How to Trap a Tycoon (43 page)

Edie offered no reaction whatever to the revelation, Lucas noted, only continued to gaze at
Davenport
in that even, almost unreal, manner.

"She had an inoperable brain tumor," he continued. "The doctors discovered it just two months before she died. It took her six weeks following the diagnosis to find me, and tell me about you. Had she not, I never would have known about you. I never would have found you. But she didn't want to die without giving me the knowledge of my daughter. And I will always be grateful to her for that."

"She's dead?" Edie finally echoed.

The other man nodded. "I'm afraid so. I'm sorry."

Davenport
continued with his story after that, but Lucas could see that Edie was only half-listening. So he paid attention himself, certain she'd want to go over the details again later, when she was feeling less… Whatever it was she was feeling at the moment. Frankly, he couldn't imagine.

So he listened intently as Davenport described his bittersweet reunion with Melody Chance, and about how he hired a private investigator to find the child he didn't know he had, and about how, nearly a year later, the investigator found Edie tending bar at Drake's, not six blocks from where Russell Davenport worked. Shortly afterward,
Davenport
had applied for membership to the club, and had started rehearsing his speech for announcing his paternity. But he'd never quite been able to bring himself to make that announcement. He'd been fearful of how his wife and children would react, but worse, he'd been afraid Edie would reject him.

"Reject you?" she said with a gasp when he put voice to the statement, clearly fully focused now on what he was saying. "Why on earth would I reject you?"

"I don't know,"
Davenport
said. "But I was afraid if I told you who I was you'd…"

"What?"

"You'd see me as an intruder. Someone who wanted to compromise all the fond memories you had of your childhood and the adoptive parents who raised you. I didn't want you to think I was trying to usurp their roles in your happiness."

She expelled a soft sound of disbelief. But all she said was, "That's not going to happen."

Russell Davenport said nothing for a moment, only gazed upon his daughter with very clear affection. Finally, quietly, he told her, "I have no idea how this is going to play out, Edie. I won't promise you that it will be easy, once I tell my family about you. But I will do whatever it takes to make clear my obligation to you. My responsibility for you. My … my love … for you."

Edie's lips parted fractionally, and she turned her gaze up to the ceiling in an effort to halt the tears Lucas saw forming there. To no avail. Because the moment she returned her gaze to her father, those tears tumbled unhindered over her cheeks. Still, she said nothing. Not that there was really anything that needed to be said.

"For what it's worth," Russell Davenport continued softly, "my daughter, Sarah, who's only three years younger than you, always wanted a sister, to even the odds with her two brothers."

Edie expelled that odd little incredulous sound again, but this time it wasn't quite as choked as it had been before. "A sister," she repeated. "And two brothers. I've never had any of those."

"It's a good family, Edie," Russell told her. "In the long run, I'm confident everything will be fine. The
Davenports
stick together. They always have. They always will. Family comes first. In whatever form."

"Family," she echoed softly. But this time she looked at Lucas instead of her father when she spoke. "I never truly thought I would find one of those. Funny how it just came out of nowhere like that."

"Everything will be fine, Edie," Russell said, "you'll see."

She nodded at his assurance, but continued to look at Lucas as she spoke. "You know, funnily enough, I think it will be."

Chapter 17

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T
he media fallout that followed Lauren Grable-Monroe's public outing was nothing short of atomic. Dorsey had concluded that almost three weeks ago on Christmas Day, a Christmas day utterly lacking in gifts, because whenever she or Carlotta had tried to go out of their house, they'd been ambushed by reporters and photographers and talk show host representatives who were intent on roasting something other than chestnuts on an open fire. As a result, there had been little comfort or joy in the MacGuinness household over the holiday season.

Everyone and his—or her—mother had wanted a piece of Dorsey MacGuinness, the sociologist formerly known as Lauren Grable-Monroe. She had been both embraced and reviled, had received both invitations and condemnations. The public reaction had run the gamut. There had been the
Hollywood
managers and literary agents who wanted to rep her and the conservative newspaper columnists and politically correct public figures who wanted to rip her to shreds.

Not all of the news had been bad, however.
People
magazine had dubbed Lauren Grable-Monroe one of its Fifty Most Beautiful People of the year. Dorsey, however, hadn't made the cut. Shortly thereafter, though, Howard Stern's people had called to specifically invite
Dorsey MacGuinness, sociologist
, to come on his show. Unfortunately, it had only been to remove her shirt.

Dorsey had tactfully declined.

Then
Playboy
had called to invite Dorsey or Lauren—they weren't particular—to make an appearance. But they'd wanted her—them—to remove considerably more than her—their—shirt, or shirts. They'd promised, however, that the photo spread—a term that had made Dorsey wince—would, of course, be tastefully executed.

Dorsey had tactfully declined.

Then
Victoria
's Secret had asked them to promote two of their new bras—Lauren the one called "Tycoon Trappings," a skimpy concoction of black lace and jet beads, and Dorsey the one called "Social Awareness," a decidedly more modest number. A more modest,
plaid
number. A more modest, plaid
flannel
number.

Dorsey had tactfully declined.

In fact, Dorsey had declined every offer that had come for her
or
Lauren. Even Anita's encouragements and Rockcastle's threats would not make her budge. She was finished with being Lauren Grable-Monroe, finished with being a cultural icon, finished with being a media magnet. She wanted an end to the whole fiasco, wanted her life to revert to normal, wanted the world to go away. She wanted to forget every last thing about this miserable chapter of her miserable life.

Well, almost every last thing.

Adam Darien, of course, she would never, could never forget, even if she hadn't seen or spoken to him since that fateful night at Drake's. She'd attempted, without success, to reach him on a number of occasions, only to be told he was unavailable and no, there was no message, she'd just try again later. He'd made no overture to get in touch with her at all. She figured it was pointless to ever hope that the two of them might work things out.

How were they supposed to work things out together when they couldn't even
get
together? And how could they get together when Dorsey's life had become The Truman Show II? It wasn't exactly surprising that Adam had avoided her so steadfastly. What man in his right mind would want to thrust himself into the middle of a media circus? Even under the best of circumstances, they had a lot to work through. But throw in the fact that her life was overrun by chaos these days, and it made the situation pretty near impossible.

For the past month, Dorsey had resisted making any kind of public statement, hoping that if she ignored the media machine, it would eventually run out of fuel and stop working. At first, the reporters and photographers outside her house had multiplied like mold on stinky old cheese. Now, however, it was mid-January, and the media circus, having the attention span of a soap-on-a-rope, was finally starting to break up and leave town. Only a few of the most dedicated members remained, and even they seemed to be asking their questions with considerably less energy than before.

But still, she'd neither seen nor heard anything of Adam. And still she missed him terribly. She missed his rough laughter, his reluctant smiles, his skewed views. She missed the feel of his big body spooned against hers in bed, the sensation of his mouth consuming hers when he kissed her, the heat and friction the two of them generated as lovers. She missed his strength, his irascibility, his challenge.

She missed
him
. And she wanted him. And she needed him, too.

It was so ironic. When she'd had Adam, Dorsey hadn't had time to devote to a relationship, because she'd been too busy trying to be three different people. Now that she didn't have him anymore, she had nothing but time on her hands.

Even Severn College had called her at home just yesterday, two days before the start of the spring semester, to tell Dorsey that—surprise, surprise—they suddenly seemed to have a mysterious surplus of teaching assistants for the spring semester and, so sorry, they were just going to have to take her off the schedule, and could she please come in tomorrow and clean out her study carrel, because they needed it for one of the other TAs?

Oh, of
course
, she could still complete her work on her doctorate, they had assured her. But could she please do it in the library instead of the sociology department, because the media circus was such a disruption, and no one was taking the college seriously while she was working there, but no, of
course
that hadn't had anything to do with why they were letting her go, that was due to the aforementioned sudden—and very mysterious—surplus of TAs. And did they mention that they needed her to come right away and clean out her study carrel so that it would be available for one of the other TAs? Yes, tomorrow would be fine.

Which was how Dorsey came to be spending her Sunday alone, in her soon to be ex-study carrel in the otherwise deserted sociology department, stowing in a cardboard box what few things had fitted inside the tiny space to begin with. Her photo of Ghandi, her desktop gargoyle, her coffee mug that read "Yes, but not the inclination," and a couple of yellowed Calvin and Hobbes and Shoe cartoons she'd taped to the wall alongside her postcard of Marlon Brando as Johnny in The Wild One. All went into the box along with pencils, pens, textbooks, and software.

She barely heard the sound of footsteps scraping along the linoleum outside until they were right in front of the carrel door. Dorsey glanced up at the soft sound and suddenly found herself standing face to face—or, more correctly, face to chest—with Adam Darien.

He was leaning casually against the doorjamb, gazing at her with an expression that was utterly inscrutable, his brown eyes framed by pale shadows, his mouth bracketed by faint lines. His leather bomber jacket hung open over a bulky, oatmeal-colored sweater and blue jeans and was decorated on each shoulder by epaulettes of quickly melting snow. His dark hair was dusted with glistening little droplets of moisture, his cheeks were ruddy from the cold day outside, and she wanted more than anything in the world to hurl herself into his arms and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Unable to help herself, she glanced down at her grubby jeans and the plaid flannel shirt buttoned halfway up over a thermal-knit
Henley
. Her hand flew up to smooth ineffectually over the loose ponytail fixed haphazardly at the crown of her head, but she knew no amount of hasty rearranging would help the errant curls that had spilled out to frame her face. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, had been lucky she remembered to brush her teeth that morning. All in all, this wasn't the way she'd hoped to look when she saw Adam again. She'd rather hoped she would look more like … like… Well, like Lauren Grable-Monroe.

Dammit.

"Hi," she said softly, unsure when she'd even decided to speak.

"Hi," he replied just as quietly, just as uncertainly.

She had no idea why he would come here looking for her. Unless it was to further her humiliation, which she couldn't possibly see being made any worse than it—already had been over the last month—unless, of course, Adam Darien showed up.

He pointed to the little plastic sign affixed to the exterior of her carrel, the one that read DORSEY MACGUINNESS, TA. "Do I want to know what this T and A stand for?" he asked, the ghost of a smile playing about his mouth.