Dorsey noticed that Adam spared her a quick—and really, kind of hot—glance before telling Lucas, "Well, I've kinda had my mind on other things this week, okay?"
Boy, did he have his mind on other things, Dorsey thought. Or, at least, on one other thing. Getting her back into his bed. He'd made no secret Sunday night of his intention to do that very thing, and he'd been none too happy about taking her back to her place instead of his own.
And she'd managed to maintain the status quo for the rest of the week, citing work at Drake's or class at Severn to prevent her from seeing Adam socially. They'd been legitimate excuses, all. But now the weekend was upon them, and Dorsey wasn't required to show up at Drake's or Severn for two whole days. More significant than that, though, for the first time in months, Lauren Grable-Monroe didn't have any weekend obligations. She didn't have one single public appearance scheduled.
Oh, she was supposed to have been speaking and signing books at a large, independent bookstore. But the owners had canceled the signing when a local church group had threatened to picket the event—with big, hand-lettered signs labeling the author a fornicator and an adulteress and a Jezebel, who was intent on misleading today's youth and obliterating family values.
Clearly, Mrs. Harrison Enright wasn't the only one calling Lauren Grable-Monroe names these days. And Dorsey was hard pressed to put her finger on when, exactly, or even why things had started to turn so ugly.
"Mrs. Harrison Enright," Lucas continued, catching Dorsey's attention and bringing it back to the matter at hand, "is none other than the founder and leader of WOOF."
"WOOF?" she echoed, even though Lucas had been speaking to Adam.
He turned to face her now. "It's an acronym for Wives Opposed to Opportunistic Floozies."
But all Dorsey could manage in response was to repeat, not quite credibly, "WOOF."
"They're actually a pretty well-organized bunch. Mrs. Enright has been on a couple of local shows, radio and TV both. At first the group was mostly made up of women like her—wealthy, idle, husbands who are on the make, that sort of thing. But she seems to have won herself a pretty substantial following. Certainly she's raised Lauren-bashing to new heights."
Dorsey gaped at him, unable to believe this bit of news. But all she could manage by way of a response was yet another "WOOF."
"And the members of WOOF aren't the only ones who've had their fill of Lauren Grable-Monroe," Lucas added. "The guys at The Harvard Lampoon have written a parody of How to Trap a Tycoon called How to Bag a Bimbo. So you know the end can't be far for ol' Lauren."
Dorsey closed her eyes and shook her head slowly as she digested all this distasteful information. Certainly there had been people bad-mouthing Lauren since the beginning, but they'd been a minority and had never won any "substantial following."
She'd had no idea there was such a sweeping anti-Lauren campaign developing across the country these days. Granted, she'd been so busy lately that she hadn't had time to be in touch with the media—or with reality, for that matter—but Dorsey still couldn't quite come to terms with the idea that so many people out there hated Lauren so much. Hated her so much.
"Oh, and did you read the article in last week's Rolling Stone?" Lucas piped up further. "'Miss Greedyhearts,' it was called. And it was not pretty."
"I cannot believe people don't have better ways to spend their time," Dorsey said. "Whatever happened to having a hobby? Like doing embroidery? Or leather tooling? Or studying alien abduction theory? Those were always good for keeping people off the streets."
"Oh, hey, listen," Lucas said, "you should log onto the Internet some night. Those people are nowhere near as polite as Mrs. Enright and the guys at The Harvard Lampoon."
"I don't want to know," Dorsey said, holding up a hand, palm out, to stop him from telling her.
"It's the typical American paradox," Adam joined in. "This country loves to make heroes out of everyday folk, then once those heroes reach their peak of popularity, this country loves to tear them down again."
"Yeah," Lucas agreed. "And then this country loves to jump up and down on the fallen heroes until they can't get back up again. And then, just for good measure, this country loves to kick them a few more times while they're down." He turned back to Dorsey. "This can't possibly be news to you," he said.
"No," she said with a sigh. "It's not news. But I can't understand why everyone would pick on Lauren Grable-Monroe that way. She's harmless."
"She's famous," Lucas said. "She's gorgeous. She's making a bundle of money. In the eyes of the American public, that makes her fair game."
"I don't think everyone in America feels that way," Dorsey said. "Only a few vocal malcontents, that's all."
Lucas chuckled knowingly, and something about the sound of it sent a shiver straight down her spine. "Yeah, right. Think whatever you want. But speaking for myself, if I were Lauren Grable-Monroe, I'd keep a fire extinguisher close at hand. You never can tell about angry, torch-bearing mobs."
* * *
Adam stayed at Drake's far later than usual that night, but he just couldn't bring himself to leave. He'd seen so little of Mack lately, and he had wanted her so much. Spending that one night with her had only generated in him a need for more. He hadn't felt satisfied—in any way, even those that went beyond the sexual—since Sunday morning. He'd done everything within his power to lure her to his place, but she'd shot down his every effort. But Adam respected the fact that she was a busy woman. Hey, her dedication to her work and studies was just one of the things he loved about her, after all.
Whoa. Back up. Replay.
One of the things he loved about her … loved about her… loved…
Was that really possible? he wondered now as he nursed a cup of coffee and watched her go about her nightly ritual of closing down the bar. Could he actually be falling in love with Mack?
He hadn't thought he'd loved anyone since his ex-wife, and even she had been remarkably easy to get over. He had often speculated that that was precisely what had been wrong with their marriage—neither he nor his wife had really loved the other. Certainly not the way two people should when they want to be together forever. Neither of them had made any effort to try and work things out. They'd both simply walked away from a decade-long relationship and had never looked back.
For that reason, Adam had surmised that he simply wasn't capable of loving in the truest, deepest, most genuine sense. Not in the way that a person needed to love in order to bind himself to another human being.
But what he felt for Mack was unlike anything he had ever felt for anyone else, so who knew? Maybe he was falling in love with her. Falling in love … love…
Okay, that wasn't so bad. If he was falling in love with Mack, so what? That wasn't that scary. Was it? Nor was it necessarily surprising. The two of them had started off as friends—albeit friends who were physically attracted to each other—and then, once they'd both realized and accepted the fact that there was nothing to keep them apart sexually, they'd taken that next logical step to become lovers.
And boy, what lovers they'd become. There had been a dimension and an intensity to their lovemaking the weekend before that Adam had never experienced with another woman. And he could only conclude that it had come about because he and Mack had cemented a relationship as friends and confidantes first. Friendship, after all, was founded on trust. And he'd never had trust with a woman before—not really.
He'd never felt comfortable enough with one to share the kinds of things he'd shared with Mack back when he thought she was married and therefore unattainable. Even when he'd been married, he'd kept a part of himself distant, even separate, from his wife. He just hadn't felt like he could be himself with her completely. He hadn't trusted her the way he trusted Mack.
With Mack, though, from day one, he'd felt totally and utterly at ease. Whether that was because he had thought her married and unattainable or because his first exposure to her had been as a bartender—and therefore as someone w
ith whom a man just naturally shared things—he couldn't rightfully say. But something about Mack had appealed to him—had welcomed him—from the moment they met. Trying to understand that, he supposed, would be pointless.
Reasons weren't important. It didn't matter how his feelings had come about. They were there, and they showed no sign of going away anytime soon. What was important was that he cared for Mack deeply. He couldn't imagine not seeing her on a day-to-day basis. He wanted to bring her more fully into his life. He felt better when he was with her than when he was without her. Simply put, he liked having her around.
He just wished he could get her to come around more often.
"More coffee?" he heard her ask then, rousing him from his ruminations.
He glanced up to find himself gazing into bottomless green eyes that looked very, very tired. In fact, he thought, the rest of her seemed to be pretty worn down, too. She really was stretching herself too thin between Severn and Drake's. And he really did wish he knew why.
"Come home with me tonight," he said softly, impulsively. "Spend the weekend with me."
Her mouth dropped open in surprise at his public invitation. Quickly, discreetly, she glanced first left and then right, to make sure no one had heard what he had said. But the bar was deserted, and Lindy had departed with the register receipts some time ago, so there was no one around who might overhear. Nevertheless, it was with no small amount of caution that Mack turned her attention back to him.
"Adam, I wish I could, but I can't," she said softly.
"Why not?"
She seemed to think hard about that, as if trying to come up with an adequate excuse, one that he might possibly believe. Right. As if. There was absolutely nothing to keep her from accepting his invitation—all right, all right, from obeying his command. Whatever. Nothing except her own fear and uncertainty. Which, he conceded, if they were anything like his own fear and uncertainty, might be formidable foes.
She sighed heavily. "I just can't," she said. "I have a lot of reading to do."
"Bring it with you," he told her.
"I also need to sleep," she added pointedly.
"What?" he asked. "You can't do that in my bed?"
She arched an eyebrow in silent but meaningful comment.
He chuckled low. "Okay, okay. So we haven't done much sleeping in my bed. Look, Mack…" He lifted his shoulders and let them drop as he searched for the right words to say. "I just want to be with you," he finally told her. "I haven't seen much of you this week, and I want to spend time with you, doing whatever. I can catch up on some things from the office while you do your reading, and I can sleep when you sleep. We don't have to … you know. I mean, don't get me wrong," he hastened to clarify. "I'd really like to … you know. A lot." He shrugged again, philosophically this time. "But if you're tired, then we'll just … be together. Alone. It could be nice.
She eyed him with frank speculation for a moment, her gaze impassive, her expression inscrutable. Then, finally, slowly, she smiled. "Yeah," she agreed, "it would be nice. I'll be done here in about fifteen minutes. I'll meet you downstairs by the elevators. Let's just buzz by my place first, so I can pack a few things, okay?"
* * *
It had been a glorious weekend, Dorsey had to admit a week following the invitation. Because she and Adam had done absolutely nothing, had simply basked in each other's company for two full days and three full nights. Well, okay, so that wasn't entirely true. They had actually done a couple of things. She had completed her reading, and he had caught up on some work he brought home from the Man's Life offices. And, surprisingly enough, they had, in fact, slept. But in between those times, they'd relaxed. They'd enjoyed themselves. They'd had fun just being together.
Oh, all right. And they'd made wild monkey love, too. Every night. And every morning. And once in the afternoon. How could they resist? It had been the triple-fudge icing on the double-chocolate cake. All in all, the weekend had been very … uh … fulfilling. Definitely time well spent.
Even Monday morning had been surprisingly enjoyable. When Adam's alarm had erupted at five-forty-five, they'd woken in each other's arms, then smiled and hit the snooze button to snuggle for ten minutes more—and, my, but the snuggling one could manage in only ten minutes was quite impressive. When the alarm had sounded again, though, they'd separated and rolled out of bed with identical groans of disappointment, and each had headed for a different bathroom—had they headed for the same one, they never would have made it to work on time. After showering, dressing, and downing a hasty couple of cups of coffee, they'd ridden hand in hand in the elevator to the parking garage in the basement, and, hand in hand, Adam had driven Dorsey to school. It had all been so wonderfully domestic, so utterly couplesome, so totally in keeping with a budding relationship.
Except for Dorsey's deceit and dishonesty when it came to telling Adam the truth about Lauren Grable-Monroe. But, hey, other than that, everything was just peachy.
But she had tried to tell him the truth, really she had. A dozen times she had opened her mouth to say, "Adam, we need to talk" or "Adam, there's something you should know" or "Adam, I've been keeping a secret and it's time you knew the truth."
But each one of those times, she had chickened out, or he had initiated some seductive action that blew her concentration completely. And every time she'd failed to tell him the truth, it had only made it that much harder to try again.
When they parted ways Monday morning, it had only gotten worse. Because the last thing Adam had asked Dorsey to do before kissing her good-bye near her classroom at Severn was to—gulp—meet his mother. Actually, he hadn't quite phrased it that way, but what he'd invited her to do would require meeting both the elder Dariens. They were hosting a holiday open house the following weekend at their Gold Coast estate to herald the arrival of December, and Adam wanted Dorsey to attend it with him.
So now here she stood in the entry hall of his parents' house, a dwelling seemingly larger—and doubtless richer in bounty—than some sovereign nations, immersed in what had formed and molded Adam from day one. As her gaze drifted about the massive, tastefully ornate interior, she could scarcely believe this was the environment in which he had been raised, the environment to which he belonged. The place was like a palace, huge and opulent and classically decorated. The colors were unapologetically bold, the furnishings rich and luxurious and traditional—much like the family, she couldn't help but think. The place just screamed good breeding, good manners, good taste.
According to Adam, five generations of Dariens had lived here, loved here, died here. And Dorsey wouldn't be a bit surprised if many of them still walked these hallowed halls. Because as beautiful and luxurious as the house and its furnishings were, there was a definite creep factor at work, one that made her stomach pitch and roll.
Or maybe that was just a result of her own discomfort, she thought, a result of her own feelings of not belonging here. Wearing her mother's black velvet opera coat, dressed in her mother's strapless, emerald-green cocktail dress, in her mother's pearl choker and her mother's pearl drop earrings, Dorsey felt like… She felt like … like… Well, she felt like her mother.
Oh, fine . As if she wasn't already troubled enough.
Ever since she was old enough to understand what her mother did for a living, Dorsey had struggled to be as different from Carlotta as she could be. It wasn't because she disapproved of her mother or her mother's way of life, that had caused the reaction, however. Although she had never understood Carlotta's choices, Dorsey had never passed judgment on her mother or her mother's lifestyle. It wasn't Dorsey's role to tell people how to live. Carlotta was her own person, responsible for her own actions, responsible for the results of those actions. She had made that clear from day one, and she had raised Dorsey to adopt that same attitude of personal responsibility. As a result, Dorsey had always accepted her mother's lifestyle in the same matter-of-fact way that Carlotta lived it. She didn't understand it. But she accepted it.
From the time that she was a child—and just as Carlotta had taught her to do—Dorsey accepted complete responsibility for, herself. And as she'd grown and matured, she had done everything necessary to ensure that she would always be her own person and would never have to rely on someone else to make her way through life. She had worked hard to develop her brain and exploit her intellectual resources. She had played down her physical attributes to discourage unwanted attentions from the opposite sex. She had avoided romantic entanglements that might lead to dependency. She had relied solely on herself in every aspect of her existence. She had created her own happiness, her own prospects, her own opportunities, her own life. She'd never needed anyone else.
But even after all this time, after all her efforts, deep down inside, Dorsey couldn't quite erase the fear that someday she would end up just like her mother. And as much as she loved Carlotta, she didn't want to be like her. She didn't want to end up alone and unfulfilled and fearful of what the future might—or might not—bring. Then again, considering the way she was living her life, she might very well end up all of those things. But at least she would be alone, unfulfilled, and fearful on her terms. She would be that way because of her own actions and not because others had rejected her.
For some reason, though, Dorsey found little consolation in the realization.
As if conjured by her thoughts, Carlotta whizzed into and out of Dorsey's vision then, a brief blur of red in the packed hallway beyond. In the instant that Dorsey saw her, she received an impression of elegance and confidence, of happiness and laughter.
A melancholy smile tugged at her lips. So. She wasn't quite like her mother, after all. Because where Carlotta obviously felt very much at ease in these lush, luxurious surroundings, dressed in the trappings of affluence and grace, Dorsey felt like the worst kind of poser. She had shape-shifted yet again, had metamorphosed into a creature that wasn't quite Dorsey, wasn't quite Lauren, and most certainly wasn't Mack.
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