threw another look toward Mack, then halted himself. "Well, let's just say that that Lauren has got some mouth on her. And I'd like to have it on me, too. Very arousing reading material." He smiled wickedly.

  "Arousing," Adam echoed blandly. He decided not to look and see how Mack had taken Lucas's mouth references. He was afraid she might have gone way beyond adorable by now. And that way lay madness. "I think 'annoying' would probably be a better word for Ms. Grable-Monroe," he concluded.

  "Yeah, well, I guess I can't expect a man your age to respond to a sexy woman the way a man my age does. But, hey, you'll always have Viagra."

  The last thing Adam wanted was to be part of a discussion about Viagra in front of Mack. "Please spare me. It probably hasn't been that long since you took your Pamela Anderson Lee poster down off your bedroom wall."

  Lucas's smile grew broader. "Who says I took it down?"

  "I think Mr. Darien is right," Mack piped up. "You owe it to your readership to avoid this kind of sensationalism. It's just popular, mass-market-driven propaganda. And in case you haven't noticed," she added parenthetically—if a little sarcastically—"the typical Man's Life reader is an elitist, sexist snob."

  "Oh, I've noticed that," Lucas assured her.

  Adam nodded. "Me, too."

  Mack narrowed her eyes at both of them, but only continued, "Your typical reader has worked hard and sacrificed a lot to preserve his elitist, sexist, snobby way of life. You might want to be careful to not offend him. Elitist, sexist snobs have a way of not minding how much money they spend to read about elitist, sexist snobbery. Lauren Grable-Monroe doesn't pander to that."

  This time Adam was the one to narrow his eyes. "You know, Mack, I think I speak for both Lucas and myself when I say, 'Huh?'"

  She frowned at him but said nothing, which was just as well, because Lucas started up again.

  "I want to do this story, because I think Ms. Grable-Monroe has acted irresponsibly."

  "In what way?" Adam asked.

  Lucas thought for a moment before responding. "Well, she could cause a lot of unhappiness in the world," he finally said. "Women will be crushed when they don't land the man of their financial dreams even after following the instructions in the book."

  In response to his assertion, Adam covered his mouth and yawned.

  "She could cause a lot of disappointment," Lucas added.

  Adam, in turn, glanced down at his watch.

  "A lot of heartache."

  Adam tugged gently at a hangnail.

  "You know, the least you could do is listen to what I have to say."

  Adam crossed his legs and rubbed at a spot on his shoe. "I will, once you start saying something that doesn't make me want to throw up. Hey, I had sushi for lunch. It could get ugly."

  Lucas gazed down at his drink, then ran his thumb slowly, thoughtfully, along the rim of the glass. "I want to do a story on her, Adam."

  "Why?"

  "I have my own reasons."

  "Care to tell me what they are?"

  Lucas glanced up and met his gaze levelly. "No."

  Adam studied the other man with much interest but didn't pursue the matter. Not because he wasn't curious about whatever was going on in the wily head of the hotshot writer, but because, suddenly, he began to get a pretty good idea of his own for a story. Before he could stop it, the idea had taken root, and even more quickly, it began to blossom.

  It was a good idea for a story, he thought. A really good idea. One that would definitely appeal to his readership. Because it was, without question, elitist. And sexist. And snobby. And it was also, he had to admit, not a little sensationalistic.

  Okay, so sensationalism had its uses, he conceded. Elitist, sexist snobs were only human. In their own unique sort of way.

  "Fine," he told Lucas, even before the idea was fully formed. "Let's do it. Let's do a story on Lauren Grable-Monroe. But," he quickly interjected when he saw Lucas snap to attention again, "it's going to be on my terms. With my spin."

  The other man's disappointment was almost palpable. "Oh, come on, Adam. That's not fair."

  "My magazine. My rules."

  Lucas gazed at him sullenly.

  "Don't worry," Adam told him. "You're going to like this. Because you, my fine, young, ruthless writer, get to go hunting."

  The younger man shook his head, still looking ticked off. "I don't like the sound of that. You know how I feel about the cruel and senseless slaughter of innocent animals."

  "You couldn't care less about the slaughter of animals," Adam said. "But not to worry. For this assignment, you won't be hunting an animal." He smiled with grim satisfaction. "You'll be hunting a woman."

  Lucas brightened some. "Oh, well, in that case, I'm your man."

  "Good boy."

  "Now, then. About this assignment," he continued, dipping his head forward with much interest. "Will I, by any chance, be hunting a woman in lingerie?"

  Adam chuckled. "Hey, if you want to wear lingerie when you go hunting, it's none of my concern."

  "You know what I mean."

  Adam eyed him thoughtfully. "I guess it depends on how successful you are in your hunt."

  "I'm always successful, Adam. You know
that."

  "Yes, I do. Which is why you're going to be the perfect candidate for writing this story the way I want it told."

  "And the story the way you want it told would be…"

  This time Adam was the one to smile the predatory smile. "Lucas, since you're such a fan of the book, I want you to use it to go out and trap yourself a tycoon."

  Lucas's rapt interest suddenly shifted to vague suspicion. "Come again?"

  "The way I see it," Adam began, "even though Ms. Grable-Monroe wrote her book for women who want to land themselves a rich husband, there's no reason why a man can't use the book to land himself a rich wife."

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Lucas objected immediately, raising his hands before himself palm out in a gesture of what was clearly self-preservation. "You want me to go out and trap a rich wife? Are you crazy? I don't care how much money she has. No way do I want to be married and miserable for the rest of my life."

  "Not a real wife," Adam told him. "You don't have to marry the tycoon you trap. Just use the instructions in the book to snag yourself … you know … a sugar mommy."

  Lucas shuddered visibly. "I think that's the single most revolting thing anyone's ever said to me. I do not want to go there."

  Adam ignored the comment. "Look, just write me a story for the magazine that offers a man's view of this whole thing. I want to see what happens when a young, ambitious guy like yourself reads the book and takes the advice to heart in the quest for a rich woman. It should make for a nice piece."

  "A nice piece," Lucas repeated flatly. "I'm not even going to touch that comment."

  "Hey, you don't have to touch anything you don't want to. No reason to get tawdry. Just get me a good story out of this," Adam reiterated. "One that will appeal to our readership."

  "Oh, I can definitely do that. It should be really interesting," Lucas said blandly. "And, gosh, really fun, too. And, whoa, very educational. And it should put to rest once and for all my father's theory that it's as easy to fall in love with a rich woman as it is with a poor one. Would that he had followed his own advice," he added in a voice that prohibited further probing.

  "You say that because you don't believe in love, period," Adam said.

  Lucas tilted his head to the side. "Excuse me, but I'm only a twenty-four-year-old bachelor, unlike the thirty-nine-year-old bachelor who is also sitting at this bar. Is it just me, or does this seem like an odd statement for the old guy to be making to the young guy in such a situation?"

  Adam ignored the comment, thinking he was getting pretty good at ignoring Lucas. Now, if he could just be as effective in getting the kid to shut up in the first place, he'd be okay. Of course, the fact that Lucas refused to be shut up was probably what made him such a good journalist to begin with.

  Damn, Adam hated these catch-22s. But he did love the way Lucas worked.

  "I'd still like to expose Lauren Grable-Monroe," his hotshot writer said. "How about I write an exposé on her as a companion piece to this story?"

  Adam opened his mouth to tell Lucas no, to state quite adamantly that such an exposé had no place in Man's Life magazine. And when he did, the oddest thing came out instead.

  "No way, Lucas," he told him.

  "Why not?"

  Unbidden, a feral little smile curled Adam's lips. "Because," he said, "Lauren Grable-Monroe is mine.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  "What do you think, Dorsey? The blue or the green?"

  Dorsey heard her mother's question and told herself it would be polite to answer. Unfortunately, she was far too busy doing other things—things like, oh, panicking, reeling from shock, quaking with fear, choking on terror—to form an adequate reply. She couldn't even bring herself to glance up from where she had buried her face in her hands after collapsing onto the edge of Carlotta MacGuinness's pink-satin-covered, king-sized bed. Because one terrible, terrible sentence kept echoing and spinning through her brain.

  Lauren Grable-Monroe is mine.

  Adam Darien's proclamation still made Dorsey shudder when she replayed it, even though a full weekend had passed since she'd heard him utter it aloud. She'd spent the entirety of that weekend trying to convince herself that she was worrying over nothing. That there was no way the two men could possibly uncover Lauren's true identity. That her editor and publisher were more than capable of maintaining her anonymity—they had, after all, promised. That her life, as she knew it, was going to be just fine.

  And now, on this bright, sunny, cheerful Monday afternoon, she realized she had wasted her entire weekend. Because she knew she was lying through her teeth.

  She'd spent the bulk of Friday evening listening to Adam Darien and his trained python, Lucas Conaway, as they'd gleefully outlined the downfall of Lauren Grable-Monroe. And because both men had been completely clueless that they were unfolding their plans in the company of their very quarry, they had been quite vivid—and inventive—in completing their plotting.

  And oh, what plotting it had been.

  Between the two of them, by evening's end, they'd had Lauren stripped naked and covered in honey, staked out spread-eagle beneath a blazing desert sun, with a big ol' "Come 'n' get it!" sign posted for a nearby platoon of hungry army ants. And although she'd had to admit that the naked and covered with honey part had held a certain, odd, oh … allure … in its initial state when Adam Darien had proposed it—she hadn't even minded the staked out spread-eagle part, really—Lucas's introduction of carnivorous insects had pretty much spoiled the fantasy.

  They were going to expose her. They were going to investigate Lauren Grable-Monroe and find out that she was really Dorsey MacGuinness, almost Ph.D., sociology professor wannabe at utterly respectable Severn College . That, she decided, was a given. It was only a matter now of how long she could hold them off and what damage it would do to her credibility in the academic community—and in every other aspect of her life—once it happened.

  Dorsey had read Man's Life magazine, in spite of its elitist, sexist snobbery, and she knew that Adam Darien and Lucas Conaway, when left to their individual devices, could be formidable. Combined, however… She didn't even want to think about what they could achieve.

  All in all, it had made for a rather gloomy weekend.

  And the mood had carried over to today, because Dorsey had walked home from Severn to catch a late lunch before going to work at Drake's only to find that she had absolutely no appetite whatsoever. The unmitigated terror that filled her belly at being exposed by Adam Darien left little room for something as mundane as ham and cheese on whole wheat.

  Her mother, of course, didn't suffer from so grave a condition as fearing for one's way of life. After all, nobody was threatening to expose her. Nobody was going to stake her out naked under a burning desert sun, oh no. Because she wasn't the author of How to Trap a Tycoon, was she?

  No, Carlotta MacGuinness was only the driving force behind it. The impetus. The genesis. The reason for its very existence. That was all she was.

  Therefore, the only condition plaguing Carlotta this crisp autumn afternoon was whether to wear the blue or the green. Forcing her hands away from her face, Dorsey made herself look up at her mother's reflection in the bedroom mirror, if not at her mother herself. As always, she found Carlotta looking cool, composed, and cosmopolitan. Her platinum blond hair was blunt cut to chin length, and not a strand of it dared stray out of place. She was dressed in her stay-at-home leisure uniform of velvet leggings and tunic, having opted for lavender today. The color highlighted the pale blue of her eyes, and the cut of the outfit showcased her trim, petite figure spectacularly well.

  No one would ever guess that there were twenty-five years separating them, Dorsey thought. Carlotta MacGuinness was doubtless as fit and beautiful at fifty-two as she had been at twenty-two. In many ways, she was probably more stunning now than she had been three decades ago. Because now she had a knowledge and experience of life that women of twenty-two could never possess. And ov
er the years, she had used that knowledge and experience in a way that most women—of any age—would never understand.

  Dorsey fell into that "most women" category. Although she loved her mother dearly—in spite of those occasions, frequent as they were, when Carlotta's behavior threatened to drive her stark, raving mad—she would never, ever understand any of the choices Carlotta had made over her lifetime.

  "The blue, I think," Carlotta decided without further consultation with her daughter.

  Well, except maybe for that choice, Dorsey amended. Blue really was a better color on her than green. Other than that, though, most of Carlotta's life decisions made no sense at all. And making decisions on her own was pretty much par for the course for Carlotta. She was very much her own woman, in spite of having spent her adult life being kept by so many men.

  "The blue is nice," Dorsey agreed. If a tad shorter than most fifty-something women would wear. Carlotta, she was certain, would pull off magnificently the brief, sleeveless silk, sheath.

  "Where are you going tonight?" Dorsey asked her.

  "Hollis Barnett is celebrating her fiftieth birthday this evening with what promises to be great excess," her mother replied.

  "Wow," Dorsey said. "That's some milestone."

  Carlotta held the green dress before her again, just for good measure. "I suppose," she replied blandly. "But it's a bit anticlimactic, seeing as how Hollis actually passed said milestone seven years ago." She spun around and, clearly still undecided about which dress to wear, she tossed both carelessly onto the bed beside Dorsey and contemplated them from that angle instead.

  "You could come with me," she said, smiling sweetly. "You could wear the green. It would look wonderful on you."

  Dorsey eyed the even briefer strapless cocktail dress that was—almost—made of shimmering emerald satin. Then she drove her gaze down over her standard teaching assistant-post-grad student uniform of blue jeans, hiking boots, and nondescript flannel shirt. "Gee, I don't know, Carlotta. Somehow, it just doesn't scream me."

  Her mother sniffed indignantly. "It could, you know, if you'd just forsake those awful jeans and sweaters and"—she shuddered for effect—"flannel shirts. Honestly, Dorsey, you dress like a lumberjack. You should change your name to Lars."