How to Trap a Tycoon (20 page)

He'd always hired Drake's to cater the things because it was convenient and by now Lindy knew how he liked things done. But it had never occurred to him that Mack would work as one of the bartenders, because Mack didn't normally work weekends. Now, suddenly, here she was, in his home, a place he'd fantasized having her on more than one occasion. "Having," of course, being a relative term in this case, because he'd also fantasized having her in a variety of other places as well—including, but certainly not limited to, the top of his desk at the
Man's Life
offices, the deck of his sailboat, the back seat of his car, a Ferris wheel, a canoe, and one of the fitting rooms at Carson Pierie Scott. And now … and now…

Damn. He'd lost his train of thought. Something about having Mack…

Oh, yeah. Here he finally had her in the privacy of his own home—relatively speaking—and she was working for him, for God's sake.

This wasn't how he'd planned for their first encounter in his home to unfold. He'd rather hoped to have her as a guest. And he certainly hadn't pictured her here dressed in her bartender uniform. He'd had her wearing something considerably more revealing and infinitely more feminine.

Stop it
, he ordered himself. If he kept this up, he was going to be so focused on Mack tonight that he would forget all about the people—who was it he had invited again?—who were coming to his party. Including—

Oh, no. Oh, man. Oh, jeez.

Desiree.

Adam had been so wrapped up in his thoughts, or rather fantasies, or maybe plans—hey, a guy could dream, couldn't he?—for Mack that he'd completely forgotten that he would have a date for his party tonight.

This, he thought, might pose a problem. Especially if Desiree got it into her head that she would be spending the night after the party. Which wasn't entirely unthinkable, because the last time he'd had her at his place—wow, had it been almost two months ago?—he had, well …
had
her at his place.

What the hell had he been thinking to invite her tonight? he wondered now. Then he recalled the last night that she'd spent here and what she'd—almost—been wearing under her dress. Oh, yeah. He remembered now. He'd been thinking about her—

Well, that really wasn't important at the moment, was it? he told himself. Because what he hadn't been thinking when he'd invited Desiree tonight was that he would, at some point, discover that not only was Mack a single woman, but that she felt damned nice to hold in his arms. And once those little revelations about Mack had started playing out in his mind—over and over and over again, too, dammit—the last thing Adam had thought about was Desiree. About Desiree coming over tonight. About Desiree's probable expectation that she would be staying until dawn.

And now Adam was going to have his work cut out for him trying to figure a way to juggle two women without hurting either of them—or himself, for that matter, seeing as how one of those women had such sharp fingernails and the other had such a sharp tongue.

As if to punctuate his dilemma, the doorbell rang rather ominously. With one final, longing look at Mack, he forced himself to go and answer it.

Oh, man
, he thought again.
It was going to be a loooong night.

* * *

As a clock somewhere behind Dorsey chimed softly nine times, she concluded that this was going to be the longest night of her entire life. Although only two hours had passed since Adam's guests had begun to arrive, the evening had seemed interminable. Of course, that was probably because one of the first of those arrivals had been Adam's date. His date, for crying out loud. This after he had asked Dorsey—no, commanded her—to remain after the party.
To do what?
she wondered now. Make cocktails for Emperor Odious the First and Princess Dainty during their romp in the royal love shack?

It didn't help at all that Adam's—she tried not to choke on the word—
date
was a pink, poofy powder puff of a woman, nor was it at all heartening to overhear an introduction of her and find out she was named Desiree. Truly. Desiree. What was worse, she was tiny and trim and bubbly, with elfishly cut, pink-tinted—
I mean, really
—blond hair. Still worse, she was dressed in a cute little Chanel suit the color of blush wine.

A Chanel suit
, Dorsey reflected again. A cute little Chanel suit, too, exactly the kind Lauren Grable-Monroe described in
How to Trap a Tycoon
. Somehow, Dorsey couldn't help but speculate further that Desiree had sporty separates, seductive peignoirs, and at least one diaphanous gown in her closet, as well, and that she was looking to trap herself a tycoon, a tycoon like, oh, Dorsey didn't know, maybe Adam Darien, for example, and it was all Lauren Grable-Monroe's fault, and damn, damn, damn, what the
hell
had she been thinking to write that stupid book to begin with?

Dorsey had always considered herself to be an average-sized woman, but she felt like a great, hulking ogre next to Desiree. Everything about the woman was just so dainty and so cute and so perky and so … pink. She'd even come to the bar and, when she couldn't remember the name of the drink she usually had—it was something pink, though, she did remember that part—had asked Dorsey to fix her something that would match her suit. And Dorsey, damn her evil little mind, had recommended a cosmopolitan which, in addition to being a lovely shade of rose, was pretty much straight liquor and might just cause someone who was tiny and perky, someone like, oh, say, Desiree to pass out in the bathroom—or, as would be the case for her, the powder room—at some point during the evening.

So far, Desiree had consumed four of them. Any minute now, it ought to start getting interesting.

Likewise interesting was the look on Adam's face now as he hastily approached the bar, because he looked uncomfortable and annoyed, and Dorsey was just superficial and ticked off enough to be happy about it. Hey, why should she be the only one who was having a lousy time?

"What the hell have you been serving Desiree all night?" he demanded without preamble.

Dorsey shrugged as innocently as she could. "Cosmopolitans," she told him benignly.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "That doesn't sound too bad. What's in a cosmopolitan?"

"Vodka."

"What else?"

"Triple Sec."

"What else?"

"A little splash of cranberry juice for color."

"What else?"

"A lime squeeze."

"What else?"

"More vodka."

He gaped at her in alarm. "Are you trying to tell me she's been drinking straight liquor all night? Do you realize what that will do to a woman her size?"

"Make her really, really fat?" Dorsey asked hopefully.

Adam frowned but said nothing.

"Well, it can," she insisted. "Of course a little thing like her could use a few extra pounds."

Clearly detecting her malice, Adam countered just as coolly, "Oh, I don't know. I kind of like the way Desiree is arranged."

"Yeah, you would," Dorsey muttered. Then, unable to help herself, she added, "She'd better be careful her Wonderbra doesn't suffocate her. Those things can be fiercely hard to manage."

Adam eyed her blandly. "Gee, you talk as if you speak from experience. No offense, Mack, but you don't seem the Wonderbra type." He dropped his gaze to the part of her that was most likely to don such a contraption and added, "Obviously."

If she hadn't set herself up for that comment, Dorsey would have slapped him silly for making it. "I, uh … I wore one to a Halloween party once," she told him, feeling stung by both his blatant ogling and the fact that she'd come up lacking—in both his eyes and her own bra.

"Mm," he replied noncommittally. Then he added, "Actually, if you must know, Desiree doesn't wear a Wonderbra."

A little stab of jealousy pricked Dorsey's ego—oh, all right, a huge, razor-edged broadsword of jealousy rammed itself right through her heart—and before she could stop herself, she replied, "No, I didn't must know, actually, but since you told me anyway, it sounds like
you're
speaking from experience."

He grinned at her with a little malice of his own. "Maybe I am."

Once again, Dorsey realized she'd just set herself up for being torn down. "Oh," she said in a very small voice. "Well. I see."

Adam sighed heavily, then rubbed a hand over his forehead as if warding off a wicked migraine. "Look, Mack, I'm sorry. I invited Desiree before you and I…" He expelled another restless breath. "Whatever I had with her—it was a long time ago, okay?" he told her.

Dorsey eyed him suspiciously. She told herself to drop the subject, that he'd said all he needed to say on the matter, that it was none of her business, that she was only setting herself up for more disappointment if she pushed the issue. In spite of all her admonitions, however, she heard herself ask him, "How long ago?"

He hesitated before responding, then, "Months," he said. "It was months ago."

"How many months?"

"Lots of months."

"How many?" she repeated.

He expelled an impatient sound, then said through gritted teeth, "So many, I can't remember."

After another thoughtful moment, Dorsey said, "I'm guessing it was two months."

He rolled his eyes but said nothing more. Nor would he meet her gaze.
Bingo
, Dorsey thought. Men were so transparent. "I'm right, aren't I?" she cajoled. "It's only been two months since the two of you—"

"All right," he conceded. "It's been two months."

"Two months isn't very long," she observed.

"Not in woman years, maybe," he conceded. "But in man years, Desiree might as well be dead."

The difference in opinion heartened Dorsey not at all. "I suppose you've changed your mind about wanting me to stay late tonight after everyone else goes home."

He met her gaze levelly. "No, I haven't."

"But with Desiree here—"

"Desiree won't be here."

A little flutter of something warm and hopeful skittered around Dorsey's heart. "She won't?"

"No," Adam told her very decisively.

"Oh."

Evidently, this was something he had yet to discuss with Desiree, because, as if she'd been conjured from thin air by their speculation, she appeared magically at his side. Then she pressed herself into him as if she were trying to absorb him through osmosis. It soon became clear, however, that it was an entirely different scientific experiment that she wanted to perform on him this evening. Not osmosis so much as metamorphosis.

"Adam," she said petulantly, twirling her empty glass by its stem. "When are we going to get married?"

Adam went absolutely rigid beside her, mimicking Dorsey's own icy posture.
Married?
she thought, horrified by the prospect.

"Married?"
Adam echoed, clearly horrified by the prospect.

The petite blonde nodded and, although Dorsey would have sworn such a thing was totally impossible, she crowded her tiny body even more closely into his. "Yes,
married
," she said insistently. "For the last four months, I've been setting my tycoon trap for you, and you still haven't stepped into it."

Wow
. If Dorsey had thought Adam was angry before, she was severely mistaken. Because at Desiree's casually offered comment, he suddenly went utterly still, utterly silent, utterly…

Uh-oh.

"You, uh … you've been setting a tycoon trap since you met me?" he asked very softly.

She nodded. "I've done everything that Lauren Grable-Monroe told me to do. I found you exactly where she told me I'd find you, and I did all the things she said to do in her book, but I still don't have you trapped. I mean, you didn't even notice the new diaphanous gown I wore the last time I was here." She turned her face up to look at him and—
unbelievable
, Dorsey thought—didn't even seem to notice that he was absolutely livid.

"Do go on, Desi," he said, once again speaking in that soft, scary voice.

"So, Desiree, looks like you could use a refill," Dorsey cut in quickly, hoping to defuse the tension. She reached across the bar to snatch the woman's empty glass out of her elegantly manicured—and, inescapably, pink—fingertips.

Desiree smiled her gratitude. "Thank you. You've been so considerate and so helpful tonight. Adam's so lucky to have you." For a moment, Dorsey felt guilty for all of the mean-spirited thoughts she'd been having all night about poor Desiree. Then, "Good help is
so
hard to find," poor Desiree said.

Dorsey's fingers tightened on the glass. "So, Desi. You were saying something about luring Adam into your tycoon trap. And here I've been thinking that he's the kind of man who would chew his own foot off before he'd let something like that happen. I do wish you'd go on."

The other woman brightened. "Oh, have you read
How to Trap a Tycoon?"
she asked.

Dorsey nodded indulgently. "Chapter seven had me glued to my chair," she said.

Desiree's expression clouded. "That's funny. Chapter seven had me squirming in mine. That whole crème de menthe thing was just so…" She squinched up her pink little face in something akin to deep thought, then added, "Although maybe if I'd done the crème de menthe thing, Adam would have proposed by now. And then I wouldn't have to do it anymore, because wives aren't expected to be so inventive. All they have to do is lie there and—"