How to Trap a Tycoon

by Elizabeth Bevarly

  "Look, Lindy," Adam said, sounding confused and unconvinced, "there's just no way you can be right about this thing. There's got to be some mistake. Mack can't possibly be Lauren Grable-Monroe."

  Lindy turned her attention back to Adam. "Can't she? I have a private investigator who says otherwise."

  "Oh, yeah?" he countered. "Well I just so happen to have had Lauren Grable-Monroe thoroughly investigated for a story I wanted to do in Man's Life. And my private investigator couldn't uncover the author's identity no matter how hard he tried. How did your guy find out all this stuff?"

  "Did you hire a legitimate investigator?" Lindy asked him.

  "Of course."

  "That's your problem." She turned back to Dorsey. "Not only are you fired, but I'm planning to file every charge available against you. I am likewise suing you for every possible thing I might be able to sue you for. Get out. Now. And expect to hear from my attorneys immediately."

  "I haven't committed any crimes, Lindy," Dorsey assured her, her confidence faltering. "And you can't sue me for anything."

  In response, Lindy opened her desk drawer and pulled out a fat file folder. Then she opened it and withdrew its contents, fanning the pages out across her blotter. Dorsey's heart sank to the pit of her stomach when Adam stepped up to look at the information before she did, without hesitation and with much interest. She took a few steps forward then and gazed at the sheaves of paper and black-and-white photographs from behind him, around his shoulder.

  Her heart plummeted further at what she saw. Lindy had a copy of her book contract, a copy of Lauren's scheduled appearances, even a copy of the payment agreement that stated Carlotta would be the recipient of any and all checks. There were photographs of Lauren entering doors and of Dorsey exiting those very same doors.

  Worse than that, there were pictures of her and Adam together, holding hands as they walked down the street, their heads bent together in conversation over dinner, saying—and kissing—their good-byes at Dorsey's front door. She felt utterly and totally violated at seeing their intimacy assailed so ruthlessly. And she could only imagine that Adam felt exactly the same way. Probably worse, because he was an innocent bystander in all this. His privacy had been invaded simply because he had gotten involved with her.

  "I have video that will substantiate the stills of Lauren Grable-Monroe and Dorsey," Lindy said when she noted where Adam's gaze was focused. "It was amazing how many times Dorsey emerged from the very rooms Lauren Grable-Monroe had just entered. And just what was she carrying in that backpack every time, hmm?"

  "I can explain," Dorsey said halfheartedly.

  "You don't need to," Lindy retorted. "You've been working here to collect information for your next book. Any idiot can deduce that. And what a way to follow up something like How to Trap a Tycoon. What's the title of the new one supposed to be, Dorsey? Something along the lines of Gloria Steinem's A Bunny's Tale? How about Cocktail? That's kind of catchy. A nice double entendre." Dorsey was about to open her mouth to defend herself again, but Lindy cut her off by addressing Adam first. "I certainly hope you haven't made her privy to anything you don't want a couple of million people to know about," she told him. "Then again, it might be kind of fun to read all the juicy, intimate details about one of America 's most visible bachelor millionaires. Speaking of cocktails, I hope your … technique … is as good as it's reputed to be. I'd hate to find out you're nothing special. To anyone other than Dorsey, I mean."

  The barb hit home, exactly as Lindy had intended. Because Adam's head snapped up from the scattered documents and photos on Lindy's desk, and he spun quickly around to gaze at Dorsey. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that just about broke her heart. She could only guess what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Whatever it was, she figured it was probably pretty awful. Not as awful as what she was feeling at the moment, of course, but probably pretty close.

  "Adam, Lindy's wrong," she said softly. "About everything." But she could tell just by looking at him that she'd already lost him. In spite of that, she continued, "I would never compromise what you and I have. I didn't get involved with you for the reasons Lindy thinks. And I didn't come to work here for the reasons she thinks, either. I never intended to write a book about Drake's, and I would never, ever do anything to hurt you."

  He didn't react to her assurance in any way, only continued to gaze at her in maddeningly thoughtful silence.

  "Adam, please," she murmured quietly. "Give me a chance to explain."

  "I'm not sure I really need an explanation, Mack," he said, his voice as empty as his expression. "Lindy's guy seems to have done a pretty thorough job."

  He might as well have slapped her, so severe was her response to his remark. Dorsey squeezed her eyes shut tight as an icy fist seized her heart and wrenched every last bit of life out of it. Every emotion she had experienced since entering Lindy's office fused into a cold, dark lump that wedged itself deep inside her, in a place that was darker and colder still.

  She had lost him. Just like that. No matter what she said now, things would never be the same between them. Adam had drawn his own conclusions, had unequivocally decided that she'd betrayed him. Even if Dorsey somehow managed to explain her actions, he would never trust her again. And while she was trying to make amends, he might very well see fit to exact a little revenge. He was the kind of man who wouldn't take betrayal lightly. And even though Dorsey hadn't betrayed him, he was quick enough on the trigger to take a bad situation and make it worse.

  "I think that's your cue to leave, Dorsey," Lindy said quietly.

  Surrendering for now to the obviously heavy odds against her, Dorsey squared her shoulders and stated stoically, "Not without my notes."

  Lindy did laugh then, and it almost sounded genuine. "I don't think so," she said evenly.

  But Dorsey was already prepared for the response, and immediately executed her own. In one deft, swift maneuver, she scooped up the notebooks and turned to stride out the door. She would not run away, she promised herself bravely. Not unless … you know … Lindy pulled out her .45.

  But Lindy evidently didn't think that was necessary, because she didn't open fire. What she did do was call out, "Have it your way, Dorsey. I've made copies of them all. You'll be hearing from my attorneys. Soon."

  Still not quite convinced that Lindy wouldn't pursue her, Dorsey clutched her notebooks to her chest and hastened to the locker room. I will not cry, she promised herself as she went. I will not cry. She tugged her apron over her head and tossed it to the floor—God forbid she should be accused of theft on top of everything else—then snatched her backpack from her locker. For one last gesture, she tugged her wedding band from her finger and set it on the otherwise empty shelf.

  It was just a cheap bit of gold that symbolized nothing, she reasoned as she left. Not to mention a reminder of a time in her life that she'd just as soon not be reminded of. It was meaningless. Worthless. Pointless.

  And hey, it wasn't like she'd ever have use for a wedding ring in the future.

  * * *

  Adam stood in silence as he watched Mack leave, wondering what the hell had just hit him. A truck, he finally decided. A great, whopping-big Mack truck. Traveling at about a hundred miles an hour. With no brakes. And studded tires.

  He spared a moment to assess the situation, to try and figure out what exactly he was feeling. And he was surprised to discover that what he felt was … nothing. Nothing at all. Or maybe he just felt so many things that he couldn't make sense of any of them, so his brain refused to acknowledge even one. In fact, it was as if his body and his brain both had shut down completely, as if he were just a shadow now of what he had been only moments ago. Even when he turned to look at Lindy, for whom he figured he should feel anger or outrage or resentment or something, there was nothing but a void. He'd never felt so empty in his entire life. And he wondered if he would have to stay this way forever.

  Lindy, too, stood silently for som
e moments, pinned to the spot on the other side of her desk, gazing at Adam with much expectation. He chose his words and his tone carefully before saying anything, genuinely uncertain about what to say or how to say it. How could he know what to say when he didn't even know what to think? How could he know what to think when he didn't even know what to feel?

  What he finally opted for was, "You wanted me to be here for this because you thought it would make me angry, didn't you, Lindy? Angry enough to alert all my media friends and expose her. You want me to use my connections—maybe even my own magazine—to hang her out to dry, right?"

  "The thought had crossed my mind, yes," she told him coolly. "You're not the kind of man to let a woman take advantage of you, Adam—not for very long anyway. You protect yourself and what's yours, too. You and I are a lot alike in that respect."

  Adam mulled that over for a moment. In a way, Lindy was right. He wasn't one to roll over and play dead when someone had betrayed or maligned him. But had Mack truly betrayed him? Had she maligned him? Had that been her intention all along? Or had she been telling the truth? She didn't have much in her favor at the moment, he had to admit. Lindy had some powerful proof sitting there, and Mack hadn't done much along the lines of denying any of it. She certainly hadn't denied being Lauren Grable-Monroe. And from the looks of it, there was a good reason for that.

  Namely, because she was Lauren Grable-Monroe.

  It all started coming together for him then. Hadn't he himself concluded that afternoon at Northwestern that the author must be an academic? Hadn't he noted a number of common denominators in the author's analysis and thesis and his own conversations with Mack? Hadn't Lauren Grable-Monroe reminded him of someone? And hadn't he experienced an attraction to her that he hadn't been able to understand?

  If she and Mack were one and the same, all of that would make perfect sense now. And judging by the photographs on Lindy's desk, that was entirely the case.

  "I'll want to study all this documentation thoroughly," he told Lindy, reserving, for now, any decision about what to do in the way of exposure.

  "That goes without saying," she replied.

  "And I'll want to see those copies of her notebooks, as well."

  "Of course. You do figure prominently in some of them, after all."

  He wasn't sure how he felt about that, but he supposed he'd find out before the night was through. He planned to read every last word of what Mack had written, study every photograph and document Lindy had in her possession. For some reason, though, in spite of everything that had happened, he felt oddly compelled to protect Mack. He had no idea why. She hadn't done much in the way of protecting herself. And regardless of whatever else she had done, she certainly hadn't been honest with him.

  Before he could stop himself, he said, "You know, Lindy, there was probably a better way to go about this."

  She lifted her chin defensively, something that gave him the impression that she was looking down her nose at him. "I suppose there was," she conceded. "But where would be the fun in that?"

  A couple of months ago, Adam would have probably responded to such a question in exactly the same way. A couple of months ago, he would have drawn his conclusions to Lindy's allegations with a terrible, swift sword. A couple of months ago, he wouldn't have thought twice about hanging Mack out to dry for what she appeared to have done. A couple of months ago, he would have gotten right on the phone to tell all his media colleagues that Lauren Grable-Monroe was actually a young sociology professor at Severn College named Dorsey MacGuinness—pass it on. Of course, a couple of months ago, he'd been a ruthless, heartless sonofabitch. Now…

  Well.

  Now he didn't feel quite so ruthless. Now he didn't feel quite so heartless. In fact, whereas a few months ago he'd been certain his heart was gone for good, over the last few months he'd somehow managed to recover a good portion of it. It hadn't been easy, of course. He'd had to have some help, some guidance. And the search was by no means over. Right when he'd started gathering up the remaining bits and pieces, his guide had jumped off the beaten path and disappeared into the underbrush. And, he wasn't sure now if he would ever see her again.

  So that kind of sucked.

  He supposed now that there was only one thing for him to do. He'd have to figure out exactly where his guide had gone, exactly what her intentions were, exactly where her origins lay. He'd have to decide for himself whether she had been in it only for herself, or if she'd truly found the same thing he had along the way. And then…

  Well. He'd cross that bridge—or machete down that jungle—when he came to it.

  He gestured toward the pile of papers and photos fanned across Lindy's desk. "Mind if I take all this and a pot of coffee out to the salon?" he asked her. "I have a lot of reading to do tonight."

  "Not at all," she replied. "But I think you should know, Adam, that if you don't expose Dorsey for the conniving little fraud that she is, I plan to do it myself. In spades."

  Adam sighed wearily. That, he thought, was exactly what he had been afraid of.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  I t was after dark by the time Dorsey arrived home. Not that she noticed. Not that she cared. Not that the sun would ever rise in her personal reality again. She might as well get used to the total absence of light, she told herself. Because the only plans she had for the immediate future—or the long-range future, for that matter—involved going to bed and pulling the covers up over her head.

  As if in anticipation of her dark arrival, no lights had been lit inside the townhouse she shared with her mother. Which was odd, Dorsey thought, because when she'd come home to eat lunch and change clothes that afternoon, Carlotta had been hip-deep in cleaning out closets, and it had been clear that she would be shoulder-deep by nightfall. And even cleaning out closets, her mother had, as always, looked elegant and sublime, dressed in Ralph Lauren blue jeans and chambray shirt, her platinum hair tied back with a Laura Ashley scarf.

  In spite of her melancholy humor, Dorsey smiled at the memory. How on earth had she turned out so differently from her mother? She supposed that was one of those mysteries of the universe that no one would ever be able to solve.

  "Carlotta?" she called out to the house at large.

  "I'm up here, Dorsey!" came her mother's reply. "In the attic!"

  Well, that would explain the absence of light, she thought. No telling how long Carlotta had been up there.

  Contrary to her mood, Dorsey did deign to switch on a Tiffany lamp as she dropped her backpack onto the plum-colored velvet sofa. Then she made her way across the living room—as posh and feminine as Carlotta's bedroom was, with purples replacing the pinks—and up the stairs. She paused beneath the rectangular opening in the hallway ceiling above. The stairs had been unfolded into the corridor, and a faint yellow light spilled down over them.

  "Hel-loooo up there," she called.

  There was a rustle of sound in response, then her mother's head appeared over the opening. "Come on up. You'll never guess what I found when I was cleaning today."

  Without hesitation, Dorsey pulled herself up the collapsible stairs and found her mother sitting on the attic floor with a flurry of dust motes dancing around her. The minute particles caught and refracted the pale light from a single naked bulb overhead, giving Carlotta the appearance of an enchanted maiden encircled by fairies. Baskets and trunks and cartons containing no telling what surrounded her, and familiar pink lacquer boxes sat open on the floor in front of her.

  "Oh, wow," Dorsey said with a smile as she crossed to where her mother sat. "You found my old Barbies."

  Genuinely delighted by the discovery—and not just because it gave her something to focus on besides Adam and Lauren and Lindy and disaster—she sat down beside her mother and ran a finger through the thin film of dust that coated one of the bright-pink box tops.

  "I can't remember the last time I looked at these," she said wistfully. Oh, to be a little girl again
, she thought, and have to worry only about which plastic shoes to put on Barbie's rubber feet before she went out adventuring with Skipper and Christie and Ken.

  "I remember," Carlotta said. "It was the summer before you started seventh grade. You put them away just before junior high school, because you insisted you were much too old for things like Barbie."

  Dorsey nodded, her smile broadening. "That's right. I remember. I was just so mature at twelve."

  "I, of course, thought you were being silly, because no one is ever too old to play with Barbie."

  "These days, I'm inclined to agree with you," Dorsey said, picking up one of the dolls to run a finger over the smooth nylon hair. Carlotta had dressed the doll in an elegant, sapphire-colored evening gown, which Dorsey immediately began to remove.

  Her mother gaped softly at her. "You? Ms. Feminist? Playing with Barbie? I thought you'd be one of the ones flaying her for her unbalanced, bulimia-inducing figure."

  Dorsey waved a hand negligently before her, then reached for an outfit to clothe the now naked doll. "There are a lot of reasons for women to have eating disorders," she told Carlotta. "But Barbie isn't one of them. I mean, do you ever remember me as a little girl looking at Barbie and saying, 'Gee, I wish I had enormous hooters and a tiny wasp waist and tippy-toe feet like Barbie does'?"

  "Not once," Carlotta confessed.

  "Exactly," Dorsey concurred with a fierce nod. "It was the clothes. Nobody gets that. The clothes and all the adventures we used to send Barbie on. Remember?"