How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  "And that's a problem?" Dorsey asked, unable to mask her surprise. "I mean, I kind of thought you didn't like to be bothered by testosterone-driven individuals."

  "I don't like being bothered by them," Edie agreed, increasing her efforts with the relentless apron ties. "I thought it would be good that this guy left me alone. But now it turns out that it's not so good. Now it turns out that it's pretty lousy. And I can't understand why it bothers me so much that he's left me alone. I can't understand why he's left me alone. I can't understand any of it."

  With a snarl of frustration, Edie jerked on the uncooperative apron ties with such force that she completely ripped one from its mooring. And with a growl of discontent, she snatched the apron from over her head, wadded it up ruthlessly in both fists, and stuffed it maliciously into the linen bin. Then, when she realized how thoroughly she had lost control, she punctuated the episode with a viciously muttered, "Oh, hell."

  Dorsey's eyebrows shot right up to her hairline. She'd never, ever heard Edie Mulholland swear. Not even the harmless ol' H-E-double-hockey-sticks. "Uh … why don't you go home and try to get some sleep?" she told the other bartender. "You look like you could use it."

  Still staring into the linen bin she had just assaulted, Edie expelled a sound that was at once wistful and hopeless. "Sleep," she echoed. "Yeah, right. What a concept."

  Without much enthusiasm, she gathered together her things and slung her backpack over her shoulder. And then, without so much as a see-ya-later, she ducked under the bar and strode away without a second glance.

  "That girl needs someone to take care of her," Straight-Shot said, as he always did the moment Edie was out of sight.

  But this time, his words carried more concern than they normally did. And this time, Dorsey realized she was in total and unequivocal agreement.

  When she turned back around, her concern for Edie was immediately replaced by concern for herself. Because Adam was gazing at her quite openly, hiding none of what he clearly felt for her. And all Dorsey could do was hope that nobody else in the bar could see what she saw so plainly etched on his face—desire, need, affection, perhaps even…

  Well. At any rate, it was all written there, for all the world to see, and Adam clearly didn't care who saw it.

  "Hi," he said as she approached him. Some of her anxiety must have shown on her face, because he added softly, "Rough day?"

  "Not really," she said.

  Not unless she included the discussion in her eight o'clock Soc. 101 class, anyway. The one where each and every one of Lauren Grable-Monroe's earlier proponents—led by none other than Ms. Tiffany Jennings herself—had proclaimed the author to be a writer of sensationalistic claptrap that pandered to the masses. And an opportunistic floozy. And an adulteress. And a Jezebel.

  And then they'd gotten ugly.

  On one level, her students' impassioned proclamations had actually restored some of Dorsey's faith that they wouldn't be easily misled by media hype—well, not after a couple of months of behaving like lemmings, at any rate. On another level, their vocal pronouncements concerned her that they would be easily misled by angry, torch-bearing mobs. On yet another level, they had offended her intensely as the author of the book they were maligning. And on another level still, she realized they were only echoing some of the very things she had said herself that day in class.

  And on a last, very high altitude level, they made her head spin and her stomach hurt. Real bad.

  The tide—among other things—had definitely turned against Lauren Grable-Monroe. In her panic, Dorsey had tried to call her editor that afternoon, but Anita had already left for the day. Tomorrow morning, however, first thing, Dorsey intended to pin Anita down, to chat about this matter of turning tides, and to discuss the possibility of having Lauren Grable-Monroe go gracefully into that good night, to get herself to a nunnery, to crawl back beneath the rock whence she had come. Soon.

  It was the only feasible thing to do now. Clearly, How to Trap a Tycoon had run its course. It was time for the next icon of contemporary American culture to step up to the—admittedly unstable—pedestal. Lauren Grable-Monroe, Dorsey was certain, would be more than happy to surrender her spot. The sooner, the better.

  "So then, it was a good day?" Adam asked, bringing her thoughts back to the present—and none too soon.

  "Yeah, I guess so," she said. "Good enough, anyway."

  "I've had a good day, too," he told her with a smile. Then, dropping his voice a little, he added, "Because I spent most of it thinking about you."

  A wisp of something warm and wonderful wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed hard. He was just so … so cute, she thought. During all the weeks since Dorsey had met him, Adam had seemed like both the irresistible force and the immovable object. He had come across as such an indomitable creature, such a rock-solid wall of conviction.

  But tonight he was just … cute. Really, really cute. And something inside her turned all warm and fuzzy at the realization that she was at least partly responsible for his transformation.

  "What a coincidence," she told him, leaning forward over the bar to draw as close to him as she dared. "I just so happened to spend a good part of my day thinking about you, too."

  Her smile, she was sure, was identical to his, because she was experiencing her own share of desire, need, affection, perhaps even… Well. At any rate, she didn't doubt that her own feelings were all written on her face for all the world to see, and oddly enough, like Adam, she didn't care who saw them.

  His smile turned decidedly lascivious, though, upon hearing her admission. "I can't stop thinking about the last couple of weekends we've spent together," he told her.

  "Me neither."

  "I think we should spend this weekend together, too."

  "Do you?"

  He nodded. "What say we get together after your shift and—"

  "Dorsey."

  Her head snapped around at the summons from Lindy Aubrey, coming as it did from immediately behind her. Oh, God, she thought. What if Lindy had just overheard what she and Adam had been—

  "Come into my office. Now. You, too, Adam," her employer added. "You might be interested in what I have to say, as well."

  Oh, yeah , Dorsey thought. Lindy had definitely overheard.

  Adam threw Lindy a look that was filled with surprise, curiosity, and not a little resentment. "Hang on a minute, Lindy," he said. "There's no need to—"

  "There's every need," Lindy countered. "Your presence in my office isn't absolutely necessary for this," she said. "But you will most definitely find what I have to say interesting."

  And then she spun around and walked to her office without a glance backward, fully confident that Dorsey and Adam both would follow her—or else. As, naturally, they would.

  "Well," Dorsey said uncomfortably. "That was rather ominous." She inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, preparing herself for what was sure to come. "I suppose she overheard us talking, and now I'm history here at Drake's."

  "Don't borrow trouble, Mack," Adam cautioned. "I don't see how she could have overheard what we said. She came out of nowhere. I mean, granted, I was looking at you, not behind you, but she was definitely sneaking around."

  "Which means she did overhear," Dorsey concluded.

  "Mack," Adam said softly, "if she did… Look, I'm sorry if I screwed things up for you here. Whatever happens, I'll help you out however I can."

  He reached across the bar to cover her hand with his.

  Her first instinct was to pull away, but there was little point in objecting to his gesture now. They were made. Lindy was going to tell her to clean out her locker, and that would be the end of that.

  It was just as well, Dorsey thought. Not because she had enough research to complete her dissertation reasonably well—which she did—but because she was tired of pretending to be something she wasn't. She was tired of all the deceptions, all the dishonesty, all the lies. She was as tired of being Mack the bartender as she wa
s of being Lauren Grable-Monroe. After she left Drake's this evening she would tell Adam the truth about all of it. About how she'd come to work here in the first place to research her dissertation and about being Lauren Grable-Monroe, too.

  Somehow, she would make him understand why she had felt obligated to keep him in the dark about everything. Somehow, she would explain her own fear of exposure and censure and rejection. Somehow, she would make amends for all the deception. And somehow, they would weather whatever repercussions ensued. They would have to.

  They would just have to.

  "If you want to wait out here," she told Adam, "I'll certainly understand. Lindy's a pretty intimidating person to face. And this really is my responsibility."

  "The hell it is," he countered. "We're in this together. We're equally responsible. Whatever happens, Mack, I'm right there with you. And I will help you out, however you need it," he added, obviously telling her he'd make up whatever lost wages she might suffer.

  She smiled at him, grateful for the rapidity and confidence with which he'd offered his support. She didn't kid herself that she'd have her work cut out for her explaining things to Adam. But she was confident that once the two of them had a chance to talk things out, she'd be able to make him understand. As for her dissertation, she had enough research to complete it, and once it was defended, she was reasonably certain that the sociology department of Severn would find a place for her as a fulltime instructor.

  It was all going to work out, she told herself as she ducked beneath the bar and joined Adam on the long, long journey to Lindy's office. All of it was going to work out. For the first time in months, Dorsey felt hopeful. She felt peaceful. She felt good.

  Until she strode into Lindy's office with Adam right on her heels. Because as he closed the door behind them, Dorsey realized what had felt so wrong earlier, when she'd been in the locker room, changing her clothes. Only now did she recall that her notebooks—the ones containing all of her research on Drake's—had been missing from the top shelf of her locker. She knew that without going back to check.

  Because all of them were currently sitting atop her employer's desk.

  "I want you to clean out your locker and leave the premises immediately," Lindy stated without preamble. She stood behind her power desk wearing one of her power suits—charcoal with pinstripes this time—her hands fisted firmly on her hips. Normally, it was impossible to tell what Lindy Aubrey was thinking about, because she always kept her features carefully schooled in a bland expression. Tonight, however, her expression held nothing back. Tonight she was livid. Absolutely, utterly, completely livid. Tonight she looked capable of murdering someone.

  No, not someone. Just Dorsey MacGuinness.

  "I've taken the liberty of beginning the cleaning-out process for you myself," she continued, nodding at the notebooks, obviously straining to keep a civil tongue.

  "So I see," Dorsey replied quietly.

  "However," Lindy added, jabbing a finger now at the half-dozen notebooks on her desk, "don't expect to be getting these back anytime soon. In fact, don't expect to get them back at all."

  Dorsey's lack of calmness quickly shifted to apprehension. "Why not?" she demanded, her own voice nowhere near as controlled as her employer's, regardless of how forced Lindy's control was. "They belong to me. You can't keep them."

  "They don't belong to you anymore," Lindy assured her. "Now they're evidence."

  Dorsey gaped at her, her apprehension turning quickly to full-blown panic. "Evidence? Of what? I haven't committed any crime."

  Lindy thrust both hands in front of herself and enumerated the charges on her fingers. "You've come to work for me under false pretenses. You've lied to me. You've been compiling notes of a dubious nature. You've compromised the entire membership and staff of Drake's."

  "Those aren't crimes," Dorsey said instead of denying any of the charges. At the moment, she wasn't entirely sure she could deny them.

  Lindy glared at her. "We'll let the police decide that when they get here. I just called them."

  Oh, jeez…

  Time to start denying the charges, she told herself. Even if she was feeling pretty criminal at the moment. "Okay, I admit that I have been working here under false pretenses and that I've been compiling notes," she began. "And I may not have been totally honest with you, Lindy, but I never lied to you. And I have absolutely no intention of compromising Drake's in any way, shape or form. Those notes are for my doctoral dissertation, that's all. Everyone's identity will be protected, including Drake's. I'd never do anything as malicious as you suggest."

  Lindy smiled then, but the gesture was in no way happy. She looked more like a cold-blooded reptile that was about to consume one of its own. "Funny," she said, "but I find that hard to believe, seeing as how authors of sensationalistic, potboiling best-sellers tend to want to follow up with yet another sensationalistic, potboiling best-seller."

  Wow . Had Dorsey been thinking that she was panicked a few moments ago? She'd had no idea what panic was then. Because at hearing Lindy's latest charge, what Dorsey had thought was panic surged right into utter and complete tenor.

  "I … I don't know what you're talking about," she lied.

  "Oh, don't you?" Lindy asked.

  Even though she knew it was probably pointless to deny it any longer, even though she'd just promised herself she was going to come clean and tell the truth, even though she'd just felt liberated by that decision to be honest, Dorsey shook her head. But she couldn't quite give voice to her denial, couldn't quite make herself speak the words that would only wind up being yet another lie.

  "Lindy, what the hell is going on?"

  Dorsey had all but forgotten Adam's presence until she heard his impatiently uttered demand. And what had started off as concern, then apprehension, then panic, then terror, segued now into stark, stampeding horror. Because Dorsey realized then that nothing was going to work out. Nothing would be all right. She would never be able to make Adam understand. The way Lindy was about to interpret things, there was no way Dorsey would be able to make an adequate explanation of her actions. Once Lindy planted the seed in his brain that Dorsey was going to write a tell-all book about her experiences at Drake's, then Adam would be fully capable of nurturing that idea into fruition all by himself. He would be fully capable of believing that Dorsey was nothing but, well, an opportunistic floozy who cared only for her own success.

  Impulsively, she tried to intercept her employer, spinning around to meet Adam's gaze beseechingly. "Adam, we have to talk," she told him.

  "Too late," Lindy said from behind her.

  "It's not what she thinks."

  "Nice try, Dorsey."

  "Let me explain."

  "No, let me explain."

  "Somebody had better explain something," Adam ground out roughly, his gaze ricocheting from one woman to the other. "Because I'm completely lost here."

  "Adam—" Dorsey began.

  But Lindy cut her off with a more loudly offered, "Do you know you've been sleeping with the enemy, Adam?"

  And naturally, that announcement would be what caught his attention. Because instead of looking at Dorsey, he shifted his gaze quickly to Lindy. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

  Lindy smiled, a brittle, bitter little smile. Never one to mince words, she said, "We have a celebrity in our midst, Adam. Because Dorsey MacGuinness is none other than Lauren Grable-Monroe."

  He expelled a single humorless chuckle. He gazed first at Lindy, then at Dorsey, then back at Lindy again. "You're out of your mind, Lindy," he said softly.

  Lindy shook her head slowly, almost sadly. "Although there may have been a time in my life when that was true," she said, "I assure you that these days I never make mistakes. Would that the rest of the world followed my example. We wouldn't get into binds like this one."

  "Lindy," Dorsey tried again.

  But her employer ignored the petition and continued, "I got suspicious of these little notebooks some time
ago," she said, nodding again at the stack on her desk. "So after you left one night, I read them."

  Dorsey gaped at her. "You read my work? You violated the privacy of my locker? And you call me deceptive?"

  "I watch over what's mine, Dorsey. I've worked too damned hard to make Drake's—hell, to make my life—what it is. I've made sacrifices and deals you can't begin to understand. And I'm going to make sure no one ever takes all this away from me. I'll do whatever I have to do to protect what's mine. And I'll do whatever I have to do to survive. I always have. I always will. If that means I search a locker or two along the way, when compared to some of the other things I've had to do, you can bet your ass I don't lose any sleep over it."

  "But—"

  "And when I read those notebooks and realized you were keeping tabs on me and some of the other employees—not to mention the clientele of Drake's—I had you investigated. Thoroughly."

  Dorsey shook her head in silent disbelief. She'd been investigated? Without her knowledge? That was so… It was so… So … gross.

  "And imagine my surprise," Lindy continued, "when my investigator came to me this afternoon and told me who you really are. Lauren Grable-Monroe. I must admit, it blew me away." She turned to Adam then. "I didn't believe it, either, at first. But my man had evidence that was indisputable."

  "What kind of evidence?"

  The question came not from Dorsey, but from Adam. When she turned to look at him, his expression was as blank and guarded as Lindy's usually was. She had no idea what he was thinking. And that, she decided, couldn't possibly be good.

  "Photographs," Lindy told him. "Video tape. Audio recordings. And some copies of documents from her publisher."

  The revelation made Dorsey's stomach pitch. The realization that she had been followed, photographed, recorded without her knowledge… The idea that someone at Rockcastle had betrayed her identity… The knowledge that what she had thought was her private life had been invaded and made available to someone else, that it could even be made public…

  She understood then better why her employer was so outraged. Lindy feared that Dorsey was about to expose her and Drake's in exactly the same way, that she would take what she had recorded in those notebooks and follow up How to Trap a Tycoon with a similarly titillating book about private men's clubs in general and Drake's in particular. If Dorsey hadn't already been determined to keep identities confidential in her dissertation, she was certainly going to make sure no one was exposed now. There was little that could make her feel more demeaned or hurt than she felt right at that moment.