How to Trap a Tycoon (31 page)

Ever since she was old enough to understand what her mother did for a living, Dorsey had struggled to be as different from Carlotta as she could be. It wasn't because she disapproved of her mother or her mother's way of life, that had caused the reaction, however. Although she had never understood Carlotta's choices, Dorsey had never passed judgment on her mother or her mother's lifestyle. It wasn't Dorsey's role to tell people how to live. Carlotta was her own person, responsible for her own actions, responsible for the results of those actions. She had made that clear from day one, and she had raised Dorsey to adopt that same attitude of personal responsibility. As a result, Dorsey had always accepted her mother's lifestyle in the same matter-of-fact way that Carlotta lived it. She didn't understand it. But she accepted it.

And she swore to herself that she would never, ever end up the same way.

From the time that she was a child—and just as Carlotta had taught her to do—Dorsey accepted complete responsibility for, herself. And as she'd grown and matured, she had done everything necessary to ensure that she would always be her own person and would never have to rely on someone else to make her way through life. She had worked hard to develop her brain and exploit her intellectual resources. She had played down her physical attributes to discourage unwanted attentions from the opposite sex. She had avoided romantic entanglements that might lead to dependency. She had relied solely on herself in every aspect of her existence. She had created her own happiness, her own prospects, her own opportunities, her own
life
. She'd never needed anyone else.

But even after all this time, after all her efforts, deep down inside, Dorsey couldn't quite erase the fear that someday she would end up just like her mother. And as much as she loved Carlotta, she didn't want to be like her. She didn't want to end up alone and unfulfilled and fearful of what the future might—or might not—bring. Then again, considering the way she
was
living her life, she might very well end up all of those things. But at least she would be alone, unfulfilled, and fearful on
her
terms. She would be that way because of her
own
actions and not because others had rejected her.

For some reason, though, Dorsey found little consolation in the realization.

As if conjured by her thoughts, Carlotta whizzed into and out of Dorsey's vision then, a brief blur of red in the packed hallway beyond. In the instant that Dorsey saw her, she received an impression of elegance and confidence, of happiness and laughter.

A melancholy smile tugged at her lips. So. She wasn't quite like her mother, after all. Because where Carlotta obviously felt very much at ease in these lush, luxurious surroundings, dressed in the trappings of affluence and grace, Dorsey felt like the worst kind of poser. She had shape-shifted yet again, had metamorphosed into a creature that wasn't quite Dorsey, wasn't quite Lauren, and most certainly wasn't Mack.

Oh, where was a good flannel shirt when you needed one?

"Don't worry. I promise they don't bite."

Adam's reassurance emerged as a soft utterance right by Dorsey's ear, and a shiver of heat danced down her spine at his nearness. As had become his habit, he'd read her thoughts. And, as always, his simple presence made her feel better. Better than better, she decided when she turned to look at him. Because dressed in his faultless black tuxedo and greatcoat, he sent every erogenous nerve she possessed into a tailspin.

"Are you sure?" she asked. She dipped her head toward the gaily dressed crowd milling about the entryway and massive hallway beyond. "I'm not positive, but I think I caught a glimpse of my mother in there."

He smiled as he reached for her coat and withdrew it from her shoulders. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's here," he said. "My parents' open house is always one of the biggest social events of the holiday season. Everybody comes to this thing. But none of them bite," he reiterated with a grin.

She reserved comment on that score as she relinquished her coat and watched Adam shrug out of his. Then he passed them along to a woman who politely curtsied—actually curtsied, Dorsey marveled—first to him and then to her and carried the garments away.

Amazing, she thought. She had never been curtsied to in her entire life. And she wasn't entirely sure how to respond. "Oh … thanks," she murmured to the retreating woman, battling the urge to bob up and down herself. To Adam she added, "Do we need to get a number or something for our coats?"

He chuckled. "No. Marissa will remember who gets what. That's her job."

The Dariens had a servant whose job was to remember which coat belonged to whom? she thought. Just where did coat-rememberer belong in the domestic hierarchy? Was it above or below the food taster?

Adam extended a hand forward in a silent indication that Dorsey should precede him. A flutter of nerves mamboed through her midsection again at the prospect of entering such a wild, unknown territory, but she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other until she had successfully entered the fray.

One, two, don't trip on your shoes
, she thought with fierce concentration as she moved forward.
Three, four, watch out for that door
, she further mused.
Five, six, you're graceful as bricks. Seven, eight, I just can't relate. Nine, ten, let's try this again.

Dorsey inhaled deeply, told herself she
could
do this, and concentrated harder. Adam seemed to sense her anxiety, because as they wove through the crowd toward the cavernous ballroom at the end of the wide hall, he reached over and tucked her arm through his, covered her cold fingers with his much warmer ones, and gave them a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Then he steered her gracefully from one couple or group of people to another to introduce her.

He used only her name when he did that and never attached a label. He identified her as neither his bartender nor his … his … his hunka hunka burnin' love. Whatever. He only smiled whenever he introduced her as Dorsey MacGuinness, and she only smiled in return at the warm, buttery feelings that pooled in her belly at hearing the affectionate way his voice wrapped itself around her proper name.

And she found herself wishing he would call her Dorsey instead of Mack. Not that there wasn't a fun, endearing quality to the nickname, especially now that the two of them had become lovers. But she wanted Adam to see her as something other than Mack. She wanted to be more to him than a bartender, a pal, a confidante. And she wanted to be more than a lover, too. She wanted to be a human being with him. She wanted to be a wearer of flannel shirts. A student. An academic. A woman. She wanted to be herself.

Gradually, as the party progressed, she began to grow more confident, began to feel more at ease. And upon meeting Adam's parents, she started feeling welcome, too. They were genuinely nice people, she realized immediately. Incredibly rich, but nice. Adam resembled his mother physically, resembled his father in everything else. Dorsey felt as comfortable with the elder Dariens as she did with their son, and then it became much too easy to fall into the fantasy of thinking she might actually become a part of this world.

Immediately, she shoved the fantasy away and stood firm in her reality instead. She wasn't a part of this world, not really, in spite of her genetic potential in that regard. Yes, her mother floated with ease through this sort of environment, and yes, her father had been born and raised to it legitimately. Dorsey hadn't been. She wasn't legitimate. In more ways than one. And until she could be honest with Adam about her alternate reality as Lauren Grable-Monroe, this would never, ever be her world.

That fact was hammered home the moment she entered the ballroom and her gaze lit on her father. Just like that, there he was, standing not ten feet away from her, engaged in conversation with another man much like himself—tall, fit, tuxedoed, rich. Dorsey's step faltered when she saw him, and she simply could not look away— She stared at him quite openly. Adam must have noted her preoccupation, because he halted abruptly beside her. He trained his gaze in the same direction, then looked back at her.

"Mack?" he said. "You okay?"

She nodded slowly but said nothing, only continued to gaze at Reginald Dorsey. Her father must have felt her watching him then, because he turned to look at her. When he did, his eyes widened for a moment, his mouth dropped open in clear surprise, and he—almost—made a motion to move toward her. But he stopped himself before completing it, hesitated a moment more, then, with clear reluctance, returned his attention to the man with whom he had been conversing. The entire episode lasted only a few seconds. But Dorsey felt as if she had just lived a hundred years.

When she turned to look at Adam, he was still gazing at her, his expression faintly puzzled. "Do you know Reginald Dorsey?" he asked, clearly surprised. "He's a friend of my father's. A local businessman." He turned to look at the other man, then back at Dorsey. "He's a very—" He stopped right there, glanced back at the other man again—probably, she thought, he was looking at Reginald's auburn hair and unusual green eyes—then turned to gaze at Dorsey again. "Dorsey," he said softly. Only this time, it wasn't with the affectionate inflection the word had carried before. This time, it was with a note of discovery

"Yes?" she replied, her heart humming strangely at hearing him utter it anyway.

"No, I mean … Dorsey," he said. "You and he are both named Dorsey."

"Yes," she agreed. "We are."

"He's … he's your father."

It was a statement, not a question, because Adam had clearly put the facts together and drawn the right conclusion. Hey, he was a smart guy, after all. He knew what was what. Except, of course, for that pesky Lauren Grable-Monroe business.

"Yes," Dorsey told him. "He's my father. My mother's former lover. My mother's former benefactor," she hastily corrected herself.

Adam continued to gaze at her in silence for a moment more, as if this newfound knowledge was hard for him to digest. Well, what had he expected? Dorsey thought. He knew the circumstances of her birth. Just because he'd figured out the identity of her father, what did that have to do with anything?

"Do you want to go talk to him?" Adam finally asked her, dropping his voice to an even softer timbre.

"No." The word emerged from her mouth swiftly, adamantly, finally.

He eyed her curiously. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure." Again the assurance came out quick, insistent, vehement.

He studied her in a maddeningly assessing way, then told her, "His wife died last year, you know."

"I know," Dorsey said.

"His children are all grown and on their own now."

"I know that, too."

"If they found out about you, it probably wouldn't—"

"They're not going to find out about me," she interrupted him. "He'd never tell them."

"But if you—"

"I'm not going to tell them, either."

"But—"

"Adam, could we please just go into the party now?"

He hesitated a moment, and she silently urged him not to press the issue. Finally, he relented. "Yeah, okay. Whatever you want to do."

Actually, what Dorsey wanted most to do then was go home. She was about to open her mouth to voice that exact intention when her mother, wrapped in a deep-red velvet number with elegant drapes and discreetly plunging neckline, appeared out of nowhere and brushed a quick kiss over her cheek.

"Dorsey, dear," she greeted her. "You look smashing. I told you the green would be perfect for you."

That, Dorsey thought, was entirely open to debate. True, the little—and she did mean little—green dress hugged her body as if made for it. She still didn't feel like herself at all. Then again, she was beginning to wonder if she even knew who
herself
was these days. Could be the dress she had on was just the thing for her. If only she could identify who
her
really was.

"Thanks, Carlotta," she said halfheartedly. "How … interesting … to find you here."

Her mother waved a hand negligently before her. "Oh, not really," she said. "Anybody who's anybody comes to the Dariens' annual holiday party. Hello, Adam, how are you?" she quickly added, pushing herself up on tiptoe to brush a swift kiss—the kind of kiss any mother-in-law might bestow upon her son-in-law … dammit—over his cheek, as well. "Isn't that true?" she added after completing the gesture. "Everyone comes to your parents' party."

He nodded. "I told Mack that very thing myself when we arrived. Which is why I'm not surprised to find you here at all."

Carlotta smiled. "Darling boy," she murmured. Then, "Be a love and fetch me a champagne cocktail," she told him. "I seem to have misplaced my companion."

Adam dipped his head forward in ready and complete obeisance, something that frankly amazed Dorsey. Men just dropped like flies around Carlotta, she thought. She had no idea how her mother managed to so thoroughly and immediately captivate them the way she did, not even after writing a book on the subject, but even Adam wasn't immune. Carlotta just had
it
. Whatever
it
was. And Dorsey was surprised by the faint thread of envy that wound through her at realizing she'd never master it herself.

"One champagne cocktail coming up," he said. "Mack? What can I get for you?"

"Just a glass of wine would be fine," she told him.