How to Trap a Tycoon (32 page)

He nodded again—with much less obeisance this time—and headed off on his quest.

"Stand up straight, dear," Carlotta whispered to Dorsey the moment he was out of sight. "Men don't like to see a woman slouching."

Dorsey frowned but obediently squared her shoulders. "Yeah, well, at least for once I
am
a woman tonight," she told her mother. "Usually, when I come to something like this, I'm a bartender."

Her mother made a soft tsking sound. "Darling. To a man, you're always a woman. So long as your body has produced estrogen at some point in your life, it doesn't matter if you're dressed as a bartender or a nun or a sheep or a dairy maid or a Marine Corps drill instructor." She paused for a thoughtful moment, then added, "All the better if you're dressed as one of those, actually. You'd be amazed at some of the things I've worn over the years. Why, I remember one time when the president of a local bank asked me to dress up like his fourth-grade teacher, Miss Applebee, and spank his—"

"Carlotta,"
Dorsey interrupted, dropping her voice to a nervous whisper. "This is
not
the kind of conversation you should be having with your daughter. Or any other human being we might claim as a mutual acquaintance," she added further.

Carlotta ran a few fingers over the sparkling gems that encircled her throat. "Actually, darling, I think it would have simplified things enormously if we'd had more conversations like this a long time ago. You have so many strange hang-ups about sex."

"Carlotta,"
Dorsey hissed again. "Keep your voice
down
."

"Well, you do."

"Yeah, well … it is … you know …
sex
," Dorsey said—very quietly—in her own defense. "It's kind of important, after all. Who doesn't have hang-ups?"

Her mother exhaled that quiet sound of disappointment again. "Sex is
nothing
," she told her daughter. "I can't imagine where you get the idea that it's important."

Dorsey gaped at her. "How can you, of all people, say that? You've made your living with sex."

Her mother eyed her with much disenchantment. "Sex is
not
how I've made my living," she denied coolly.

"Oh, please. Carlotta, I know exactly what goes on in a relationship like that. And you've never bothered to hide it. Don't even try to tell me you didn't have sex with the men who kept you."

"Well, of
course
I had sex with them, darling. Don't be an imbecile."

"Hey!"

"But sex isn't why I stayed with them."

"Well, that goes without saying, doesn't it?" Dorsey remarked.

"And sex wasn't why they stayed with me, either."

Now Dorsey eyed her mother with much confusion. "Then why did they?"

Her mother sighed heavily, shaking her head in maternal disapproval at her daughter. "Oh, Dorsey. You just don't get it, do you?"

"Obviously not."

Suddenly, Carlotta smiled, a wicked, playful, salacious little smile. "Then again, you
have
been getting it more than usual lately, haven't you?" she fairly purred. "And from that nice Adam Darien, too."

"Carlotta."

As always, her mother ignored the admonition. "You'd do well to rein him in, dear," she said instead. "And I can tell you how to do it. I didn't reveal
all
of my secrets in
How to Trap a Tycoon
, you know. I kept the best ones to myself. Not every woman would be able to handle them. I think you would, though. You are, after all, my daughter."

As if Dorsey needed reminding. "Thanks, Carlotta, but I don't think there will be any reining in going on in my relationship with Adam." Mostly, she added to herself, because that relationship was about to go careening off a cliff, and any reining one way or another would be pretty much pointless after that.

Carlotta sighed again. "Oh, well. Easy come, easy go," she philosophized.

"Easy is as easy does," Dorsey countered, unable to help herself.

But instead of being offended, Carlotta only smiled brightly. "
Now
you're getting it. Or, at least, you could be. On a much more regular basis than you are now, at any rate. Have you even
tried
the crème de menthe thing with Adam yet?"

Dorsey squeezed her eyes shut tight. Why, she wondered, did these society parties always seem to go on forever? As usual, it was going to be a long night.

Chapter 13

«
^
»

"
Y
ou are a total disgrace to your gender, you know that?"

Edie muttered the words with frank disappointment, shook her head dismally at Lucas, and wondered what on earth had possessed her to think she could help him in his quest to trap himself a tycoon.

Oh, sure, he looked gorgeous and yummy and totally edible in the charcoal, pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit she'd forced him to buy when she'd taken him shopping that afternoon. And his new hundred-dollar haircut had evened up his shaggy locks just
soooo
nicely, making his razor-straight hair seem even silkier and shinier and blonder than before. And the sapphire-colored necktie knotted expertly at his throat set off his blue eyes in a way that was rather … Edie sighed deeply in spite of herself. Rather breathtaking, actually, if truth be told.

Unfortunately, with his bad attitude, he'd be lucky if he trapped himself a staph infection tonight. And, dammit, she'd gone to a lot of trouble to finagle a couple of invitations to Mrs. Simon Preston's fundraiser for the
Chicago
arts that was being held at a small

Actually, Edie amended hastily, it wasn't so much that she'd gone to a lot of trouble. Mr. Davenport from Drake's had been more than happy to help her out when she'd asked him if he knew anybody who would be attending the well publicized, though very exclusive, event. Arty occasions like this one were notorious for bringing out society's women without their men, and Edie had figured it might be Lucas's best shot to land himself a tycoon.

And Mr. Davenport had been delighted to offer his assistance. He'd grinned with much pleasure, had confessed that he'd also been invited, and had promptly used his cell phone to call Mrs. Preston herself—Aunt Bitsy, to him, Edie had been surprised to hear—and have Edie Mulholland and escort added to the guest list.

Now, of course, Edie felt beholden to the man for performing the favor, and she really didn't like feeling beholden to anyone. Especially a man. Even if Mr. Davenport had made absolutely no mention of collecting on the debt anytime soon. Or ever, for that matter. He'd just been happy he could help out, he assured her. Edie did, after all, need someone to take care of her.

But she was confident that the day would come when Mr. Davenport did indeed ask for repayment in one form or another. She just hoped he didn't make any requests of her that were too sordid or icky. Because she'd left her sordid, icky days long behind her.

And now, after all her efforts, Lucas didn't even appreciate the opportunity Edie had presented to him. All he'd done since their arrival at the gallery was complain. First about how he felt like a friggin'
GQ
toy boy in his new friggin' suit. Then about how friggin' much he'd spent for a friggin' haircut. Then about how they weren't even serving friggin' Bud in a friggin' bottle at this friggin' shindig. Then about how the alleged friggin' artwork on the friggin' walls was giving him the friggin' willies.

Except he hadn't used the word "friggin'"per se, and Edie was friggin' tired of hearing him complain.

Honestly, she thought, watching him slug back a mouthful of very expensive champagne as if it were, well, friggin' Bud in a friggin' bottle. If it weren't for the fact that she had Lucas shackled to her side, she'd be enjoying herself very much. The Mershon Gallery, though small, was strikingly if unconventionally decorated. Plum-colored walls were offset by a midnight-blue ceiling liberally dotted with white Christmas lights made to twinkle like stars, and the hardwood floor beneath was painted a lovely shade of … well … black.

The artwork adorning the walls was likewise dramatic, a mix of watercolor slashes in various jewel tones reminiscent of Mark Rothko and some heavier splashes in primary colors à la Jackson Pollock. The effect, on the whole, was very arresting and in no way traditional. Edie liked the paintings and her surroundings very much.

The crowd enveloping her, on the other hand, was very traditional—and not all of them likable, she had to confess—the elite of Chicago society decked out in the finest evening wear that money could buy. Edie tried not to think about how she herself had made do with a consignment shop purchase, a simple black, strapless cocktail dress that she'd accessorized with an inexpensive choker and drop earrings made of jet beads. And she told herself it didn't matter that everyone else glittered with far greater light than she.

"A disgrace to my gender, am I?" Lucas muttered beside her, tugging uncomfortably at his necktie. "Just how do you figure that? No self-respecting member of my gender would submit to attending this kind of event, I guarantee you that." He glanced around surreptitiously. "No self-respecting heterosexual member, anyway."

"Oh, please," she countered. "Attending this kind of event would work wonders for the heterosexual members of your gender. Most of you are hungering for aesthetic nourishment to feed that vast artistic wasteland in your souls."

"Wow," he replied blandly. "You're a real poet, you know that? Maybe you could feed me sometime. 'Cause, sweetheart, I have an appetite that's just—"

"And here I've gone to all this trouble," she interjected quickly, "to help you plant your mercenary hooks in some decent, unsuspecting
rich
woman, and you can't even rise to the occasion."

At her closing comment, he threw her a look that was rife with all manner of bad taste. But he offered no verbal response. Not that any was necessary, Edie realized belatedly. Any simpleton could see exactly what he was thinking. And seeing as how she was presently serving as the mayor of Simpleton, she understood much too well.

"You know what I mean," she said, feeling heat seep into her cheeks. Honestly. With a single look, Lucas Conaway could make her feel hot and cold at the same time. How was that possible? And how could she find such a sensation enjoyable?

"I still can't believe I let you talk me into this," he said distastefully. "The last time I wore a suit was to my uncle Fenwick's funeral. I was twelve, if memory serves."

"Oh, will you stop complaining?" Edie muttered right back. "If you want to trap a tycoon, you have to look like you're already a success yourself. Women don't take to gold diggers the way men do. Men don't care why a woman is attracted to them, so long as the woman is attracted. Women
care
about the whys."

"Yeah, go figure."

"Women want to be wanted not because they're wealthy," she continued, ignoring him, "but because they're desirable as women. And anyway, how can you say you're using
How to Trap a Tycoon
in your quest? It's in chapter one, for heaven's sake, that Lauren Grable-Monroe discusses the importance of looking good. And you look much more handsome—not to mention successful—in that suit than you do wearing those silly cartoon neckties you usually wear."

He turned to gaze at her with clear surprise. "You don't like my neckties? How can you not like my neckties? I have
excellent
taste in neckties."

Edie rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. You have
no
taste in neckties. You have one with the Scooby Gang on it."

He gaped at her. "Hey, the Scooby Gang is hot right now, I'll have you know. An old Scooby Doo lunch box just like the one I used to carry to school went for more than two hundred bucks on eBay not too long ago."

Strangely, Edie didn't find this information particularly impressive. Go figure. "You carried a Scooby Doo lunch box to school?" she asked, battling a smile, but not very hard.

This time Lucas was the one to blush. "Yeah. Well. It was a hand-me-down from my older sister, okay?" he defended himself. Then he quickly turned the tables. "What kind of lunch box did you carry? I'm guessing Barbie. Pink and purple plastic, am I right?"

"Actually," she said, "I attended a school where the lunch was covered by the tuition, so I never carried a lunch box at all."