How to Trap a Tycoon (29 page)

And he himself had hit nothing but brick walls in his efforts to find out more about her. Her publisher guarded her true identity well, and no amount of investigation had turned up anything substantial that might offer a clue as to her real identity.

What he had determined, and only by personal observation, was that Lauren Grable-Monroe was a well educated and beautiful Chicagoan who was currently at the height of celebrity, yet she was never seen anywhere in town outside her arranged public appearances. At a time when everyone in the country wanted to know more about her, no one had come forward claiming to have any particulars about her background. No former schoolmates, no former boyfriends, no former benefactors. No distant relatives coming out of the woodwork in need of a buck. No disgruntled wives hoping to expose a home wrecker.

Just who the hell was Lauren Grable-Monroe? he wondered. He really, really wanted to find out.

Damn
, he thought. This meant he was going to have to read her book. Then again, maybe it would give him a couple of pointers. Because even if he wasn't out to trap himself a tycoon, Adam was definitely looking to catch something. He just hoped what he caught, when he caught it, wasn't contagious.

"I think I have time for one more question," the author suddenly piped up. "Is there anything we haven't covered here yet today?"

"I have a question about something we haven't covered, Ms. Grable-Monroe," a woman called out from down front. When she stood, Adam saw that she was in her mid to late fifties, was stylishly attired and had an elegant demeanor. Her graying hair was caught at her nape in a sophisticated twist of some kind, her beige suit appeared to be haute couture. She rather reminded Adam of his own mother.

"Yes?" the author asked the woman, her smile encouraging. "What would you like to ask?"

"What I'd like to ask," the woman said, "is how can you sleep at night?"

The author's smile fell—which, Adam supposed, wasn't exactly surprising, all things considered. "I beg your pardon?" she replied quietly.

"I said," the woman reiterated, considerably louder than before, "I want to know how you can sleep at night. In fact, I'd like to know how you can live with yourself."

But still Lauren Grable-Monroe seemed to have no idea how to respond. Because all she did was stammer, "E-excuse me?"

"Oh, come now, Ms. Grable-Monroe," the woman taunted. "You've had no shortage of analysis and philosophy for any of the other questions asked today. Surely this one can't stump you that badly. It's fairly straightforward. Unlike your own deceitful self."

The author straightened and seemed to recover some of her own elegance and sophistication. "No, you're right, of course. And it's not that I'm stumped for an answer. I'm just trying to fathom how you can be so frightfully rude."

"
I'm
rude?" the woman echoed incredulously, splaying a hand over her heart. "Me?
I'm
not the one who's responsible for leading good, decent men astray.
I'm
not the one who's made my living on my back.
I'm
not the one who's caused countless marriages to fail and left children fatherless. Home wrecker!" she cried defiantly in conclusion.

Oh, wow
, Adam thought. This was getting good. With much anticipation, he turned his attention to Lauren Grable-Monroe, wondering how she was going to talk her way out of this one. Evidently, he wasn't alone. Because the entire auditorium had gone absolutely silent, every eye in the place riveted to the two women's exchange.

For a moment, the author said nothing, only returned her interrogator's angry gaze with a slightly less caustic one of her own. Then, very softly, very evenly, she replied, "I'm not responsible for any of those things, either. I'm not a home wrecker."

"Oh, the hell you're not," the woman countered. "How can you stand up there, an admitted mistress, a woman who's confessed to countless adulterous affairs, and say otherwise?"

"I can say that," the author replied in clipped tones, "because I never held a gun to any man's head and forced him to be unfaithful to his wife. The men who seek such relationships do just that—seek them. If their marriages fail as a result of that search, then it's their own fault. And I might add that their marriages must not have been very solid to begin with, if these men took it upon themselves to look for fulfillment elsewhere."

Ooo. Score one for the home wrecker
, Adam thought. The other woman, however, clearly wasn't willing to let the author off so easily. "How dare you," she said coldly. "How dare you suggest that a man would willingly turn away from his loving wife to follow after a cheap bit of skirt like you. And how dare you stand up there and encourage these young women to lure respectable men into illicit affairs."

A murmur went through the audience at that, and Adam was fairly certain that more than a few of them were in support of the woman's accusation. Man. It was amazing how quickly a tide could turn.

The author sighed heavily. "Obviously Mr. Darien isn't the only one in the room who hasn't read my book yet feels qualified to comment on it at length."

Oh, fine
, Adam thought. Just bring that up again, why didn't she?

"Because clearly, Ms.…?" the author left the remark unfinished, her request obvious.

"It's
Mrs
.," the other woman corrected her crisply, standing more erect than before. "Mrs. Harrison Enright."

And why did Adam get the impression that
Mr
. Harrison Enright was keeping a hot little tootsie under wraps somewhere? Just a hunch.

"Mrs. Enright," the author continued, her voice softening some. "I assure you that at no time do I advocate anyone entering into an illicit affair. On the contrary, what I'm encouraging women to do is to use their resources to look out for their own best interests. I suggest you read my book and—"

A bitter laugh cut the comment short. Well, that, and Mrs. Enright's cry of "Not bloody likely! I'll not put a red cent into your adulterous accounts. You can return to making a living on your back, as far as I'm concerned. Just stay away from
my
husband."

Yep, Adam thought. Mr. Enright most definitely had a hot little tootsie under wraps somewhere. No question about that.

The author sighed heavily again then lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. She closed her eyes, shook her head slowly, then, "Oh, boy," she muttered softly into the microphone.

And Adam had to admit that, although he hadn't entirely accepted every hypothesis the author had posed that afternoon, he sure couldn't disagree with her on that one.

Chapter 12

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^
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"
S
o there she was, with this absolutely furious woman berating her, and all she could do was sputter some lame comment about not being responsible for wandering husbands."

For the third time in less than a week, Dorsey listened with jaw clenched tight as Adam described—in much too vivid, much too enthusiastic detail—Lauren Grable-Monroe's public flogging at Northwestern on Sunday afternoon. The first time had been bad enough, because it had come almost immediately following the event, when she and Adam had spent the evening together, dining and dancing. And, okay, necking heavily on her front porch after she'd cited exhaustion and a need to get home. This instead of returning to Adam's place for a night of what she was sure would have been raucous and extremely satisfying lovemaking.

The second time she'd been forced to listen to his glowing account of the episode had been two days later, when Adam had joyfully described it to Lindy Aubrey. And Lindy, Dorsey recalled now, had taken an uncommon interest in the event. Which was odd, because Dorsey didn't think Lindy took an interest in anything—except Drake's of course. But she'd laughed without inhibition, and with much satisfaction, at Lauren's unfortunate confrontation. And somehow, Dorsey had felt almost betrayed by her employer as a result.

Now it was Lucas Conaway who was held in thrall by the story, and he was enjoying it more than anyone had a right to enjoy anything. He sat in his usual jeans and usual white
Oxford
shirt and usual silly cartoon necktie on his usual stool next to Adam's, nursing his usual Tanqueray and tonic as if he had no intention of drinking any of it anytime soon. The working day was over for the two men, but Dorsey's was just beginning, and somehow, the knowledge of that irritated her more than usual. She was really getting tired of working so much. Especially since she seemed to have so little to show for it.

"So Lauren Grable-Monroe is standing there renouncing any responsibility for wayward husbands," Adam went on, "but she's dressed in this heart-stopping, libido-grabbing miniskirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, and—"

Dorsey cleared her throat indelicately, then arched an eyebrow meaningfully at Adam. "Really?" she said. "You noticed what she was wearing? I didn't think men ever paid attention what a woman was wearing."

He had the decency to look a bit uncomfortable before assuming an expression of total and profound innocence. "They, uh … they don't," he told her.

"Yeah," Lucas concurred. "Not unless it's a heart-stopping, libido-grabbing miniskirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination."

"Oh, and by the way, Mack," Adam interjected, "that's a really nice tie you have on tonight."

She shook her head wryly. "Yeah, right. Thanks. I got it at the heart-stopping, libido-grabbing tie store. I thought it might catch your eye."

"It's great," he assured her. Then he turned back to Lucas. "Anyway, Mrs. Harrison Enright was in no way placated."

"I'm not surprised," Lucas said. "Don't you know who Mrs. Harrison Enright is?"

Adam frowned. "No. Should I?"

Lucas expelled a rueful sound. "Man, you call yourself a journalist? You don't know anything that's a current event these days."

Dorsey noticed that Adam spared her a quick—and really, kind of hot—glance before telling Lucas, "Well, I've kinda had my mind on other things this week, okay?"

Boy, did he have his mind on other things, Dorsey thought. Or, at least, on one other thing. Getting her back into his bed. He'd made no secret Sunday night of his intention to do that very thing, and he'd been none too happy about taking her back to her place instead of his own.

And she'd managed to maintain the status quo for the rest of the week, citing work at Drake's or class at
Severn
to prevent her from seeing Adam socially. They'd been legitimate excuses, all. But now the weekend was upon them, and Dorsey wasn't required to show up at Drake's or
Severn
for two whole days. More significant than that, though, for the first time in months, Lauren Grable-Monroe didn't have any weekend obligations. She didn't have one single public appearance scheduled.

Oh, she was supposed to have been speaking and signing books at a large, independent bookstore. But the owners had canceled the signing when a local church group had threatened to picket the event—with big, hand-lettered signs labeling the author a fornicator and an adulteress and a Jezebel, who was intent on misleading today's youth and obliterating family values.

Clearly, Mrs. Harrison Enright wasn't the only one calling Lauren Grable-Monroe names these days. And Dorsey was hard pressed to put her finger on when, exactly, or even why things had started to turn so ugly.

"Mrs. Harrison Enright," Lucas continued, catching Dorsey's attention and bringing it back to the matter at hand, "is none other than the founder and leader of WOOF."

"WOOF?" she echoed, even though Lucas had been speaking to Adam.

He turned to face her now. "It's an acronym for Wives Opposed to Opportunistic Floozies."

But all Dorsey could manage in response was to repeat, not quite credibly, "WOOF."

"They're actually a pretty well-organized bunch. Mrs. Enright has been on a couple of local shows, radio and TV both. At first the group was mostly made up of women like her—wealthy, idle, husbands who are on the make, that sort of thing. But she seems to have won herself a pretty substantial following. Certainly she's raised Lauren-bashing to new heights."

Dorsey gaped at him, unable to believe this bit of news. But all she could manage by way of a response was yet another "WOOF."