How to Trap a Tycoon (18 page)

Reluctantly, she spun back around.

"Thanks," he said softly. "For everything."

"No problem," she replied.

He emitted a single humorless chuckle. "No problem," he echoed unhappily. "Yeah, right. That's what you think, sweetheart. That's what you think."

Chapter 8

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A
week after telling Adam she couldn't see him, Dorsey sat in the locker room at Drake's and marveled at how very accurate her prediction had been. Because during that week, she had seen neither hide nor hair—nor suit nor tie—of him anywhere. When she'd told him that night on her front porch that she wouldn't be able to see him, she'd meant socially. Romantically. Personally. She hadn't meant she wouldn't see him at all.

But it was actually kind of a relief, because she had no idea how she was supposed to act around him now, anyway. She felt so odd about things. Before last week, their roles had been clearly defined, and they'd both been reasonably comfortable playing those roles. Now, however, the line between them was blurred. Whereas before, she'd had no trouble toeing that line, now Dorsey had stumbled off of it completely. And she couldn't rightly say on which side of it she had fallen. But what was most troubling of all was that no matter where she landed, Lauren Grable-Monroe would be right there with her.

There was no way Dorsey could start something with Adam—or anyone else, for that matter—without Lauren getting involved in it, too. And even though Lauren's baser nature would probably relish the idea of a threesome, Dorsey just wasn't that kind of girl.

Of course, the night that she had kissed Adam, for those few moments that she lost herself in his arms, she sure had felt like that kind of girl. Not a day—not an hour—had passed since their embrace that she hadn't relived in her head those two searing, combustible kisses. He had felt so good, so exciting, to hold onto. It had been like corralling wild energy, unrestrained force. Like clasping a cyclone to her breast and pulling some of its limitless power and vast fury into herself.

In addition to arousing her sexually, powerfully, kissing Adam had made Dorsey feel strong, potent, infinite. That such a man would lose control over her, lose control
with
her, was a heady sensation indeed. She'd never felt anything like it before. Something told her she would never feel anything like it again. And the realization of that had just made her miss Adam all the more.

But she'd also missed their friendship. She'd missed their easy banter and mildly dangerous flirtations. She'd missed his low laughter and reluctant smiles. She'd missed his totally erroneous masculine assumptions and his laughably misguided chauvinist deductions. She'd even missed the pangs of wistful melancholy that invariably shot through her every time she had to stop herself from reaching out a hand to run her fingers through his hair.

She'd just missed
him
. Very much. And she couldn't stop thinking about those two kisses they had shared on her front porch. She couldn't erase the memory of how his hands had felt curling over her bottom, how his mouth had felt rubbing insistently against her throat. She recalled every sigh, every scent, every seductive sensation. And more than anything in the world, she wanted to experience it again. All of it. And more.

But she also wanted to recapture their familiar camaraderie. And she couldn't come up with a solution that would combine both a romantic and a friendly relationship with him. Certainly not while she was leading a triple life as Dorsey MacGuinness, sociology prof wannabe, Mack, the bartender, and Lauren Grable-Monroe, cultural icon. It was just too weird to think about it all right now. All things considered, she supposed it was just as well that she hadn't seen him for a week.

But she sure did miss him.

Then again, the week had passed in such a blur, she hadn't seen much of anything at all. Lauren Grable-Monroe, it seemed, was hitting the peak of her popularity. In one week she had signed books at a shopping mall in
Schaumburg
, had spoken to a group of sex therapists in
Champaign
, and had still fitted in an early-morning radio talk show in
Chicago
.

That last event, having occurred only yesterday morning, was still fresh in Dorsey's mind, and she was still feeling a bit uneven because of it. Whereas she had gone to the radio station thinking she'd be fielding the usual sorts of questions for Lauren—fun, frivolous queries about the book or the author's fictional personal life—some of the callers had been a bit less than enthusiastic in their responses. True, there had been the usual assortment of giggling schoolgirls cutting class, but there had also been disenchanted housewives shouting over squalling babies and frustrated men berating Lauren for ruining women everywhere. Dorsey had left feeling slightly smudged. As if the smooth, clean lines of Lauren Grable-Monroe's self-assurance had been soiled and stretched and damaged.

And now here Dorsey sat with barely ten minutes to go before the start of her shift at Drake's, trying to conjure enough energy to change from her teaching assistant clothes to her bartender clothes. In her backpack, she also carried Lauren Grable-Monroe's clothes, because she'd had an early-morning appointment with a writer for a local weekly, which had gone, if memory served, fairly well. But she hadn't had time to go home between Lauren's meeting and Dorsey's first class at
Severn
. She hadn't had time between
Severn
and Drake's, either. In fact, Dorsey could barely remember when she had last spent any amount of time at home. It seemed like a very long time ago…

She closed her eyes for just a moment—only long enough to rest them, honest—then was immediately jarred to awareness by a not so gentle shove to her shoulder. Snapping her eyes open again, she glanced up to find Lindy Aubrey standing over her, hands fisted on her hips, one eyebrow arched in silent query, clearly none too pleased to find her bartender here in the locker room. Which was odd, Dorsey thought, because for the first time in weeks, she was actually a few minutes early for her shift. You'd think Lindy would be happy about that, but—

"Do you know what time it is?" her employer asked.

"Ten till four," Dorsey replied.

Lindy shook her head. "Try five after."

Dorsey glanced down at her watch. Sure enough, she was five minutes late for her shift and not even dressed in her uniform yet. "But that's impossible," she said. "I got here fifteen minutes early."

"Then what have you been doing for the last twenty minutes?" her employer asked.

"I've been…"
Sleeping
, she realized. Good heavens, she'd actually fallen asleep sitting on the bench and had stayed that way for fifteen minutes. "I—I … I guess I … I just didn't realize … I mean I…"

Lindy crossed her arms over her midsection, looking all too menacing in her sleek black suit. "Dorsey, this has gone on long enough," she said. "For the past month, you've missed more shifts than you've worked. And my patience has just about come to an end."

"But I've always had someone covering my shifts for me," Dorsey pointed out. "I've never left you shorthanded."

"That's beside the point," Lindy said. "I hired you to work thirty hours a week, and you agreed to work thirty hours a week. Now, I don't mind accommodating you when you need a night off here and there, but this is getting out of hand. If you can't handle the work load, I'll hire someone else who will. Do I make myself clear?"

Dorsey nodded.

"Fine. I don't want to hear that you need another night off for a while. Or else."

"But—"

"Not one night. If you need more than your regularly scheduled nights off, then don't bother coming in at all."

Dorsey hesitated only a moment before deferring to her. "Yes, Lindy."

"That said, I need you to work an extra shift this week. Saturday night. Drake's is catering a cocktail party for one of its members, and I'm down a bartender. You can start setting up at
six o'clock
. Here's the address." And then, without even awaiting a reply—there could, naturally, be only one reply … or else—she thrust a scrap of paper into Dorsey's hand.

"
Six o'clock
," she repeated. Then, very clearly, she cautioned, "Do
not
be late."

"I won't," Dorsey assured her.

Lindy was about to turn and leave when her gaze lit on something on the top shelf of Dorsey's locker. Not the wedding ring, which she knew—and approved—of Dorsey wearing to fend off unwanted advances, but the stack of spiral notebooks that had doubled in number over the last month. Her notes for her dissertation, Dorsey realized. Four volumes, so far. In hindsight, she supposed it wasn't such a good idea to leave them here at Drake's where anyone could find them. But she never worried about the sanctity of her locker being violated, and she often liked to review past notes when recording new ones. Still, if Lindy ever took it upon herself to investigate…

Nah. That would never happen. Dorsey was confident of that. Lindy was a total privacy freak where her own life was concerned, and she always respected others' rights in that respect, too. She guarded Drake's membership roster like a mother polar bear protecting its young, and she afforded her employees no less a privilege. She asked few personal questions of anyone, and expected the same courtesy in return. She wasn't the kind of woman who would pry into someone else's affairs. Or someone else's locker, either.

With one last warning glance at Dorsey, she spun on her heel without comment, clearly certain that Dorsey would not only show up on time Saturday evening, but would also now scurry right out to the bar.

Which, of course, she would.

Just as soon as she found the energy to move.

With a final sigh, Dorsey went to work on the buttons of her flannel shirt and tried not to think about the weekend ahead. She had really, really,
really
been looking forward to having Saturday night off. Not just because she'd been run ragged all week trying to be Dorsey at Severn, Mack at Drake's, and Lauren in too many places to name, but also because she had so much catching up to do in each of those lives. She had papers to grade, research to perform, writing to complete. And, dammit, she needed to rest. She and Lauren and Mack were all starting to look a mite bit peaked.

But she knew she'd be showing up to work the cocktail party. Not just because Lindy would fire her if she refused, but also because, she had to admit, it might be kind of fun, if she could stay awake for all of it. Although she'd observed a lot of the elusive domestic tycoon's predation and mobbing behavior at Drake's, where he was surrounded by like members of his pack, working this party would give her the added opportunity to analyze some of his social behaviors. With any luck at all, she might even witness his mating habits. Or, at the very least, his courtship rituals. Viewing the tycoon's mating habits, after all, could put her off her lunch for days.

Only then did Dorsey remember that Lauren had an engagement of her own that weekend, speaking and signing books at
Northwestern
University
. But that was on Sunday afternoon, Dorsey reminded herself. Lauren—and Dorsey—were both free on Saturday night.

* * *

When she saw that it was Adam Darien who opened the front door to the posh penthouse suite to which Lindy had directed her Saturday night, the first thought that went through Dorsey's head was that she really should have seen this coming. The second thought was that he looked too yummy for words.

His white dress shirt and charcoal suit were utterly faultless and very sexy—though not quite as sexy as they were when he was all rumpled and disheveled at Drake's at day's end. And his brightly printed Valentino necktie was totally bitchin'. Dorsey felt a momentary pang of covetousness, and she had half a mind to slip the accessory from under his collar and pocket it for herself. And, hey, while she was at it, she thought further, she might as well unbutton his shirt and slip it, with his jacket, right off his shoulders. Probably, he'd want to remove his own shoes and socks, but she could certainly help him out of his trousers, and then she'd be free to run her hands all over his naked—

"Hi, Mack. Long time, no see."

Pffft
. Another perfectly good fantasy interrupted just when she was getting to the good part. That had been happening to her a lot lately.