How to Trap a Tycoon (11 page)

Until she opened her mouth.

That part had taken a bit longer to master. She'd had to mask her voice, and she had been obligated to master the art of—she shuddered now to think about it—repartee. Most difficult of all, she had been forced to get in touch with her sexuality, something she'd never really bothered to do before.

It wasn't that Dorsey didn't like sex. On the contrary, on those few occasions when she had experienced it—long ago, in a galaxy far away—she was reasonably certain she had enjoyed herself. She was simply opposed to using sex as a marketing tool, that was all. Especially since she was the one carrying the toolbox. So to speak. Lauren needed to be presented as a sexual being. Dorsey was not a sexual being. Therefore, she could only sustain the illusion for a brief time.

And besides, her wig really did itch a lot.

She remembered then that she had changed her clothes and donned her makeup at
Severn
earlier that evening before meeting Fran on campus, and that the publicist had then driven her to the bookstore. Now Dorsey's blue jeans, hiking boots, and lumberjack sweater were packed safely away in her backpack. The backpack which—hey, what do you know?—just so happened to be leaning haphazardly on a shelf right behind Fran. Dorsey also recalled that there was a tiny employee washroom behind the door to Fran's left.

"I'm leaving," she announced suddenly, crisply.

Fran arched her blond eyebrows in surprise. "Going to send Lauren right through the gauntlet out there, are you?" the publicist asked. "You're a braver man than I."

Dorsey smiled and tugged at the fake fingernail glued on her left index finger, snapping it clean off. "Lauren's staying right here," she said. "
I'm
the one who's leaving."

Fran eyed her warily but said nothing as Dorsey snatched the backpack from the shelf behind her. Fifteen minutes later, she was once again green-eyed, bespectacled, and auburn-haired. She tugged her baggy, olive-drab sweater over her cotton undershirt and faded blue jeans, then pushed her glasses to the top of her freshly scrubbed nose. And then, rather gleefully, she crammed every last remnant of Lauren Grable-Monroe—suit, cosmetics, and sky-high heels—into the faded blue back-pack.

Something oddly satisfying wound through her as she zipped the pack up tight. Something even more pleasant wandered through her as she smiled and tossed it at the publicist, who, even though clearly surprised by the action, caught it in capable hands.

"Fran," Dorsey said as she strode to the stockroom door, "I'm going downstairs to the coffee shop for an iced cappuccino."

The publicist blinked once in confusion, then asked, "But how will you get home?"

"I'll catch a cab," Dorsey told her. She nodded once toward the backpack and grinned wickedly. "You'll keep an eye on Lauren for me, won't you?"

And with that, she turned and strode casually—happily—out the door.

Chapter 5

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H
ad he been watching where he was going, Adam wouldn't have bumped into the young woman who appeared suddenly from behind a stack of best-sellers at the front of the store. Nor would he have knocked her cup of coffee right out of her hand. Nor would he have reached out to steady her when it looked as if she was going to go down along with said cup of coffee. Nor would he have felt the surge of utter … utter… What was the opposite of impotence? he wondered idly. Utter …
virility
—yeah, that was it—that thundered through him when he found himself gazing down into familiar, if startled, pale-green eyes.

So he was pretty damned glad he hadn't been watching where he was going.

"Mack," he said softly, a warm ripple of genuine delight purling through him when he recognized the gift that fortune had quite literally—and quite liberally—dropped into his hands.

Right on the heels of that recognition, however, came the even more delightful realization that after months of thinking about it, dreaming about it, fantasizing about it, he was touching Mack—actually touching her—for the very first time. And just like that, the ripple of warmth became a crashing tsunami of heat.

It was a rather … stimulating … sensation.

Before he had a chance to contemplate that particular revelation further—not that extensive contemplation of anything was of primary importance to him at the moment—she righted herself, straightened herself, steadied herself … and took a
biiiiig
step backward.

And that was when Adam realized that Mack looked a little different from how she usually did. Her hair, instead of being caught back in the elaborate braid she normally wore at Drake's, tumbled free in a riot of wild, dark-auburn curls about her face and shoulders. Her face, too, was different, due to the presence of oval-shaped, wire-rimmed spectacles that perched pertly on the bridge of her nose. Strangely, instead of detracting from her looks, her glasses only enhanced them. Her eyes seemed larger, somehow, clearer, more expressive.

And the expression he noticed most was … fear? But that was ridiculous. Why on earth would Mack be afraid of him? After all, looking the way she did right now, all soft and pretty and touchable, she was a hell of a lot scarier than he was.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her, nudging aside the impression of fear—both hers and his. Then, immediately, he answered his own question. "Oh, wait. Don't tell me. Let me guess. You came to see the newest official spokes-icon of the women's movement."

She narrowed her eyes at him curiously. "And who would that be?"

He smiled indulgently. "Nice try," he said. "But you'll never convince me that you didn't come here as a devoted disciple of Her Most Royal Commodity, Lauren Grable-Monroe."

"Oh, her."

"Oh, please. Don't act surprised."

Oddly, though, she didn't seem to be acting. She really did seem to be surprised. Just not by the presence of Lauren Grable-Monroe, that was all. Clearly, her surprise—and something more, he just couldn't quite say what—had been generated by his own presence in the store.

Then again, he reminded himself, it was only natural that she and he, for that matter, might feel a bit awkward, seeing as how the two of them had never met in surroundings other than Drake's. And at the club, their roles were always clearly defined. Plus, they were always separated by the bar—among other things. Adam really had never laid a hand on Mack until a moment ago. Now, suddenly, with all the barriers, both physical and psychological, gone, he realized he wanted to lay more than just his hand on her. He, too, felt a bit surprised. By, of all things, his own uncertainty. He'd never felt uncertain about anything in his life.

Oh, except for Mack, of course.

"Well, it was interesting seeing you, Mr. Darien," she said, stooping to pick up the cup of coffee that had spilled on the floor between them. It had been covered by a snug plastic lid, so the mess was reasonably well contained. Still, there was a small beige puddle spreading rapidly by the time she scooped the cup up. "I'd better find somebody to take care of this," she added. "See you at Drake's."

In other words, Adam translated, Beat it.

"I'll help you," he said.

But instead of stooping alongside her, he lifted a hand to hail one of the bookstore employees. Evidently one of them had seen the collision, because the young man was approaching with a roll of paper towels.

"And I'll buy you another…" Adam gazed down and noted the proliferation of ice cubes and foam mingling with the beige and bit back a gag. How anyone could do something like that to a perfectly good cup of coffee was beyond him. "Another … whatever it was you were drinking," he finally concluded.

Mack stood when the bookstore employee assured her he would take care of the mess, then apologized profusely for the spill, even though Adam had been the one responsible.

"I'm the one who should apologize," he said.

She met his gaze levelly, her green eyes flashing with … something. "Yes, I know, but you didn't apologize, did you?" she asked pointedly.

He narrowed his gaze at her, then turned his attention to the young man on the floor. "Sorry," he said. Without awaiting a reply, he turned to Mack. "I'll buy you another one."

She expelled a soft sound of disbelief and shook her head. "Do you
ever
defer to
anyone?"

This time he was the one to utter a sound of disbelief. "Of course not," he told her. But he offered no further explanation. After all, he figured, none was necessary, was it?

She nodded. "No, of course not," she echoed. "I stand corrected."

Yeah, she stood something, all right, Adam thought, unable to keep his gaze from roving hungrily over every inch of her. He was trying to figure out if this was the first time he'd seen her from the waist down. Surely not. Then again, he was pretty sure he'd remember a below-the-waist like hers.

Her baggy bartender uniform, although very appealing, hadn't prepared him for the trim, surprisingly long legs revealed by her snug blue jeans. Her sweater, unfortunately, was not so snug, but during the collision, the scooped neck had fallen off one shoulder, revealing a strap of white cotton undergarment—not to mention creamy shoulder—beneath. And that more than made up for any lack of shape the sweater suffered. Not that Mack was particularly well endowed, Adam noticed, and not for the first time. But what she did have was quite … fetching.

"I'll buy you another cup of coffee," he said for the third time, irritated that she hadn't yet taken him up on his offer. Or his edict. Whatever.

"That's okay," she said, her voice sounding rushed and anxious. "It's not necessary. I really need to get something to eat anyway."

"All the better," he told her. "I skipped dinner myself. There's a great restaurant a couple of blocks away. We can eat there. My treat."

Again she threw him that incredulous look at the way he tossed around orders, as if he were czar of all he surveyed. Okay, fine. So maybe he was a little … commanding. Adam preferred to think of it as being a good delegator. All right, a good dictator. Details, details.
Jeez
.

"Um, that's okay," she told him yet again. "You don't have to buy me dinner. Thanks, anyway."

It took a moment for Adam to realize that she was determined to turn him down. And it took him a moment more to realize how much that bothered him.

"Oh, come on," he cajoled. "It's just dinner. What's the big deal?"

The moment he voiced the question, Adam remembered what the big deal was. Her husband. As big deals went, that one was sort of … big. At least, he'd always visualized Mack's husband as being big. About six foot six, to be precise. Weighing in at three hundred pounds at least. With no neck. And a nasty overbite. And a hairy back. And knuckles grazing the tarmac. A really big beer belly. And a really tiny—

Before his thoughts became too distastefully graphic, Adam dropped his gaze down to the third finger of her left hand, to the slim gold band that always served to remind him of his folly. Much to his surprise, however—not to mention his profound interest—he discovered that Mack wasn't wearing her wedding ring.

Oddly, that made him remember that she hadn't worked a number of her shifts at Drake's over the past few weeks. She'd always had one of the other bartenders filling in for her, but she had missed quite a few nights. He wondered now if the reason for her absences at work might have something to do with the absence of a ring on her left hand. Like maybe her marriage wasn't all it was cracked up to be these days. And then he recalled once again their surroundings and couldn't help but think that Mack had come to the bookstore tonight to hear a best-selling author tell her how to trap herself a tycoon.

"Dinner's not a good idea," she told him. But, Adam noticed, she didn't say exactly why.

"It's an excellent idea," he countered. Then, before she could object—and because he just couldn't quite help himself—he reached out and wrapped his fingers lightly around her upper arm, urging her gently forward. And, talking as fast as he could, he added, "Besides, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about for a long time now, and Drake's just isn't conducive to frank conversation."

* * *

Dorsey had no idea how Adam Darien talked her into joining him for dinner, but fifteen minutes later, she found herself seated across from him at a cozy—really, it was too cozy—table for two, in a quiet—really, it was too quiet—restaurant near the bookstore. Actually, that wasn't entirely true. She was, in fact, fairly certain she knew how he had talked her into joining him for dinner. She had let him. That was how. She just wasn't sure she knew why she had let him.