How to Trap a Tycoon (2 page)

Dorsey was like any other
Severn
student. It was her brain that had landed her in her current position. She had no background or money—or even family, unless she counted her mother, which she only did on days when her mother wasn't driving her crazy, which meant that today, as usual, Dorsey had no family to speak of.

Even after returning the book to Ms. Jennings, she was left feeling a bit troubled by the episode. Shrugging off her anxiety as best she could, Dorsey continued with her class—and her day—in the usual fashion. She taught dozing, uninterested students things they would remember only long enough to record them in a blue book come midterm—if they remembered them at all. And, eventually, she really did stop dwelling upon the episode with the tycoon book.

Until the second time.

Which came when Dorsey was standing in line at the Severn College bookstore, waiting to pay for her lunch—a mondo-sized Snickers bar and a Diet Pepsi.
How to Trap a Tycoon
was displayed in an enormous cardboard contraption at the front of the campus bookstore, and the enormous sign on top of the enormous cardboard contraption fairly shrieked its presence in enormous red letters. And three
Severn
students were gathered about the enormous thing, perusing the book in question with much—dare she say enormous?—interest.

Honestly, Dorsey thought, there was no accounting for tastes. She shook her head with disbelief as, after a few moments of animated conversation and giggling, all three of those students took their copies of the book to the cash register and plunked down good money for them.

The third, charmed, event likewise took place that day, while Dorsey was riding the El to her second job. She glanced up from a new biography of Ghandi, which she had been anticipating for months, only to find herself staring at yet another copy of
How to Trap a Tycoon
. The reader was, yet again, a young woman of college age, and she was reading the book hungrily, as if it offered answers to the darkest mysteries of the universe.

Dorsey sighed in bemusement, swallowed what tasted very much like fear, and went back to reading about nonviolent passive resistance. However, she was beginning to feel anything but nonviolent or passive or even resistant, for that matter. No, what she was beginning to feel was homicidal. Or perhaps suicidal. She hadn't quite decided yet who she wanted to kill—Lauren Grable-Monroe or herself.

It was a quandary that continued to bother her right up until the fourth, and attention-getting, episode.

After alighting from the El inside the
Loop
, Dorsey hustled into an impressive glass-and-steel high-rise, rode the elevator to the sixteenth floor, then hurried down a hall to the employees' entrance for Drake's. As quickly as she could, she tugged off her glasses and hiking boots and shrugged off her sweater and jeans, then tossed them, along with her backpack, into her locker. At the same time, she withdrew a white man-style shirt and black man-style trousers.

Within minutes, she had donned those, along with the black man-style shoes and the brightly patterned necktie that completed her bartender's uniform. And then she was standing at the sink, gazing into a badly lit mirror, trying to weave her unruly, shoulder-length tresses into a fat French braid. Not having quite mastered the procedure yet—she only bound her hair when she worked at Drake's, and only then because it was a requirement of the job—a few of the dark-auburn tresses … or maybe several … or perhaps dozens … oh, all right,
hundreds
liberated themselves from the rest, scattering like a pack of rioting teamsters.

Dorsey watched with dismay as they unfurled in loose corkscrew curls around her face. Her boss, Lindy, would no doubt write her up for looking so unkempt, but she didn't have time to mess with her hair right now, because, as had become her habit of late, Dorsey was late. So, waving a hand in surrender at her reflection, she returned to her locker for the final accessory that would complete her bartender's uniform.

Her wedding ring.

When she'd purchased the simple gold band at a pawn-shop six years ago, it had only set her back twenty dollars, but it was one of the best investments she had ever made. Shortly after she'd started tending bar, she'd discovered that when it came to female bartenders, men were constantly searching for more than the perfect martini. And her wedding ring—even if she'd never had a husband to go with it—was the best defense she'd found to ward off untoward advances.

And if her tips had always been a bit lighter because her customers thought she was married, well, that was just the price she had to pay. She made less than the blond bartenders, too, but that hadn't made her want to color her hair. And anyway, she wasn't working at Drake's because she needed the money, was she?

Although it wasn't yet four-thirty in the afternoon, the club was bustling. Well, as much as a bunch of buttoned-down and uptight, overfed and underjoyed old guys could bustle, at any rate.

Dorsey marveled, as she always did, that anybody could be as dry and stuffy as the pin-striped clientele of Drake's without being mummified. Then again, there were one or two who might have given Tutankhamen a run for his money—in both the gold
and
the shrivel departments. Honestly. A good, stiff wind would have blown some of them away like the parchment upon which they'd written the Declaration of Independence.

Independence
for
men
, anyway, she thought, seeing as how women had been completely excluded from the document that had made this country what it was today, by God. And if these guys had had their way—and now that Dorsey thought about it, many of them did still have their way—women would continue to be neglected possessions left at home, overseeing the polishing of the silver of generations and squeezing out heirs to inherit it.

A healthy handful of men was scattered about the luxuriously appointed club room as Dorsey passed quickly through it. Some were seated in leather wing chairs reading newspapers and annual reports, while others relaxed on strategically arranged burgundy leather sofas. Many were murmuring into cell phones, no doubt looking to buy some stock or place a bet on the seventh race at
Saratoga
or line up a date with someone other than their wife.

As questionable as she found the appeal of Drake's clientele, though, Dorsey certainly couldn't criticize the decor. Lindy Aubrey, the woman who owned and operated the place, had utterly impeccable taste and knew exactly how to make a man feel comfortable and pampered. Fine English antiques and oil paintings of hunt scenes complemented the elegant furnishings, and Persian rugs and crown molding further enhanced the mood. The effect, on the whole, was one of old money, old bloodlines, old boys.

Other than Lindy, who was pretty much an old boy herself, the only women allowed here were the ones who served—quietly, unobtrusively, and without complaint. Frankly, that was the toughest part of the job as far as Dorsey was concerned, being obsequious and pleasant. But doing so suited her needs—for now, at any rate. She wasn't above—or below, for that matter—sucking up for the few more months it would be necessary. Once she had achieved her goal here, she'd happily kiss goodbye—and kiss off—the illustrious Drake's. Until then, however, like women everywhere, she was content to do what she had to do.

The posh European decor carried from the club room into the bar, which was also filled with men, even so early in the evening. Then again, it was Friday, she recalled, and most of these guys could afford to leave work early and get a head start on the weekend. Because, by and large, these guys owned the weekend. Not to mention every other day of the week. They were the men in charge, unlike the majority of working stiffs who had to punch a time clock. And, by God, they rarely let anyone forget it.

They sat lining the bar like thumbtacks, each affixed to his stool and nursing a drink. Dorsey noted all of the usual suspects as she passed by them, identifying each by what he drank.

Seven-and-Seven sat next to Salty Dog, who was followed by the gin twins, Gimlet and Gibson. After them came Anchor-Steam-Draft, Heineken-in-a-Bottle, and Kir Royal.

Kir Royal, Dorsey mused, not for the first time, as she considered the huge, hulking, dark man who cradled a delicate wine glass in his hand. Honestly. He was the CEO of a
trucking
company, for heaven's sake. If the guys driving the big rigs ever found out what he drank, they'd mutiny.

Next in line came the Scotch brigade—Rob Roy, Rusty Nail, Scotch-and-Water, and Dewar's-Straight-Up. And then, at the point where the bar began to curve around, seated in his usual spot … Dorsey bit back an involuntary—and very wistful—sigh.

Then came Oban-over-Ice.

Oban-over-Ice was, hands down, Dorsey's favorite of her regulars, which wasn't saying much, because she didn't like any of her regulars
except
for Oban-over-Ice. Still, she did like him—probably more than she should.

Outside Drake's, his name was Adam Darien, and she'd learned quite a bit about him over the course of her month-long employment at the club. He was, after all, in the bar more evenings than not, and he often ate his dinner seated right where he was now. They'd shared more than a few interesting and often animated conversations.

She knew that he was the editor-in-chief of
Man's Life
magazine, which, in her opinion was really far too elitist and sexist a publication for
any
self-respecting woman—rich or poor—to condone, but it did usually contain a very nice fiction piece, and once, she'd found a great recipe for a Manhattan in there, and the arts section was far superior to anything she found in any other publication. But other than that, the magazine was pretty much an affront to womanhood everywhere. Even if Janet Reno and Gloria Steinem had both given profiles in the magazine recently. Really good ones, too.

Dorsey also knew that Adam Darien had just recently purchased a new, jet-black, Porsche 911 cabriolet. She knew that, because the two of them had discussed at length the pros and cons of that car and the new Jaguar roadster. Mr. Darien had been leaning toward the Jag until Dorsey had assured him the Porsche was one fine piece of automotive machinery, and when you compared German and British engineering, well … say no more. Unless he was willing to import a mechanic named Nigel, he was much better off with the 911.

Had Mr. Darien been any other kind of man—one who wasn't incredibly handsome, successful, intelligent and self-aware—she might have thought his frequency at the club was a result of loneliness. But there was no way—
no way
—she would ever believe a man like him was lonely. Doubtless he simply enjoyed the camaraderie and excessive testosterone levels at Drake's. After all, he always left well before bedtime. Even if he didn't wear a wedding ring—something she just happened to notice one day when she
hadn't
been looking, honest—she was sure there was some woman, or perhaps women—he did rather seem that type—waiting for him at home.

But that was all beside the point.

Because Mr. Darien was, when all was said and done, a member of Drake's. He was a suit-and-tie-wearing, establishment-supporting, stock-and-bond-owning, woman-objectifying … man.

And anyway, regardless of how much she knew about him, she scarcely had time to think about him, had she? He only braved entry into her brain once or twice—or ten or twenty—times a day, and only during those few—or several—off moments when she had nothing else to think about. She especially didn't have time to think about him while she was here at Drake's, even if, every time she turned around, she saw him sitting there staring at her.

Like right now, for instance.

With those incredible brown eyes.

And that impudent little grin.

And that dark hair that would never quite stay tamed, as if he ran his fingers through it in exasperation constantly, hair that Dorsey always found herself wanting to reach out and ruffle herself. Over and over and
over
again. Preferably while both of them were somewhere other than Drake's. Somewhere alone. In the dark. Horizontal. And naked.

And then there was the way his jacket was always hanging on a nearby peg, and the way his vest was always unbuttoned, and the way his necktie was always askew, as if he only conformed to the suits because he had to, and if he had his choice, he'd much rather be wearing something else entirely—like maybe a sexy denim shirt and some tight Levi's or something. Or some sexy silk pajama bottoms with no tops or something. Or nothing at all or something.

Um, where was she?

Oh, yeah. She was thinking about how she never had time to think about Adam Darien—she was far too busy with … stuff. Besides, doing things like thinking about him, and, oh … imagining what he looked like naked would only make him that much harder to forget when the time came for Dorsey to leave her position here at Drake's. And the time would definitely come. In just a few months, too. So Mr. Darien would always remain on the fringes of her thoughts. And he would never, ever be naked when he was hanging around those fringes.

Well, okay,
almost
never.

Twisting the wedding band on her left hand, Dorsey covered the short distance between herself and the bar, trying to pretend that she didn't feel his gaze consuming her, noting that, in addition to her regular customers who had shown up early this cloudy, fallish Friday afternoon—one of whom, she couldn't quite help but note again was Mr. Darien—one of Edie's regulars was still hanging around.