How to Trap a Tycoon (35 page)

"Don't hurt me," she said softly. "Please."

Lucas's own heart began to pound fiercely then at the evidence of what lay before him. Evidence of what he had suspected since that night he'd had too much to drink at Drake's. Somebody—who knew who, who knew why, who knew how long ago—had obviously mistreated Edie Mulholland and mistreated her badly. It didn't bear thinking about, but he knew that, at some point, he'd have to think about it. At the moment, however, he could only try and see clear of the red haze of rage that clouded his vision and do his best to calm her down.

"Edie, I would never hurt you," he said softly. More than anything in the world, he wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms, but he knew that was the last thing she would tolerate. "You have to know that. I would never—I
could
never—hurt you."

"Just let me go inside," she said. "And then go away. Please, Lucas. Just leave me alone."

As much as he hated to retreat from her when she was like this, he knew she was too frightened for him to try reasoning with her. So he took a giant step back and held both hands up before him, palms out, in a gesture of surrender, of supplication. For a moment, she didn't move at all, only eyed him warily, as if she couldn't believe he'd done what she told him to do, as if she still expected him to pounce. Then, very slowly, she turned to the door again and twisted her key in the lock.

"Edie, let's talk about this," he said as she began to push the door open. "Let's not let the night end this way."

She said nothing as she ducked inside her apartment, but she didn't immediately slam the door and lock it, as Lucas would have guessed she would. Instead, she hesitated, standing framed by the doorway and half hidden by the door she had tucked herself behind. Her breathing was much less rapid now, and her eyes were no longer darkened with fear. But her cheeks were stained with red, and the hand clutching the door was white-knuckled and trembling. She was still frightened, he thought. Maybe not of him, but of something that prevented her from seeing him the way he really was.

"Edie," he said again, curling his fingers into impotent fists at his sides.

She noted the gesture and arrowed her brows downward. Belatedly, Lucas realized how she must have misconstrued his actions. Immediately, he opened his hands again, but it was too late.

"Edie, please," he tried one last time. "Talk to me."

"Just go away, Lucas," she said, her voice thin and cold and much too empty. "Just leave me alone."

There was no rancor, no venom in her command. Just a simple request and a kind of sad resolution. Had Lucas suspected for a moment that he possessed a heart, Edie would have broken it right there. Good thing for him he was such a heartless sonofabitch. The realization, however, brought with it little comfort.

"Edie…"

"Good night, Lucas," she said as she pushed the front door closed. "And good-bye."

He said nothing more, knowing it would be fruitless at this point. In spite of her wishes, though, he knew it wasn't going to be a good night. And, as her front door clicked softly shut, he knew it wasn't going to be goodbye, either. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

Chapter 14

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W
hen Dorsey arrived at work late Monday afternoon, she sensed immediately that there was something very, very wrong. And not just because she'd managed to arrive early for a change, either. But as she changed into her bartender uniform and donned her wedding ring, as she stowed her backpack and teaching assistant clothes in her locker, she just sensed somehow that there was something … not right.

In spite of her misgivings, however, she completed her preparations and headed out to the bar and as always, saw all of Drake's regulars lined up in their usual spots. Likewise as always, Adam was already there waiting—watching—for her, with that secretive little smile playing about his lips that Dorsey had come to know and love so well. And as always, Edie stood chatting with Straight-Shot-of-Stoli. But not as always, the other bartender was looking rather morose.

"Hi," Dorsey greeted her as she slipped behind the bar. "You look kinda down. What's up?"

Edie shrugged without much concern and reached behind herself to tug at the strings on her apron. "I'm just not feeling all that great today, that's all."

Which was also totally out of character for Edie, because in all the time she'd worked at Drake's, Dorsey had never known the other bartender to be under the weather at all. Edie's sunny disposition and her a-smile-a-day outlook had always kept even the nastiest germs at bay. Certainly she'd never looked as beaten down as she did now. Her bright blue eyes had dimmed some and were smudged beneath with faint purple crescents. Her mouth was flattened into a tight, joyless line, and her skin seemed paler even than it had before. Her whole body, in fact, seemed more fragile, more limp. Worse than that, though, her spirit seemed almost empty.

Unsure why she did it, Dorsey turned to look at Straight-Shot—not in accusation, but to silently ask for his input on this odd matter of Edie's sudden sobriety. But all Straight-Shot did was shake his head slowly and turn his hands palm up in unspoken confusion.

So she turned back to Edie and asked softly, "Are you okay?"

Edie nodded in a very unconvincing way. "I'm fine," she said, likewise without conviction. Then she sighed with what sounded suspiciously like remorse. "It's just a visit from the seven PMS dwarfs, that's all," she added listlessly. "I'll be okay in a few days."

In spite of the other woman's clear dejection, Dorsey couldn't help but smile at that. "I probably shouldn't ask, but … the
seven PMS
dwarfs?"

Edie did, finally, offer up a small grin in response. "Yeah," she said. "The
seven PMS
dwarfs. You know Grumpy, Crampy, Moody, Bitchy, Hungry, Angry, and Doc. What? They never visit you from time to time?"

"Oh, yeah," Dorsey assured her with a chuckle, feeling a little better in light of Edie's—granted halfhearted—whimsy. "And not just when I'm PMS, either. But, gee, I've never seen the little buggers get
you
down like this before," she further observed.

Edie shrugged again, still fumbling with the ties on her apron, which had clearly tangled themselves into a knot. "It's just…" She sighed again. "I had to tell someone to leave me alone last weekend, that's all.

Dorsey nodded her understanding. "And he won't leave you alone, huh?"

"No, he has left me alone," Edie said unhappily as she fought more fiercely with the apron ties that wouldn't come free. "I haven't seen or heard from him all week."

"And that's a problem?" Dorsey asked, unable to mask her surprise. "I mean, I kind of thought you didn't like to be bothered by testosterone-driven individuals."

"I
don't
like being bothered by them," Edie agreed, increasing her efforts with the relentless apron ties. "I thought it would be
good
that this guy left me alone. But now it turns out that it's not so good. Now it turns out that it's pretty lousy. And I can't understand why it bothers me so much that he's left me alone. I can't understand
why
he's left me alone. I can't understand
any
of it."

With a snarl of frustration, Edie jerked on the uncooperative apron ties with such force that she completely ripped one from its mooring. And with a growl of discontent, she snatched the apron from over her head, wadded it up ruthlessly in both fists, and stuffed it maliciously into the linen bin. Then, when she realized how thoroughly she had lost control, she punctuated the episode with a viciously muttered, "Oh, hell."

Dorsey's eyebrows shot right up to her hairline. She'd never, ever heard Edie Mulholland swear. Not even the harmless ol' H-E-double-hockey-sticks. "Uh … why don't you go home and try to get some sleep?" she told the other bartender. "You look like you could use it."

Still staring into the linen bin she had just assaulted, Edie expelled a sound that was at once wistful and hopeless. "Sleep," she echoed. "Yeah, right. What a concept."

Without much enthusiasm, she gathered together her things and slung her backpack over her shoulder. And then, without so much as a see-ya-later, she ducked under the bar and strode away without a second glance.

"That girl needs someone to take care of her," Straight-Shot said, as he always did the moment Edie was out of sight.

But this time, his words carried more concern than they normally did. And this time, Dorsey realized she was in total and unequivocal agreement.

When she turned back around, her concern for Edie was immediately replaced by concern for herself. Because Adam was gazing at her quite openly, hiding none of what he clearly felt for her. And all Dorsey could do was hope that nobody else in the bar could see what she saw so plainly etched on his face—desire, need, affection, perhaps even…

Well. At any rate, it was all written there, for all the world to see, and Adam clearly didn't care who saw it.

"Hi," he said as she approached him. Some of her anxiety must have shown on her face, because he added softly, "Rough day?"

"Not really," she said.

Not unless she included the discussion in her
eight o'clock
Soc. 101 class, anyway. The one where each and every one of Lauren Grable-Monroe's earlier proponents—led by none other than Ms. Tiffany Jennings herself—had proclaimed the author to be a writer of sensationalistic claptrap that pandered to the masses. And an opportunistic floozy. And an adulteress. And a Jezebel.

And then they'd gotten ugly.

On one level, her students' impassioned proclamations had actually restored some of Dorsey's faith that they wouldn't be easily misled by media hype—well, not after a couple of months of behaving like lemmings, at any rate. On another level, their vocal pronouncements concerned her that they
would
be easily misled by angry, torch-bearing mobs. On yet another level, they had offended her intensely as the author of the book they were maligning. And on another level still, she realized they were only echoing some of the very things she had said herself that day in class.

And on a last, very high altitude level, they made her head spin and her stomach hurt. Real bad.

The tide—among other things—had definitely turned against Lauren Grable-Monroe. In her panic, Dorsey had tried to call her editor that afternoon, but Anita had already left for the day. Tomorrow morning, however, first thing, Dorsey intended to pin Anita down, to chat about this matter of turning tides, and to discuss the possibility of having Lauren Grable-Monroe go gracefully into that good night, to get herself to a nunnery, to crawl back beneath the rock whence she had come. Soon.

It was the only feasible thing to do now. Clearly,
How to Trap a Tycoon
had run its course. It was time for the next icon of contemporary American culture to step up to the—admittedly unstable—pedestal. Lauren Grable-Monroe, Dorsey was certain, would be more than happy to surrender her spot. The sooner, the better.

"So then, it was a good day?" Adam asked, bringing her thoughts back to the present—and none too soon.

"Yeah, I guess so," she said. "Good enough, anyway."

"I've had a good day, too," he told her with a smile. Then, dropping his voice a little, he added, "Because I spent most of it thinking about you."

A wisp of something warm and wonderful wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed hard. He was just so … so cute, she thought. During all the weeks since Dorsey had met him, Adam had seemed like both the irresistible force
and
the immovable object. He had come across as such an indomitable creature, such a rock-solid wall of conviction.

But tonight he was just … cute. Really, really cute. And something inside her turned all warm and fuzzy at the realization that she was at least partly responsible for his transformation.

"What a coincidence," she told him, leaning forward over the bar to draw as close to him as she dared. "I just so happened to spend a good part of my day thinking about you, too."

Her smile, she was sure, was identical to his, because she was experiencing her own share of desire, need, affection, perhaps even… Well. At any rate, she didn't doubt that her own feelings were all written on her face for all the world to see, and oddly enough, like Adam, she didn't care who saw them.