How to Trap a Tycoon (6 page)

It was a good idea for a story, he thought. A really good idea. One that would definitely appeal to his readership. Because it was, without question, elitist. And sexist. And snobby. And it was also, he had to admit, not a little sensationalistic.

Okay, so sensationalism had its uses, he conceded. Elitist, sexist snobs were only human. In their own unique sort of way.

"Fine," he told Lucas, even before the idea was fully formed. "Let's do it. Let's do a story on Lauren Grable-Monroe. But," he quickly interjected when he saw Lucas snap to attention again, "it's going to be on my terms. With my spin."

The other man's disappointment was almost palpable. "Oh, come on, Adam. That's not fair."

"My magazine. My rules."

Lucas gazed at him sullenly.

"Don't worry," Adam told him. "You're going to like this. Because you, my fine, young, ruthless writer, get to go hunting."

The younger man shook his head, still looking ticked off. "I don't like the sound of that. You know how I feel about the cruel and senseless slaughter of innocent animals."

"You couldn't care less about the slaughter of animals," Adam said. "But not to worry. For this assignment, you won't be hunting an animal." He smiled with grim satisfaction. "You'll be hunting a woman."

Lucas brightened some. "Oh, well, in that case, I'm your man."

"Good boy."

"Now, then. About this assignment," he continued, dipping his head forward with much interest. "Will I, by any chance, be hunting a woman in lingerie?"

Adam chuckled. "Hey, if you want to wear lingerie when you go hunting, it's none of my concern."

"You know what I mean."

Adam eyed him thoughtfully. "I guess it depends on how successful you are in your hunt."

"I'm always successful, Adam. You know that."

"Yes, I do. Which is why you're going to be the perfect candidate for writing this story the way I want it told."

"And the story the way you want it told would be…"

This time Adam was the one to smile the predatory smile. "Lucas, since you're such a fan of the book, I want you to use it to go out and trap yourself a tycoon."

Lucas's rapt interest suddenly shifted to vague suspicion. "Come again?"

"The way I see it," Adam began, "even though Ms. Grable-Monroe wrote her book for women who want to land themselves a rich husband, there's no reason why a
man
can't use the book to land himself a rich wife."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Lucas objected immediately, raising his hands before himself palm out in a gesture of what was clearly self-preservation. "You want me to go out and trap a rich wife? Are you crazy? I don't care how much money she has. No way do I want to be married and miserable for the rest of my life."

"Not a real wife," Adam told him. "You don't have to marry the tycoon you trap. Just use the instructions in the book to snag yourself … you know … a sugar mommy."

Lucas shuddered visibly. "I think that's the single most revolting thing anyone's ever said to me. I do
not
want to go there."

Adam ignored the comment. "Look, just write me a story for the magazine that offers a man's view of this whole thing. I want to see what happens when a young, ambitious guy like yourself reads the book and takes the advice to heart in the quest for a rich woman. It should make for a nice piece."

"A nice piece," Lucas repeated flatly. "I'm not even going to touch that comment."

"Hey, you don't have to touch anything you don't want to. No reason to get tawdry. Just get me a good story out of this," Adam reiterated. "One that will appeal to our readership."

"Oh, I can definitely do that. It should be really interesting," Lucas said blandly. "And, gosh, really fun, too. And, whoa, very educational. And it should put to rest once and for all my father's theory that it's as easy to fall in love with a rich woman as it is with a poor one. Would that he had followed his own advice," he added in a voice that prohibited further probing.

"You say that because you don't believe in love, period," Adam said.

Lucas tilted his head to the side. "Excuse me, but I'm only a twenty-four-year-old bachelor, unlike the thirty-nine-year-old bachelor who is also sitting at this bar. Is it just me, or does this seem like an odd statement for the old guy to be making to the young guy in such a situation?"

Adam ignored the comment, thinking he was getting pretty good at ignoring Lucas. Now, if he could just be as effective in getting the kid to shut up in the first place, he'd be okay. Of course, the fact that Lucas refused to be shut up was probably what made him such a good journalist to begin with.

Damn, Adam hated these catch-22s. But he did love the way Lucas worked.

"I'd still like to expose Lauren Grable-Monroe," his hotshot writer said. "How about I write an exposé on her as a companion piece to this story?"

Adam opened his mouth to tell Lucas no, to state quite adamantly that such an exposé had no place in
Man's Life
magazine. And when he did, the oddest thing came out instead.

"No way, Lucas," he told him.

"Why not?"

Unbidden, a feral little smile curled Adam's lips. "Because," he said, "Lauren Grable-Monroe is mine.

Chapter 3

«
^
»

"
W
hat do you think, Dorsey? The blue or the green?"

Dorsey heard her mother's question and told herself it would be polite to answer. Unfortunately, she was far too busy doing other things—things like, oh, panicking, reeling from shock, quaking with fear, choking on terror—to form an adequate reply. She couldn't even bring herself to glance up from where she had buried her face in her hands after collapsing onto the edge of Carlotta MacGuinness's pink-satin-covered, king-sized bed. Because one terrible, terrible sentence kept echoing and spinning through her brain.

Lauren Grable-Monroe is mine.

Adam Darien's proclamation still made Dorsey shudder when she replayed it, even though a full weekend had passed since she'd heard him utter it aloud. She'd spent the entirety of that weekend trying to convince herself that she was worrying over nothing. That there was no way the two men could possibly uncover Lauren's true identity. That her editor and publisher were more than capable of maintaining her anonymity—they had, after all, promised. That her life, as she knew it, was going to be just fine.

And now, on this bright, sunny, cheerful Monday afternoon, she realized she had wasted her entire weekend. Because she knew she was lying through her teeth.

She'd spent the bulk of Friday evening listening to Adam Darien and his trained python, Lucas Conaway, as they'd gleefully outlined the downfall of Lauren Grable-Monroe. And because both men had been completely clueless that they were unfolding their plans in the company of their very quarry, they had been quite vivid—and inventive—in completing their plotting.

And oh, what plotting it had been.

Between the two of them, by evening's end, they'd had Lauren stripped naked and covered in honey, staked out spread-eagle beneath a blazing desert sun, with a big ol' "Come 'n' get it!" sign posted for a nearby platoon of hungry army ants. And although she'd had to admit that the naked and covered with honey part had held a certain, odd, oh … allure … in its initial state when Adam Darien had proposed it—she hadn't even minded the staked out spread-eagle part, really—Lucas's introduction of carnivorous insects had pretty much spoiled the fantasy.

They were going to expose her. They were going to investigate Lauren Grable-Monroe and find out that she was really Dorsey MacGuinness, almost Ph.D., sociology professor wannabe at utterly respectable
Severn
College
. That, she decided, was a given. It was only a matter now of how long she could hold them off and what damage it would do to her credibility in the academic community—and in every other aspect of her life—once it happened.

Dorsey had read
Man's Life
magazine, in spite of its elitist, sexist snobbery, and she knew that Adam Darien and Lucas Conaway, when left to their individual devices, could be formidable. Combined, however… She didn't even want to think about what they could achieve.

All in all, it had made for a rather gloomy weekend.

And the mood had carried over to today, because Dorsey had walked home from
Severn
to catch a late lunch before going to work at Drake's only to find that she had absolutely no appetite whatsoever. The unmitigated terror that filled her belly at being exposed by Adam Darien left little room for something as mundane as ham and cheese on whole wheat.

Her mother, of course, didn't suffer from so grave a condition as fearing for one's way of life. After all, nobody was threatening to expose
her
. Nobody was going to stake
her
out naked under a burning desert sun, oh no. Because
she
wasn't the author of
How to Trap a Tycoon
, was she?

No, Carlotta MacGuinness was only the driving force behind it. The impetus. The genesis. The reason for its very existence. That was all
she
was.

Therefore, the only condition plaguing Carlotta this crisp autumn afternoon was whether to wear the blue or the green. Forcing her hands away from her face, Dorsey made herself look up at her mother's reflection in the bedroom mirror, if not at her mother herself. As always, she found Carlotta looking cool, composed, and cosmopolitan. Her platinum blond hair was blunt cut to chin length, and not a strand of it dared stray out of place. She was dressed in her stay-at-home leisure uniform of velvet leggings and tunic, having opted for lavender today. The color highlighted the pale blue of her eyes, and the cut of the outfit showcased her trim, petite figure spectacularly well.

No one would ever guess that there were twenty-five years separating them, Dorsey thought. Carlotta MacGuinness was doubtless as fit and beautiful at fifty-two as she had been at twenty-two. In many ways, she was probably more stunning now than she had been three decades ago. Because now she had a knowledge and experience of life that women of twenty-two could never possess. And over the years, she had used that knowledge and experience in a way that most women—of any age—would never understand.

Dorsey fell into that "most women" category. Although she loved her mother dearly—in spite of those occasions, frequent as they were, when Carlotta's behavior threatened to drive her stark, raving mad—she would never, ever understand any of the choices Carlotta had made over her lifetime.

"The blue, I think," Carlotta decided without further consultation with her daughter.

Well, except maybe for that choice, Dorsey amended. Blue really was a better color on her than green. Other than that, though, most of Carlotta's life decisions made no sense at all. And making decisions on her own was pretty much par for the course for Carlotta. She was very much her own woman, in spite of having spent her adult life being kept by so many men.

"The blue is nice," Dorsey agreed. If a tad shorter than most fifty-something women would wear. Carlotta, she was certain, would pull off magnificently the brief, sleeveless silk, sheath.

"Where are you going tonight?" Dorsey asked her.

"Hollis Barnett is celebrating her fiftieth birthday this evening with what promises to be great excess," her mother replied.

"Wow," Dorsey said. "That's some milestone."

Carlotta held the green dress before her again, just for good measure. "I suppose," she replied blandly. "But it's a bit anticlimactic, seeing as how Hollis actually passed said milestone seven years ago." She spun around and, clearly still undecided about which dress to wear, she tossed both carelessly onto the bed beside Dorsey and contemplated them from that angle instead.

"You could come with me," she said, smiling sweetly. "You could wear the green. It would look wonderful on you."

Dorsey eyed the even briefer strapless cocktail dress that was—almost—made of shimmering emerald satin. Then she drove her gaze down over her standard teaching assistant-post-grad student uniform of blue jeans, hiking boots, and nondescript flannel shirt. "Gee, I don't know, Carlotta. Somehow, it just doesn't scream me."

Her mother sniffed indignantly. "It could, you know, if you'd just forsake those awful jeans and sweaters and"—she shuddered for effect—"flannel shirts. Honestly, Dorsey, you dress like a lumberjack. You should change your name to Lars."