How to Trap a Tycoon (15 page)

He'd been following the rules of Lauren Grable-Monroe's book to the letter—well, except that stuff about diaphanous gowns and Chanel suits; there was, after all, only so much a man could be expected to do to get his story, regardless of how dedicated he was to his journalistic pursuits. Yet not one woman he had targeted for trapping had fallen into his snare. Every time he fired up his sales pitch and flexed his come-hither muscles, the women in question only gazed at him with faint amusement, fairly patted him on the head, and sent him home to have a cup of warm Bosco.

At this rate, he'd be lucky to trap himself a date to the senior prom.

Still feeling frustrated—and, of course, irritable—he wasn't paying attention to who was manning the bar. Or, rather, womanning the bar, as was the case at Drake's. So he didn't much care who was the recipient of his lousy mood when he dumped himself onto the leather stool he generally occupied and snarled, "Gimme a Tanqueray and tonic. And make it snappy."

When his drink didn't magically and immediately materialize before him on the bar—an extremely odd development at Drake's—Lucas glanced up to find that the woman to whom he had just barked out his order was none other than Drake's illustrious and infamous owner, Lindy Aubrey. And he understood right away what he'd just done: namely, put his life—and more important than that, his manhood—in very grave peril.

Lucas had nothing but respect for Lindy Aubrey. Like every other member of Drake's, he was too terrified of her not to have respect for her. Although he didn't know her well—or at all, for that matter—she was something of a celebrity in
Chicago
. Since opening Drake's, she had received extensive and not just local press; Adam himself had often commented to Lucas that he'd considered doing a story about Lindy for
Man's Life
. She'd grown up in one of the city's most notorious neighborhoods, was a survivor of the streets, and had been on her own since she was fourteen years old.

In spite of her mean and meager beginnings, however, she had, through mysterious ways she'd never revealed, raised the money to open Drake's a few years ago. Since then, she had turned the club into one of the country's premier establishments. She was completely unapologetic about its masculine exclusivity and employed some of the best attorneys in the nation to fight and win numerous court battles to maintain the club's purely male membership.

She was a man's man in many ways, yet her femininity was inescapable. In her mid-forties, she was a striking-looking woman. Lush, dark hair tumbled past her shoulders, and clear gray eyes reflected both intelligence and wry wit. Tonight, she wore a screaming-red suit, the short skirt showcasing what Lucas, even terrified, had noted long ago were spectacular legs. Bright gemstones sparkled on nearly every finger, around both wrists, around her neck, in her earlobes. It was rumored that she carried a revolver in her purse everywhere she went, and that it had been fired on more than one occasion.

Lucas believed the rumor quite readily.

She had been sifting through some papers when he had growled his command, but she had halted, mid-sift, to smile at him in a deceptively benign way. Now that she had his attention, she pursed her lips in a manner that another man—one who wasn't terrified of her, say—might find sexy. Lucas, on the other hand, just about wet himself.

"Well, aren't you cute," she cooed softly. "And whose little boy are you?"

"Oh, uh … hi, Lindy … um, Ms. Aubrey … uh, ma'am," Lucas stammered. "I didn't realize it was you standing there."

She continued to gaze at him in that unnervingly bland I'll-huff-and-I'll-puff-and-I'll-have-you-shorts-for-dinner manner. "Obviously," she murmured in response.

Lucas shifted a bit nervously—okay, a bit terrifiedly—on his stool. "I'll just, um … I'll just go, uh…"
Go wet myself
, he finished lamely. "Uh … I'll just wait for one of the bartenders to get my drink for me."

Lindy's smile turned knowing. "Yes. You will."

Unable to help himself, Lucas noted again the proliferation of jewelry adorning Lindy's not at all unattractive person, and unbidden, an idea popped into his head. Though, he had to admit right away, it wasn't a very good one. Because the idea that braved entry into his brain just then was that maybe he could target Lindy Aubrey as his tycoon to trap. She was rich, obviously, and a good-looking woman. Intelligent, wry sense of humor, sexy in her own man-eater kind of way. Hmmm…

Of course, there was that small matter of him wanting to wet himself whenever she came within a hundred feet of him, he reminded himself. That could potentially put a damper on things, so to speak. Probably it would be best if he found someone else.

Lindy continued to gaze at him in that bored, I'm-done-with-you-now way of hers, then, "Edie," she tossed over her shoulder at the bartender who stood nearby. Then she went back to sifting through her papers, and—just like that—dismissed Lucas with all the concern of a jackal that had finished bloating itself on a piece of ripe carrion.

The good news, as far as Lucas was concerned, was that he no longer had Lindy Aubrey's attention. The bad news, however, was that he did have Edie Mulholland's.

Oh, great
, he thought. Little Edie Sunshine. Just what he needed to make a lousy night lousier. Little Edie Two Shoes. Mulholland of Sunnybrook Farm. A woman who was so nice and so kind and so sweet and so polite and so … so … God, so
blond
, she could make the Olsen Twins vomit.

"Hi, Mr. Conaway," she greeted him pertly with a cheerful little smile.

Pertly. Cheerful.
Ew
. Lucas tried not to lose his dinner all over the bar. And the "Mr. Conaway" thing was just too nauseating for words. He knew that referring to him as "Mr." was required by her job, and really, coming from another woman, he might find the address kind of … well, kind of arousing, actually, now that he thought more about it. But the fact that it was Little Edie Sunshine saying it revolted him for some reason. She was probably the same age he was, give or take a year, but she seemed so much younger somehow.

Her pale blond hair was swept atop her head, held in place by some invisible means of support. A few errant tendrils had escaped to frame her face, giving her an ethereal, almost angelic appearance. He couldn't help comparing her to a Pre-Raphaelite madonna with her delicate build, her huge, blue eyes, and her high, elegant cheekbones. Her mouth, too, seemed more beatific than the average woman's was, as if she had been touched at birth by some holy hand and was divinely blessed as a result.

She was just so naive, so ingenuous, so damned happy, Lucas thought uncomfortably. She couldn't possibly have even a nodding acquaintance with reality. Wherever Edie Mulholland lived, he knew it was, without doubt, an enchanted kingdom populated by fairies and sprites and unicorns and rainbows. Trolls and dragons like him would be completely unwelcome in such a fantastic place.

"Edie," he said by way of a greeting, trying not to gag on the word. Jeez, even her name was nice and sweet and pert and blond. "What are you doing here? I thought you only worked days."

She smiled easily. "I'm filling in for Dorsey. She had something she needed to do tonight."

"Oh." Then, without further ado, Lucas said, "Gimme a Tanqueray and tonic."

"Coming right up," she replied—happily, of course.

Lucas tried not to hurl.

And he tried not to be fascinated by the deft, capable way she prepared his drink and set it without flourish on the bar before him. As sweet and nice and polite and blond and nauseating as she was, Edie Mulholland, he had to admit, was one helluva bartender.

"Thanks," he said as he reached for the glass.

"Don't mention it," she replied—sunnily, he couldn't help but note.

He enjoyed a healthy taste of his drink, realized she was still standing in front of him, almost expectantly somehow, then remembered that Little Edie Sunshine was one of those bartenders who like to—he bit back another gag—make small talk. Uncertain why he felt compelled to indulge such a filthy, disgusting habit, Lucas found himself asking, "So. Edie. How was your day?"

Not surprisingly, she grinned brightly, and somehow, he refrained from curling his lip in disdain. "It's been great!" she announced with much animation. "Well, except for this afternoon."

Resigned to his fate, Lucas asked halfheartedly, "Um … what happened this afternoon?"

Edie frowned unhappily. He rejoiced at the sight. Very softly, very somberly, she told him, "I committed adultery."

Whoa!
Now this was a newsworthy bulletin! Lucas was about to leap up and dance the dance of righteous victory when he remembered that Mulholland of Sunnybrook Farm was a single woman. "Edie," he said. "How could you commit adultery? You're not married."

She gazed at him blankly for a minute, clearly confused. Then, suddenly, her expression cleared, and she blushed like a summer rose. "Oh, not
that
kind of adultery," she said, lowering her voice even more. Then, in a clearer voice, she added, "I'd
never
do something like that. Hair adultery. I committed
hair
adultery."

"Hair adultery?" he echoed before he could stop himself.

She nodded. "I needed a bang trim really bad, but my usual stylist was out. So…" She glanced first right, then left, as if to make sure no one was listening. Then, lowering her voice again, she said, "So I made an appointment with a
different
stylist."

Evidently, this was a grave sin among women, Lucas surmised, because Edie looked as if she might shave her head in penance for committing such an egregious act of betrayal. "Uh … I see," he lied.

"What's worse," she continued, even though he had silently willed her not to, "the new stylist? She did a better job than my usual one. Now I want to go back to her next time. I feel
so
guilty."

He eyed her blandly. "Gee, I can see where that might cause some real turbulence in your otherwise happy existence."

She nodded. "Other than that, though," she concluded genially, "it was a really nice day."

Before he realized he was even thinking the question, Lucas heard himself ask, "Edie, do you ever wake up in a bad mood?"

She smiled—happily. "Never."

"Why not?"

She shrugged—pleasantly. "It's a waste of time."

"A waste of time," Lucas echoed incredulously.

She nodded—merrily.

He enjoyed another sip of his drink, then stated, "You're a Stepford Wife, aren't you, Edie?"

She laughed—spiritedly.

"Come on," he cajoled. "Admit it."

"I'm not a Stepford Wife," she denied—good-naturedly.

"Then you must be one of those pod people from outer space," he decided. "The real Edie Mulholland has to be snoozing in a space pod somewhere, where the body-snatchers left her. I bet
she
wakes up in bad mood. If she ever wakes up again."

Edie's eyes twinkled—gleefully. "I'm not a pod person from outer space, either. I just don't see the point in carrying around a lot of negative energy, that's all."

Lucas gaped at her in disbelief. "Hey, negative energy is what made this country great," he told her. "Negative energy has been responsible for some truly significant historical achievements all over the world."

"Like what?" she asked—dubiously but nonetheless cheerily.

He thought for a moment. "Well, like the
Roman Empire
, for example," he said. "Talk about your negative energy. Those guys had downright bloodlust going for them. Gladiators fighting to the death, peasant-eating lions, crucifixion. And look at all the amazing things they accomplished. That was one phenomenal civilization."

Edie eyed him—pleasantly. "The Romans actually learned everything they knew from the Etruscans," she pointed out. "And the Etruscans were pretty easygoing people. Well, except for that pesky human sacrifice business," she qualified. Hastily, she added, "But they were a primitive people. At any rate, they knew the value of living a good life."

Lucas narrowed his eyes at her. "Okay, I'll give you that one," he conceded. "But once the Romans got things up and running, nobody messed with them. Nobody."

"Actually, the Celts did," Edie objected—mildly. "They kicked Roman butt."

Lucas frowned. "Oh. Yeah. I forgot about that."

"And the Celts," Edie continued, blithely, "wild men though they were, still appreciated the beauty and tranquility of the natural world that surrounded them."

Lucas thought for a moment more. "Okay. Then how about the race for space? We landed men on the moon because we were pissed off at the
Soviet Union
. Negative energy, I'm tellin' ya."

But Edie only smiled again—joyfully—and waved a hand—jovially—in front of herself. "We didn't put men on the moon because we were mad at the Soviets," she told him sweetly. "We did it because we were
optimistic
that we could.
Positive
energy. Positive energy did that. Not negative."

Clearly, there was no point in arguing with her, Lucas thought. No matter which way he looked at things, Edie was bound to see them from the opposite side. To her, the glass would always be half full. To him, it would always be … well, quite frankly, it would always be empty.