How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  Yet he'd backed down. Quite willingly, too. Edie wasn't used to wielding such power over a man. Or any power over a man, for that matter. And she had no idea how to interpret his response. So for now, she decided not to think about it.

  Gingerly, she reached for his keys, and she tried to forget that he had touched her the way he had. She tried to forget that his fingers had been warm and gentle and playful against her flesh, not cold and rough and demeaning. And she tried to forget that there had been something different in his eyes when he'd touched her, something that hadn't been there before. Something that had almost made her feel warm and gentle and playful inside. Confused by her reaction, she folded her fingers over his key ring and focused on the cold, ungiving metal instead.

  "You sure you want me to have these?" she asked him. Not that she would give them back, she thought. He really was in no condition to drive.

  "I trust you," he said.

  Well, that made one of them, she thought.

  "Where do you live?" she asked. "I'll call you a cab to take you home and give your keys to the driver so you can get inside once you're there."

  He gazed at her for a long time without answering, long enough to make Edie wonder if maybe he was too far gone to understand anything so elaborate as a three-part direction. Honestly. He really hadn't had that much to drink. And he was a big man, six foot two, she guessed, and probably around a hundred and eighty pounds. Certainly she could see how the amount of liquor he'd consumed this evening would make him feel happy, but it wasn't such a huge serving that his brain would turn into hasty pudding.

  "Mr. Conaway?" she prodded him. "Where do you live?"

  His smile, the one that had been so seductive a moment ago, suddenly turned playful again. "I don't think I want to tell you where I live," he said.

  Well, that would certainly complicate things, she thought. Aloud, however, she only remarked, "Why not?"

  He tilted his head to one side, gazing at her in a way that was far too appealing. "Because then you'll have to take me home with you instead," he told her. "To your place."

  Oh, I don't think so , she thought. She arched her brows imperiously. "I beg your pardon."

  "Actually," he said more quietly, leaning in toward her, "I'd rather have you begging for my—"

  "Mr. Conaway," she interrupted, irritated by such a blatant come-on. Until now, she'd kind of … sort of … almost … been having fun with their flirtatious exchange. But now Lucas had gone too far.

  Why did men always do that? she wondered. Why couldn't they leave well enough alone? Then again, she supposed she should be relieved that Lucas's pushing had only been verbal. So far, anyway. You never could tell with men.

  "I think you've overstepped the line now," she told him frankly. "Tell me where you live, and I'll call you a cab. Otherwise, I'll have to tell Lindy about this, and she could very well bar you from the club."

  He seemed unconcerned. Leaning back again, he muttered, "It doesn't matter. I'm going to lose my membership soon, anyway."

  "Why?" she asked, telling herself she really didn't care. Honest. She didn't. She was just curious, that was all.

  He expelled an impatient sigh, one that bordered on a growl. "Because I'm having a damned problem writing a damned story for my damned magazine about a damned book that's been no damned help at all," he told her. Then, to punctuate his frustration, he concluded, "Dammit."

  Still assuring herself that her interest was only casual-honest, it was—Edie asked further, "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm having trouble finding someone," he told her cryptically.

  "Oh, well, aren't we all?" she replied before she could stop herself.

  He eyed her with some confusion. "I don't know. Are we all?"

  She said nothing more, hoping he'd move on to something else. But of course, being Lucas Conaway, he leaped on that little tidbit like a rabid Great Dane on a bone.

  "Who are you looking for?" he demanded.

  She shook her head quickly. "Nobody," she told him.

  "Well, you must be looking for somebody," he countered, "otherwise you wouldn't have answered the way you did."

  "I was just making conversation," she hedged. "I'm not looking for anybody."

  He obviously didn't believe her, but, surprisingly, he said nothing more about it. In an effort to change the subject and get on with her life, Edie held his keys aloft and gave them a single meaningful jingle.

  "Oh, all right," he finally relented. "Call me a cab, if you must. God knows I've been called worse things in my life."

  So Edie did. She did call Lucas a cab. Twice, as a matter of fact. But by the time Lindy closed the bar, no taxi had shown up to take him home. In the meantime, she fed him a steady diet of black coffee, and he seemed to be coming around a bit. He still wasn't fit to drive anywhere, but he had at least eased up on his dubious flirtation. And he'd finally stopped asking her who she was looking for.

  "Edie, you're a flower, you are."

  Okay, so he hadn't stopped his flirtation completely, she amended. At least he was calling her a flower now instead of minx or vixen or spitfire. Honestly. She hadn't been any of those since she was seventeen.

  Still, she had rather liked the way he'd said "minx" and "vixen" and "spitfire." She couldn't recall any man ever using those specific words to describe her. Others, certainly, none of them worth repeating, but never in such an affectionate tone of voice. And never with a smile that had curled her toes and warmed her all over in a way that she'd never felt warm before.

  She noticed that Lindy was watching them and was clearly going to ask Lucas to leave—or rather, demand that he leave … or else; Lindy Aubrey never asked anyone to do anything. So before her employer had the chance to put Lucas out on the street—literally—Edie leaned forward, ostensibly to take his coffee cup from the bar, and said very softly so that Lindy couldn't hear, "Meet me downstairs in the lobby in fifteen minutes, and I'll drive you home myself."

  He snapped his head up at that, his lips parted in obvious surprise.

  "To your place?" he asked hopefully.

  "To your place," she corrected him.

  He smiled lasciviously.

  "But only as far as the front door," she hastened to add. "Don't be getting any bright ideas, Romeo."

  "Oh, trust me, Edie," he said, "the ideas I'm having right now are anything but bright."

  * * *

  Lucas's apartment, when they arrived there a half-hour later, wasn't at all what Edie had expected it to be. Lucas, on the other hand, behaved pretty much as she would have expected him to. As she pushed the front door open, he shoved past her without warning—it was only at the last minute that she leapt aside and avoided touching him—and without an acknowledgment or thanks. And he didn't stop moving until he'd crossed the room to his couch and promptly collapsed onto it.

  She frowned as she watched him go, then wrestled the key from the lock so that she could pitch it to him and be on her way. Momentarily intrigued, however, she couldn't quite bring herself to leave. Lucas seemed like the kind of man who would go for minimal, functional, no-frills living, and not warm and cozy. Yet the place looked like something out of Martha Stewart Living. Certainly it was a masculine domain, but the colors were softer than she would have expected, the furnishings less boxy, the accessories less obnoxious.

  The walls were the pale-yellow color of butter, countered by an overstuffed sofa of Wedgwood blue. Two fat club chairs were printed with a wide plaid that mingled the two colors, and a plush area rug of the same hues and geometric design spanned much of the hardwood floor. On the walls were Art Deco prints of what appeared to be famous Caribbean hotels, mixed with brightly painted posters of Spanish bullfights. The mantelpiece boasted a few odds and ends from his travels abroad, and two largish bookcases were crammed with books.

  Not surprisingly, however, there were few personal touches. Actually, she realized, there were no personal touches. No framed photographs, no comfy throws crocheted by
Grandma Conaway, no athletic trophies or educational citations, no tumbling plants—nothing that needed nurturing or tending or noticing. And nothing that offered any insight into the man. Really, the place was almost too tidy. Lucas Conaway obviously took great care to maintain his home.

  "Bienvenue à chez Lucas," he mumbled from where he had sprawled himself comfortably on the couch.

  He threw one arm upward against the sofa's back and rested it in an arrogant arc above his head. The action caused his dark-blue sweater to ride up above his khaki trousers, and Edie couldn't stop herself from fixing her gaze on the brief ripple of naked, rock-hard abs beneath. Evidently his apartment wasn't the only thing that Lucas took great care to maintain, she thought, her mouth going dry at the sight of his lean torso. Hastily, she glanced away.

  "Mi casa es su casa," he added further. "Bet you didn't know I was trilingual, did you?"

  When she forced her gaze back to his face, she found him grinning in a way that seemed self-mocking somehow. She arched her brows and crossed her arms over her midsection, pretending she was completely immune to him.

  "Do tell," she said as blandly as she could.

  He nodded. "Actually, I'm quadrilingual. In addition to French and Spanish—and English, natch—I also speak German fluently." To illustrate his accomplishment, he inhaled a deep breath and announced, "Ich bin ein Berliner." He waited for her reaction, and when she offered none, he sighed. "Not that I want you to think I'm bragging or anything."

  "Traveled overseas a lot, have you?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "Never."

  "How come?" she asked, honestly curious. "You're unattached, you have a good job, you can afford it. Fear of flying?"

  He shook his head again. "Fear of life."

  She opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, but before she could voice the question, he pushed himself up from the couch and strode toward the kitchen. "Coffee?" he asked her as he went. "Clearly, I'm not quite sober yet. I think I could use another pot or two. I'm much too chatty tonight." He voiced that last as if he were confessing to the most vile of crimes.

  This time Edie was the one to shake her head. "No, thanks," she told him. "I have to get home."

  He spun around quickly, the expression on his face alarmed for some reason. "Don't," he said, his voice clipped, cautious. He must have detected her surprise—or perhaps her own alarm—because he immediately softened the command by adding, "Please." He took a few steps toward her, and for one brief, insane moment, she thought he might actually reach out to her. But he only stopped where he was, dropped his hands to his hips, and said, "Just stay for a little while, Edie. Talk to me. I'm way too het up to sleep."

  All the more reason for her to go, she thought. No way did she trust the wee hours of the morning, and right now, they were about as wee as they came. Just because she never managed to sleep through them herself didn't mean she had to spend them with someone else. On the contrary, those were the hours of the night when she absolutely had to be alone.

  She jutted a thumb halfheartedly over her shoulder, hoping the gesture looked casual. "I, um … I really do have to go," she told him, taking a step back. "I have an eight o'clock class in the morning."

  He nodded, though somehow she could see that it was less in understanding than it was in resignation. As if he'd expected this reaction from her and was for the most part content to let it go.

  Strange, she thought. She suddenly felt guilty for cutting out on him. It wasn't like the two of them were friends, she reassured herself. And it certainly wasn't like she owed him something. Until tonight, they'd barely spoken a civil word to each other. Just because he'd had a few too many drinks and had revealed a side of himself she'd never seen before… Just because it was a side of him she found oddly endearing somehow… Just because it was a side of him that, under other circumstances—like maybe if she'd lived an entirely different life from the one she had—she might honestly want to explore…

  Well, just because of all that, it didn't mean she had to do as he asked. It would be lunacy—idiocy—for her to stay here and share a cup of coffee with Lucas Conaway. Not just because there could be no future in it, but because her past was in it. And her past being what it was, the evening would only end badly. Of that, she had no doubt.

  "I, um … I'll see you at Drake's," she told him, taking another step back until she found herself framed in the open doorway.

  Only then did she recall that she still held his keys and, with a quick shake to warn him, she tossed them the length of the room. He caught them capably in one hand, no easy feat seeing as how his eyes never left hers as she performed the action. So handsome, she thought. He was so handsome. Intelligent. Funny. Interesting. Really, it was just too bad that—

  She cut off the thought with a deep sigh and lifted a hand in halfhearted farewell.

  "Edie," he called out as she turned away.

  Reluctantly, she spun back around.

  "Thanks," he said softly. "For everything."

  "No problem," she replied.

  He emitted a single humorless chuckle. "No problem," he echoed unhappily. "Yeah, right. That's what you think, sweetheart. That's what you think."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  A week after telling Adam she couldn't see him, Dorsey sat in the locker room at Drake's and marveled at how very accurate her prediction had been. Because during that week, she had seen neither hide nor hair—nor suit nor tie—of him anywhere. When she'd told him that night on her front porch that she wouldn't be able to see him, she'd meant socially. Romantically. Personally. She hadn't meant she wouldn't see him at all.

  But it was actually kind of a relief, because she had no idea how she was supposed to act around him now, anyway. She felt so odd about things. Before last week, their roles had been clearly defined, and they'd both been reasonably comfortable playing those roles. Now, however, the line between them was blurred. Whereas before, she'd had no trouble toeing that line, now Dorsey had stumbled off of it completely. And she couldn't rightly say on which side of it she had fallen. But what was most troubling of all was that no matter where she landed, Lauren Grable-Monroe would be right there with her.

  There was no way Dorsey could start something with Adam—or anyone else, for that matter—without Lauren getting involved in it, too. And even though Lauren's baser nature would probably relish the idea of a threesome, Dorsey just wasn't that kind of girl.

  Of course, the night that she had kissed Adam, for those few moments that she lost herself in his arms, she sure had felt like that kind of girl. Not a day—not an hour—had passed since their embrace that she hadn't relived in her head those two searing, combustible kisses. He had felt so good, so exciting, to hold onto. It had been like corralling wild energy, unrestrained force. Like clasping a cyclone to her breast and pulling some of its limitless power and vast fury into herself.

  In addition to arousing her sexually, powerfully, kissing Adam had made Dorsey feel strong, potent, infinite. That such a man would lose control over her, lose control with her, was a heady sensation indeed. She'd never felt anything like it before. Something told her she would never feel anything like it again. And the realization of that had just made her miss Adam all the more.

  But she'd also missed their friendship. She'd missed their easy banter and mildly dangerous flirtations. She'd missed his low laughter and reluctant smiles. She'd missed his totally erroneous masculine assumptions and his laughably misguided chauvinist deductions. She'd even missed the pangs of wistful melancholy that invariably shot through her every time she had to stop herself from reaching out a hand to run her fingers through his hair.

  She'd just missed him. Very much. And she couldn't stop thinking about those two kisses they had shared on her front porch. She couldn't erase the memory of how his hands had felt curling over her bottom, how his mouth had felt rubbing insistently against her throat. She recalled every sigh, every scent, every seductive sensatio
n. And more than anything in the world, she wanted to experience it again. All of it. And more.

  But she also wanted to recapture their familiar camaraderie. And she couldn't come up with a solution that would combine both a romantic and a friendly relationship with him. Certainly not while she was leading a triple life as Dorsey MacGuinness, sociology prof wannabe, Mack, the bartender, and Lauren Grable-Monroe, cultural icon. It was just too weird to think about it all right now. All things considered, she supposed it was just as well that she hadn't seen him for a week.

  But she sure did miss him.

  Then again, the week had passed in such a blur, she hadn't seen much of anything at all. Lauren Grable-Monroe, it seemed, was hitting the peak of her popularity. In one week she had signed books at a shopping mall in Schaumburg , had spoken to a group of sex therapists in Champaign , and had still fitted in an early-morning radio talk show in Chicago .

  That last event, having occurred only yesterday morning, was still fresh in Dorsey's mind, and she was still feeling a bit uneven because of it. Whereas she had gone to the radio station thinking she'd be fielding the usual sorts of questions for Lauren—fun, frivolous queries about the book or the author's fictional personal life—some of the callers had been a bit less than enthusiastic in their responses. True, there had been the usual assortment of giggling schoolgirls cutting class, but there had also been disenchanted housewives shouting over squalling babies and frustrated men berating Lauren for ruining women everywhere. Dorsey had left feeling slightly smudged. As if the smooth, clean lines of Lauren Grable-Monroe's self-assurance had been soiled and stretched and damaged.

  And now here Dorsey sat with barely ten minutes to go before the start of her shift at Drake's, trying to conjure enough energy to change from her teaching assistant clothes to her bartender clothes. In her backpack, she also carried Lauren Grable-Monroe's clothes, because she'd had an early-morning appointment with a writer for a local weekly, which had gone, if memory served, fairly well. But she hadn't had time to go home between Lauren's meeting and Dorsey's first class at Severn . She hadn't had time between Severn and Drake's, either. In fact, Dorsey could barely remember when she had last spent any amount of time at home. It seemed like a very long time ago…