That had Adam out of his chair, arm extended, before he even realized he had intended to take exception. "Ms. Grable-Monroe," he called out, unwilling to wait for her to recognize him.
The author, along with a few hundred other people in the room, turned to look at him, her expression impassive. "You had a question?" she said.
"No," he told her. "An objection."
She arched her dark eyebrows in surprise. "To what?"
"To the fact that you just claimed that your book is about love," he said.
"Actually, Mr.…"
" Darien ," he identified himself. "Adam Darien. I publish and edit Man's Life magazine."
Her smile brightened at his admission, and something inside him responded on a very basic, very masculine level. "So you do," she murmured in that husky timbre that still made his blood run a little too hot for his comfort.
"You're familiar with the publication, then," he said. It was a statement, not a question, because Adam hadn't a single doubt that she was familiar with his publication.
"Of course," she replied. "But you misunderstood me a moment ago. I'm not saying love is what's at the heart of my book. I'm saying that a balanced relationship is what's at the heart of my book."
He barked out a laugh that was completely lacking in good humor. "You can't be serious."
Her expression grew faintly puzzled. "I can't? Why not?"
"In your book, you tell women to use plotting and inveigling and entrapment in order to land themselves a wealthy man who will take care of them for the rest of their lives."
She seemed vaguely amused by his analysis. "Really? Is that what I'm telling them to do?"
"Of course it is."
"I had no idea. How about that?"
"Do you deny it?" he asked.
Instead of answering him, Lauren Grable-Monroe posed a question of her own. "Tell me, Mr. Darien, have you even read my book?"
Adam shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Actually, no," he confessed. "But that's—"
"That's what I thought," she finished before he had the chance, a knowing little smile playing about her lips.
"That's beside the point, Ms. Grable-Monroe. The point is—"
"The point, Mr. Darien, is that you haven't an inkling what my book says, therefore you can't possibly object to it. At no time do I advocate plotting, inveigling, or entrapment. Nor do I suggest that women land themselves a wealthy man to take care of them. What I encourage women to do is to find a mate worthy of them and to use the tools they have at their disposal to ensure an equal power base in that relationship."
"And you don't think that's plotting?"
She shook her head. "No, I don't. I think it's taking advantage of an opportunity women have overlooked in the past."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
The author tented her fingers in that thoughtful way again, tilted her head to one side, and observed Adam in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. "For millennia," she said, "men have entered into relationships with women and claimed all the power in those relationships for themselves. They've been able to do this because of their superior physical strength and because the laws—man-made laws—have been in their favor. Today, in our more enlightened times," she continued, clearly tongue in cheek, "those laws are sloooowly changing. In the meantime, I think women are within their rights to effect changes in the balance of power where they can—in whatever way they can—to make the relationship a more equitable one."
"I'm sorry," Adam echoed, "but I still don't understand."
The author smiled at him again. "Read my book, Mr. Darien. Then call my publisher. We'll chat."
And before he could say another word, she turned her gaze to a student who had flagged her down, thereby dismissing Adam with all the interest she might have given to a glob of gum stuck to the heel of her shoe.
Damn . Well, that hadn't gone well at all, had it? Instead of him ambushing Lauren Grable-Monroe, she'd just mowed him down like a weed.
Reluctantly, Adam sat back down in his chair and mulled over the Cinderella complex thing. He had to concede that she'd made a good point with the rescuer/reward thing. Sort of. But what was this balance of power in a relationship business that she kept going on about? And why did this conversation seem so familiar for some reason? Furthermore, why did Lauren Grable-Monroe seem so familiar for some reason?
Because she did seem familiar somehow. Adam couldn't quite put his finger on who, but she definitely reminded him of someone.
"Which is why we can conclude that it is Beauty who truly holds the most power in her relationship with the Beast," the author was saying now. "It is she who rescues him. He needs her in order to break the spell he's been under. She doesn't need him for anything. Unless," she said meaningfully, "you want to bring up the subject of love again. When love—honest, genuine love—enters the picture, the power base of any relationship shifts and grows more equitable."
Adam itched to raise his hand again, but after the last dressing down he'd received at her hands—and boy, was that an interesting way to put it—he was hesitant to draw her attention again. Fortunately, someone else asked the very question he'd wanted to pose himself.
"Why does the introduction of love into a relationship change the balance of power?" a young woman who stood up a few rows in front of him asked.
The author seemed to give much thought to what she was going to say before she began speaking again. "Very few people would argue," she began slowly, "that men and women are entirely different creatures. There's all kinds of evidence to support the truth in that assertion. The genders simply approach life in completely different fashions. That doesn't mean one is better than the other," she hastened to qualify. "It just means they're different."
Hmm, Adam thought. This was sounding familiar, too. She paused for a moment, thinking, then continued, "Many theorists would have you believe that each gender's reason for entering into sexual relationships likewise differs, and that both reasons are engendered by basic instincts that are throwbacks to primitive times—the man because he needs to procreate, and the woman because she needs protection from natural dangers. I would propose, however, that, like so many other human traits and characteristics, through evolution those primitive urges have changed. They've evolved. Nowadays, I think men and women enter relationships looking to fulfill a need that is identical, regardless of gender—the need to give and receive love."
As he listened to Lauren Grable-Monroe discuss her hypothesis, Adam found himself conceding—with much reluctance—that he found the subject matter to be … well, fascinating, actually. More than that, he found the speaker to be fascinating. As irritating as he had thought the author before, he now found her to be more than a little intriguing.
She was clearly an educated woman. Nobody could expound this stuff with the confidence and articulation she claimed unless they were familiar with the subject matter on an academic level. She must have at least one college degree, but why would a professional mistress bother with an advanced education? Especially since Ms. Grable-Monroe's bio from her own publisher—which, granted, he was certain was complete hooey—had stated that her family had lost everything? How could she have afforded to go to college? And why would she have wanted to, if she'd already decided to make herself available to wealthy men for a living?
Moreover, she was, without question, a Chicago native, as Adam deduced from her distinctive accent, which was indigenous to this part of the Midwest . And why would a woman who'd made her living on her back—and who demanded anonymity—continue to live in a city where she could easily be exposed by one of her former benefactors? Especially since her book was turning her into a very wealthy woman, one who wouldn't have to make a living on her back anymore? She could be sunning herself in Rio de Janeiro or skiing the Alps instead.
Too, she was definitely one hot tomata, a fact to which Adam himself could testify. And hot tomatas were notoriously hard to keep under wraps. Th
ey were, by nature, attention-seekers, spotlight-grabbers, and paparazzi-bait. How could this woman be making a life for herself in Chicago yet be seen nowhere except at the public appearances arranged by her publisher? Because she was never seen anywhere else. Adam was certain of that. Although he hadn't been following her career with a microscope, he'd definitely taken notice of her appearances. And the only time Lauren Grable-Monroe appeared anywhere, it was at her publisher's behest, in order to promote her book. Otherwise, she was nowhere to be found.
And he himself had hit nothing but brick walls in his efforts to find out more about her. Her publisher guarded her true identity well, and no amount of investigation had turned up anything substantial that might offer a clue as to her real identity.
What he had determined, and only by personal observation, was that Lauren Grable-Monroe was a well educated and beautiful Chicagoan who was currently at the height of celebrity, yet she was never seen anywhere in town outside her arranged public appearances. At a time when everyone in the country wanted to know more about her, no one had come forward claiming to have any particulars about her background. No former schoolmates, no former boyfriends, no former benefactors. No distant relatives coming out of the woodwork in need of a buck. No disgruntled wives hoping to expose a home wrecker.
Just who the hell was Lauren Grable-Monroe? he wondered. He really, really wanted to find out.
Damn , he thought. This meant he was going to have to read her book. Then again, maybe it would give him a couple of pointers. Because even if he wasn't out to trap himself a tycoon, Adam was definitely looking to catch something. He just hoped what he caught, when he caught it, wasn't contagious.
"I think I have time for one more question," the author suddenly piped up. "Is there anything we haven't covered here yet today?"
"I have a question about something we haven't covered, Ms. Grable-Monroe," a woman called out from down front. When she stood, Adam saw that she was in her mid to late fifties, was stylishly attired and had an elegant demeanor. Her graying hair was caught at her nape in a sophisticated twist of some kind, her beige suit appeared to be haute couture. She rather reminded Adam of his own mother.
"Yes?" the author asked the woman, her smile encouraging. "What would you like to ask?"
"What I'd like to ask," the woman said, "is how can you sleep at night?"
The author's smile fell—which, Adam supposed, wasn't exactly surprising, all things considered. "I beg your pardon?" she replied quietly.
"I said," the woman reiterated, considerably louder than before, "I want to know how you can sleep at night. In fact, I'd like to know how you can live with yourself."
But still Lauren Grable-Monroe seemed to have no idea how to respond. Because all she did was stammer, "E-excuse me?"
"Oh, come now, Ms. Grable-Monroe," the woman taunted. "You've had no shortage of analysis and philosophy for any of the other questions asked today. Surely this one can't stump you that badly. It's fairly straightforward. Unlike your own deceitful self."
The author straightened and seemed to recover some of her own elegance and sophistication. "No, you're right, of course. And it's not that I'm stumped for an answer. I'm just trying to fathom how you can be so frightfully rude."
"I'm rude?" the woman echoed incredulously, splaying a hand over her heart. "Me? I'm not the one who's responsible for leading good, decent men astray. I'm not the one who's made my living on my back. I'm not the one who's caused countless marriages to fail and left children fatherless. Home wrecker!" she cried defiantly in conclusion.
Oh, wow , Adam thought. This was getting good. With much anticipation, he turned his attention to Lauren Grable-Monroe, wondering how she was going to talk her way out of this one. Evidently, he wasn't alone. Because the entire auditorium had gone absolutely silent, every eye in the place riveted to the two women's exchange.
For a moment, the author said nothing, only returned her interrogator's angry gaze with a slightly less caustic one of her own. Then, very softly, very evenly, she replied, "I'm not responsible for any of those things, either. I'm not a home wrecker."
"Oh, the hell you're not," the woman countered. "How can you stand up there, an admitted mistress, a woman who's confessed to countless adulterous affairs, and say otherwise?"
"I can say that," the author replied in clipped tones, "because I never held a gun to any man's head and forced him to be unfaithful to his wife. The men who seek such relationships do just that—seek them. If their marriages fail as a result of that search, then it's their own fault. And I might add that their marriages must not have been very solid to begin with, if these men took it upon themselves to look for fulfillment elsewhere."
Ooo. Score one for the home wrecker , Adam thought. The other woman, however, clearly wasn't willing to let the author off so easily. "How dare you," she said coldly. "How dare you suggest that a man would willingly turn away from his loving wife to follow after a cheap bit of skirt like you. And how dare you stand up there and encourage these young women to lure respectable men into illicit affairs."
A murmur went through the audience at that, and Adam was fairly certain that more than a few of them were in support of the woman's accusation. Man. It was amazing how quickly a tide could turn.
The author sighed heavily. "Obviously Mr. Darien isn't the only one in the room who hasn't read my book yet feels qualified to comment on it at length."
Oh, fine , Adam thought. Just bring that up again, why didn't she?
"Because clearly, Ms.…?" the author left the remark unfinished, her request obvious.
"It's Mrs.," the other woman corrected her crisply, standing more erect than before. "Mrs. Harrison Enright."
And why did Adam get the impression that Mr. Harrison Enright was keeping a hot little tootsie under wraps somewhere? Just a hunch.
"Mrs. Enright," the author continued, her voice softening some. "I assure you that at no time do I advocate anyone entering into an illicit affair. On the contrary, what I'm encouraging women to do is to use their resources to look out for their own best interests. I suggest you read my book and—"
A bitter laugh cut the comment short. Well, that, and Mrs. Enright's cry of "Not bloody likely! I'll not put a red cent into your adulterous accounts. You can return to making a living on your back, as far as I'm concerned. Just stay away from my husband."
Yep, Adam thought. Mr. Enright most definitely had a hot little tootsie under wraps somewhere. No question about that.
The author sighed heavily again then lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. She closed her eyes, shook her head slowly, then, "Oh, boy," she muttered softly into the microphone.
And Adam had to admit that, although he hadn't entirely accepted every hypothesis the author had posed that afternoon, he sure couldn't disagree with her on that one.
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
"So there she was, with this absolutely furious woman berating her, and all she could do was sputter some lame comment about not being responsible for wandering husbands."
For the third time in less than a week, Dorsey listened with jaw clenched tight as Adam described—in much too vivid, much too enthusiastic detail—Lauren Grable-Monroe's public flogging at Northwestern on Sunday afternoon. The first time had been bad enough, because it had come almost immediately following the event, when she and Adam had spent the evening together, dining and dancing. And, okay, necking heavily on her front porch after she'd cited exhaustion and a need to get home. This instead of returning to Adam's place for a night of what she was sure would have been raucous and extremely satisfying lovemaking.
The second time she'd been forced to listen to his glowing account of the episode had been two days later, when Adam had joyfully described it to Lindy Aubrey. And Lindy, Dorsey recalled now, had taken an uncommon interest in the event. Which was odd, because Dorsey didn't think Lindy took an interest in anything—except Drake's of course. But she
'd laughed without inhibition, and with much satisfaction, at Lauren's unfortunate confrontation. And somehow, Dorsey had felt almost betrayed by her employer as a result.
Now it was Lucas Conaway who was held in thrall by the story, and he was enjoying it more than anyone had a right to enjoy anything. He sat in his usual jeans and usual white Oxford shirt and usual silly cartoon necktie on his usual stool next to Adam's, nursing his usual Tanqueray and tonic as if he had no intention of drinking any of it anytime soon. The working day was over for the two men, but Dorsey's was just beginning, and somehow, the knowledge of that irritated her more than usual. She was really getting tired of working so much. Especially since she seemed to have so little to show for it.
"So Lauren Grable-Monroe is standing there renouncing any responsibility for wayward husbands," Adam went on, "but she's dressed in this heart-stopping, libido-grabbing miniskirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, and—"
Dorsey cleared her throat indelicately, then arched an eyebrow meaningfully at Adam. "Really?" she said. "You noticed what she was wearing? I didn't think men ever paid attention what a woman was wearing."
He had the decency to look a bit uncomfortable before assuming an expression of total and profound innocence. "They, uh … they don't," he told her.
"Yeah," Lucas concurred. "Not unless it's a heart-stopping, libido-grabbing miniskirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination."
"Oh, and by the way, Mack," Adam interjected, "that's a really nice tie you have on tonight."
She shook her head wryly. "Yeah, right. Thanks. I got it at the heart-stopping, libido-grabbing tie store. I thought it might catch your eye."
"It's great," he assured her. Then he turned back to Lucas. "Anyway, Mrs. Harrison Enright was in no way placated."
"I'm not surprised," Lucas said. "Don't you know who Mrs. Harrison Enright is?"
Adam frowned. "No. Should I?"
Lucas expelled a rueful sound. "Man, you call yourself a journalist? You don't know anything that's a current event these days."
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