How to Trap a Tycoon (12 page)

Oh, all right, that wasn't exactly true, either. She was pretty sure she knew why she had let him. Because number one, he had caught her completely unawares when he had invited her. And number two, he had simply looked too scrumptious to resist.

And that was precisely the problem, Dorsey remembered now too late; she had found him irresistible since day one. He was an enigma, and she'd never been able to let go of puzzles she couldn't solve. He was everything she should deplore in a man—autocratic, self-centered, elitist, rich—but there was just something about him… She couldn't quite put her finger on what.

But some undefinable thing in him called to something equally undefinable in her. She could think of no other way to describe it. A rare, unifying element of some sort that they had in common. Whenever he strode into the bar at Drake's, every sense she possessed went on alert. She could have her back to the door, could be focused completely on a complex and unfamiliar drink recipe, but the second Adam Darien entered, she knew—she
knew
—he was there.

And her reaction to him, so unlike any she had experienced to anyone else, was something she couldn't help but want to explore.

Too, somehow she sensed that his exterior—as hard and impenetrable as it seemed to be—was little more than a facade, one that hid behind it a completely different creature from the face he presented to the world. Her conversations with him, full though they were of his dogma and opinions, were always animated—the two of them were evenly matched. He wasn't quite so full of himself that he didn't listen, and listen well, to what she had to say. And even when he disagreed with what she said, which was pretty much all the time, he still showed respect for her evaluations.

He was an intriguing mix of contradictions, first gruff, then gentle, at once antagonistic and agreeable, both chauvinist and conversationalist. As a result, he was that most irresistible kind of man for a woman to find—one who challenged her, both on a human and a feminine level.

Plus, she had to admit as she glanced over the top of her menu to inadvertently watch him inspect his, he really was very cute.

More than cute, she admitted grudgingly. It wasn't only what went on inside his head that appealed to her. As much pride as Dorsey had in her intellectual achievements, she was by no means above succumbing to a primitive physical attraction. And the attraction she felt toward him was certainly primitive. Potent. Relentless. Rawly sexual. Which, now that she thought about it, was probably a very good reason for her to avoid him. It was a long time since she had been sexually attracted to a man, never so powerfully as she was to Adam Darien. She'd just as soon it not be happening now, when her own sexuality was being manipulated by someone else—namely, Lauren Grable-Monroe.

"So what looks good to you?" he asked suddenly, glancing up from his menu before she had a chance to avert her gaze. He smiled—rather smugly, too—when he caught her ogling him.

What looked good to her, Dorsey thought, he would be better off not knowing. Because it would only lead to trouble. "Oh, gosh. I can't really decide," she hedged.

"Interesting," he countered smoothly, fixing his gaze on hers. "Because I know exactly what I want."

A surge of heat hummed through her at his softly uttered assurance, and she had no idea how to respond. All she could do was damn Lauren anyway for using up all the good repartee hours ago.

Thankfully, their server arrived with the drinks they had ordered—or, rather, that Adam Darien had ordered. God forbid he should consult her first, after all, she thought, as the waiter placed a glass of very expensive Merlot in front of her. "It was cold walking here, and you need warming" had been his reason for ordering red wine instead of the iced cappuccino he had promised her earlier. The way he'd voiced the "you need warming" part, however, had gone a
loooong
way toward remedying that particular problem. Still, there was no reason he had to know that.

Dorsey mumbled her thanks to the server and, resigned to her fate, lifted the glass to her lips for an idle sip. The wine was dark, smooth, and mellow, and she had to admit that it felt good going down. But it was nowhere near as intoxicating as the dark, smooth, mellow look in his eyes. And she couldn't help wondering if he'd feel just as good going—

Uh-oh.

Their waiter hastily scribbled down their dinner orders as they gave them—an amazing feat, as far as Dorsey was concerned, seeing as how she herself couldn't understand a word of what she said in that regard—then conveniently disappeared. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, that might do something, anything, to alleviate the frantic heat arcing between them—or, at the very least, the frantic heat smacking her upside the head—when Adam took matters out of her hands by speaking first.

And, oh, what a speech it was.

"So, Mack, tell me about this husband of yours."

It was the last thing Dorsey had expected to hear from him. Although he had commented once or twice at Drake's on her phony marital status, it had always been some silly little flirtatious thing that meant nothing. "Mack, if you weren't a married woman, I'd take you away from all of this" or some such thing. He had never actually asked her about her husband. And why the subject should come up now she couldn't imagine.

She remembered then that her wedding ring—the one her nonexistent husband had allegedly slipped over her finger on their imaginary wedding day—was currently lying on the top shelf of her locker at Drake's. Hoping Adam didn't notice, she slowly withdrew her left hand from the table and tucked it between her leg and the chair.

And just when had she taken the next, Herculean step, toward thinking of him as Adam instead of Mr. Darien? she wondered. Unfortunately, she couldn't find an adequate answer to her own question. Nor could she find one for his. So she answered him with one of her own.

"Why do you ask?" she replied.

He lifted his shoulders and let them fall in a shrug that was in no way casual. "You mentioned once in conversation that you thought money could solve all of a woman's problems." He leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table, folding his arms one over the other. It was a harmless action that seemed very intimidating somehow. "If that's true," he continued, "then why didn't you marry for money? Why didn't you go out and trap yourself a tycoon? Seems like that would have made your life a whole lot easier."

"Who says I didn't marry for money?" she replied evasively.

Adam chuckled low, a wonderfully masculine sound that seemed to meander indolently through her entire body. And oh, boy, did it feel good.

"Well, there's the fact that you attend
Severn
," he said, "a college whose student body is comprised of those less financially endowed than others. And there's also the small matter of your job at Drake's," he added. "Call me presumptuous, but I'd think that had you gone to all the trouble to find a rich man, you probably wouldn't have been admitted to
Severn
, and you probably wouldn't be tending bar to supplement your college expenses. A nice girl like you in a place like that, I mean."

She hesitated before responding, not so much because she wasn't sure what to say this time, but because of the way he had uttered the words "A nice girl like you." Simply put, he had voiced the phrase as if he'd meant it exactly as he'd said it—that he did indeed consider her to be a nice girl. That was completely at odds with what the rest of her patrons at Drake's seemed to think. A woman bartender was to them, evidently, the equivalent of a prostitute. Except that they could get a bartender for a lot cheaper, and she'd fix a helluva nightcap after they had sex.

"Maybe I work at Drake's," Dorsey replied dryly, "because I like the social interaction and fascinating conversation."

He eyed her skeptically as he fingered the base of his wine glass in a way that set her heart to racing again. He had nice hands, she noted. Big and square and blunt-fingered, exactly what a man's hands should look like.

"And maybe," he said, "an asteroid the size of
Lithuania
will crash into the Earth while we're sleeping peacefully in our beds tonight."

She shrugged. "Hey, it could happen."

He laughed low in that very masculine way again before cajoling, "Come on, Mack. Tell me about the forthright, upright, do-right guy you're married to."

She sighed, hedging again. "Um, gee, what's there to tell?" she finally asked. Aside from the fact that he didn't exist, of course. Which, now that she thought about it, made him infinitely more appealing than most men of her acquaintance.

Present company excluded, naturally.

"What's his name?" Adam asked.

"Why do you want to know?" she stalled yet again. "I mean, I don't ask you about your girlfriends, do I?" she asked pointedly.

"Girlfriends?" he repeated, clearly surprised—and a bit scandalized?—by her charge. "As in plural? Isn't that pushing it?"

She scrunched up her shoulders again. "I don't know. Is it? You seem like the kind of guy who—"

"What?" he asked with a wicked grin when she cut herself off.

"Nothing," she replied quickly, wondering what had possessed her to suggest such a thing to begin with. "It's not important."

He opened his mouth, clearly to object again, but closed it and eyed her with much consideration. "But then, we were talking about you," he finally said, deftly turning the topic right back to where he had initially assigned it. Dammit.

"I don't want to talk about me," she told him.

Hastily, she scrambled for some other topic to discuss, something that would lead to their normal philosophical differences. Because at Drake's, invariably, the more contentious their conversations became, the more Adam smiled—and, oddly, the better he tipped her. And the more he smiled, the more contentious Dorsey's remarks became. Not just because she liked the big tips, but because she liked his smile, too.

She liked his smile a lot. Even more than the big tips. And tonight was promising to make her a very wealthy woman indeed.

"I bet he's blue collar," Adam said suddenly, grinning again.

"Who?"

"Your husband," he reminded her. "I bet he operates heavy machinery for a living, am I right?"

She couldn't quite help the bubble of laughter that erupted at that. "Heavy machinery," she repeated blandly.

He nodded. "A forklift, I'm guessing. No, wait," he corrected himself. "A bulldozer. Yeah, that's it. I'm right, aren't I?"

Dorsey opened her mouth to comment, but quite frankly had no idea what to say.

Evidently taking her silence as affirmation, Adam went on, "I knew it. I know women. I know what kind of man attracts them. You would definitely go for the heavy machinery type."

She nodded slowly. "I see. And what else can you tell me about this bulldozer operator that I'm supposedly married to?"

He seemed to give that some thought. "Well, let's see now," he began. "He probably has some really straightforward, hardworking name, too. Like … like…"

"Knute?" she suggested, biting back a giggle. "Rocky? Axel? Bull?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of … Dave."

"Dave the bulldozer operator," she repeated.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"What you are," she told him, "is remarkable. Truly. Remarkable."

His grin turned smug. "Well, I hate to say I told you so, but…"

Someone at a neighboring table laughed loudly at something then, but the sound seemed to come from very far away. For a moment, Dorsey simply could not look away from Adam Darien's beautiful Bambi-brown eyes. It was as if he were drawing her into himself, slowly and thoroughly, until she just couldn't quite get away.

And then the sweet, peaceful moment vanished, shattered as it was by the comment he made next.

"Well, at least it's nice to know
you
haven't been sucked in by this tycoon-trapping nonsense," he said, gazing down into his wine before lifting it to his lips for an idle sip. "If I ever get my hands on Lauren Grable-Monroe," he continued as he lowered his glass to the table again, "she'll find out that a tycoon trapped is one mean fuh … uh, friggin' animal, that's what. Oh, man, would I like to get my hands on that woman."

Dorsey told herself to say nothing, to just ignore the remark and move on to another subject, something harmless and bland that wouldn't become a forum for debate—religion, politics, women's rights, fashion dos and don'ts, that kind of thing. But being the kind of woman she was—namely, impulsive and incautious—and seeing as how she rather took his attack personally she just couldn't quite let it go by.

So very quietly, she asked, "Who says I'm not a complete convert to Ms. Grable-Monroe's book?"

He arched his eyebrows in surprise, parting his lips slightly. Just enough so that, had she wanted to, she could have leaned across the tiny table and tasted him, right now, this very minute, in front of God and everybody. But of course, she didn't want to do that. Heavens, no. Not right here in the middle of the restaurant. Just what kind of girl did he think she was?

Much better to do that in private.

"You've been converted to Ms. Grable-Monroe's book?" he asked. "Does this mean you're planning on leaving your husband to find a man with money?"