"She's right, Dorsey," Carlotta said, her voice somber, all traces of playfulness gone. "We did this for the money. I know I'll be the one benefiting from the profits—at your insistence—and I hope you don't think me frightfully selfish, but I do wish you'd reconsider."
This time Dorsey was the one to sigh. As cheerful and happy as Carlotta was now, she knew her mother feared growing old like nothing she had ever feared before. Although Carlotta had been the recipient of enormous financial backing over the years, her backers hadn't been heavy on cash. They'd been more amenable to investing jewelry, dinners, and lingerie, with a car or vacation thrown in as a year-end bonus.
They hadn't embraced any long-range goals where their investments were concerned either. They'd stayed for as long as they were interested, and then they'd pulled out—if one could pardon the incredibly tacky pun.
And as Carlotta had aged, her investors had become less frequent and less generous. Certainly she was still an attractive, vivacious woman, one who was capable of doing just about anything she wanted, should she set her mind to it. But what Carlotta wanted was to be cared for by a wealthy man. Nowadays, there just weren't that many wealthy men who wanted to take care of her.
Dorsey couldn't ever understand her mother's ambition. Or, rather, her lack of ambition, as she was more inclined to view it. Her mother was intelligent, resourceful, spirited, and in the prime of her life. Carlotta was capable of achieving so much, with or without a man involved. Convincing Carlotta of that, however, was next to impossible.
As much as Dorsey had tried to dissuade her, her mother was certain she could do nothing but what she had been doing since she was eighteen. Her entire adult life had been defined and made possible by the fact that she was young and beautiful and witty and because of that, rich men enjoyed being with her. She had never worked—well, not at anything that required punching a time clock—had never graduated from college, had never been trained to do anything that might lead to a career.
And because her benefactors these days were more infrequent and less inclined to hang around for long, Carlotta was convinced that she would die a desperate, destitute old woman, having nothing of interest to offer anyone of the male—and economically enhanced—persuasion.
Her position over the years—or, perhaps, positions, if one wanted to be gauche, which of course, Dorsey didn't, but that was how her mind worked sometimes, unfortunately—hadn't provided Carlotta with a nice retirement package. So she'd decided to create her own little financial nest egg. How to go about that, however, had eluded her.
Until the day cable television had brought them the Classic Movies Channel.
Carlotta had been watching one of the network morning shows one day when she'd seen coverage of a wildly best-selling how-to book that instructed women on the dos and don'ts of husband-hunting. Immediately after the show, she had changed the channel—to the Classic Movies Channel—and found herself watching How to Marry a Millionaire.
And then, at the very back of Carlotta's brain, a little light had flickered on.
Carlotta MacGuinness had never wanted a husband. But she had always wanted a millionaire. She'd grown up poor and neglected and wanted to be rich and well cared for. So she had devoted her life to creating just such an existence for herself. And she had been very good at what she set out to do. She'd had lots of millionaires over the years. So it made sense that she would author a book about, if not marrying a millionaire, then certainly about having one. Or two. Or more.
The only problem was that Carlotta couldn't write a sentence to save her life. Her daughter, however, the academic who was used to years of term papers and theses and dissertations, could write up a storm. Or a book. Or, evidently, a national best-seller.
Mother and daughter had made a nice team. Provided, Dorsey thought, one didn't mind one's entire way of life being blown into bits. Carlotta, it seemed, didn't mind at all. Then again, it wasn't Carlotta's way of life on the line, was it?
"If what Anita says is true, and I come forward as Lauren Grable-Monroe," Dorsey told her mother, "my life will become a media circus."
Carlotta smiled. "It sounds rather fun to me. I always liked the circus. In spite of the proliferation of clowns. What on earth were they thinking to put makeup on men, for heaven's sake? And so much of it! How could they think children would like that? Not only is it frightfully macabre, but it skirts the surreal, and no child—or adult for that matter—is comfortable with the surreal. Why, look at Dali and that odd clock painting, for heaven's sake. Who would possibly find that anything but—"
"Carlotta," Dorsey interjected as discreetly as she could.
"What?"
"Um … we were talking about something else?"
"So we were. We were talking about how you should come forward as Lauren."
Dorsey shook her head. "No, we were talking about how I shouldn't come forward as Lauren."
"Oh, come on, darling. It would be fun."
Dorsey brightened. "Then you come forward as Lauren."
Ruefully, her mother shook her head. "As much as I'd like to, there are two reasons why I can't. Anita," she added, spinning around to face the telephone. "Dorsey and I need to talk about this. We'll call you back in an hour."
"Fine, Carlotta," the disembodied voice of their editor answered. "You two talk. But we need to get this settled today."
"I promise you," Carlotta said, "it will be settled within the hour."
Dorsey opened her mouth to disagree, but Carlotta lifted a hand, palm out, to halt the flow of words. So, with a sigh, Dorsey disconnected the phone, then scooted over to make room for her mother on the massive bed.
For one brief moment, she flashed back to her childhood, when she would climb into her mother's bed at night after a particularly bad dream, of which there had seemed to be many when Dorsey was growing up. Dreams of abandonment and solitude and loneliness. Whenever such dreams had plagued her, her mother had always gathered her close and tugged the sheets higher around them both.
And then she had always said, in a quite matter-of-fact way, "Dorsey, there will be abandonment, solitude, and loneliness in your life. You can't escape that. People will come and go, and they'll find what they need in you and overlook the rest. But your mother will love you—all of you—no matter what happens. And I will never, ever abandon you."
As Dorsey grew into adolescence, the speech became more specific, as her mother had traded the word "people" for the word "men." And over the years, her mother's was a prediction that Dorsey had seen fulfilled. Carlotta had always been there for her, had always loved her unconditionally. And people, including men, had come and gone in Dorsey's life—though not with the frequency or the intimacy that they had with her mother. Dorsey made certain of that. And people, especially men, did seem to find what they wanted in her and overlook the rest.
For some reason, that made her think of Adam Darien. To him, she was simply Mack. One of the boys. A pal, a bud, someone with whom he could speak frankly and nothing more. She couldn't imagine him seeing her as a woman. Unless, perhaps, she was someone like Lauren Grable-Monroe. Party girl, sexpot, tycoon-trapper.
Hmmm…
Having Lauren come forward into the public eye might possibly deter any exposing that Adam Darien and Lucas Conaway might undertake. If they saw Lauren in the flesh—or at least in the print and television media—then they might not be so inclined to dig deeply into her background. If Lauren saturated the market, then they might just leave her alone. They might never find out that she was, in fact, Dorsey MacGuinness, sociology instructor and stuffy academic.
That thought brought her back to the matter at hand. She looked at her mother beseechingly, but she knew going in that the battle was already over. Because she'd already fought the hardest conflict with herself—and lost it.
In spite of that, she asked her mother halfheartedly, "Why can't you be Lauren?"
Carlotta smiled a bit sadly. "Actually, there's nothing I'd enjoy more than being the
center of attention with a book tour and network television," she began. "Especially if it was that nice Matt Lauer doing the interview. But as I said, there are two reasons why I can't."
"And they would be?"
She expelled a quick sigh. "Reason number one is that there are too many men out there who, were I identified as the source of the material, would recognize themselves in the book. And worse, whose wives would recognize them in the book. The lives of those men would be thrown into an uproar, should I come forward as the author. Those men have been good to me, Dorsey. I owe them discretion."
"You owe them nothing," Dorsey countered.
"I owe them more than you realize," Carlotta countered. "More than you will ever know." She paused only a moment before adding, "And even if I didn't, they all have battalions of attorneys at their disposal, attorneys who could ultimately claim every nickel from those piles of money Anita has promised."
"So you'd rather have your daughter's life thrown into an uproar?" Dorsey asked.
"No," her mother told her. "But I think that you would bounce back from uproar much more quickly than any of those men would. Men are such frail creatures, after all. We do so have to shelter them, Dorsey. And who knows?" she added with a smile. "You might just like uproar, if you'd only give it a chance. I don't know why your quiet, peaceful, academic existence is so all-fired important to you."
No, of course she wouldn't know that, Dorsey thought. Carlotta would never understand her need for quiet and permanence. But all she said was, "And the other reason?"
This time her mother's smile held resignation. "The other reason is that nobody wants Lauren Grable-Monroe to be a fifty-something woman who only has a few good years left in her."
"Oh, Carlotta, you don't honestly think—"
"What I know to be true, Dorsey," she said, "is that the American public would much rather see you as Lauren than they would me."
"A peace-and-quiet-loving academic who dresses like a lumberjack?" Dorsey asked. "I doubt it."
"Dorsey MacGuinness is the peace-and-quiet-loving academic who dresses like a lumberjack," her mother corrected her. "Lauren Grable-Monroe is no such thing. Lauren is a blond bombshell party girl who knows men. Or, at least, she will be when I get through with her. Through with you. Whatever."
Dorsey narrowed her eyes at her mother curiously. "What are you thinking?" she asked.
In response, Carlotta stood and extended both hands toward her daughter, silently bidding her to rise as well. Reluctantly, Dorsey did, then allowed herself to be guided over to the full-length mirror affixed to the closet door. Her mother positioned her to face it, then turned back to the bed and swept up the discarded dresses.
"We'll have to go shopping for a good wig and a few wardrobe pieces that don't scream Great White North," she said as she held up both dresses to inspect first one and then the other. "And it goes without saying, we'll also need to get you a Wonderbra."
"Carlotta…"
But her mother ignored what Dorsey had hoped was an unmistakable warning in her voice. "We will also," she continued, "without a doubt, have to make a rather substantial investment at the Lancôme counter. But we will pull this off, Dorsey. I promise you that. When you go out into the world as Lauren Grable-Monroe, no one will ever suspect Dorsey MacGuinness is hiding there."
"It'll never work," Dorsey told her. "There's no way we'll make it work."
Instead of commenting on Dorsey's conviction, however, Carlotta moved to stand behind her and placed first one dress and then the other in front of her. Then she grinned impishly. "So … what do you think, Lauren? The blue or the green?"
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
A dam Darien had adopted a new role in life, but it wasn't one he could see himself adding to his resume any time soon. Because—call him unrealistic—Skulker just wasn't the kind of position that led to prodigious promotion. Not in any of the professional capacities in which he wanted to find himself, at any rate.
Yet here he was skulking. Skulking through a major retail establishment, at that, the Borders Books and Music on Michigan Avenue
, where Lauren Grable-Monroe was about to launch a national book tour by signing her runaway best-seller, How to Trap a Friggin' Tycoon.
The only thing that made Adam's new role tolerable was that he had drafted Lucas Conaway to man the position of Skulker's Assistant. Lucas, curiously, had no qualms whatsoever about skulking. In fact, he'd approached it with relish. Adam, too, found himself putting skulking in a whole new light, because in an effort to locate the best vantage point for Lauren Grable-Monroe's arrival, he had been forced to position himself in the psychology and self-help section of the store. Right in front of the books on—he tried not to look—impotence.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen. So to speak.
"Ooo, this one looks good," Lucas piped up from beside him, plucking a slender tome from a high shelf—where just about anybody could see him, for chrissakes. "Me and My Penile Implant: One Man's Journey to Enlightenment and Self-Discovery. I just don't think I can wait for this bad boy to show up in paperback. I think I'll have to take this home and start reading it tonight. Gosh, I hope it has a happy ending."
Adam rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw, then smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle out of his charcoal suit jacket. He'd come to Borders straight from the Man's Life offices, because he hadn't wanted to miss a minute of Lauren Grable-Monroe's seven o'clock debut. Now, however, in his three pieces of dark wool—even if he had unbuttoned two of them—and his discreetly patterned necktie—even if he had loosened it—he was feeling significantly overdressed among the shoppers. Lucas, naturally, in his rumpled navy sweater and khaki trousers, didn't seem at all out of place.
"Oh, just shut up and drink your Starbucks, will you?" Adam instructed the other man.
The Skulker's Assistant dutifully reshelved the book, but instead of sipping from the steaming cup in his hand, he scanned the titles for another. "Know Your Scrotum," he read from one spine. "Gosh, now, there's a philosophical quandary for you. Can any man truly know his scrotum?"
"Lucas…"
"Oh, now, here's one that might actually have some potential," he said, reaching for yet another book. "Love Me, Love My—"
"Lucas."
He shoved the book back into place and sighed heavily. "Boy, you are in some state tonight," he muttered irritably to Adam.
Yeah, and it wasn't the state of Rhode Island , either, Adam thought. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so agitated. And all on account of a woman he had yet to even see up close and personal. Though, certainly, over the past several weeks, he had seen more than his fill of her in just about every other context.
In the past month, Lauren Grable-Monroe had appeared on all of the morning news shows, in virtually each of the weekly news and lifestyle magazines, and on too many call-in radio shows to count.
She was saturating the market more pervasively than her book was. And that was saying something. Because in the few short weeks since the author had gone public, her book had blasted into the top ten of every nonfiction best-seller list in the country. At the rate it was selling, Adam thought, it would soon shoot right to number one.
Certainly the book had staying power. Because there were millions of potential buyers for it—all those women who fell into that "more likely to be abducted by a pack of kilt-wearing, spumoni-eating, Elvis-impersonating aliens than to be married after age thirty" statistic. And doubtless each new generation of females was going to want to know the whys and wherefores of trapping their very own tycoons. It wasn't a particularly cheerful prospect, as far as Adam was concerned.
Lucas continued to scan the shelves as they waited, but evidently nothing more came close to capturing his interest, because he finally gazed around the store. "She's late."
"She's a woman," Adam reminded the other man unnecessarily.
"A late woman," Lucas concluded.
"Which is redundant," Adam
remarked.
"Not that I don't share your opinion of the fairer sex," Lucas said, "but I know why I feel the way I do. What's your excuse?"
The question brought Adam up short. Not so much the question itself, or even the speculative tone of voice in which Lucas had uttered it. No, it was the fact that the other man had put voice to it at all that gave Adam pause. Lucas's was a personal question, and Adam wasn't used to getting personal with people. It was something that his acquaintances understood, and was probably why he had so few true friends and so many acquaintances. He rarely moved beyond the introduction phase of any relationship.
Lucas, it would appear, had no such qualms. Then again, Adam reminded himself, Lucas was from a brave new generation, one that had come of age in a more cooperative social environment, overrun by MTV, Nike for Women, and Mars and Venus in Every Room in the House.
Still, that didn't mean that Adam had to cross the generational line. So all he said in explanation was, "I used to be married."
"Ah," Lucas replied.
And that, evidently, was all that needed to be said. Because, surprisingly, Lucas went back to sipping his Starbucks. And Adam, in turn, went back to trying to pretend that he had no idea the impotence books were shelved right in front of him, well, would you look at that, who knew?
"I see an entourage," Lucas announced suddenly. "I do believe Lauren Grable-Monroe has entered the building."
As, indeed, she had. Somehow, Adam sensed her presence before he even saw her. A quick frisson of heat swept through him, as if someone had applied a small electrical charge to the base of his spine. But what startled him more than anything was the realization that he suddenly felt very much as if he'd just been transported back to adolescence.
To be specific, back to the first day of ninth grade, when Mitzi Moran had been assigned the desk right next to his in Biology. And in honor of the opening of football season, Mitzi had worn her jayvee cheerleader uniform to school. The one with the microscopic red skirt. And the skintight yellow sweater. And those little cotton socks that to this day he found so inexplicably erotic.
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