How to Trap a Tycoon (4 page)

Of course, that wasn't necessarily because of her reaction to the book. He'd been wanting to do that since the day he'd walked into the club and seen her standing behind the bar, splashing Courvoisier into a snifter for Lindy Aubrey. The first thing Adam had noticed about Mack was that she had excellent taste in neckties. The Hermès silk she'd been wearing that day was one he'd nearly bought for himself a few months before. The second thing he'd noticed about Mack was that he was noticing a beautiful woman's midsection for the first time and wasn't noticing what he usually noticed when noticing a woman's midsection for the first time.

It rather took his notice.

In the month that had passed since Mack had started working at Drake's, there hadn't been a single day go by that Adam hadn't considered asking her out. But the slim gold band encircling the fourth finger of her left hand had been a pretty effective deterrent in that regard.

So far.

Not that Adam was the kind of man to go after a married woman. There were far too many moral, ethical, and philosophical considerations with regard to such an endeavor—not to mention a real problem with timing. But in some ways, flirting with a married woman was more fun than flirting with a single woman, because there was little chance of anything materializing. And Mack did return his flirting, outrageously at times. It was fun. That was all. And Adam had so little fun in his life. What was the harm in enjoying it with Mack?

Even if she was a married woman.

"You hate that damned book?" he echoed incredulously, nudging aside his other, less comfortable thoughts. "How can you hate that damned book? Every woman in
America
is reading and loving that damned book."

Mack's expression would have been the same if he had just slapped her with a big, wet fish. "Excuse me?" she said, genuinely puzzled and surprised.

"That damned book," he said again, gesturing impatiently toward where she had thrown it. "I can't believe you just said you hated it. I can't go anywhere these days without that damned book being the topic of rabid conversation among whatever women happen to be present."

She glanced over her shoulder at where she'd thrown the paperback, then back at Adam, her expression bemused. "It has a title, you know," she pointed out.

"I know," he conceded grudgingly. "But I can't say it out loud without gagging."

"You should see a doctor," she told him.

"I'm sure it's just a natural reflex to an unnatural phenomenon. Every woman in
America
seems to be adopting that damned book as her bible. It's not surprising that, it would wreak indigestion on most men."

Mack's gaze fell some. "Well, not quite
every
woman has adopted it as her bible," she said dryly.

Adam bit back a chuckle of delight. She really was too good to be true. He'd suspected as much since the day she'd started working at Drake's, and now he was positive of the fact. Mack was more like one of the guys than she was … one of
them
. Recollections of her midsection aside—which, of course, he had noticed eventually, several times, in fact—Adam could talk to Mack. Really talk to her. They were on the same wavelength. She was as straightforward as they come. She didn't have any secrets at all.

"But you have read it, yes?" he asked her. "I mean, you would have had to, if you hate it."

"Um, yeah," she told him, sounding a little uneasy for some reason. "I've read it. Have you?"

He shook his head vehemently. "To put it succinctly, hell, no, I haven't read that damned book. It's a crime against nature and society and the way things are."

She narrowed her eyes at him thoughtfully. "Actually, that wasn't very succinct," she observed. "You could have just replied, 'No.' That would have been succinct. What you said was actually kind of—"

"No."

"Well, that was certainly succinct."

"So you read it and didn't like it?" Adam asked again.

She sighed heavily, and again he got the impression that she was uncomfortable about something. "Let's just say I don't like the way it's been received by the general public," she told him.

He eyed her thoughtfully in return for a moment, then pushed his empty glass forward in a silent request for another drink. "That's an interesting way to put it. What don't you like about its reception?"

She went about the motions of her job automatically as she replied, "It seems to be conducive to mass hysteria, that's what. And mass hysteria leads to everything from nihilism to jingoism."

Immediately, he began to feel wary. "Uh-oh," he said.

She glanced up curiously from her task, the bottle of Oban suspended above his glass. "Uh-oh?" she echoed.

"Nihilism," he repeated. "Jingoism. That's the sociology student in you talking, isn't it? You're about to go off on another one of your sociological tangents, aren't you? You're going to start using words like 'esoteric' and 'exegesis' and 'dogma.' I hate it when you do that."

Mack chuckled as she went back to pouring his drink. "Oh, come on. You know your cocktail party chitchat quotient has gone sky high since you met me. Admit it."

"That's beside the point."

When she glanced up to look at him again, there was a flicker of humor sparking in her eyes. Not for the first time, he marveled at how green the irises were, how they were a color he'd never quite seen anywhere before. It was a color that reminded him of the waters lapping at a certain
Caribbean
island of his acquaintance and he was tempted to invite her to accompany him there for a very intimate visit sometime.

And it bothered Adam a lot to realize he had the capacity to entertain ideas like that about a married woman. Hell, about any woman. The last thing he needed in his life was a very intimate visit with someone, married or otherwise. Intimate visits had a habit of turning into permanent conditions. Or, rather, in his case, semi-permanent conditions. The presence of his ex-wife in the world attested to that. And he wasn't likely to make such a mistake again.

"No, that's the human being in me talking," Mack replied, scattering his thoughts.

He loved her voice. It was perfect for a bartender, low and throaty and husky, redolent of smoky bars and bluesy guitar riffs and good Scotch over ice.

"Being a sociology student—or instructor, for that matter—has nothing to do with it," she continued in her smoldering, whiskey riff. Then she smiled. "However, if you'd like to discuss it in terms of the millennial
Zeitgeist
, I'm open."

He narrowed his eyes at her, stifling a growl. "No thanks," he said. Then, brightening, he added, "I hate that damned book, too.
And
its reception by the general public." Then, in case that wasn't enough to emphasize his point, he continued, "And I hate its cover. And its size. And the promotional campaign used. And the fact that it's written in English. And the font it's printed in. And the ink they used. And—"

She laughed as she finished free-pouring a generous amount of Oban over ice. "Yeah, well, it's hardly surprising that you wouldn't care for it. Seeing as how you're the perfect prey for any potential tycoon-trappers out there."

"It's not just that," he denied.

She set his fresh drink before him and smiled knowingly. "Oh, isn't it?" she asked, likewise knowingly.

He shook his head adamantly. "It's nothing personal," he assured her. "I consider that damned book to be an affront to men everywhere, regardless of their economic situation."

She crossed her arms and leaned forward, all signs of her previous uneasiness and discomfort having vanished. This was the Mack he knew and loved, the witty, confident, take-no-guff pal.

"Oh, is that all?" she asked mildly.

"I'm serious, Mack," he insisted. "Thanks to that damned book, the men in this country are being completely outmaneuvered in the mating game. We've become quarry, for God's sake. And that's just not how nature works. It's … it's… Well, it's unnatural, that's all. We—the men—are supposed to be the hunters. Not the women. But how can we hunt when we can't even figure out what rules the women are playing by on any given day?"

"You can figure that out," Mack told him. "Just read whatever book is on the best-seller list that day. Like, oh, say,
How to Trap a Tycoon
."

"Very funny."

"It's true," she said. "Sexual politics have always been a part of the whole man-woman thing. They just change with each new best-seller, that's all."

"Hmm. You may have a point," he conceded. "And, to be fair, I suppose Ms. Grable-Monroe's book is no more irritating than any of the other best-sellers of recent years that have made a man's life difficult. At least this book isn't telling women to avoid us or, worse, to psychoanalyze us. Or worse still, to turn us into apron-wearing, hummus-eating Yanni listeners. But," he interjected when Mack opened her mouth to comment, "this book does flat out objectify men. It turns us into status symbols, possessions to be acquired."

"Which," she said, "when you get right down to it, is exactly what men have been doing to women throughout history."

"It's not the same," he said.

"It's exactly the same," she assured him.

He shook his head before reiterating, "It's not the same, Mack."

She grinned, an impish little grin that both chilled and heated him. What a strange—and not unpleasant—sensation. "It's not the same," she said smoothly, "because
you're
the one being objectified and turned into a status symbol this time."

"It's not natural," he said again, ignoring her comment because—well, just because, that was why. "Women aren't the pursuers. Men are."

"Not anymore," she said softly. "Don't know much about biology," she misquoted, "but I am familiar with a little theory that some biologists find interesting. It's called Evolution." She enunciated the word carefully, as if she were speaking to a three-year-old—or perhaps to a sexist, elitist, chauvinist pig. "Maybe you've heard of it, Evolution. Things, animals—even men—do change." She paused a telling beat before adding, "Eventually."

Adam said nothing, mainly because she was gazing at him in a way she had that made his entire body go on red alert. It was a feeling no self-respecting single man should experience when faced with a married woman. Because it was the kind of feeling that made him want to forget all about her husband. The kind of feeling that made him want to make her forget all about
her
husband.

He pushed the feeling aside as far as he could—which, granted, wasn't all that far. "Don't you find offensive, though," he said, "the suggestion that a woman should go out and find herself a rich man to take care of her? I mean, hasn't your gender been fighting for decades to obliterate this kind of thing?"

Mack shook her head. "No, my gender has been fighting for decades to provide women with choices and opportunities. We never had those before. What each woman chooses to do with the choices and opportunities she has available to her is entirely up to the individual. But it's that choice we've been fighting for. Besides," she added, "Ms. Grable-Monroe's book isn't necessarily telling women to go out and find rich husbands to take care of them."

This was news to Adam. "And just how the hell do you figure that?"

She shrugged. "I see her book as more of a social satire."

"A social satire?" he repeated incredulously. "In what way? This is a book that tells women that money—someone else's money—would solve just about every problem they have."

She met his gaze levelly again. And once again, Adam found himself forgetting all about that husband of hers, who must be waiting for her at home. Then again, maybe he worked nights, and he'd never notice if Mack got in a little late for once…

"Money
would
solve just about every problem women have," she said. "And the reason it has to be someone else's money is because personal wealth is something women have constantly been denied throughout history by men. Even today, at our highest earning power, we're still not allowed to make as much as men do who are performing the same work."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Does everything have to become a sociology lecture with you?"

"Don't try to change the subject."

He sighed his exasperation. "Do you really believe that?" he asked. "That women don't make as much as men do for performing the same work? Here I've been under the impression that that was one of those urban legends."

She straightened, then rolled her eyes heavenward and tapped her chin with her index finger, clearly feigning thought. "Gee, do I really believe that? Let me think about it a minute. Yep, I really do believe that," she immediately answered herself, returning her gaze to his.

He shook his head at her in disappointment. "And here I've been thinking you're such an intelligent woman, Mack."

"I am an intelligent woman," she said matter-of-factly. Then, evidently discerning again his attempt to change the subject—she was, after all, an intelligent woman—she reverted to what they were initially discussing. "Men can't afford to let women earn the same amount of money that they do. Because with money comes independence. And men, who, alas, do still rule the world—for now, at least—can't afford to have us independent."